April 15th, 1994, Grounds by the Lake, 3:47 PM
Their tree had become proper sanctuary—the massive beech whose spreading branches created cathedral-space beneath, whose roots offered comfortable seating worn smooth by repeated use. Spring had finally asserted itself across the grounds, turning grass vibrant green and coaxing early flowers from winter-hardened earth.
Harry sat with his back against the trunk, Luna pressed close to his left side whilst Jasper perched on his shoulder chirping occasional commentary. Ron sprawled across a root to his right, and Draco had claimed his usual slightly-separated position that suggested aristocratic distance whilst his attention clearly focused on their conversation.
"Uncle Remus and I have been using the Map," Harry said quietly, pulling the folded parchment from his bag. "Trying to track Mordred's movements. Figure out his patterns, predict where he'll appear next."
"Any luck?" Ron asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"None." Frustration bled through Harry's voice. "We catch glimpses—his name appearing in corridors, classrooms, even the dungeons once. But the moment we try to intercept, he's gone. Vanished. Like he knows exactly when we're watching and deliberately avoids those areas."
Ron shivered despite the warm afternoon. "That's terrifying. Knowing he's that close, lurking around the castle whilst we're all just—just going about our days like everything's normal."
"He's a Seer," Draco observed coolly. "Not to your Dad's level, apparently, but competent enough to predict immediate danger. He'd sense pursuit, recognise patterns in your surveillance attempts, adjust his behaviour accordingly."
Luna's grey eyes had gone distant—the particular quality that suggested she was processing something beyond surface observation. "Or perhaps," she said in her dreamy voice, "fate itself won't allow his capture. Not yet. Not until whatever he's meant to accomplish has been completed."
Silence settled over the group, heavy and unsettling.
"That's a chilling thought," Ron muttered.
Harry was thinking about writing to Ethan—asking for advice about tracking someone with precognitive abilities, requesting additional strategic insight—when movement caught his attention.
Hermione was running across the grounds toward them, her bushy hair streaming behind her, a letter clutched in one hand and her face absolutely radiant with joy.
"Harry! Ron! Everyone!" She skidded to a stop before their tree, breathless and beaming. "You're never going to believe this—Buckbeak's saved! He's actually saved!"
Harry shot to his feet. "What? How?"
Hermione thrust the letter forward—Hagrid's familiar large handwriting covering the parchment, several obvious tear-stains smudging the ink. "Read it! Just read it!"
Harry took the letter whilst his friends crowded close:
Hermione—
I can' hardly believe it meself. Buckbeak's saved! Properly saved! Let me tell yeh what happened.
Took him ter London on the Knight Bus—don't recommend that fer anyone, let alone a hippogriff, but we managed. Got ter the Committee of the Disposal o' Dangerous Creatures right on time. Yer mate's dad, that Ethan Esther, he'd prepared everythin'—statements from all the students who saw what really happened, expert testimony 'bout hippogriff behaviour, even got some fancy law specialist ter argue the case.
But Lucius Malfoy an' that Nott's father, they were there too. Both of 'em. Powerful wizards with Ministry connections an' deep pockets. They bullied the Committee somethin' fierce—threatenin' funding cuts, implyin' career consequences, pullin' every string they had. The Committee was startin' ter cave. I could see it happenin'. They were gonna condemn Buckbeak just ter appease two rich pure-bloods.
Then this elderly wizard who'd been sittin' quiet in the back the whole time, he stood up. Didn't make a fuss, jus' stood an' cleared his throat polite-like. An' when he introduced himself—
Hermione, it was NEWT SCAMANDER. The actual, genuine Newt Scamander. Author of "Fantastic Beasts and Where ter Find Them," greatest magizoologist of our age, man who's forgotten more about magical creatures than most people ever learn.
He testified. Said he'd observed the entire proceeding an' found the evidence overwhelmingly in Buckbeak's favour. Explained hippogriff behaviour in terms so clear even the Committee couldn't misunderstand. An' then—an' this was the brilliant bit—he mentioned he'd be writin' about this case in his next book. Specifically namin' anyone who voted fer execution despite clear evidence of provocation.
The Committee changed their vote so fast yeh'd think they'd been hit with a Confundus Charm. Unanimous acquittal. Buckbeak's free, cleared of all charges, an' I can keep teachin' him proper-like.
I cried, Hermione. Not ashamed ter admit it. Stood there in front o' the whole Committee with tears streamin' down me face. Newt Scamander himself came over after, shook me hand, said I was doin' good work with the students an' ter keep it up.
