On Saturday morning, Harry learned through the two-way mirror that Gringotts had acquired the Angel Feather from Professor Dumbledore.
When he heard that Gringotts had traded forty percent of Honeydukes’ shares for it, Harry was utterly dumbfounded.
It seed Gringotts had really gone all out, he thought to himself.
With this, only the basilisk fang remained.
Harry ntally tallied the urgent tasks at hand: aside from locating Cassandra and rescuing Veratia, he still needed to buy a computer for Nicolas Flal.
He honestly hadn’t expected Mr. Flal to develop an addiction to computers.
But it was a good thing, really—it ant the old man had rediscovered a reason to live.
The rest… well, that just left training the little crew at the dueling shed.
Life rolled along in its usual humdrum way. September slipped by in the blink of an eye, giving way to October.
In the Scottish Highlands, October brought frost and heavy dew, with damp, chilly air blanketing the grounds and seeping into the castle.
A cold suddenly swept through the staff and students, leaving Madam Pomfrey, the matron, in a frantic tizzy.
Her Pepperup Potion worked like a charm, though anyone who drank it would have smoke pouring out of their ears for hours afterward.
Ron, unfortunately, caught the bug too. He’d planned to lie low in the dorm for a bit, but Hermione stord into the boys’ dormitory, potion in hand. Under Ron’s horrified gaze, she pinched his mouth open and poured an entire bottle down his throat.
The result? Ron’s fiery red hair instantly erupted in a plu of steam, as if his whole head had caught fire.
“How could you barge into the boys’ dorm?!” Ron yelped, clutching the blanket around himself, his shock giving way to belated indignation.
“Oh, spare , Ronald!” Hermione sneered. “If I didn’t co, who else would make sure you took your dicine?”
With that, she pulled a few blister packs of Muggle pills from her pocket and slapped them onto Ron’s blanket.
“If Madam Pomfrey’s potion doesn’t work, try these—Harry should know how to take them. Ask him to show you.”
And with that, Hermione marched out of the boys’ dorm without a backward glance.
Harry and the others watched Ron with gleeful mischief, snickering as he muttered under his breath about “that madwoman” never finding a boyfriend and “no sane person ever fancying her.” For a mont, the dorm was filled with a lively, cheerful buzz.
That evening, Ron’s cold showed no signs of improving, so he rembered Hermione’s pills.
“How do you take these?” Ron asked, squinting at the instructions. “Oh—three tis a day, two pills each ti.”
He popped out a couple of tablets, tossed them into his mouth, and crunched them with a loud crack.
Harry tried to stop him, but it was too late. Ron’s face twisted into a mask of agony.
“rlin’s beard, that’s bitter! Bloody hell, is Hermione trying to kill ?” he whined, his face scrunching up.
Harry couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “Oh, Ron, you’re supposed to swallow them with water, not chew them!”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out… half a chocolate bar.
After a mont’s thought, he realized it must be the leftover piece he’d broken off for Poppy last ti at the Dursleys’.
Poppy had said it was sweet, he recalled.
“How about this?” Harry offered. “Chocolate—it’ll take the bitterness away.”
Ron snatched the half-bar without hesitation, broke off a piece, and shoved it into his mouth.
“It’s even worse!” he wailed, his face crumpling again.
Harry stared at Ron, puzzled.
“That’s impossible,” he said. “Last ti I gave so to Poppy, she said it was sweet.”
“Try it yourself if you don’t believe !” Ron thrust the remaining chocolate at Harry.
Harry took it and popped it into his mouth…
It was bitter. Very bitter.
He couldn’t help but think back to the last ti he’d seen Poppy eat chocolate. She’d clearly said it was sweet…
Could it be that a unicorn’s sense of taste was different from a human’s?
Mulling it over, he decided to ask Hagrid later—he was the expert on magical creatures, after all.
That night, Harry also received a letter from Mr. Flal.
Dear Sir,
I am delighted to inform you that Miss Sweeting’s condition has been nearly fully restored.
By the Christmas holidays, you’ll be able to co to Paris and bring her back to Hogwarts.
Additionally, when you visit Paris, please bring a few more computers for research purposes.
