"Well, there's nothing we can do about that." Harry shrugged. "Once I spread the Way of the Shaman in the future, wizards will be able to divine certain things for themselves, at least to some extent. That way, they won't have to rely on centaurs anymore."
"Oh, that might take a long time," Ron said with a grin. "Good thing we can just come to you when we need a divination, Harry."
His tone made it sound like he was saying, "Learning? Impossible. Not in this lifetime."
"Rather than asking Harry, I'd rather study and master divination myself." Hermione shook her head. "Ron, you can't spend your whole life depending on Harry."
Now, that's what you'd call ambition.
"No worries, I believe Harry will help me out," Ron said nonchalantly. "Besides, Hermione, you seem to forget—divination requires talent, even for Harry. I reckon that even if he were willing to selflessly teach others, only a handful of wizards would actually be able to learn it."
"Uh, speaking of which, Harry, what's left on your list of unfulfilled prophecies?" Ron suddenly realized something. "It should just be Quirrell's, right? Hermione's already came true yesterday—she really did hide in an underground classroom and cry."
"I! Did! Not! Hide! And! Cry!" Hermione practically spat out each word, fuming. "Harry can vouch for me! It was Voldemort who influenced my thoughts!"
"But yesterday morning, after Professor McGonagall punished you, you did leave on your own," Ron pointed out shrewdly. His thinking always seemed particularly sharp in moments like these. "And didn't Harry say? The Dark Lord only planted the thought—he didn't actually change the way you think."
Hermione's breathing grew rapid. Then, suddenly, she straightened her back.
"You've never fought a Niffler." She stared down at Ron with an air of disdain.
"I got stung by a Billywig!" Ron snapped back, clearly incensed. "I was floating in the air, okay? Of course, I couldn't do anything about the Niffler!"
"Ha, you nearly cried when it stole your Knuts." Hermione's smirk grew even more condescending.
"I did not cry! You have no idea what those Knuts meant to me!"
"You got beaten by a Niffler," Hermione repeated flatly.
"Merlin's red underpants! Can we stop talking about the bloody Niffler?" Ron was starting to lose ground.
"Of course." Hermione suddenly flashed a sweet smile. "Your trousers are falling."
"Oh, for Merlin's sake!!!"
Ron let out a dramatic wail, completely crushed. That humiliating defeat at the hands of a Niffler had become his worst nightmare of late, a wound that even Newt Scamander personally bringing the creature over to apologize couldn't heal.
Watching Ron collapse onto Neville in utter defeat, Hermione suddenly remembered something.
"Oh, right, Harry—" She turned to him, her cheeks flushing slightly, her gaze darting around. "I was thinking, um, as a thank you for saving me, I'd like to invite you over to my house during the holidays. My mum and dad would be very grateful as well. Uh—Ron, Neville, do you want to come too? I suppose we're friends…right?"
As proper Britons, inviting someone to your home typically signified a certain level of closeness or trust. This unspoken rule applied even among children.
"Of course, we are!" Ron responded cheerfully. "Honestly, I've never been to a Muggle house before. My dad will be so jealous!"
The redhead looked so eager that he seemed ready to dash off to Hermione's place immediately.
"Yes, Hermione," Neville said excitedly. "I'd love to come!"
"That's great!" Hermione beamed. "How about during the Christmas holidays? My mum's cooking is really good—you'll love it."
"Christmas holidays?" Ron froze. "Uh… I think I'll be staying at Hogwarts… you know, with Fred and George."
"Um, I don't think I can either," Neville scratched his head awkwardly. "I have to spend Christmas with my gran…"
His voice trailed off into an almost inaudible mumble, but his meaning was clear enough.
"Then let's wait until summer break." Seeing Hermione's expectant gaze, Harry thought for a moment before deciding. "That way, Ron and Neville can join too. I'll probably stay at school for Christmas as well."
He planned to use the break to bury himself in books.
"Summer, then?" Hermione looked a little disappointed but still nodded. "Alright, that works. I was actually thinking—wait, is that Hagrid?"
She suddenly stopped, pointing towards a figure walking along the lakeside, waving enthusiastically.
It was indeed Hagrid.
Ron and Neville quickly got up and walked over, while Harry was about to follow when Hermione pulled him back, causing them to lag behind.
"Something wrong?" Harry asked, puzzled.
"It's just—just—do you think I'm annoying?" Hermione hesitated before blurting out, "I talk too much, and I always take my frustrations out on others when I can't keep up with you."
