"Books?"
A miserable voice rose from the crowd.
"That's right, your textbooks," Hagrid said cheerfully. "You'll probably want to start with their parents' eating habits. See, I bred these from a Manticore and a Fire Crab, so you can begin your research there. I've got plenty of options ready for you—pick based on the book's recommendations, kids!"
"But, Professor?" a Gryffindor student raised their hand, face contorted in distress. "We can't even open it. It's terrifying."
When it came to these textbooks, hardly any student looked pleased. Some had their books tightly bound with ropes to keep them from biting, others stuffed them into small boxes, or simply clamped them shut with large clips.
"Nobody can open their books?" Hagrid wasn't entirely surprised, thanks to last night's heads-up from Harry and a few others. "Alright, alright… I reckon you've noticed that Harry's book—and a few others—are perfectly calm. No need for ropes. All you have to do is stroke its spine."
Unfortunately, perhaps because of Pansy Parkinson's earlier example, no one dared to contradict Hagrid this time, leaving him oddly disappointed despite his preparedness.
"You're third-year students now," Hagrid continued, echoing the advice Sirius had given him. "You ought to have a way to handle these books by now."
The strategy was simple: put the problem back on the students.
"Once you've got your books open, you can start looking for what a Blast-Ended Skrewt might like to eat. Remember, their parents are a Manticore and a Fire Crab, so start with what those two like."
Hagrid's voice boomed across the group.
"I'll let you in on something," he added. "By the end of this term, if you've raised your Skrewts well, you'll get a chance to touch—Ragehorn!"
With a mighty roar, as if summoned by Hagrid's shout, an ice-blue dragon soared out from the Forbidden Forest. She swooped low over Hagrid's hut, eliciting gasps and cheers from the students before gliding back into the trees.
"Focus!" Hagrid clapped his hands loudly, pulling the students' attention back. "Did you see her? That's Ragehorn… Isn't she beautiful?"
Truth be told, Hagrid's expression was even more awestruck than the students'.
"Yeah, she's stunning," someone said.
This time, even the Slytherins didn't argue.
"That's the ice dragon that protected Hogwarts last year, right?" a student asked excitedly, reluctantly tearing their gaze away. "If we take good care of these little things, will we get to fly with her?"
"I don't know," Hagrid shrugged. "Ragehorn is Headmaster Potter's battle companion. I can only promise you'll get to touch her if you do well. Whether she'll let you fly depends on whether you can convince her."
Or—Hagrid thought to himself—convince Harry.
Suddenly, eager eyes turned to Harry.
"Ragehorn's clever," Harry explained, feeling the weight of their stares. "She's not like ordinary, witless fire dragons. Her intelligence is on par with a human's, so if she doesn't want to, I can't force her."
"So, Headmaster, is Ragehorn a new kind of fire dragon?" a student asked. "I've never seen such a beautiful dragon before."
"Yes, an elemental dragon—a new breed of fire dragon… an ice dragon," Harry nodded slightly. "I think you're starting to see the allure of magical creatures."
"Absolutely, Professor!" someone shouted to Hagrid. "Let's get started! I can't wait!"
Hagrid's first class ended on a high note.
Fueled by the tantalizing promise, even the hundreds of slimy, dead-fish-smelling grubs in the crates seemed almost beautiful. The students eagerly tossed in whatever they thought a Blast-Ended Skrewt might eat—bread crumbs, sausages, grass, water bugs, frog livers, ant eggs, emerald snakes, you name it. Hagrid had prepared a wide variety of options.
By the time class ended, many students felt they hadn't had enough fun.
By dinner, the story of Hagrid and his Blast-Ended Skrewts had spread like wildfire among the students, along with his promise about the magnificent ice dragon and the challenge of raising a new, unknown magical creature. For those who hadn't seen the Skrewts in person, the prospect was particularly enticing.
Compared to Hagrid, Lupin's teaching career started far more smoothly.
Thanks to Harry's groundwork, the students had no reason to question Lupin's authority. He also knew exactly what they wanted to hear. For his first class, he announced they'd set the textbooks aside for a practical lesson: dueling to assess their skills.
As for the young witches and wizards' dueling… well, it was underwhelming. For many students, whose deepest daily concerns revolved around what to eat for lunch or dinner, casting spells often took a backseat to simply dropping their wands and throwing a punch.
Even for third-years, this held true.
With Lupin's experience and composure, winning over the students required no effort at all.
Harry's role shifted constantly—teacher, student, headmaster. He had written to Nicolas Flamel about the Grey Lady's request, but instead of a repaired diadem, he received an invitation to Nicolas's funeral.
Nicolas had invited many to attend his funeral.
Harry once again saw the stooped, white-haired wizards, though this time there were younger faces like Madame Maxime. Still, Harry remained the youngest.
"Do you think the Grey Lady should see the diadem again?" Harry asked Dumbledore, who stood beside him. "What if it causes her to disappear?"
"Why not?" Dumbledore replied without hesitation. "I think it's a good thing, Harry. If a ghost finds peace and faces what they couldn't in life, moving forward in the afterlife is surely a positive step."
