HRA# CHAPTER 158

His current disguise was flawless—a persona shaped by years of humiliation following Voldemort’s downfall, harboring a deep-seated grudge against the boy who caused it all. Professional, honed through life-or-death practice, every tone, gesture, and expression was perfectly in place.

“Why are you here, Hagrid?” Hermione asked curiously.

“Oh, just pickin’ up some things… stuff we can use at the castle,” Hagrid mumbled vaguely. “But you lot, you shouldn’t pay him any mind, Arthur. That family’s rotten to the core. I thought young Malfoy might’ve turned a corner this term, but looks like nothin’s changed. Bah, their blood’s bad through and through.”

As they walked out, chatting, the clerk at Flourish and Blotts seemed tempted to stop them but faltered at the sight of Hagrid’s towering, wall-like frame. Mrs. Weasley was still scolding her husband, with the twins and Ron catching some of the fallout. After Mr. Weasley and Lucius Malfoy had come to blows, it was Fred and George who’d jumped in to back their father, only for Draco Malfoy to leap into the fray.

One word: chaos.

Worse still, the one person with enough clout to restore order seemed to relish the mess. As they left the shop, Harry overheard Gilderoy Lockhart telling a Daily Prophet reporter to include the brawl in the story, claiming it’d make a sensation.

“Though, come to think of it, this might actually be a good thing,” Fred said out of nowhere.

“Hm?” George blinked, then, with uncanny twin synergy, caught on. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“What’re you two on about?” Ron grumbled. “Merlin’s beard, the three of us couldn’t even take Draco. I don’t wanna think about how smug he’ll be when term starts.”

“I thought you were done talking to him,” Hermione said, giving Ron an odd look.

“It was just a fight,” Ron said dismissively. “Lucius Malfoy’s a right git, sure, but Draco’s… different, isn’t he? I mean, he gets into more scraps with Slytherins than we Gryffindors do, doesn’t he?”

Ever since last year, when Ron had grown used to seeing Draco either sent to the hospital wing or sending others there, he’d developed a peculiar admiration for the boy who seemed to treat detentions like meals and fought Slytherins with the zeal of a rogue Gryffindor.

“So, Fred, what’s this ‘good thing’ you’re talking about?” Neville asked curiously.

“Lockhart’s gonna be our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” Fred said with a knowing smirk. “Think about it. Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Everyone except Ginny and Luna caught on instantly.

It was no secret at Hogwarts that Defense Against the Dark Arts professors were a one-year deal.

“That is a good thing,” Ron said, nodding eagerly. “Perfect, even. Does that mean no matter how insufferable Lockhart is, we only have to put up with him for a year?”

“Exactly,” George confirmed. “But it also means the seven books we each bought for his class are a total waste next year. And even after he’s gone, Lockhart’ll be off gallivanting with our gold. Damn him!”

That last bit wasn’t just from the twins—Ron and Neville joined in the cursing, earning a stern glare from Mrs. Weasley.

“No cursing people behind their backs!” she scolded sharply.

As she turned away, Fred shrugged. “At least she’s not getting on us for slagging off Lockhart specifically. That’s something.”

No matter how much the kids found Lockhart annoying, the man’s appointment to Hogwarts was a done deal.

More galling than Lockhart’s antics was the next day’s Daily Prophet headline: a new Ministry decree. Not a proper law, mind you’d, but an order called the Order to Control the Abuse of Elemental Magic by Underage Wizards During Holidays.

If anyone had doubted the papers’ claims about Harry Potter’s new elemental magic, the Ministry’s order laid it bare its existence bare. And, clearly, the Trace couldn’t track this new magic.

“Sorry, Harry, but you’ll need to come with me to the Ministry again,” Mr. Weasley said, hurrying back home from work at noon, looking sheepish. “Something’s come up.”

Harry was in the middle of a simplified Quidditch game with his friends on the lawn. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You saw the paper this morning, right? That new decree?” Mr. Weasley scratched his head. “They need your help to enforce it, Harry. As the creator of this new magic, no one knows elemental magic better than you.”

