Early Morning—November 9th, 1992
The fire crackled softly in the hearth of the Flamel estate, throwing long shadows across the carved stone walls. Books centuries old lined the tall shelves, and the scent of burning cedar mixed with something older — alchemical reagents sealed in vials and jars, whispering forgotten knowledge.
Dumbledore sat in a high-backed armchair, his long fingers wrapped around a delicate porcelain teacup. Across from him sat Nicholas Flamel, his age etched deeper into his face than even time should allow. Perenelle stood by the window, arms crossed, her sharp eyes trained on the horizon as if trying to divine answers from the stars themselves.
The silence was heavy — ancient and judgmental.
"It's been six months, Albus," Flamel said at last, voice low and deliberate. "Six months since the Sorcerer's Stone vanished from under your protection. And still... nothing."
Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment before setting the cup down gently on the table between them.
"I've scoured every possibility, Nicholas The protections on that mirror were layered by four of Hogwarts' finest. I placed the Stone inside myself. Severus, Minerva, and Filius all witnessed it. But when I returned after apprehending Quirrell… the Stone inside the Mirror of Erised was a fake."
Flamel's fingers twitched slightly, as if tempted to reach for something beneath his robes. "So you have absolutely no idea how the real one vanished?"
"None at all, I'm afraid." Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "When Quirrell reached the final chamber and I stopped him, the switch had already occurred. I've interrogated every soul within Hogwarts. No one even knew about the stone much less take it. There is no trail. No magic I can trace. No memory tampered. It's… beyond me."
"That," Flamel said, eyes narrowing, "is what frightens me."
The words hung like smoke between them.
Dumbledore's gaze drifted toward Perenelle, who still hadn't spoken. Her silence had weight — judgmental, laced with unvoiced accusations.
"I promise you," Dumbledore said softly "I am doing everything in my power to recover it."
Nicholas gave a small, bitter smile. "Sometimes I wonder if 'everything' is still enough, Albus."
Dumbledore stood slowly, his expression unreadable behind the half-moon spectacles. "If you discover anything—"
"You'll be the first to know," Flamel replied, though the tone made it clear the words were more courtesy than truth.
A moment later, the fireplace flared green. With a swirl of emerald flame, Dumbledore was gone.
The room felt colder in his absence.
Perenelle exhaled slowly. "Do you think… it was him?"
Nicholas didn't pretend to misunderstand. He moved to the fireplace and stared into the flames.
"No," he said finally. "I've spoken with what remains of Tom Riddle's soul. That fragment remembers finding the mirror. But the Stone was already gone. Replaced with a flawless fake."
Perenelle turned, her eyes shining with a fury she rarely showed. "Then why are we still doing this? Why are we helping him? How many more need to die before we admit this is madness?"
Nicholas didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was almost a whisper.
"Because you know what's coming. You saw it, same as I did."
He turned to her — not as a husband, not as a companion of six centuries — but as the last line of defense between a fragile world and the storm poised to swallow it.
"If we don't keep him alive — keep him useful — he will erase everything. Not just wizards. Not just this country. Humanity. Gone."
Perenelle's fists tightened.
Nicholas's voice hardened. "We're not choosing between good and evil. That luxury died long ago. We're choosing between sacrifice… and extinction."
She didn't respond. Not with words.
For a long time, they stood there, staring into the fire.
Then, quietly, Nicholas added, "In a way, I'm relieved Perenelle... that Voldemort's resurrection is delayed. I wish we could continue to delay the resurrection but you know..."
Perenelle waved her hand, and the teacups vanished with a faint shimmer. The air grew still, the kind of stillness that arrived before storms. Nicholas hadn't moved. He stood by the fire, face lit by the flickering glow, shadows dancing like ghosts on the walls.
She hesitated, then spoke, voice low. "And what if… what if it's him?"
Nicholas stiffened, just slightly.
Perenelle pressed on, cautious but burning. "What if this all leads back to—Exa—"
He turned sharply. "Don't."
The word struck like a warding charm, firm and final.
She stopped mid-syllable, breath caught in her throat.
"You know better, Perenelle," Nicholas said, quieter now but no less serious. "Don't say the name. Not here. Not anywhere. Even a whisper might be enough to draw his attention. And right now… we cannot afford that."
A long silence passed between them. Outside, wind howled across the French countryside, rattling the old windows.
Perenelle crossed her arms tightly. "It's just... we've never been this blind before. Not even during the Wars of Split Realities. And if he's watching—"
"He is," Nicholas said grimly. "But not directly. Not yet. Not unless someone gets his name on their tongue and gives him cause."