"But then Ravenclaw would lose its iconic ghost," Harry mused. "If the Grey Lady moves on, who do you think I should find to replace her?"
"That's your problem now," Dumbledore chuckled heartily. "You know, Harry, I'm delighted I no longer have to worry about these things."
If he could, Dumbledore would have resigned from his role as Chairman of the International Confederation of Wizards. The old man had tasted true freedom.
Voldemort was no longer his concern. Even if he dropped dead right now, he wouldn't worry about the wizarding world lacking someone to counter Voldemort.
The headmaster's duties were in the hands of someone responsible, and the new Minister for Magic was a practical leader. To Dumbledore, the world suddenly felt lighter. The only thing still nagging at him was Gellert Grindelwald's whereabouts.
Since their last adventure together, Grindelwald had vanished without a trace.
"Oh, Albus, Harry?" Nicolas's frail voice interrupted their conversation as he shuffled over. "You're a bit late."
Compared to their last meeting, Nicolas now resembled a withered tree, his body devoid of muscle, just thin skin stretched over bones. His eyes were deeply sunken, almost enough to frighten a child.
"Sorry, classes just ended," Harry said apologetically.
"No worries, I'm just teasing," Nicolas said with a cheerful smile. "Seeing so many old friends at the end of my life is already a priceless treasure."
"Actually… if you wanted…" Harry began hesitantly.
"No, I don't," Nicolas cut him off firmly. "I've lived long enough, and so has Perenelle. You don't understand, young Harry. About two hundred years ago, my body started to weaken. The slightest bump would dislocate a joint or break a bone."
"We've lived enough," Nicolas said with a smile. "Albus must have told you that line he loves, hasn't he? Death is but the next great adventure."
"—the starting point," Dumbledore added with a grin. "Just a beginning."
"Yes, a beginning," Nicolas nodded. "Come on, it's almost time."
Not in France, but in Devon, England, where Nicolas and his wife had settled over a decade ago.
Harry had once asked why a Frenchman with so much wealth in France chose to retire in England. Nicolas's answer was simple: the French were too passionate.
"…I'm delighted to introduce my heir," Nicolas said, placing both hands on Harry's shoulders as he addressed his friends. "You may have heard already, but yes, his name is Harry Potter, the current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm bequeathing my home in France, my entire library, and all my collections to him, in hopes he'll advance further in the path of alchemy—once he's done with his own affairs, of course."
A ripple of good-natured laughter followed.
"We thought you'd pick a Frenchman, Nicolas," a white-haired witch remarked.
"It wasn't my choice," Nicolas shook his head slightly. "It said it wanted to go to him."
Nicolas's words were cryptic, but he offered no further explanation. Instead, he leaned in to whisper to Harry, "Sorry, you'll have to repair the diadem yourself. As you can see, my time is running out."
"It's alright, teacher," Harry said earnestly. "It's my responsibility. I'll fix it."
"Good. I trust you," Nicolas said, patting Harry's shoulder with a relieved smile.
There was no intention of returning to France, even in death. Nicolas's grave was in Devon, right beside his cottage.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm about to die," Nicolas announced cheerfully, lying hand-in-hand with his wife in their shared coffin. "Farewell. We'll try not to let you catch up too soon."
It was a peculiar farewell, one that could only exist among wizards—and even then, it was rare.
After sharing a final kiss with his wife, Nicolas closed his eyes.
He passed quickly, as if he could choose the moment of his death. The second his eyes shut, he was gone—
"Oh, by the way, feel free to take anything you like from the house as a keepsake," Nicolas suddenly added, his eyes snapping open for a moment before closing again.
The moment was… odd.
Everyone waited in silence, ensuring Nicolas's chest no longer rose, that he wouldn't suddenly sit up with another quip.
He was, indeed, gone.
The coffin lid closed on its own, and the soil piled on either side began to fill the grave of its own accord.
"That sly old dog…" someone in the crowd muttered.
A legendary alchemist, the only man to create the Elixir of Life, a figure who profoundly shaped the wizarding world, had ended his story in a lighthearted, whimsical atmosphere.
Harry thought this was probably exactly what Nicolas wanted—no mournful faces at his funeral.
Each guest took something from Nicolas's cottage as a memento, per his will. As his heir, Harry saw off every wizard, at least becoming familiar with their faces.
When he was finally alone, Harry locked the cottage door.
After a moment's thought, he drew his wand. He didn't want Nicolas's final resting place disturbed, and he knew just the spell to ensure its secrecy.
The Fidelius Charm.
With a precise casting, Harry hid Nicolas and Perenelle's grave and cottage under the Fidelius Charm. Then, he returned to Hogwarts. In the Ravenclaw Tower, he found the Grey Lady.
"This is your mother's diadem," Harry said softly, placing it on the table. "I'm sorry it was damaged, but destroying Voldemort's Horcrux was necessary."
"It's alright," the Grey Lady said, her expression tinged with sorrow but composed, perhaps because she'd long known the diadem's fate. "Voldemort defiled it. It's not your fault… It's mine. I didn't keep its secret."