"What did he say?" Henry asked with interest, glancing around Hagrid's hut and relieved to find no sign of a second dragon egg.
The room was thick with steam and the smell of onion soup. The pile of books on dangerous creatures in the corner seemed to have grown since his last visit. An opened envelope and a few scattered sheets of parchment lay on the table, along with what looked like a photograph.
Henry leaned closer. It wasn't a picture of Norbert. It showed a vast, scorched clearing. The trees along the edge were flattened. Some stumps still smoldered weakly. A jumble of what might have been fence posts was piled in one corner, surrounding a mess of—things. Henry couldn't tell what they were. They were either shattered, twisted, or half-burned to charcoal.
"Norbert chewed up a researcher's robes. Made a right mess when they tried to move him to isolation," Hagrid announced, beaming with pride. "Charlie says he's the foulest-tempered Norwegian Ridgeback he's ever seen—have a read yourself, Henry. The letter's right there."
He gestured for Henry to sit and turned to rummage for the kettle.
Henry had just picked up the letter when a heavy weight settled on his lap. He looked down. Fang had rested his head there, drooling and looking up at him expectantly, as if he held a treat, not a piece of parchment.
"You want to know what Charlie wrote too?" Henry asked the dog.
Hagrid finally found his kettle (not the leaky copper one that had housed Norbert) and moved the soup pot aside to set it over the fire. "What?"
"Talking to Fang," Henry said. He unfolded the letter.
Dear Hagrid, Great to hear from you. I meant to write weeks ago, but things have been mad. Never found the right moment.
First, I'm happy to report your Norwegian Ridgeback, Norbert, arrived at the reserve safe and sound—can't say the same for my friends' brooms, but the reserve is covering the replacements. We're all hoping for the new Nimbus 2001s. Writing this line, I'm practically holding my breath for the approval.
Second, Norbert is the most finicky and vicious Ridgeback I've ever met. Merlin's beard! What have you been feeding him? And what have you been giving him to play with? The second he woke up in that crate, he was furious. My colleagues and I had to reinforce the box in shifts to stop him from smashing his way out right then.
Speaking of which, he's also the first Ridgeback I've seen who could fly and breathe fire that well at that age. The researchers didn't expect a proper flame. One of them almost got roasted…
Henry paused, glancing up at Hagrid's broad, smiling face. Fang nudged his arm with a wet nose. He continued reading.
…He also turned the new dragon quarantine paddock into a complete wreck. Photo enclosed. We wanted a picture of Norbert, but once he'd finished smashing things, he just flew off.
Which brings me, I suppose, to the point of this letter—how in blazes did you raise him so well, Hagrid? For the sake of our researchers' scalps, I beg you for some tips.
He's as fierce as a mother guarding her clutch right now, fixated on that scrap of black cloth (Henry assumed this meant his own stolen robe) and the teddy bear. We dread to think how lively the reserve will be when he's fully grown and in the mood.
He seems to be settling, but he hates being watched. We're all dying of curiosity, but given he's new, we're trying not to push him. So, no deep observations yet.
Oh, and if you happen to come across another dragon egg, don't hesitate to reach out. A Hungarian Horntail just lost her fourth egg this season. She's in a right state. We've had seven forest fires this month—no, eight. I should probably stop writing now. Need to go.
Yours faithfully, Charlie
P.S. The teddy bear is just a head now. We found half the body in the crate he escaped from. The other half is… gone. Norbert seems to enjoy using the head as a ball, batting it around with his tail. We're guessing that's part of why his tail is so strong and agile.
P.P.S. Your rock cakes—they were rock cakes, right?—were a hit with the Romanian Longhorn. We'd be thrilled if you shared the recipe.
Henry finished and looked up. Hagrid was watching him expectantly.
"That's brilliant, Hagrid!" Henry said, genuinely pleased. "Absolutely brilliant. Wonderful news!"
Especially since Charlie, like Hagrid, seemed to appreciate the more dangerous aspects of dragon nature. Henry had been slightly worried they might blame Hagrid for trying to train Norbert's hunting instincts. But from the letter, they were just amazed at how 'wild' the tea-kettle-raised dragon was.
Hagrid's face lit up.
"You think so, Henry?" he said, rubbing his enormous hands together. "So, where d'you reckon I should look to help that poor Horntail mum find her egg?"
…
After a valiant but likely futile attempt to dissuade Hagrid from hunting for the missing egg (the way Hagrid's eyes kept drifting toward his copy of Fantastic Zoos and Where to Build Them was not promising), Henry suggested they visit the Romanian dragon reserve together over the holidays to see Norbert.
He absolutely did not want to one day open his door and find an egg from 'the most fun breed of dragon' quietly (or crackling) incubating in his little iron skillet.
After that, they shared the onion soup and the rock cakes so praised by the Romanian Longhorn. The experience confirmed, once and for all, that Henry was not, in fact, a Longhorn.
After a final reminder to Hagrid not to do anything rash (met with Hagrid's muttered "buts" and "just helping"), Henry gave Fang's head a scratch and left the warm cabin.
The cold, late-October wind cut through his robes instantly. The sky was pitch black, starless and moonless. The Forbidden Forest was silent. Hogwarts stood quiet at the end of the path, its windows spilling tempting, warm light.