Yours,
Nicolas Flal to Harry Potter, October 14, 1992
Harry tucked the letter away, genuinely happy that Poppy was recovering.
But he also wrote back to Mr. Flal, voicing his concern about Poppy’s sense of taste.
Of course, he didn’t sit idle either—he made a trip to Hagrid’s hut.
The mont he opened the door, a thunderous achoo echoed through the room.
It was Hagrid. He seed to have caught a cold too, bundled in a thick blanket and warming himself by the fire.
“Hagrid? You alright?” Harry asked, concerned.
“Fell in the water today,” Hagrid replied tersely. “Bliy, that Flobberworm was slippery as anything. If I hadn’t jumped in, it might’ve drowned… achoo!”
Harry sat beside Hagrid, reaching out to warm his hands by the fire.
The night was damp and frigid. Even the short walk had left Harry shivering, the cold wind cutting through him and raising goosebumps.
“You’re feelin’ the chill too, eh?” Hagrid said, grabbing a handkerchief—or rather, sothing more like a rag—and blowing his nose with gusto.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cold,” Harry admitted, scooting closer to Hagrid for warmth. “By the way, Hagrid, I ca to ask you sothing.”
“Oh, go ahead then,” Hagrid said, rubbing his nose.
“Well—” Harry paused, gathering his words. “Do unicorns have the sa sense of taste as humans? I an, if we think sothing’s bitter, could they think it’s sweet?”
Hagrid turned to stare at Harry for a mont. Then he reached out and pressed a hand to Harry’s forehead.
“What’s wrong, Hagrid?” Harry asked, confused.
Hagrid chuckled. “Just checkin’ if you’ve got a fever, spoutin’ nonsense like that. Bliy, unicorns don’t go thinkin’ bitter stuff’s sweet—that’d be ridiculous.”
“Really?” Harry asked skeptically. “Then why did Poppy say the chocolate was sweet? I just tried so, and it was awfully bitter.”
“Normal unicorns don’t talk either, Harry,” Hagrid said, stroking his beard.
With that, he reached into a nearby basin and pulled out a handful of red berries.
Harry didn’t recognize them. Following his usual habit of asking when unsure, he said, “Hagrid, what are those?”
Hagrid grinned. “These’re berries unicorns love. Dunno what they’re called—maybe I oughta ask Professor Sprout.”
Harry nodded knowingly and picked up a berry the size of a thumbnail, popping it into his mouth…
“rlin’s beard, that’s way too sweet,” Harry said, wrinkling his nose. “It’s like the lemon syrup in Professor Dumbledore’s cup.”
“Lemon syrup?” Hagrid blinked, then laughed as he caught on. “Right you are—Dumbledore does drink lemon syrup.”
“I get it now, Hagrid. Thanks,” Harry said, a seed of suspicion taking root in his mind as he awaited Flal’s reply.
Hagrid thought for a mont before adding, “Mind you, Harry, I love magical creatures, but that don’t an I know everything about ‘em. If you wanna learn more, I’d suggest writin’ to Mr. Scamander.”
“Mr. Scamander?” The na rang a bell for Harry.
“You rember Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them?” Hagrid said. “That’s the author—Newt Scamander.”
Harry’s eyes lit up. No wonder the na sounded familiar.
“So how do I get in touch with him?” Harry asked, his curiosity piqued.
Hagrid stood up, rummaging through the clutter on his table until he pulled out a thick copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. He flipped to the title page and pointed at the loopy, swirling handwriting there. “There—take a note of that.”
Harry felt a strange sense of déjà vu staring at the script—it looked so familiar, like he’d seen it sowhere before.
Seeing Harry zone out, Hagrid nudged him. “C’mon, Harry, don’t just stand there—grab a quill!”
“No, wait,” Harry said suddenly. “This handwriting—I’ve seen it sowhere before. Is this Mr. Scamander’s?”
Hagrid laughed, brushing his beard. “Nah, that’s Professor Dumbledore’s hand. He wrote it for . If anyone else asked, I wouldn’t tell ‘em.”
Professor Dumbledore?