Tell Harry an' Ron an' the others—tell 'em thanks. Fer believin' in me. Fer supportin' Buckbeak. Fer everythin'.
Can't wait ter get back an' give yeh all proper thanks in person. Maybe with some rock cakes that aren't quite so rock-like this time.
—Hagrid
"Newt Scamander," Ron breathed. "Actual Newt Scamander just casually showed up and saved Buckbeak."
"Dumbledore must have arranged it," Draco said "The headmaster... well, he's remarkably well-connected,"
Luna's smile was radiant. "The Nargles were right. Buckbeak would be fine."
"This is brilliant," Hermione said, reading the letter again as though to confirm it was real. "And look—Hagrid mentions teaching Buckbeak properly. Which means his position is solidified. No more threats about sacking him over curriculum choices. He can teach the way he wants—"
"Which means Jasper's showcase lesson is definitely happening," Harry finished, stroking the Golden Snidget's feathers gently. "Hagrid's been planning it for weeks. Real demonstration of proper creature care with an XXXX classified species."
Jasper chirped agreement, his golden feathers catching afternoon light in ways that made him seem to glow.
"When's the lesson?" Ron asked.
"Next week," Harry confirmed. "All third-years, combined class. Should be interesting."
April 23rd, 1994, Care of Magical Creatures Paddock, 2:17 PM
The paddock behind Hagrid's hut had been prepared meticulously—soft grass enchanted to remain comfortable regardless of weather, viewing benches arranged in a semicircle, and a small raised platform where Hagrid stood with obvious nervous pride.
Students filed in with varying degrees of interest. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws mostly eager, Slytherins mostly skeptical, everyone curious about what Hagrid had planned after the Buckbeak incident had concluded so dramatically.
Harry stood beside Hagrid with Jasper perched on his shoulder, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes tracking the tiny golden bird.
"Right then," Hagrid said, his voice carrying across the paddock with more confidence than usual. "Today we're learnin' 'bout Golden Snidgets. Now, I know what yer thinkin'—Snidgets are extinct in the wild, classified XXXX dangerous by the Ministry, an' generally not somethin' yeh see in classroom settings."
He gestured to Jasper, who preened obligingly.
"This little fella is Jasper. He belongs ter Harry, who's been raisin' him with help from his dad—a proper expert in creature care. Jasper's here today ter help demonstrate proper handlin' of rare, delicate magical creatures. An' ter teach yeh all why Golden Snidgets needed protection in the first place."
Hagrid launched into his lesson with the particular enthusiasm he brought to genuinely beloved subjects. He explained the Snidget's history—how they'd been used in early Quidditch until hunting them to near-extinction prompted the Golden Snitch's invention as replacement. How their speed made them nearly impossible to catch without magic. How their fragility meant rough handling could cause serious injury.
"Now," Hagrid said, "who wants ter hold him?"
Hands shot up across the paddock. Hagrid called students forward one by one, each receiving careful instruction about proper grip, gentle touch, awareness of the Snidget's delicate bone structure.
Hermione followed with academic precision, her touch careful whilst her mind clearly catalogued every detail for future reference. Ron held Jasper like precious glass, his usual clumsiness vanishing beneath genuine care.
Even Draco approached with aristocratic grace, his hands steady and his expression carrying rare unguarded wonder.
"He's remarkable," Draco said quietly. "My father's stuffed specimen doesn't do justice to how they move. How they think."
"Tha's the point," Hagrid said warmly. "Seein' creatures alive, healthy, in their proper context—it changes how yeh understand 'em."
Theodore Nott had been watching from the back with poorly concealed contempt. When his turn came—last, deliberately positioned—he approached with the swagger of someone who'd decided to make a point.
"Let me hold the bird, Potter," Nott said, his tone carrying mockery. "Unless you're worried I'll break your precious pet?"
Harry's danger sense prickled—warning, not threat exactly, but awareness that something was wrong. Still, refusing would cause a scene. He carefully transferred Jasper to Nott's hands, watching closely.
For perhaps three seconds, Nott held Jasper properly. Then his grip tightened—not enough to be obvious, but enough that Harry saw Jasper's eyes widen with discomfort—and Nott's hands moved to crush—
Jasper was faster.
The Snidget's legendary speed manifested in a golden blur. One moment confined in hostile hands, the next airborne and dodging with precision that made tracking him nearly impossible. Nott's hands closed on empty air whilst Jasper executed a perfect dive straight into Hermione's waiting embrace.