Even more tempting was the fact that the Lock Your Heart Club meeting should surely be over by now. Stepping into the brightly lit Entrance Hall, Henry noted the House tables had been cleared. Lockhart was absent from the staff table. Only Filch and his glowering Mrs. Norris remained, slowly working their way through fish and chips.
Henry nodded to Filch and, curiosity getting the better of him, drifted quietly toward the staff room door.
"Hello," said the gargoyle gloomily.
"Hello," Henry whispered, putting a finger to his lips. He was debating whether to peek inside when Professor Binns drifted straight through the wall.
Henry jumped. "Good evening, Professor Binns."
Professor Binns turned. He clearly had no idea who Henry was. A look of deep thought crossed his wrinkled, translucent face.
"Good evening, good evening," he said. "Good evening… er… Smith."
Henry didn't correct him. He just nodded and headed up the stairs, wondering if Lockhart had offered Professor Binns any tips on how to tie down a heart. From a purely physical perspective, Henry thought Peeves might have been a better pupil.
…
He didn't realize how badly he'd underestimated the Lock Your Heart Club's first staff event until Monday morning.
While no current staff had attended (besides Binns), a significant number of other ghosts had accepted the invitation. Even Moaning Myrtle showed up.
The Fat Friar declared he had no earthly interest in marriage or romance but was happy to support the new professor's club. Nearly Headless Nick, despondent over another rejection from the Headless Hunt, had been persuaded by the Friar to attend for some relaxation. Besides, with his five-hundredth deathday approaching, he could use some party-planning tips.
The Bloody Baron, overhearing the Friar, had drifted into the supposedly love-and-joy-filled gathering in a daze, arriving even before Lockhart. In stark contrast, the Grey Lady, ghost of Ravenclaw, arrived late. The moment she entered the now-chilly room, she gave a loud, disdainful sniff, cutting Lockhart off mid-flourish. The Bloody Baron left shortly after.
Once the Baron was gone, Peeves poked his head in. Finding a room full of ghosts and practically no professors, he was overjoyed. He asked, cackling, if he too was invited.
"Did Lockhart say yes?" Henry asked, holding his breath.
"Did you hear any glass shattering last night?" Professor Sprout asked in return.
Henry thought. "No."
Professor Sprout nodded with grim satisfaction. "The staff room insulation is quite good. Peeves smashed the chandelier onto the floor."
…
After Professor Flitwick repaired the chandelier, Lockhart stopped mentioning his club in the staffroom for a while.
Dumbledore's Albacore Club, however, was thriving. Henry heard that during an exchange with the merpeople, a prefect had accidentally learned some of the less-friendly words in Mermish. The prefect now took great delight in ducking into the prefects' bathroom tub to gurgle aquatic insults.
He also heard several other prefects had joined the club.
And so, the last days of October slipped by. Henry found himself facing his second Halloween at Hogwarts. Last year, he'd been buried in Necromancy and had missed the live textbook example of a mountain troll.
This year, he sat at the staff table, marveling at the efforts of the staff and house-elves. A thousand floating candles had become a thousand grinning jack-o'-lanterns. Tiny, magically conjured bats flitted around them. Henry's cat ignored the display, but Mrs. Norris had taken up a post at the far end of the staff table, tail twitching, eyes fixed hungrily on the fluttering shapes. Professor McGonagall shot the cat several sharp looks, her mouth a tight line.
The bats looked familiar. Henry stared for a moment before realizing they resembled the winged keys that had guarded the Philosopher's Stone. He checked with Professor Flitwick and confirmed the Charms master had provided the decorative spell.
Professor Flitwick, delighted, taught him the charm. So, when Hagrid finally arrived, two miniature, flying teaspoons were circling Henry's goblet.
"Evenin', Henry!" Hagrid boomed, squeezing himself into his already-oversized seat. "What's that?"
Henry directed one teaspoon to flutter near Hagrid's hand. Hagrid snatched it out of the air and promptly bent it.
"Oops, sorry," Hagrid said, chagrined. "Thought it was a big fly."
"Good catch, Hagrid," Professor Sprout said kindly, placing a fresh teaspoon by his cup.
"Maybe I'd have been decent at Quidditch, if a broom could carry me," Hagrid said with a touch of pride.
Even knowing Hagrid meant a Seeker, Henry couldn't help picturing what a formidable Keeper he would have made—completely blocking the hoop—and felt a pang of regret for the old Gryffindor captain who'd missed out on such a player.
"How was your day, Henry?" Professor Sprout asked.
"Good. Very good," Henry said. "I finally finished the summary report for the third set of practical sessions."
"Splendid," said Professor Sprout. "And you, Hagrid? Busy, I imagine?"
"Right you are. Pumpkins were ready. Spent the morning hollowin' 'em out. Professor Flitwick did the carvin' this afternoon."
Henry followed his gaze to the long line of enormous jack-o'-lanterns lining the walls, each with a unique, intricate design. He was almost sure he saw one carved with a pattern that looked suspiciously like a snarling dragon and felt a fresh wave of concern.
He turned back to Hagrid, intending to issue another warning about the Hungarian Horntail egg. But Hagrid was scanning the Gryffindor table, frowning.
"What's wrong, Hagrid?" Henry asked.
"Can't see Harry, Ron, or Hermione," Hagrid said. "Wanted to tell 'em about Charlie's letter. Odd, that. All three missing. Where'd they get to?"
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