Harold hadn't been just saying it to be polite—he genuinely did want to help Nearly Headless Nick. He was already thinking about exploring the ghost market in British wizarding society…
Sure, he couldn't do it right now, but who knew what might be possible later? When that time came, Nick could be an invaluable ally. Having a ghostly assistant would definitely make things easier than starting from scratch.
Harold passed through the common room.
After a full day on the train, most students were already worn out and had gone to bed early. Only a handful of upper years were still chatting quietly by the fireplace.
He headed upstairs to his dorm.
The "Second Year" label on the door had been replaced with "Third Year" at some point during the welcome feast—likely the house elves' doing.
He'd originally planned to rest for a bit and then work on his broom-wand project, but the moment he lay down and began replaying everything that had happened that day, fatigue washed over him like a tide.
He didn't even change clothes—just drifted off, still in his robes.
…
The next morning, Harold was jolted awake by a sound loud enough to burst an eardrum.
Ron had apparently lost his mind and was screaming in the corridor at the top of his lungs—enough to rouse the entire tower.
"Merlin's woolly socks! Has no one heard of common decency?!"
Harold groggily got up, hair a mess, and opened the door to peek out.
He was greeted by the sight of two cats—one gray and one ginger—playing Beaters in an improvised Quidditch match. Their makeshift Bludger? A large gray rat.
If you looked closely, you'd notice the rat's front paw was missing a toe.
No wonder Ron was yelling—that was his pet rat… at least, for now he was still a "pet."
The next second, Harold quietly closed the door again.
To be fair, he should probably be up by now anyway. He figured he might as well go get some breakfast and be ready for first period.
"Damn it, Hermione, can't you control your cat? It nearly swallowed Scabbers!" Ron's furious voice rang out again.
"You didn't even look! Crookshanks didn't open his mouth once," Hermione shot back. "And I bought him the best gourmet cat food. He wouldn't even consider eating a rat."
"Then get the blasted furball off him—ugh, my poor Scabbers! He's so scared he can't move!"
"He's not listening to me right now. Not unless you can get the other cat to stop too."
"Fine! Can someone please explain to me—what is this—?" Ron's voice pitched higher. "This is a cat?! It looks like a dyed miniature tiger! What kind of cat grows this huge?!"
"You forgot? That's Tom."
"Tom? The owner of the Leaky Cauldron?!"
"No, Harold's pet. You've met him before."
"The one I met was definitely not this big—Shoo! Get! I don't care who he is, just get him off my Scabbers!"
The voices grew louder—they were headed this way.
A few seconds later:
Bang bang bang…
Someone was pounding at the dorm door. Hard. You could hear the emotion in every thud.
Nobody answered.
Ron was about to knock again when Scabbers let out a sharp squeal.
That was all he needed—he threw courtesy to the wind, grabbed the doorknob, and shoved the door open.
Clack…
The door swung inward.
The room was empty. Not a soul inside. Only one half-open window, swaying gently in the morning breeze.
"What the—n-no one?"
"Where's Harold?"
…
"Morning, Neville! Off to breakfast too?" Harold greeted warmly as he stepped out into the hallway.
Neville, the round-faced boy with a terrible memory and a kind heart, looked from Harold to the open window behind him. His eyes—already not small—went comically wide.
Had Harold… jumped in through the window?
And this was the eighth floor. The walls outside were smooth stone—barely enough space for a cat, let alone a person.
Was this even possible?
Neville rubbed his eyes, finger pointing between Harold and the window in disbelief. "Y-you… just came in from outside…"
"What are you talking about?" Harold said, completely unfazed. "I came out of the common room right behind you."
"But I saw you—I saw you climb in through the window—"
"You must've been half-asleep and seeing things," Harold said smoothly. "Come on, I can't fly. How would I possibly get in from outside?"
Neville paused, considered, and… nodded. It did make sense.
"You're right. I must've imagined it. Sorry…" he said quickly. "I really should've gone to bed earlier last night."
"Seamus suggested we try out those new Howler Beans. They were just too much fun. We ended up staying up way too late."
Howler Beans—a new snack this year. They looked a lot like Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, though with fewer flavors. But once you ate one, it would change your voice, making your speech come out in all kinds of animal sounds.
The best part? It didn't stop at animals. You could sound like a train whistle, a lawnmower, even a banshee. The chaos had made them incredibly popular.
"No worries." Harold forgave Neville generously, and the two of them headed down to breakfast.
The Slytherin table was the loudest by far—laughter erupted every few seconds, though it was unclear what they were laughing at.
Harold sat down beside Fred and grabbed a slice of toast, slathering it with butter.
"Here." Fred handed him a piece of parchment.
"What's this?"
"Your new third-year schedule," Fred said. "By the way, where were you yesterday? You weren't on the train."
"I saw you get on at the station," George added. "I know it."
"I did get on," Harold explained again. "But then Professor McGonagall needed something, so she Apparated me off the train to Hogsmeade."
"Lucky you," Fred said enviously, with the exact same tone Harry had used the day before. "You got to skip the Dementors."
"They were awful," George added, for once not joking. "When one passed by me, I thought my whole body was going to freeze."
"Didn't think we'd be sharing the school with those things," Fred muttered, glancing up at the cloudy ceiling.
"Ever since they arrived, the weather's been gloomy," he added.
"But today's only the first day of school," Harold commented, glancing upward as well.
"Still counts," George said. "And they're everywhere now, skulking around the castle. It's completely killed our night adventure plans."
Harold let that comment go in one ear and out the other while piling his plate with sausage and roasted tomatoes.
Dementors were one thing—but if anything could actually cancel the twins' midnight escapades, it wasn't some dark creature. It was one woman only: Professor McGonagall.
Voldemort himself could be strolling across the Quidditch pitch, and Fred and George would still sneak out at night—probably just to hand him a Dungbomb.
Dementors were scary, sure—but not that scary.
…
(End of Chapter)