Harry understood immediately.
So that was it. Pansy's words had gotten under her skin. No wonder Hermione seemed different today.
"Of course not," Harry said firmly. "You just have a strong personality. I once had a friend even more headstrong than you—especially when it came to matters of principle. She was… incredibly stubborn."
"She?" Hermione asked, surprised.
"It's all in the past now," Harry shook his head. "Anyway, don't let Pansy's words get to you. She's not your friend, so naturally, anything she says is meant to hurt you. No need to take it seriously."
"I see…" Hermione took a deep breath. "Then—no, never mind. Let's catch up."
"What?" Harry had always hated two kinds of people—those who only spoke half a sentence, and…
"Nothing!" Hermione shook her head forcefully. "Let's go! It's rude to keep Hagrid waiting!"
With that, she strode ahead, and Harry, sighing, followed after her.
"Hey! Harry! There you are!" Before they even got close, Hagrid's booming voice reached them. "Fred and George Weasley came lookin' for ya. Said you should head to the Quidditch pitch."
"It must be about Harry making the Gryffindor team!" Ron said excitedly. "You know, Hagrid, the Quidditch season is about to start! First match—Gryffindor versus Slytherin!"
"That's a big one!" Hagrid waved a fist, looking serious. "Make sure to trounce 'em, Harry!"
"I'll do my best." Harry grinned. "Make sure you come watch my match."
"'Course I will!" Hagrid laughed heartily. "Want me to take some pictures for ya?"
"No photos, please," Harry quickly declined. "Alright, I'll head to the pitch now."
"Go on then, Harry," Hagrid chuckled. "Oh, and congrats on making the Daily Prophet again—you're probably the most talked-about person this year."
Harry stopped in his tracks.
"The Daily Prophet?"
"Aye," Hagrid sighed. "Seems word got out about what happened in the Forbidden Forest… Damn it, some folks really can't keep their mouths shut."
Muttering complaints, he pulled a slightly crumpled newspaper from his pocket.
No picture this time—was Harry's first thought.
Honestly, if the Prophet had managed to snap a picture of him in the forest, he'd be utterly impressed—and more than a little suspicious that wizards had some kind of magical surveillance on him.
The article described how the newspaper had received a tip-off from a certain wizard, prompting reporter Rita Skeeter to investigate. After interviewing multiple eyewitnesses of the Forbidden Forest incident, she had reached one conclusion:
We must acknowledge that the Boy Who Lived—no, perhaps we can no longer call him merely that. Evidence suggests that some wizards are destined for greatness from birth, possessing powers far beyond their peers.
And so, we must ask: was the Dark Lord's defeat truly an accident, or was it inevitable? What secrets is the Savior of the Wizarding World still hiding?
But no matter what, we must admit that our savior has finally given those centaurs a taste of their own medicine. The Daily Prophet has received far too many letters from wizards complaining about their arrogance—not to mention how they shamelessly take a hefty sum of Galleons but fail to provide a single satisfying answer.
It's hard to imagine that the one who stood up for justice and disciplined the centaurs would turn out to be a mere first-year student. As I said earlier, some wizards are simply born extraordinary. They possess wisdom and power far beyond their years.
At the same time, one can't help but wonder—does this entire incident point to negligence on the part of the Ministry of Magic? Especially when it comes to their handling of centaurs, merfolk, and other sentient magical beings, have they deliberately turned a blind eye to the rights that wizards rightfully deserve…?
Harry put down the newspaper. No wonder people had been looking at him strangely in the corridors today.
"...You paid her off with Galleons, didn't you?" After skimming through the article, Ron looked up at Harry in disbelief. "Merlin, she's praising you in ways I couldn't even dream up."
The Daily Prophet had clearly stumbled upon a prodigious talent—praising Harry left and right, hailing him as a battle-hardened warrior, an unstoppable force.
"Hah! So you do realize you're always hyping Harry up?" Hermione shot back sharply.
"But I only ever speak the truth!" Ron protested indignantly. "I've never told a single lie about Harry! How can that possibly be wrong?"
"Telling the truth isn't wrong at all," Hagrid agreed with a nod, though he looked somewhat perplexed. "But it's strange… This doesn't sound like something Rita Skeeter would write. She hasn't even met you, Harry."
"It's actually quite simple, Hagrid." Harry folded the newspaper and handed it back. "To the wizarding world outside of Hogwarts, I don't really matter. What matters is Professor Dumbledore."