She turned away, jaw clenched. "I hate this."
"I know."
Another pause. Softer now, Perenelle asked, "What about the boy?"
Nicholas's expression softened for the first time that evening. "Harry?"
She nodded. "We have watched him closer than anyone, even Dumbledore."
"I know" Nicholas admitted. "I want to help him. Still do. But my hands... they are tied. We cannot interfere directly or else humans..."
"What if," she began carefully, "we didn't interfere. Not directly."
Nicholas raised an eyebrow.
"What if we compiled everything we knew? All our knowledge — of potions, spells, runes, wards, bindings, rituals… Everything. You and I. And manipulated it — charmed it — so it found its way to him. Quietly. A book. No signatures. No trace."
Nicholas was silent for a long moment.
Then he gave a slow, approving nod.
"We could," he murmured. "It would take time. But if we layered the enchantments right, made it feel like fate, like chance… he would believe he discovered it on his own."
"Would he?" Perenelle asked. "You know how his mind works. He would know it. Instantly."
"That would be better cause he would instantly understand"
His eyes met hers. And for a moment, they weren't two ancient alchemists hiding secrets—they were just two frightened souls staring into the abyss of the future.
"A child born from mercy's death,With storm in heart and fire in breath.He shall walk between ruin and flame,A beast or beacon — none shall tame.If shadow binds his grieving core,Then all shall kneel, forevermore.But if he sees with eyes of soul,Then shattered shall the darkness' hold.Exanox shall fall… or rise again,By Potter's heart, through fate's domain."
They both remembered the exact prophecy they read in that book. The book that disappeared the moment they read the prophecy.
"He could become something worse than him," Nicholas said, voice barely audible. "Something not even the gods would dare to name."
"Or he could end it all," Perenelle whispered.
Nicholas nodded. "The fate of creation… rests in the hands of a boy who doesn't even know what he is."
"We both know how terrifying his growth has been," Perenelle added. "How catalystic his presence is to others..."
They stood together in silence, two immortals fearing a mortal's future.
Then Nicholas quietly added, "We start the book tomorrow."
Late Afternoon that day
The scent of roasted meat and damp earth filled the small wooden hut that Hagrid called home. A kettle whistled on the hearth while Fang snored noisily in the corner, tail thumping occasionally against floorboards. The oversized table groaned under the weight of treacle fudge, rock cakes, and a suspicious-looking pot of stew.
Harry sat at the far end of the table, visibly crowded, with no fewer than seven other bodies squeezed into a space clearly built for one half-giant and maybe two guests — three, if they didn't mind kneecaps touching.
He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated.
This was not how he had planned it.
He had meant to come alone — just a quiet, private visit to speak to Hagrid about the expulsion, about justice. Maybe even offer help. But Abigail had latched onto him almost instantly after breakfast, her tone innocent but her eyes already suspicious.
And once Abigail had insisted on tagging along, Ginny had joined without hesitation, saying something vague about not letting "Harry get jumped by a niffler again." That might've been excusable, but then Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson had appeared, claiming they just happened to be headed in the same direction.
That had been suspicious enough.
But then Ron and Hermione had shown up near the greenhouses, and the twins had ambushed them by the pumpkin patch with "snacks for the road," which apparently included three joke wands, a charmed flask of butterbeer, and a truly horrendous bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans that had already caused Ginny to scream twice.
And now… now there were eight students crammed into Hagrid's hut like puffskeins in a barrel.
Across the room, Hagrid beamed. "Ah, it's good ter see yeh all. Brings a bit o' life ter this old place, don't it?"
"Feels more like a overcrowded tent in here," Harry muttered under his breath.
Ron, predictably, was already helping himself to a second bowl of stew. "Bit heavy on the salt, but it's good, Hagrid!"
Hermione, sitting beside him, elbowed him sharply. "It's perfectly seasoned," she corrected.
Ginny grinned and leaned across the table toward Harry. "You know, if you wanted some quiet time with Hagrid, you should've asked him to meet you somewhere else."
Harry blinked. "I didn't—"
"Oh please," Fred cut in with a smirk, "you didn't honestly think you'd sneak out of the castle alone without someone following you, did you?"
Abigail crossed her arms proudly. "It's Harry. Of course we'd follow."
Harry sighed, "I was bored. You guys go back. Now!"
George leaned in dramatically. "And risk missing a secret plot? Or an ancient magical duel behind the greenhouses?"
Harry snapped, "Hagrid will snap me in two if I was to duel him!"
"Maybe... if he get's a hold of you first", Daphne added.
"I just came to talk," Harry said flatly.
