"Listen carefully, all of you." Hagrid hesitated for a moment, then said seriously, "The fourth-floor corridor was designated as forbidden by Dumbledore himself. It's not just a rule for the sake of having rules. There are real, serious reasons for keeping students away from there."
He paused, seeming to wrestle with how much he could safely reveal.
"Fluffy—I mean, the three-headed dog you encountered—belongs to me. I lent him to Dumbledore specifically for this purpose."
The slip about the name was telling in its own way. Only Hagrid would give a pet name to a monster capable of tearing people apart.
"He's guarding something very important. Something that absolutely must be kept secure."
His voice dropped lower, taking on an almost pleading tone. "For your own safety—don't go near that corridor again. Promise me you won't."
"But what exactly is being guarded?" Harry pressed, unable to let the mystery rest now that they'd come this far.
"Absolutely not. That information is top secret." Hagrid's response was firm with determination. "I won't tell you anything more about it."
What followed could only be described as a masterclass in extraction techniques.
Harry and Ron worked in cycle, one asking direct questions while the other approached from different angles, creating a conversational crossfire that kept Hagrid constantly defending multiple fronts.
Hermione, Ariana, and Hannah contributed periodic observations and indirect questions that seemed innocent but gradually narrowed the field of possible answers through a process of elimination.
It was a proof to Hagrid's genuine effort that he lasted as long as he did. He clearly understood the importance of maintaining confidentiality about whatever Fluffy was guarding. But his natural truthfulness, combined with his discomfort with intentional deception meant that every evasive answer carried hints that clever listeners could piece together.
And these particular listeners were very clever indeed.
Through careful attention to what Hagrid said, what he almost said, what he refused to confirm or deny, and how he reacted to specific names or concepts, a picture gradually emerged.
The process took perhaps ten minutes of careful questioning.
Finally, a name slipped out: Nicolas Flamel.
The moment the name left Hagrid's mouth, his entire body went stiff. His eyes widened with horrified realization of what he'd just revealed. A low, anguished sound emerged from his throat as he buried his face in his massive hands.
"Oh, bloody hell!" His voice emerged muffled through his fingers, thick with self-blame. "That's it. Not another word. I'm done talking about this. You won't get a single additional word from me about any of it!"
To emphasize his determination, he stomped over to the corner of his hut like a sulky child sent to time-out, then went to attack his rock cakes with violent enthusiasm.
Each bite produced aggressive crunching sounds that looked like he was channeling his frustration with himself into the destruction of baked goods.
The cakes also being basically indestructible provided an appropriate target for this anger.
"Tom, what do you think they're hiding on the fourth floor?" Ariana had drifted over to where Tom sat with curiosity.
Unlike Hannah, whose Hufflepuff sensibilities inclined her toward respecting authority and leaving dangerous mysteries alone, Ariana was a typical Gryffindor. The combination of danger and secrecy made the situation irresistibly fascinating rather than intimidating.
"And that name—Nicolas Flamel—I feel like I've heard it somewhere before. It's familiar but I can't quite place it." Her brow furrowed with the effort of trying to scour up the association from wherever it lurked in her memory.
Tom, however, showed remarkably little interest in the entire mystery. His whiskers twitched with indifference as he considered the question.
While the specific details had grown hazy in his memory as cartoon reincarnation apparently didn't preserve perfect recall of everything from previous lives, he retained a general sense that the events of Harry's first year at Hogwarts had unfolded largely according to Dumbledore's plans and control.
More importantly, the current situation differed from the original story in one crucial respect: Ariana's presence.
As long as she remained at Hogwarts, this place was the single safest location in the entire wizarding world. Dumbledore would tolerate no genuine threats to her wellbeing, which meant that whatever mystery was unfolding with the Philosopher's Stone or Fluffy or Nicolas Flamel, it was operating under restrictions that would prevent actual danger to students.
If the unknown villain, presumably a Death Eater though Tom couldn't remember which one followed whatever script Dumbledore had prepared, fine.
But if they deviated, if they attempted anything that might threaten Ariana even indirectly, … well, he can only wish him good luck.
So really, there was no need to worry about mysteries or conspiracies.
As for Ariana's question, Tom rolled his eyes at her:
[You want to know? Ask your brother. Why are you bothering me with this?] Tom's whiteboard appeared with obvious dismissal. [I didn't set any of this up. These aren't my secrets to explain.]
Having delivered this completely unhelpful response, Tom turned his attention away from Ariana and focused instead on the rock cake he'd been holding.