"The Daily Prophet is basically the official newspaper of the British wizarding community, right?" Harry continued. "So in reality, this article reflects the Ministry's stance. My guess? They're trying to curry favor with Dumbledore for some reason."
"Hah! That explains it." Hagrid let out a derisive snort. "Fudge is a spineless git. He only became Minister of Magic last year thanks to Dumbledore's support. Truth is, hardly anyone actually backed him."
"So that's why the Ministry and The Daily Prophet are showering Harry with praise?" Hermione said, catching on. "They want Dumbledore's backing—after all, he's incredibly influential, both in Britain and internationally."
"Exactly. If Dumbledore had wanted to be Minister of Magic, Fudge wouldn't have stood a chance." Hagrid shrugged.
"That's not necessarily the case," Harry shook his head. "We don't have enough information from where we stand, so we shouldn't jump to conclusions—anyway, I'm heading to the Quidditch pitch. Want to come?"
"Nope." Shockingly, it was Ron—Harry's number-one fan—who refused first. He shook his head. "I want to save the excitement for the first match. I know you'll win for Gryffindor, but if I watch you train now, it'll ruin the suspense."
That… actually made sense. So much sense, in fact, that even Hermione was convinced. In the end, Harry headed to the pitch alone.
Not that he minded.
Today, the Quidditch pitch was entirely reserved for the Gryffindor team. Aside from the Weasley twins and Oliver Wood—whom Harry already knew well—there were three other players, all deep in training. That is, until Wood noticed Harry and blew his whistle, signaling the team to land.
"You're here, Harry?" Wood greeted him with an enthusiasm that was borderline overwhelming, pulling him into a bear hug before turning him toward the others. "Let's do introductions first. This is Harry Potter—though I'm sure you all already know him."
"Of course, Wood! Who doesn't know him?"
"He's practically more familiar than my socks—"
"—Or my horns?"
The moment Wood finished speaking, Fred and George Weasley chimed in with mischievous grins. As they spoke, they each pressed a hand to their foreheads.
It was then that Harry noticed they were both wearing headbands… which sat snugly beneath a pair of bull horns.
The next second, the headbands let out two loud, perfectly realistic cow moos.
Harry felt his blood rush straight to his head. His temple twitched.
"Hey, Harry! Stay calm! Keep your cool!" Amidst the uproarious laughter, Fred quickly clarified, "It's the headbands making the sound, not the horns—don't get the wrong idea!"
That only made everyone laugh harder.
Fred's explanation had all the credibility of a thief loudly proclaiming their innocence.
"I definitely didn't misunderstand," Harry said through gritted teeth. "You two… are so clever."
Clever little devils. (Grinding his teeth.)
"Nice to meet you—I'm Angelina Johnson, Gryffindor Chaser." A girl with dark braided hair stepped forward, extending a hand. "You have no idea how many times Wood has gone on and on about how amazing you are. Honestly, he's been insufferable."
"Hey! Angelina!" Wood protested. "You can't say that—I'm the team captain! I need authority!"
"I'll do my best not to disappoint," Harry said as he shook her hand—then turned to shake the hands of the other two players.
The remaining Gryffindor team members were Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet, both also Chasers.
They seemed like great people—or at the very least, if Wood had chosen them, their character was probably solid. The team atmosphere felt easygoing and supportive.
Gryffindor's Quidditch team wasn't large, with no reserve players. When Charlie Weasley graduated last year, his absence left a glaring gap in the lineup, which had caused Wood no small amount of stress.
"Honestly, Harry, we really need a strong Seeker. Before you, Charlie held that position, and he did a solid job," Wood said, draping an arm over Harry's shoulders. "I still stand by my judgment—your build is perfect for a Seeker. It'd be a shame if you chose another position. But…" He grinned. "We already made a deal. The choice is yours."
Wood's grin widened.
"But before you pick your position, there's something else—you're going to need a proper broom. We can't have you flying against Slytherin on one of those old twigs from the school's broom shed."
"Yeah, I noticed," Harry muttered, unable to hold back his sarcasm. "No matter how tightly you guys huddle together, there's no hiding what's behind you. Give it up already."
While Harry had been chatting with Angelina and the others about Quidditch tactics, Wood, Fred, and George had snuck off to the locker rooms.
It didn't take them long to return.
No matter how hard they tried to shield it, they couldn't hide the very obvious package behind them. It was wrapped in brown leather, mostly long and cylindrical—one end slightly thicker than the other.
There was no mistaking it.
It was a broomstick.
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