"And we just came to listen," Ginny replied with a polite smile that somehow made it worse.
Pansy was somehow just quiet and observing everyone, with a face of "Why the bloody hell am I here of all places?"
Harry felt the headache building behind his eyes. The conversation he'd meant to have — about Aragog, about the past, about Hagrid's innocence — was too sensitive to share with this many ears. Not all of them knew, and not all of them should.
Still, he couldn't just sit and stew. Not when Hagrid looked this happy, surrounded by students who actually seemed to enjoy his presence.
So he decided to change subjects. The uncomfortably cramped house was getting on his nerves even more. The entire hut felt like a broom closet pretending to be a ballroom right now.
Harry sighed and leaned back, pressing his shoulder against the wooden wall.
"Hagrid," he asked dryly, voice just loud enough to cut through the low hum of voices. "Do you actually enjoy living in this… cramped mess?"
Hagrid blinked, halfway through pouring more stew into Ron's bowl. "Eh? Oh… well, no. I s'pose not. Wouldn't mind a bit more room, but I ain't exactly rollin' in galleons, yeh know?"
Harry nodded slowly, as if confirming something. Then he stood up abruptly, brushing crumbs off his robes.
"All right. Everyone out."
There was a pause and for the first time Pansy spoke.
"Wait—what?"
"Out," Harry repeated, gesturing toward the door. "You too, Hagrid. And Fang. Go show them the thestral foal."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You're going to do something, aren't you?"
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Spatial magic?"
Fred grinned. "He's going to upgrade the real estate."
"Again," Ginny muttered, almost fondly.
"Yes, now get out!" Harry repeated. "Out! Out!"
The group exchanged a few knowing looks—more amused than surprised—and began to file out. Fang let out a low bark, clearly displeased at being evicted from his own home, but Hagrid gently coaxed him along.
Hagrid looked confused. "Harry, what're yeh—?"
"Trust me," Harry said, patting his arm. "Just a few minutes."
With a final, reluctant glance over his shoulder, Hagrid stepped out and closed the door behind him.
The moment the latch clicked, the atmosphere shifted. The cramped, cluttered air seemed to exhale.
Harry raised his arm, Elythral appearing in his grip instantly. He recalled everything he learnt about spacial magic from that book and formed an image of what he wanted.
The magic that poured from him was deep — layered, smooth, and impossibly vast. Golden threads of runes shimmered through the air, racing along the walls and floor, melting into the wood like ink into parchment. The room began to stretch — gently at first, and then with confident speed.
The ceiling arched upward.
Walls pulled back like curtains opening to a grander stage.
The tiny wooden interior shimmered and transformed, piece by piece — the single room dividing itself into corridors, a proper kitchen forming to the right, a sitting room straight ahead, and a staircase winding upward to a second floor. The floors polished themselves, the walls thickened and reinforced with hidden runes. Windows grew broader on the inside without affecting the exterior, and light danced through clean, enchanted glass.
In five minutes, Hagrid's hut was no longer a hut.
It was a modest home — not extravagant, but spacious and warm, filled with heavy wooden furniture charmed to self-clean, a plush armchair just the right size for a half-giant, a bath large enough for someone of his size to stretch in, and even a small balcony upstairs overlooking the forest. There was a room for Fang with a heated floor, a proper pantry, and a reinforced roof charmed against dragons, just in case.
And outside?
Still the same crooked little shack everyone remembered.
The door creaked open.
Eight pairs of eyes blinked at the sudden interior shift, frozen mid-step as they took in the transformed space.
"What the..." Fred began.
But words died.
They all filed in slowly, instinctively quieter than before. The air inside felt different—warmer, cleaner, bigger. The sort of magic that lingered in the walls hummed softly, like a lullaby sung in an ancient tongue only the soul could understand.
Pansy gawked openly, turning in place to take in the sitting room, the fireplace mantel that hadn't existed ten minutes ago, the thickly cushioned armchair clearly carved for someone five-six times her size.
"What in Merlin's—"
"No swearing," Abigail interrupted lightly, stepping past her like she belonged here. She glanced over everything with quiet, almost smug satisfaction—chin tilted up, eyes scanning the structure and the seamless expansion as though she'd made it happen.
Ginny brushed her fingers along the banister of the newly-formed staircase. "How... how does this even—"
"Don't," Hermione and Daphne muttered at the same time.
Daphne, who had already walked the length of the new kitchen twice in disbelief, looked honestly rattled. "Don't ask. I don't want to hurt my brain anymore than it already does..."
Hermione nodded, "I don't want to guess and be wrong again..."