"You little—" Nott started, his face flushing with humiliation.
"Careful, Mister Nott," Hagrid warned, his voice carrying unexpected steel. "Threatenin' a student's familiar is a serious offense."
"I wasn't threatening it," Nott said with false innocence. "I was trying to hold it properly and the wretched thing flew away. Clearly untrained." His expression shifted to cruel amusement. "Then again, what can you expect from Hagrid's teaching? He can barely handle a hippogriff without it attacking students. Now he's letting half-breeds parade around as though they're proper magical creatures—"
He reached for Jasper again, his intent clearly to make good on his earlier attempt.
Hermione's palm connected with Nott's face with a crack that echoed across the paddock.
Absolute silence.
Nott staggered backwards, his hand flying to his reddening cheek, shock and fury warring across his features. Hermione stood with her hand still raised, her expression blazing with protective rage that made her look considerably older than thirteen.
"Don't," Hermione said, her voice dangerously quiet, "you dare touch Jasper again. And don't you dare insult Professor Hagrid. He's worth ten of you."
Students began applauding—scattered at first, then building into genuine approval. Even some Slytherins looked impressed by Hermione's audacity if not her target.
Hagrid's expression had gone from surprised to grimly satisfied. "Mister Nott. Fifty points from Slytherin fer threatenin' a student's familiar an' insultin' a professor. Plus detention every Saturday fer the rest o' term. Yeh'll be helpin' me with creature care duties—muckin' out paddocks, preparin' feed, cleanin' enclosures. Maybe yeh'll learn some respect fer creatures whilst yer at it."
"My father will hear about this—" Nott started.
"Good," Hagrid interrupted. "Let him hear. Let him also hear that yeh deliberately tried ter harm a protected XXXX classified creature in front of thirty witnesses, includin' students from all four houses who'll be happy ter provide statements. See how that plays with the Committee that just acquitted Buckbeak."
Nott's expression suggested he was calculating odds and finding them unfavorable. Finally, he turned and stalked from the paddock, his two friends following uncertainly.
Once he'd disappeared, Hagrid turned back to the class with visible relief. "Right then. Where were we? Ah yes—proper Snidget care. Now, as yeh just saw, Golden Snidgets are fast when threatened. That speed is their primary defence mechanism..."
The lesson continued with renewed energy, students asking engaged questions, Hagrid answering with genuine expertise, and Jasper performing small demonstrations that showcased his remarkable abilities.
Harry stood beside Hagrid throughout, pride swelling in his chest. This—this was what Hagrid was meant to do. Teaching with passion, sharing knowledge, helping students understand creatures they'd never otherwise encounter.
And if Hermione had needed to smack Theodore Nott to protect that? Well. Harry rather thought it was worth it.
May 28th, 1994, Quidditch Pitch, 2:47 PM
The final match of the season had attracted every student who could walk, along with considerable faculty representation. Seven years of waiting, Oliver Wood's obsessive determination, Ron's remarkable flying on the borrowed Firebolt—everything had built to this single match.
Gryffindor versus Slytherin. For the Cup.
The weather had cooperated beautifully—clear sky, mild temperature, just enough breeze to make flying interesting without being dangerous. Madam Hooch stood at pitch centre, her whistle ready, whilst both teams mounted their brooms with expressions mixing determination and nerves.
Harry sat in the Gryffindor section between Luna and Draco, with Hermione and Colin Creevey just below armed with the Atid Stella Camera that had been documenting the season's memorable moments.
"This is it," Draco observed. "Seven years of Oliver Wood's increasingly unhinged dedication finally paying off or crashing spectacularly."
"They'll win," Luna said with absolute certainty. "The Nargles have been quite clear about Gryffindor's victory."
"I'm choosing to believe the Nargles," Harry said. "Mostly because the alternative is too depressing to consider."
Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked. The match began.
Slytherin came out aggressive—not just competitive, but actively dirty. Their Beaters aimed Bludgers at Gryffindor players rather than balls. Their Chasers executed fouls that pushed the boundaries of acceptable play. Marcus Flint, still furious about his detention following the fake Dementor incident, played with particular viciousness.
But Gryffindor had spent seven years under Oliver Wood's brutal training regime. They'd developed resilience, coordination, and the particular stubbornness that came from refusing to lose after investing this much effort.
Katie Bell dodged a deliberate elbow and scored. Angelina Johnson retaliated against a late hit by scoring again. Alicia Spinnet executed a perfect Reverse Pass that left Slytherin's Keeper flat-footed.
