It perfectly fit the identity he wanted to project… the image of someone who, after Voldemort's downfall, had suffered humiliation after humiliation, and therefore nursed a deep hatred toward the child who had caused Voldemort's disappearance.
Professional—undeniably so, honed through life-and-death necessity. His tone, movements, and expressions were all flawlessly convincing.
"How come you're here, Hagrid?" Hermione asked curiously.
"Oh, just buying a few things… supplies useful at the castle," Hagrid muttered vaguely. "But you lot—best not to bother with him, Arthur. That whole family's rotten through. I thought maybe young Malfoy had improved this term, but looks like nothing's changed. Ha! Bad blood in their veins, the whole lot of them."
The group talked as they walked out. The clerk at Flourish and Blotts looked as if he wanted to stop them, but after one glance at Hagrid's wall-like frame, he didn't dare speak.
Mrs. Weasley was still scolding her husband, and Ron and the twins weren't spared either—after Mr. Weasley had brawled with Lucius Malfoy, the twins had jumped in trying to help their father, which had set Draco Malfoy off and dragged him into the chaos.
In a word: messy.
Especially since the one person present with enough reputation to restore order seemed eager to fuel the mess—when they left the shop, Harry overheard Gilderoy Lockhart asking a Daily Prophet reporter if the fight could be written into the story, insisting it would cause a sensation.
"Though come to think of it… maybe this is actually a good thing," Fred suddenly remarked.
"Huh?" George blinked, then in perfect synchronicity realized what his twin meant. "Yeah… that makes sense."
"What are you two on about now?" Ron said irritably. "Bloody hell, the three of us couldn't even beat Draco. I don't want to imagine how unbearable he'll be once term starts."
"I thought you said you weren't going to speak to him again," Hermione gave Ron a strange look.
"It was just a fight," Ron said indifferently. "Sure, old Malfoy's a right bastard, but Draco's a bit different—at least he's gotten into more fights with Slytherins than we Gryffindors have, hasn't he?"
After a year of watching Draco constantly land in the hospital wing—or sending others there—Ron had developed a strange sort of respect for him, almost like Draco was a "spiritual Gryffindor," someone devoted to punching Slytherins and treating detentions like daily meals.
"So Fred, what's this good thing?" Neville asked curiously.
"Lockhart's our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Fred said meaningfully. "Think about it—Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Everyone except Ginny and Luna immediately understood.
Everyone knew the Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts position was cursed—professors never lasted more than a year.
"That is a good thing!" Ron nodded quickly. "Perfect, really. No matter how awful Lockhart is, we only have to put up with him for one year?"
"Exactly," George agreed. "Though it also means all seven of those books we just bought will be worthless next year. Even if he's gone, Lockhart will still be strutting about, spending our money—damn Lockhart!"
That curse wasn't only shouted by the twins—Ron and Neville joined in, which earned them a fierce glare from Mrs. Weasley.
"Don't you dare curse people behind their backs!"
She scolded them harshly. But once she turned away, Fred only shrugged. "At least she's not angry at us for mocking Lockhart—that's something."
However much the children loathed Lockhart, his appointment at Hogwarts was already a fact.
And compared to Lockhart, Ron, Hermione, and Neville were more unsettled by what came next: the following day's Daily Prophet headline announced a new Ministry decree.
Not a law exactly, but a directive, titled: Order to Control the Abuse of Elemental Magic by Underage Wizards During Holidays.
If there had been any doubt about the reports claiming Harry Potter had created a new kind of elemental magic, this decree erased it. Elemental magic was real, and the Trace couldn't detect it.
"Sorry, Harry, but I'll need you to come with me to the Ministry again," Mr. Weasley said at midday, having rushed home from work, looking apologetic.
Harry had been out on the lawn with friends, playing a simplified version of Quidditch.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"You saw the decree in the morning paper?" Mr. Weasley scratched his head. "They'll need your help. As the creator of this new magic, no one understands elemental magic better than you."
"No problem," Harry nodded. "Though from how the Prophet wrote about it, I thought the Ministry had already improved the Trace."
"How could they?" Mr. Weasley sighed. "That's just for show, to reassure the public. No one in the Department understands elemental magic—how could they possibly improve the Trace?"
"I see." Harry smiled. "Don't worry, I'll cooperate."
"That's a relief."
So Harry left his broom with Ron and followed Mr. Weasley by Floo Powder back to the Ministry.
Even elemental magic was still magic, which was why Mr. Weasley led Harry straight to the Department for the Improper Use of Magic—even though Harry had only just been in a legal battle with them and ousted their former head, it was still their jurisdiction.
Unexpectedly, Cornelius Fudge himself was waiting there.
"Thank you, Arthur, for bringing Harry," Fudge said with a fixed smile, his tone overly warm. "It saves us a great deal of trouble—and welcome back to the Ministry, Harry. Don't be nervous, boy, of course we won't harm you."
He was clearly imitating Dumbledore's style, trying to seem approachable, but Harry found the act nauseating. He would have preferred Fudge just be his usual self.
"Thank you, Minister," Harry replied simply. "What do you need me to do?"
"Do?" A sharp woman's voice cut in from behind Fudge. "It would be better to call it 'assistance.' This is for your own good as well, Mr. Potter."
"Enough, Dolores," Fudge raised his hand, silencing her before Harry could answer. Turning back to Harry, he continued, "In short, Harry, there's much we don't yet understand about your new magic."
"The most important point is that you've already taught it to your peers. And it's been proven that the Trace cannot detect it. Do you understand what that means?"