“Of course, no problem,” Harry said with a nod. “But I thought the paper said they’d already improved the Trace, didn’t they?”

“No chance,” Mr. Weasley sighed, exasperatedly. “That’s just what they’re telling the public—that we’ve got it handled. The Ministry doesn’t have a clue about elemental magic. How could they improve the Trace?”

“Got it,” Harry said, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’ll cooperate.”

“Couldn’t ask for more.”

So, Harry left his broom with Ron and followed Mr. Weasley to the Ministry via Floo Powder. Even though elemental magic was still magic, it fell under the jurisdiction of the Improper Use of Magic Office—ironic, considering Harry had just gotten out of a legal scrape with them and gotten their boss sacked. But this was their turf.

To his surprise, Minister Cornelius Fudge himself was waiting.

“Thank you, Arthur, for bringing Harry along,” Fudge said with a plastered-on smile, his tone overly enthusiastic. “This saves us a lot of trouble. And welcome back to the Ministry, Harry. No need to be nervous, my boy—we’re not here to hurt you.”

Fudge was clearly trying to mimic Dumbledore’s warm, grandfatherly air, aiming to seem approachable. Honestly, Harry thought he’d be less off-putting if he just acted like himself—at least that wouldn’t feel so forced.

“Thank you, Minister,” Harry said curtly. “What do you need to help with?”

“Help?” A sharp voice piped up from behind Fudge. “I’d call it assistance, Mr. Potter. For your own good, too.”

“Enough, Dolores,” Fudge said, raising a hand to silence her before turning back to Harry. “The thing is, Harry, we still don’t know much about your new magic. And you’ve already taught it to your peers. The problem is, the Trace can’t detect this elemental magic. You see where I’m going?”

“I do, Minister,” Harry said with a slight sigh. “If possible, I’d like to meet the wizards who cleaned up the magical mess caused by that incident with Butterbur. I owe them thanks—and an apology.”

“Oh… well, that’s surprising,” Fudge said, eyeing Harry as if seeing him anew, his eyes widening slightly.

“Impulsive, emotional, unsteady, unable to face the consequences of their actions—that’s what teenagers are like,” Harry continued. “And when that teenager is a wizard, capable of using magic to do things even adult Muggle can’t Muggle adults can’t, their potential for destruction grows exponentially.”

The office fell dead silent. Everyone stared at Harry, as if stunned that a teenage wizard was saying this about himself.

“…Very well,” Fudge said after a long pause, a real, genuine smile breaking through. Not the fake one he’d worn earlier. “I’m thrilled you see it that way, Harry. So, you agree with the Ministry’s actions, then?”

“Yes,” Harry nodded, “I do.”

“And you’re willing to help us achieve this?” Fudge pressed.

“Yes,” Harry replied.

“Good lad,” Fudge said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “You’ll go far—truly. If only you were graduated already!”

“Oh, Minister, Harry’s got years to go yet,” Mr. Weasley chimed in.

“Haha, Arthur, I know, I know—just a figure of speech!” Fudge chuckled heartily. “A hope, you understand? It’s settled then, Harry. Do well, like I said—you’ve got a bright future.”

Fudge’s mood visibly lifted, and with that, he swept out of the room with his entourage.

“I hope he didn’t bother you too much,” Mr. Weasley muttered to Harry. “That was quite a speech you gave.”

“It wasn’t just talk, Mr. Weasley,” Harry said, turning to him. “If the Ministry can’t monitor kids using elemental magic, they’ll cause havoc sooner.”

“You know,” Mr. Weasley said, shaking his head, “you’re practically a saint, Harry.”

“I’m no saint,” Harry laughed. “I’ve got a temper, trust me. So, what exactly do I need to do?”

“This way…”

The last days of summer slipped away quickly. By the time the first day of term arrived, Ron was in denial about returning to reality.