And Ron—Ron flew like someone possessed. The Firebolt gave him speed advantage, yes, but more importantly, he'd developed confidence. Months of practice, encouragement from friends, Lavender's unwavering support—it had transformed him from the nervous boy who'd fainted during his first match into a Seeker who genuinely deserved the position.
Forty minutes in, Gryffindor led 230-20. An absolutely dominant performance that suggested Slytherin's dirty tactics had backfired spectacularly by focusing their team on violence rather than strategy.
Ron circled high above the pitch, his attention fixed on something near the Slytherin goalposts. His posture changed—that subtle shift Harry recognised from previous matches—and he angled into a dive that took full advantage of the Firebolt's superior acceleration.
The Slytherin Seeker tried to follow but couldn't match the speed. Ron's hand closed around the Golden Snitch, his fist raised triumphantly, and Madam Hooch's whistle confirmed what everyone could see:
Gryffindor had won. 230-20. The Quidditch Cup was theirs.
The eruption was instantaneous. Students poured onto the pitch, screaming themselves hoarse, whilst the Gryffindor team descended in a chaos of celebration. Oliver Wood was crying—actual tears streaming down his face—whilst Professor McGonagall abandoned all professional dignity to hug anyone within reach.
Hermione and Colin were everywhere, the camera flashing continuously, capturing moments that would define this victory for years to come.
"Ron! Ron, hold the Cup—yes, like that—perfect—"
Ron stood in the pitch's centre, the Quidditch Cup clutched in both hands, his smile so bright it could have powered the castle for a week. On his left, Oliver Wood sobbed into Ron's shoulder with unrestrained joy. On his right, Professor McGonagall had apparently decided emotions were acceptable today and was crying with equal enthusiasm.
Click.
The photograph captured it perfectly—Ron's triumph, Wood's relief, McGonagall's pride, all compressed into a single frozen moment that somehow contained seven years of hope and disappointment and finally, finally, victory.
Harry watched from the stands with Luna pressed close to his side and Draco standing nearby. All three of them wore matching expressions—wry amusement at the excessive emotional display mixed with genuine happiness for Wood and McGonagall.
"Wood's going to frame that photograph," Draco observed. "Probably sleep with it under his pillow."
"Can you blame him?" Luna asked. "Seven years is a very long time to want something."
"No," Draco admitted. "I suppose I can't."
Harry thought about dedication, about refusing to give up despite repeated failures, about the particular satisfaction that came from finally achieving something after years of effort. Wood deserved this. McGonagall deserved this. Gryffindor deserved this.
The celebration continued for hours—flooding back to Gryffindor Tower where someone had produced butterbeers and sweets through mysterious means, where music played and students danced and Oliver Wood was lifted onto shoulders approximately seventeen times.
Near sunset, Hermione found Ron near the common room windows, the Quidditch Cup still clutched possessively in his hands.
"Ron," she said quietly. "Lavender's been looking for you."
Ron's ears went predictably red. "She has?"
"Mmm. Something about wanting to congratulate the hero of the match properly." Hermione's expression was innocently neutral in ways that suggested significant ulterior motives. "She's waiting by the portrait hole."
Harry, Luna, and Draco had somehow materialised nearby—their presence entirely coincidental and not at all coordinated beforehand.
"You should go," Harry said. "Share the victory with someone who supported you all season."
"And bring the Cup," Luna added. "For the photograph."
"What photograph—" Ron started.
But Hermione was already steering him toward the exit, camera in hand, whilst Harry, Luna, and Draco followed at respectful distance.
Lavender stood near the Fat Lady's portrait, her expression brightening when she spotted Ron. "There you are! I've been waiting to congratulate you properly—you were brilliant today—absolutely brilliant—"
Ron managed something between coherent speech and stammering whilst Hermione positioned them carefully—Ron with the Cup, Lavender beside him with her hand on his arm, both of them smiling with genuine warmth.
Click.
The photograph captured Ron's embarrassment and pleasure in equal measure, Lavender's obvious pride, and the Cup gleaming between them like physical proof that sometimes, effort and determination and refusing to give up actually paid off.
"Perfect," Hermione said with satisfaction. "Absolutely perfect."
They retreated back to the common room, leaving Ron and Lavender to their private celebration, whilst Harry exchanged knowing glances with Luna and Draco.
"We're meddling," Draco observed.
"Helping," Harry corrected. "We're helping."
"Same thing," Draco said, but he was smiling.