It hit Harry like a bolt. Last Christmas, the note with the Invisibility Cloak had the exact sa loopy script.
So… the cloak had co from Dumbledore?
“You alright, Harry?” Hagrid asked, concerned.
“Oh, I was just thinking about the Invisibility Cloak from last year,” Harry said honestly, not wanting to hide it from Hagrid. “Dumbledore’s note said it was my dad’s. So he knew my dad?”
“‘Course he did,” Hagrid said with a warm smile. “Your dad—your dad was part of the Order of the Phoenix…”
Harry froze.
Wait, the Order of the Phoenix?
“What did you say? What order?” Harry asked, double-checking.
“The Order of the Phoenix, what’s wrong?” Hagrid replied, a bit puzzled. “It’s the group Dumbledore set up back in the day to fight You-Know-Who. Your dad was one of the bravest wizards in it!”
Harry opened his mouth, at a loss for words.
The Order of the Phoenix—wasn’t that the organization I founded a hundred years ago?
So this old schoolmate of mine’s quite the copycat, huh?
“You can write your letter here,” Hagrid offered. “I’ll help you send it. Mr. Scamander don’t know you, but with my introduction, he’ll read it.”
“Alright, Hagrid,” Harry nodded earnestly.
He carefully composed his letter, detailing his questions about Poppy and ending with a plea for Mr. Scamander’s help.
Afterward, he sealed it neatly in an envelope.
Hagrid took it, adding his own signature to the front.
“Don’t worry, Harry. I’ll get this to Mr. Scamander quick as I can,” Hagrid said, clapping Harry on the back.
Perhaps because of his cold, Hagrid didn’t hold back his strength, nearly knocking the wind out of Harry with those two pats.
Soon, it was the last day of October, and Hogwarts welcod the Halloween feast.
The previous year’s Halloween had brought a troll crashing into the castle.
This year, Hogwarts seed relatively calm so far—well, aside from Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey, everyone was gathered together, hale and hearty.
On October 31st, Harry received letters from both Nicolas Flal and Newt Scamander.
Flal’s letter explained Poppy’s situation, reassuring him not to worry—it might be due to the unique nature of magical maladies.
Scamander’s letter, however, was intriguing. He wrote… that by the ti Harry read it, he’d already be at Hogwarts.
Harry pocketed the letters and looked up, spotting an unfamiliar old man at the staff table. He sat between Hagrid and Dumbledore. Hagrid was gazing at him with a fanboy grin, while the man kept his head down, either talking to Dumbledore or listening intently.
Could this be Mr. Scamander?
Harry glanced sideways. The other professors seed unfazed, but Professor Lockhart’s eyes glinted oddly when he looked at Scamander.
It was almost like they had a grudge.
Maybe because Scamander was a bestselling author too, Harry mused—sort of like how Virginia Woolf couldn’t stand D.H. Lawrence?
With questions swirling in his mind, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room, but no one ca looking for him that night.
The next day, though, he got an invitation from Hagrid, saying Professor Scamander was waiting for him at the hut.
Harry hurried over, eager to et this expert on magical creatures.
Inside the hut, he pushed the door open to find Hagrid bustling about boiling water, while an old man sat in a chair, head bowed.
“Oh, Harry,” Hagrid said, setting the kettle down as he saw him. “Perfect timing. Let introduce you—this is the magical creatures expert, Mr. Newt Scamander.”
Harry stepped forward, extending his hand.
“Hello, Mr. Scamander.”
The old man kept his head down, as if too shy to et Harry’s eyes—perhaps a touch of social anxiety.
He reached out and shook Harry’s hand. “Hello, Mr. Potter. I… I’ve heard about you.”
Before Harry could say more, Scamander lifted his head, his eyes sparkling as he fixed them on Harry.
“That unicorn you ntioned—where is she?”
“Er, Poppy’s not in the Forbidden Forest right now,” Harry said honestly. “Over the sumr, I went to France. Mr. Flal said she wasn’t doing well and needed to stay for treatnt, so I left her with him…”
“You know Mr. Flal?” Scamander and Hagrid asked in unison—Scamander out of curiosity, Hagrid out of concern.
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