He’d had the time of his life.

Chess, cards—unlike his usual routine at the Burrow, Ron had Neville as a friend his age, and he was exhilarating.

From time to time, Harry would join Ron and Neville to take on Fred and George in a stripped-down Quidditch match.

The Ministry’s task went faster than Harry expected. The new Trace had drastically refined its detection range and now included elemental magic. What baffled Harry baffled was how they’d pulled it off.

The Improper Use of Magic staff didn’t know a thing about elemental magic, and Harry had no intention of teaching them shamanic arts wholesale. All he did was demonstrate various elemental spells, letting them record the tangible and intangible effects of each spell.

And somehow, they’d upgraded the Trace.

Without grasping the essence of elements or perceiving them, these wizards had improved the Trace with what Harry could only call a “we reckon this is how elemental magic should be” attitude—and they’d actually succeeded.

It was so astonishing Harry wished he could drag some Dalaran mages over to see it, just to blow their minds.

The red train puffed steam as it rolled into the platform, students leaning out windows to wave goodbye to their parents. As the scenery shifted and dusk fell, Harry and his friends caught sight of the familiar castle.

Perched on the cliff’s edge, the ancient fortress of Hogwarts loomed in the night, not foreboding but welcoming, with warm lights twinkling across its towers. The first-year-olds squealed with excitement, realizing they’d spend seven years in a real castle!

Only the first-year-olds took the boats with Hagrid, part of the magical ritual to enter Hogwarts. Older students were led by prefects to a row of waiting carriages.

“Whoa, driverless carriages?” Harry exclaimed.

“They’re not driverless, Harry,” Ron said, grinning. He stepped forward and, to Harry’s shock, reached out to pat the air—or so it seemed to Harry.

“There’s something there?” Hagrid asked, stepping up to mimic Ron’s gesture. She flinched, then whispered, “There is!”

Exchanging a glance, Harry and Neville hurried over, cautiously reaching out. They felt smooth, leathery fur beneath their fingers.

“What are they, Ron?” Harry asked quietly, wary of startling the invisible creature.

“Thestrals,” Ron said with certainty. “According to the books, only those who’ve witnessed death can see them.”

“Well… that tracks for you,” Harry muttered.

“Go on, Ron,” Hagrid urged, her excitement palpable.

“You know about Pegasi?” Ron asked. “Thestrals look a bit like them, but with dragon heads and horse bodies. Hey, mate, no offense—I think you’re pretty cool, actually. Want some grass?”

Holding their breath, Harry, Hagrid, and Neville watched as Ron spoke to the air, pulling a handful of fresh clover—meant for bribing Dobby, now Alfred—from his pocket. The creature seemed to understand, craning its long neck toward Ron. Harry saw its pupil-less white pupils eyes fixed on him, wings twitching, before it nibbled the clover.

“Blimey, it’s gone!” Harry gasped.

They watched the clover vanish bit by bit, tooth marks visible on half-eaten leaves.

“Awesome,” Neville breathed. “They must look wicked, right? I mean… overall.”

“Let’s get in the carriage,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Actually, they’re not exactly pretty. By most standards, Thestrals are kind of grim—skinny, with black fur stretched tight over their bones, every rib showing. But their wings are cool, like giant bat wings.”

To avoid offending the intelligent creatures, Ron kept his voice low. After all, if the Thestrals overheard, they might take it poorly…

According to lore, Thestrals weren’t evil and rarely attacked humans unless provoked.

“They say Thestrals bring death and misfortune,” Harry recalled childhood tales, with Neville chiming in.

Unlike Muggle-born wizards, kids raised in the magical world often believed in such mystical notions. The topic carried on until they reached the Gryffindor table, where Seamus and Dean joined in, eagerly sharing creepy legends they’d heard.

Before long, Professor McGonagall led the new first-year-olds through the Great Hall’s doors. The young kids, unaccustomed to so many eyes on them, looked nervous as could be.

T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!