George opened a cupboard. "You also made bread storage? Real bread storage? With bread?"
"Why does it smell like cedar now?" Pansy asked quietly, the second words she'd spoken since returning.
No one answered her.
Ron and Fred were checking out the upstairs bedrooms and bathrooms.
Harry stood in the middle of it all, utterly satisfied with his work. He adjusted a crooked cushion on the sofa as if he'd only tidied up a messy room, not rewritten the very space-time signature of the building.
Even Hagrid—massive, normally unshakable Hagrid—stood at the threshold like he'd walked into a dream. He ducked instinctively beneath the new archway, stepping in with halting steps as if unsure whether the floor would hold him.
"Harry..." he said, voice slow, reverent. "What've yeh done?"
Harry turned to him with a full smile. "Made it more livable and comfortable. Everyone deserves a comfortable home."
Hagrid's mouth opened and closed. His fingers brushed the walls, the back of a freshly enchanted armchair, the edges of the mantel, like he needed to physically confirm this was real. "This... this is…"
He trailed off again, too overwhelmed to find words.
"Better than your old hut," Abigail supplied sweetly, coming up beside Harry and linking her arm around his. "About time, honestly. This place was a disgrace."
"I liked the old place…" Hagrid mumbled, though his eyes never left the newly-formed wooden beams above his head, smooth and strong and utterly flawless.
"You'll like this one more," Harry said simply. "It won't collapse in a storm. The roof is dragon-proof."
Ron blinked. "Dragon-proof?"
No one commented on that. Probably better not to.
"This was a hut." Pansy's voice sounded again.
"It still is," Harry replied.
"From the outside."
She nodded. "Good. I was worried my brain had finally given up."
Then, quietly, she added, "This is madness."
As the fire crackled and the cozy warmth of Hagrid's hut settled over the group, Harry leaned back into the couch, subtly satisfied. He didn't point it out — not yet — but he knew someone was bound to notice.
And sure enough, it was Hermione's sharp eyes that caught it first.
"Wait a minute," she said, brow furrowing as she stood and walked around the couch. "Is that… is that a refrigerator?!"
Everyone turned.
Tucked discreetly behind the couch, partially hidden from initial view, stood a glass-doored cupboard that hadn't been there before. Inside, neatly arranged, were several chilled butterbeer bottles glistening with condensation, and — to Hermione's alarm — a few aged bottles of whisky.
Harry smiled at the growing curiosity. "It's not a refrigerator," he corrected calmly. "Just a wooden cupboard. I enchanted it with a cooling charm that mimics refrigeration. Added internal temperature runes and humidity stabilizers. The glass door helps keep the cold in, and I warded the wood to keep it from warping or soaking in moisture."
Hermione blinked. "That's… that's advanced, Harry."
Ron whistled low. "Blimey, that's proper magic engineering, that is."
Hagrid approached, looking half-overwhelmed. "Yeh even stocked it?" His voice cracked slightly as he eyed the butterbeer and whisky. "Yeh didn't have to, Harry…"
"I wanted to," Harry said quietly. "You don't know this, but I wouldn't even be alive right now if it wasn't for you. You got me to my mum and dad's that night. Fast. You didn't waste time. That matters."
Hagrid looked away, swallowing hard, eyes misting.
"Call it a thank-you," Harry added, softly.
No one spoke for a moment. The silence wasn't awkward — just full. Full of unspoken meaning, unacknowledged debts, and the rare warmth that came from knowing you were, without question, cared for.
Hermione finally broke the quiet with a sigh. "Honestly, you keep this up and I'll start thinking you're planning to open a magical appliances company."
Harry gave her a sideways smirk. "Now there's an idea."
I already am, my dear friend.
The next hour drifted by in a gentle haze of warmth, food, and quiet wonder.
Ron somehow managed to find a beanbag charm embedded into the floor cushions and refused to get up for twenty minutes. Fred and George rand a full inspection of the new upstairs bathroom, only to emerge with matching towels on their heads and claims that the enchanted show "felt like being hugged by a phoenix." Ginny commandeered the pantry and reorganized it alphabetically—"because someone has to bring order to this madness"—while Daphne and Pansy silently tried to deduce how Harry had constructed spatial layering with no visible seams. Abigail just lulled on on Harry's lap listening to everyone.
Hermione took notes. Obviously.
Even Fang, once grumpy from eviction, had curled happily on the heated floor of his new room — a space that looked like a cross between a hunting lodge and a pet spa.