A different mystery had captured his interest.
Despite having heard multiple people describe these cakes as inedible and hard as rocks, he'd been watching Hagrid enthusiastically devouring them with enjoyment.
The contradiction intrigued him.
Surely, they couldn't be as bad as everyone claimed if Hagrid ate them so contentedly? Perhaps the issue was simply that they required strong teeth, that they were just particularly chewy rather than actually inedible?
The temptation grew stronger as he studied the cake in his paw. His natural curiosity, the same impulse that got him into trouble in most of his adventures was coming back.
'It should be fine, right? Probably just very firm. Maybe people are exaggerating. Only one way to find out!'
Having convinced himself through this spectacularly flawed reasoning, Tom opened his mouth and bit down on the rock cake with confidence.
"CRACK!"
The sound was distinctive—not the crunch of breaking through crusty bread, but the sharp crack of something harder and more brittle breaking.
The sensation that accompanied the sound was equally alarming. Yes, his teeth had penetrated the cake's surface. But the resistance felt less like biting into baked goods and more like biting into actual sedimentary rock.
This was exactly the kind of experience he got when Jerry sabotaged his food like replacing normal sandwiches with ones containing actual bricks or anvils.
Tom stared at the rock cake, which now wore a small bite-shaped indentation. His mouth felt strange. He worked his jaw experimentally, testing the sensation. Something was definitely off.
Tom hesitated for a moment, then tried chewing it. Sure enough, it still felt strange.
"Merlin's pants!" Ron's voice erupted with shock, his eyes going so wide they looked likely to fall out. "You actually managed to bite through it?! How is that possible?!"
Harry looked equally stunned, his mind struggling to process what he'd just witnessed.
'Wait, can people really eat rock cake? Or is just Tom who is special?'
"Are you alright, Tom?" Hannah's voice carried genuine worry as she moved closer to examine him. "Those things are hard as stone—literally, they're like trying to eat rocks. How did you even manage to bite it? Your teeth aren't damaged, are they?"
Tom had been doing what he always did in these situations—using positive thinking and willful denial to convince himself that everything was fine despite evidence to the contrary. If he simply maintained the belief that his teeth were perfectly intact, then surely they would remain so.
Cartoon logic rewarded confidence and punished doubt.
But Hannah's question introduced doubt.
He opened his mouth to display his teeth reassuringly—see, everything's fine, no need to worry and in that moment of focusing on their condition, the cartoon physics that had been maintaining their integrity simply gave up.
His teeth shattered like defective porcelain, the fragments were pouring from his mouth in a glittering shower of white shards that scattered across Hagrid's floor with horrible musical tinkling sounds.
The cabin fell into a deathly silence.
"Oh no! Tom, are you hurt?!" Hagrid had completely forgotten his earlier sulking in the corner.
He rushed over, dropping awkwardly to one knee beside Tom. His face exuded guilt and distress. "I'm so sorry! This is my fault. I should have warned you—you're supposed to soak the rock cakes in water or tea first to soften them before eating. I completely forgot to mention that because I'm so used to them!"
"I think we need to get him to the hospital wing immediately."
As the child of a dentist, Hermione could tell at a glance that Tom's teeth were completely beyond saving. Of course, considering this was a magical world, perhaps medical magic could help him, so she suggested this.
"Madam Pomfrey should be able to help him."
"I'll carry him there right now!" Hagrid was already reaching out with his enormous hands to scoop Tom up.
[Really, I'm fine! This isn't necessary!] Tom's whiteboard appeared, though his attempt at a reassuring smile was somewhat dented by the complete absence of teeth in his mouth.
The expression probably looked more disturbing than comforting.
For Tom, this injury genuinely was trivial. He'd experienced far worse in his life from being flattened, exploded, dissolved, dismembered. Losing teeth barely was an inconvenience.
They'd grow back shortly regardless of whether he sought medical attention. In fact, he'd probably regenerate completely before they even made it halfway to the castle.
But he was starting to wonder if he and Hagrid were somehow cosmically incompatible. Twice in one evening he'd suffered mishaps directly connected to him.
"Absolutely not. You're receiving proper treatment whether you want to or not." Hagrid's expression had set into stubborn determination.
Hagrid didn't care what Tom said; he only believed what he saw and he'd seen Tom's teeth shatter and scatter across the floor, the evidence of serious injury with his own eyes. No amount of reassurance would convince him this wasn't an emergency requiring professional medical intervention.
