Days at Hogwarts

It was Wednesday. The first-year Gryffindors had two classes that morning: Herbology and Charms.

Herbology was basically manual labor. After a morning of working in the greenhouse, the students were exhausted—too tired to even eat properly.

"Hermione, could you please not force us to cast spells your way when you're teaching?" Ron groaned, poking his steak with a fork like it had personally offended him.

After the night tour, everyone's relationships had warmed up. They were more relaxed around each other now, and things that might have caused tension before could be said outright.

Hermione flipped her hair and turned to Ron, unconcerned. "But you have to admit—my method works!"

"Loren doesn't have to use your method, and he casts spells just fine," Ron argued confidently.

Loren, who was at that moment trying to shove a croissant the size of an adult's fist into his mouth, turned to Ron and shouted through the pastry, "Mmmff! Mmmff!"

Ron blinked. "What's he saying?"

Hermione sighed deeply, like this was all too much for her. "He said he practiced using my method in the beginning and got familiar with the spellcasting that way."

Loren nodded in agreement—"Slurp!"—unable to keep his drool in check.

Hermione finally lost her patience. She reached over and gave him a smack on the back of the head, knocking the croissant from his mouth. "Eat like a normal person!"

Ron turned back to Harry. "You got Quidditch practice this afternoon?"

"Yeah," Harry sighed dramatically. "Wanna come watch?"

"No thanks." Ron shook his head. "I'm not on the team. I'll use the time to catch up on homework so I'm not scrambling like you are on the weekend."

His words hit a nerve. Harry looked down at his plate, and suddenly the buckwheat bread in his mouth tasted bitter. Quidditch training three times a week was fun—but it left almost no time for anything else.

"Why can't Quidditch players get less homework?" he grumbled. "Seems fair."

"Yeah right," Loren said, finally swallowing the last of his croissant. "What are you dreaming about—playing all day and no homework? Even in dreams, someone has to study."

Someone like him, apparently. Life was tough.

Just then, the skylight above the Great Hall swung open, and a flurry of owls swooped in. With great effort, Hedwig dropped a broomstick in front of Harry, then perched beside him and began angrily pecking at the fruit on his plate.

"A broomstick?" Hermione stared at it, wary. Fortunately, it was clean, sleek, and gorgeously crafted—otherwise, having a real broom appear at the table would've made it hard to keep eating.

"Professor McGonagall must've ordered it for me," Harry said, puzzled. "But… why so fast? I thought it wouldn't arrive until after Halloween."

"This is not a normal broomstick!" Ron said, eyes wide, reaching out to gently stroke the polished handle. "Harry! This is a Nimbus 2000! The fastest broom out there right now!"

He looked like he'd just spotted the girl of his dreams.

"I regret everything. I have to come watch you train this afternoon. Please lend me the Nimbus 2000 for just half an hour."

"Ten minutes!"

"Three minutes is fine!"

Everyone watched Ron lose it completely. He rambled to himself like a lovesick poet.

Loren had the wicked urge to record the whole thing so he could mock Ron at graduation—and every year after.

Harry looked toward the head table, wanting to thank Professor McGonagall—but she wasn't there. He realized he hadn't seen Dumbledore in days either.

"I'll thank her when I get the chance," he told himself.

...

Judging by the timeline, Peter Pettigrew's trial should've ended. Dumbledore ought to be back. Loren decided to test his luck at the headmaster's office.

When he reached the third floor and stood in front of the stone gargoyle, he began trying passwords:

"Lemon Sherbet!"

Nothing.

"Licorice Wand!"

Still nothing.

"Cockroach Cluster!"

With a sudden lurch, the statue sprang aside, and the wall behind it split in two, revealing a spiral staircase.

That's it? Loren smirked. "The headmaster's office? No challenge at all."

He ascended the staircase and pushed open the door. Inside, Dumbledore already seemed to be expecting him.

"I figured you'd come, Loren," he said, as if greeting an old friend. He pulled out a candy tin from the pile on his desk. "Professor McGonagall mentioned you stopped by while I was away."

He opened a box of hazelnut chocolates and offered it.

Loren took one, peeled off the wrapper, and popped it into his mouth. The sweet chocolate melted into nutty richness, with hints of coconut. It was amazing. No wonder Dumbledore liked them.

Loren chewed thoughtfully. "Professor, I need your help with something."

He explained about Grandpa Bates—how he wanted to buy wolfsbane potion and possibly borrow the Philosopher's Stone to help heal him.

"Mr. Bates is a remarkable man," Dumbledore said quietly. "To remain committed to his responsibilities for decades—even when they weren't really his to bear—is no small thing."

He paused, then smiled warmly. "And I'm very glad you told me this."

He studied Loren a moment—caring, courageous, already showing a spark of cunning. But ultimately, a good child.

"I'll speak to Professor Snape about the wolfsbane potion. But in the end, you'll need to persuade him yourself."

"As for the Philosopher's Stone…" Dumbledore looked contemplative. "I don't know if it can cure lycanthropy. But if it can, that would be a breakthrough for the entire wizarding world."

"I'll write to Nico."

Loren was a little disappointed—so he still had to win over Snape. But with Dumbledore's endorsement, Snape might at least listen. That was something.

"Okay," Loren nodded. Then he brought up something else. "Harry's a bit obsessed with the Mirror of Erised. He misses his parents a lot."

"Has it affected his daily life?" Dumbledore asked, still calm.

"Nothing too serious—he skipped half a day of training. After we talked to him, he's only gone to see it at night, but... it's still pretty often."

"I think that'll pass once he forms stronger bonds with people around him," Dumbledore said, relaxing again. "Friendship is the best medicine for grief."

The child who, twenty years ago, might've become a pure-blood Slytherin had instead grown into a Gryffindor brave enough to risk his life for friends. And with Loren beside him, Harry was growing stronger.

The conversation faded as both of them reached for more chocolate. Loren had already eaten most of the box. The last piece remained.

Neither said a word—but a silent, high-stakes contest had begun. Who would get the final chocolate?

Even without words, Loren knew Dumbledore was thinking the exact same thing.

...

Meanwhile, on the Quidditch field, Harry looked toward the stands.

Standing next to Professor McGonagall was a man in a black coat, with a thin, pale face but shining, intelligent eyes.

Sirius.