Hagrid moved like a man enchanted, touching every surface as though it might vanish under his fingers. He didn't cry — not exactly — but more than once, he wiped his face and claimed smoke from the fireplace had gotten in his eyes.
Harry mostly sat back, quietly observing the chaos he'd inadvertently created. The conversation he had wanted with Hagrid — about the past, about the truth — had slipped entirely out of reach. There were too many ears in the room, too many layers of noise and jokes and moments.
It wasn't the time.
Tomorrow, then. He'd come back when it was quiet. When he could say what needed to be said without an audience.
As twilight bled into evening and the first stars peeked out above the forest canopy, Hermione finally declared that they had to return or risk detention.
"But this house is so comfy now," Fred groaned.
"You're not sleeping here," Harry said flatly.
Fred looked offended.
Grumbling and dragging their feet, the group finally shuffled back outside into the crisp November air. Hagrid followed them, clearly reluctant to let the party end.
"Come on," Hermione urged, linking arms with Ron and Abigail to prevent them from turning back. "We're already going to have to explain to McGonagall why we were out this late."
"She'll forgive us," Ginny offered cheerfully. "Once she sees what's happened to Hagrid's place."
"Oh, I'm counting on it," Daphne said under her breath, brushing windblown hair behind her ear. "I want to see all their faces."
They crossed the grounds with laughter echoing behind them, the chill doing little to dim their spirits. As they disappeared over the slope toward the greenhouses, Harry slowed slightly, letting the others move ahead.
Behind him, Hagrid lingered at the newly enchanted door, one massive hand resting on the wooden frame.
"Go on ahead," Harry said, pausing. "I'll come back tomorrow."
"Go on ahead," Harry said, pausing. "I'll come back tomorrow."
Hagrid nodded slowly, but his eyes were somewhere else — distant, scheming. "Think I might head up to the staff room, actually."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "At this hour?"
A wide, mischievous grin spread across Hagrid's bearded face. "Gotta invite the professors. Let 'em see what yeh done to my house. Might even share a drink with Dumbledore. Got a few bottles that've been waitin' for a day like this."
Harry gave a small laugh. "Just don't start dancing about in the Forbidden Forest after getting drunk."
"No promises," Hagrid said, already turning toward the castle with a gleam in his eye.
As the group made their way towards the castle, Hagrid followed behind them. At the castle doors, they parted ways as Hagrid headed towards the staff room and the group prepared to head off to their respective dormitories.
Hagrid turned back to see them cross the main corridor and he himself hurried off towards the staff room.
His
boots echoed down the quiet corridor as he made his way to the staffroom, a spring in his step and a warmth in his chest. It had been a long time since he'd felt this proud—and maybe a little smug. His hut had never looked better, and tonight felt like the right kind of night for a drink with the lot.
He knocked once, then pushed open the heavy door.
The staffroom was buzzing—not with tension, but laughter. Dumbledore sat at the end of the long table, twiddling his wand lazily while Minerva shuffled parchments into a neat stack. Remus was flipping through a set of essays with an amused look, while Thorne leaned back, balancing his chair dangerously on two legs.
"Evenin', everyone!" Hagrid beamed.
"Ah, Hagrid!" Dumbledore greeted cheerfully. "Perfect timing. We were just about to start round two."
"Round two o' what?" Hagrid blinked.
Remus chuckled. "A little game we started to keep things fair—Minerva grades Flitwick's essays, Filius grades Thorne's, and I grade hers. It keeps bias out."
"It's chaos," McGonagall said, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
Thorne gave a sly grin. "I gave the kids a Potions essay. One even wrote about explosive mushrooms. I'm not even mad."
Sprout leaned forward. "Wait till you read the one that thinks Gillyweed is a salad dressing."
"Blimey," Hagrid laughed, stepping further in. "Well, if you lot are done mutilatin' the students' future, how about joinin' me for a drink at me hut?"
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "At this hour?"
"Best hour," Hagrid said proudly. "Reckon the place's never looked better."
"You cleaned it?" Flitwick asked, nearly spilling his tea.
"Didn't do it meself. Harry and his friends gave it a right good doin' over."
There was a pause. Then:
"Harry Potter cleaned your hut?" Thorne asked, incredulous.
"Redecorated too," Hagrid said with a grin. "Even fixed the leaky kettle."
Dumbledore stood, setting his wand aside. "Well, I can't miss this."
"I'm in," Remus said, rising too. "If only to witness this historic moment."
McGonagall sighed, clearly trying not to smile. "If I find a single roach, I'm setting the hut on fire."
"Fair 'nough," Hagrid chuckled.
One by one, they filed out behind him, joking and laughing as they stepped into the night.