Unfortunately for Tom's desire to simply regenerate privately and avoid the hassle of hospital visits, even Ariana and Hannah had abandoned their usual support for his independence.
While they knew Tom possessed unusual abilities and had seen him accomplish impossible things, they'd never witnessed his fast regenerative capabilities.
From their perspective, he'd just suffered catastrophic dental trauma and was now trying to downplay it out of improper stubbornness or shock.
The situation rapidly fell into chaos. Tom tried to escape toward the door, but multiple pairs of hands grabbed for him simultaneously.
Hagrid tried to scoop him up. Harry and Ron moved to block potential escape routes. Hermione attempted to wrap him in her cloak for easier transport. Hannah reached for his shoulders while Ariana tried to steady him from the other side.
In the confusion of all these helpful hands grabbing at him, Tom noticed with growing alarm that several weren't actually aiming for appropriate carrying positions.
Some seemed targeted at his head, possibly trying to examine his mouth more closely while others were definitely making moves toward his tail, which showed motivations beyond simple medical concern.
Perhaps they'd decided this was an excellent opportunity to satisfy their curiosity about cat anatomy?
Finally, in the midst of this improper struggle, Tom remembered a crucial fact about his identity: he was a wizard. A wizard with a wand. A wizard who absolutely did not need to engage in physical wrestling matches when magical solutions existed.
So he flicked his tail, cast a levitation spell on each of them, and the world instantly became quiet.
The sudden silence was blissful. Tom took a moment to savor it.
Then, while his friends were still processing their unexpected midair status and trying to understand what had just happened, Tom calmly walked to the door, opened it, stepped outside, and closed it behind him.
There was a brief pause.
Then the door opened again and Tom walked back in—except this version of Tom had a completely intact, perfectly healthy mouth full of pristine white teeth that gleamed in the lamplight.
[See? I told you I was fine.] His whiteboard appeared with an air of vindication, as though this proved his earlier words had been completely reasonable.
As he released everyone from the Levitation Charm, allowing them to settle back onto the floor, Tom was thinking: 'Perfect. So actively triggering passive abilities is completely viable as a technique.'
If transitioning between spaces, passing through doorways, moving between rooms triggered automatic restoration of his physical condition, then he could weaponize this property.
Intentionally move through thresholds when injured or affected by unwanted conditions, using the transition itself as a reset button. It was basically save-scumming reality, and Tom was delighted to discover it worked.
"How did you do that?" Hermione's voice emerged hoarse with confusion as she stared at Tom's restored mouth.
"Was that a Healing Charm? But I thought those required extensive training and specific medical knowledge. And the Repairing Charm only works on inanimate objects, not living tissue. How did you regrow your teeth in thirty seconds?"
Ron was rubbing his bum where he'd landed somewhat harder than ideal, but his attention remained focused on Tom with wonder. "That's way better than any trick George and Fred have ever pulled off."
Hagrid had frozen mid-movement, caught between standing and kneeling.
His eyes moved from the scattered tooth fragments still littering his floor to Tom's completely intact mouth, then back to the fragments, then back to Tom.
His expression showed his brain had encountered a paradox it simply couldn't resolve. "But... how? What did you do? I saw your teeth fall out. I'm looking at them right now on my floor. How are they back in your mouth?"
The incomprehension in his voice was quite funny.
In short, after this unbelievable farce, Harry and the others felt a sense of exhaustion and disorientation.
Having learned the name Nicolas Flamel, their desire to ask further questions had diminished considerably; at least, they had no interest in it now.
Besides, Hagrid had quite literally clamped both hands over his mouth, physically preventing additional words from escaping.
His expression made clear that no amount of questioning would extract further information tonight. He'd reached his limit and wouldn't be coaxed or tricked into additional revelations no matter how clever their approach.
Recognizing defeat or at least diminishing returns, they prepared to leave.
Hagrid escorted them to the cabin door, his hands were nervously rubbing together.
"Remember what I said," he emphasized one final time. "Don't go back to the fourth-floor corridor. I mean it. It's not just against the rules—it's genuinely dangerous."
Harry and the others nodded, indicating they understood. Whether they truly listened or were just pretending, Hagrid had no idea.
He'd said what he could say—both the things he was permitted to reveal and the things he'd accidentally let slip. The rest was beyond his control.
Whether these children would note his warnings or let curiosity drive them toward danger, he couldn't predict or prevent. He could only hope that his words had made enough impression to keep them safe.