"Of course, Minister," Harry sighed. "If possible, I'd like to meet the wizards who cleaned up after Butte's magical accident, to thank them—and apologize."
"…Oh, Harry, that surprises me." Fudge widened his eyes, studying Harry as if seeing him for the first time.
"Impulsive, emotional, unwilling to take responsibility—those are the flaws of youth," Harry went on calmly. "But when that youth is a wizard, capable of things Muggle adults can't even dream of, the consequences of their recklessness are magnified many times over."
The room fell silent. Everyone stared at Harry as though he weren't a boy himself.
"…Very good," Fudge finally broke into a genuine smile—his first real one, not the false grin he had worn earlier. "I'm glad you understand, Harry. So you agree with the Ministry's actions, yes?"
"Yes." Harry nodded. "I believe even elemental magic should fall under the same restrictions—no use by underage wizards during holidays."
"And you're willing to help us make that possible?"
"Yes," Harry said.
"Good boy." Fudge patted his shoulder. "You'll go far—if only you'd already graduated."
"Oh, Minister, Harry's still a long way from graduation," Mr. Weasley interjected.
"Hahaha, Arthur, of course I know. It was just a figure of speech, a hope, you see? Very well then—it's settled. Work hard, Harry. You've got a bright future."
Clearly in a better mood, Fudge left with his entourage.
"Hope he didn't trouble you too much, Harry," Mr. Weasley said softly. "You handled that speech well."
"Uh, that wasn't just talk, Mr. Weasley," Harry replied. "If the Ministry can't monitor elemental magic, kids will eventually cause real disasters."
"You know, Harry, you sound like a saint," Mr. Weasley said, shrugging. "But since you think that way, we'd better start right away. Before the next holiday, we'll need a solution."
"I'm no saint," Harry laughed. "I lose my temper easily enough. Anyway—what exactly do you need me to do?"
"This way…"
…
The last days of summer passed quickly, until at last term began. Ron could hardly stand it—he had been having too much fun. Chess, cards, and for the first time a playmate his own age, Neville. He was thrilled.
Harry often teamed up with Ron and Neville for simplified Quidditch matches against Fred and George.
The Ministry project had moved faster than Harry expected. The new Trace now had a narrower focus and could detect elemental magic. Harry couldn't quite believe it.
The Improper Use of Magic Office had no true understanding of elemental magic, and Harry had no intention of casually teaching them shamanism. Instead, he demonstrated elemental spells, while they carefully recorded the visible and invisible aftereffects.
And somehow, with that alone, the Trace was updated.
They had no grasp of the elements' true essence, couldn't even perceive them—yet they had succeeded. Harry found it unbelievable, wishing Dalaran's archmages could see it and have their worldview shattered.
…
The scarlet steam engine pulled into the station again, and students leaned out of the windows to wave goodbye to their families. After the long ride, as twilight fell, Harry and his friends once more beheld the familiar castle.
The ancient fortress stood on the cliff, shrouded in night, but rather than foreboding, the lights glowing in its windows filled the new first-years with awe—they were about to spend seven years living in a castle!
Only the first-years rode the boats across the lake with Hagrid, completing the age-old magical rite. The older students, disembarking, were led by prefects to a different path, where a line of carriages awaited.
"Whoa—self-driving carriages?" Ron exclaimed. "That's cool—like ghosts are steering them."
"They're not self-driving, Ron." Harry stepped forward and, to Ron's horror, reached out into thin air—at least, that's what Ron thought.
"There's something there?" Hermione asked, reaching out where Harry's hand was. She flinched, then whispered, "There is!"
Sharing a look, Ron and Neville hurried over, cautiously extending their hands into the air. Sure enough, they felt sleek fur.
"What is it, Harry?" Neville asked softly, afraid of disturbing the unseen creature.
"Thestrals," Harry said firmly. "According to the books, only those who've seen death can see them."
"Er… figures." Ron muttered. "No wonder you can see them."
"Go on, Harry," Hermione urged eagerly. "What do they look like?"
"You know Pegasus? Thestrals look a bit like that—except with dragon heads and horse bodies. Oh—no offense, mate. Actually, you're pretty handsome. Want some grass?"
The others stared, wide-eyed, as Harry spoke to the empty air, pulling some leaves from his robe pocket—the treats he usually gave Fawkes—and holding them out.
As if understanding, the Thestral curved its long neck toward him, its bat-like wings twitching. Harry gazed into its white, pupil-less eyes before it lowered its head and nibbled the leaves from his hand.
"Merlin's beard! It vanished!" Ron gasped.
They watched the leaves disappear bite by bite, faint teeth marks left behind on the stems.
"Cool," Neville breathed. "They must look amazing, right? I mean… overall?"
"Come on, let's get in," Harry said, lowering his voice so the beasts wouldn't hear. "Truth is, most people don't find them pretty. They've hardly any flesh—just black skin stretched over bone, every rib visible. But the wings are magnificent, like giant bat wings."
Though the books said Thestrals weren't evil and rarely attacked unless provoked, Harry wasn't about to insult them aloud.
"They say Thestrals bring death and misfortune," Ron muttered, recalling old tales. Neville chimed in with a few more.
Unlike Muggle-borns, wizarding children tended to believe in such eerie superstitions. The discussion carried on until they reached the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, where Seamus and Dean eagerly joined in, adding their own spooky stories.
Before long, Professor McGonagall entered with the line of trembling new first-years, who looked overwhelmed by the stares of the assembled students.
---
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