Kitchens, Consequences, and Quiet Panic
The Hogwarts kitchens were alive with motion.
House-elves scurried about, eyes bright, ears flapping as Keith Argus Runcandel rolled up his sleeves.
"Alright," Keith said calmly,
"Let's make something warm. Nothing too heavy."
The elves froze.
Then chaos erupted.
"Master Keith likes stew!"
"No, soup!"
"Dessert first!"
"Use the good bread!"
Keith laughed and tied an apron around himself.
He paused, then handed out aprons—new ones, charmed and neatly folded.
"Merry… very late Christmas."
Several elves squeaked and cried happily.
They took turns presenting dishes:
Herb-roasted potatoes Creamy pumpkin soup Buttered rolls still steaming Honey-glazed meat pies
Keith tasted each carefully.
"…It's good," he said honestly.
The elves erupted into cheers.
One fainted from happiness.
Back to Hufflepuff — And Beyond
Later that night, Keith slipped into the Hufflepuff dormitory, unnoticed.
From beneath his bed, he opened a spatial gate.
The portable dimension unfolded.
Zygarde bounded forward—now larger, more defined.
Keith smiled.
"Got something for you."
He produced the Zygarde Cells he had signed in earlier.
They dissolved into green light.
Zygarde roared softly.
When the light faded—
Zygarde (50% Forme) stood tall, powerful, balanced between dragon and guardian.
Ho-Oh circled above, approving.
Alolan Ninetales padded closer, tails swaying.
Keith laughed and played with them—quiet, peaceful moments far from politics and danger.
Consequences, As Promised
The next morning—
Professor McGonagall stood rigid before the Gryffindor table.
"Ronald Weasley. Neville Longbottom. Seamus Finnigan."
The trio gulped.
"Twenty points each from Gryffindor."
Groans echoed.
"And detention."
The trio deflated.
Keith, passing by, patted Neville's shoulder.
"Worth it."
McGonagall glared.
Staff Room — Private Reactions
The staff room was tense.
Sprout paced.
"Last year Darkrai," she muttered.
"This year a Zygarde."
Flitwick nodded rapidly. "Both mythic-tier creatures."
"I'd like to ask him," Sprout said thoughtfully,
"if Zygarde could help stabilize my greenhouses."
Snape scoffed. "You'll frighten him."
Sprout glared. "He summons dragons."
McGonagall sighed.
Dumbledore said nothing—just stirred his tea.
Snape, Questioned
Later—
Dumbledore stood with Snape by the window.
"Severus," Dumbledore said gently,
"your thoughts on Mr. Runcandel?"
Snape's lips thinned.
"He is dangerous."
Dumbledore nodded.
"Because of his power?"
"No," Snape snapped.
"Because he is twelve."
Dumbledore smiled faintly.
"And yet?"
Snape hesitated.
"…He is disciplined. Controlled. And far too kind."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.
"That may be the most alarming part."
Snape scowled.
Somewhere in Hogwarts…
Ancient wards shifted.
Beasts slept.
Dragons dreamed.
And a twelve-year-old boy with too much power and too many hearts attached to him slept peacefully—unaware that Hogwarts itself had begun to adjust to his presence.