Theo's fingers curled unconsciously. Staff Arts Transcendent—finally his.
Maybe it wasn't loftier than Ten-Thousand Transformations, Command Wind & Thunder, or Born-for-Duels, but with his current physique it was the most explosive: pair a transcendent staff style with his Adamantine Body, Unclouded Mind, and even a fire-dragon in front of him felt like mince waiting to happen.
First, though, priorities.
"Hagrid—ease up." Theo coughed. "They can't breathe."
Hagrid blinked as if waking from a dream and released the four of them. Harry, Ron, and Hermione drew desperate gulps of air while Hagrid kept sniffling, eyes wet.
"No one's… no one's ever said things like that to me," he mumbled.
Theo softened. "Hagrid, ever think your blood isn't the real shackle? Maybe it's how you see yourself."
He saw Hagrid flinch, so he kept going, steady and matter-of-fact.
"In our world, you're not alone. Take Olympe Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons. Everyone says she's part-giant. Didn't stop her from running one of Europe's Big Three. The road's cruel—sure. But she did it."
Hagrid's head jerked up. "Beauxbatons? I've heard of 'em. Not as good as Hogwarts, mind, but near enough! And she—like me—and Headmistress?" He shook his head in wonder. "That's… brilliant."
"If you want it," Theo said, "you won't fall short of her. Picture it: the few mixed-giants in the world becoming so respected that the snobs have to swallow their slurs. The Malfoys buy respect with gold and reputation—why should you, who's better than them, accept less?"
Hagrid flushed. "Malfoys—bah. Weather-vanes, the lot of 'em."
The hope in his eyes flickered, then dimmed. "Only I can't. I was expelled. My wand was snapped. Dumbledore fixed it—keeps it in my umbrella—but I can't go round waving it. And I've no fancy spellwork like proper professors." He rubbed the back of his neck. "All I'm good for is the Forest and beasts."
Theo's grin sharpened. "Perfect. I've been working with Mr Warwick in Diagon Alley to turn magical creatures into Pokémon—household companions and working partners. If you'll join, our odds skyrocket. You're the expert on dangerous creatures."
He laid it out, brisk and bright.
"Think about it: heaps of witches and wizards can't sling spells well. Then there are Squibs—dreaming of magic. Even if they can't cast, if they partner with a creature that can, everyday life changes."
He popped a lacquered capture sphere and released a fire crab. Huhu, now the size of a fat cat with rubies that glowed like embers, clicked cheerfully.
"Huhu, stoke the hearth."
A measured gout of flame leapt into the fireplace, swelling the warmth without scorching the mantel. Another puff kissed Hagrid's tray—turning rock cakes from tooth-breakers into golden, crisp-edged biscuits.
Hagrid's jaw dropped. "You've raised that fire crab proper!"
Theo shared the feed recipe he'd developed. "Follow this regimen and their flame output spikes. And that's only one species. With real husbandry, we can push bloodlines, stabilise temperaments, and breed better strains. Right now, magizoologists study too little, and wizards care even less."
He tapped the sphere. "But if the Pokémon Project becomes big enough—a proper industry—people will notice. Then poachers will have more enemies than opportunities. You can't patrol an endless forest alone."
That did it. Hagrid's great hands trembled; then he yanked Theo into another crushing hug. "Thank yeh, Theo. Really—thank yeh. Oh—Abba, that troll yeh tamed—I sent 'im back to the Forest. Safe spot. I can take yeh to see him… quietly."
He bustled, wiping his eyes, and stuffed the freshly toasted rock cakes into a soft, dusky leather pouch.
Hermione winced; Theo's eyes lit. Night-leather—bat-hide. Expensive. Very.
Hagrid wasn't done. He rummaged and kept pressing odds and ends on them. "Weather's turning. Don't you catch cold. Take what you need—I've loads more."
Theo accepted everything with perfect politeness. When they finally left, he parcelled the "junk" out as they crossed the grounds—then explained why everyone should stop looking disappointed.
"Don't judge by looks," he said, holding up a blanket that seemed plain as porridge. "Unicorn-hair weave. Pure hair, no filler. Size like this? Several hundred Galleons."
He passed Hermione a pair of gloves. "Dragon-hide—top grade. Heat-proof, and they'll shrug off a Fiendfyre brush. Alchemists drool over these. Under a hundred Galleons? Dream on."
He rattled through the rest. "Nothing here is cheap. Hagrid basically handed us a sack of money."
Hermione and Harry took it in stride; both had seen coin—Hermione from dentists, Harry from a vault full of "pocket change." Ron, though, reeled.
"W-wealy… er, really?" he stammered. "I thought Hagrid was poorer than we are. He's—he's loaded? Does being Gamekeeper pay that much? I'll take the job!"
Laughter shook the chill out of the air.
Theo kept dividing. He kept the bat-hide food pouch—excellent for keeping feed fresh for Huhu and future partners (and it already bulged with rock cakes). Harry chose a russet fox-fur scarf; Hermione claimed the dragon-hide gloves. As for the priciest piece—the unicorn-hair blanket—everyone shoved it at Ron.
He opened his mouth to protest. Theo shrugged. "Mate, you curl into a cinnamon roll at night and your feet still stick out. And stop throwing your school robe over the end—McGonagall's scolded you three times about creases. Hagrid will be happier knowing it's used properly."
Ron sniffed; his ears pinked. "Mum's not stingy. She'd add a foot to the blanket if I asked. She spends everything on us. I've never seen her buy for herself. Christmas jumpers—she knits them every year. I don't wanna make it harder, is all. A robe over the feet isn't that bad."
Silence for a beat.
Theo clapped his shoulder. "You, your brothers, your sister—you'll all do well. When that happens, Molly Weasley will put her feet up and let you lot spoil her rotten."
Ron snorted, a watery laugh. "She won't. She'll still shove corned-beef sandwiches at us every morning."
He looked down at the shimmering blanket, then out over the lake, and the wind carried a small, honest wish.
"But… if we did end up rich one day—blimey. That'd be nice."
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