Harry Potter and the HQL - Chapter - 26

The days following New Year were anything but restful for Harry Potter. The successful launch of the Starlord broomstick had stirred more excitement than he had ever imagined. Orders poured in like enchanted snowflakes, carried by owl, fireplace, and even international portkeys. And with Remus and Sirius traveling across Europe to meet with dealers and Quidditch team managers, the weight of the factory fell on Harry’s shoulders.

The Star Broomsticks Factory in Hogsmeade was a marvel of magical engineering—three floors of magically expanded workspace buzzing with enchantments. But now, it buzzed with students.

"Alright! Keep the bundles of tail twigs aligned properly!" Harry called out, wand tucked behind his ear and his hands smeared with sap from the enchanted lacquer. “And if you’re not sure if something’s finished, ask Neville or me!”

First and second years from the Star Club darted around the workstations like busy bees in a hive. Their eyes sparkled with purpose, even if some didn’t fully understand how broomsticks were made. For them, it was a magical experience in every sense.

Fred Weasley leaned over a barrel of broom handles, whispering to George. “You reckon if we slip a few extra charms into one of these, we could turn it into a rocket broom?”

George snorted. “You’re mad. We’re supposed to be running a business here, not launching fireworks across Hogsmeade.”

Neville passed by them, arms full of trimmed twigs and a clipboard hovering behind him. “If I catch you two sabotaging quality control again, I’m telling Remus.”

“We’re just adding some flair,” Fred said innocently, offering Neville a crooked grin.

Harry stepped between them with a tired laugh. “Let’s keep the flair in moderation, alright? These brooms cost more than a vault at Gringotts.”

Indeed, they did. With Harry’s name attached and the quality exceeding even the Firebolt in some aspects—especially balance and maneuverability—the Starlord was being hailed as the next great leap in broomstick innovation. Its sleek midnight-black finish with silver runes made it look as stylish as it was powerful. And with the supply-demand ratio, Harry had priced it high.

And still, they sold out.

Hermione, who had dropped by with lunch and a list of pending orders from European customers, surveyed the factory with wide eyes. “You know, Harry, this is starting to look more like a proper industry.”

“Tell that to my back,” Harry said, stretching. “We’ve had to enchant the polishing machines to keep up with demand. And we still need to process another batch tonight.”

Hermione handed him a bottle of pumpkin juice. “You could always hire more adults.”

Harry took a sip and smiled. “I don’t trust anyone else yet. Besides, the club members are doing great—and they’re earning pocket money. They love it.”

At that moment, a tiny second-year named Ellie Jordan ran up to Harry holding a bundle of neatly tied twigs. “Mister Potter! Are these phoenix-feather engraved handle good for Starlord Beta Series?”

Harry inspected them carefully, nodding. “Perfect, Ellie. Bring them over to the backroom. Tell Dean to start aligning them into the core housing.”

Ellie ran off with a proud grin.

By evening, the factory smelled of wood polish, melted resin, and enchanted leather grips. Harry, his shirt untucked and hair covered in a film of glittery dust, finally leaned against a crate stacked with boxed Starlords.

Fred flopped beside him. “You know, I thought running a joke shop will be my future. But broomsticks? This is next level.”

“Worth it though,” Neville added, wiping sweat from his brow. “We’ve got a system now. Two weeks from now, we’ll clear the next international batch.”

Harry grinned. “And Sirius promised to bring back five orders from the Polish Quidditch League. Remus says they’re even considering sponsoring a junior team using Starlords.”

George walked up with a parchment in hand. “Just got a letter from that old witch in France—Madame Blanquet. Wants ten brooms for her flying academy. Says her broomsticks are aging, and her students deserve better.”

“That’s amazing,” Hermione said, entering the backroom with more juice and snacks. “But I still think you should rest a little, Harry.”

“Rest after I am at Hogwarts” Harry replied. “Once the second wave is out. Maybe we’ll all take a break to the Black Island and visit the hippogriffs.”

“Only if you promise not to bring back another Runespoor,” George quipped.

“I’m not promising anything.”

They all laughed, the exhaustion fading into a shared sense of accomplishment. The Star Broomsticks Factory was more than a business. It was a dream that had brought together people from different houses, different backgrounds, and even different countries.

As the sun set behind the snowy peaks surrounding Hogsmeade, Harry looked around at the bustling factory floor—students casting levitation spells, aligning feathers, adjusting grip charms—and he knew this was just the beginning.



The Hogwarts Express steamed through the snowy countryside with renewed cheer, its scarlet engine slicing through the crisp January wind like a triumphant banner. Inside, laughter and chatter echoed down the corridors as returning students filled the compartments with stories of their Christmas holidays. Some recounted trips to distant wizarding villages, others boasted about new brooms or pets, and many simply enjoyed the warmth and bustle of being back among friends.

Harry Potter, however, was too exhausted to share in the excitement.

Slumped comfortably beside the window, his head resting against the cold glass, he let the rhythmic chugging of the train soothe his tired mind. His holiday had been anything but restful—working long hours at the Star Broomsticks factory, organizing shipments, ensuring quality control, and managing eager club members eager to help. Now that Remus had returned to take over the reins, Harry finally had a moment to breathe.

Across from him, Hermione Granger sat cross-legged on the seat, her back straight and her brow furrowed in concentration. A neat stack of parchment floated in mid-air beside her, while her quill danced rapidly across the page, scribbling words as fast as her thoughts could form.

“What are you writing?” Harry asked, voice groggy but curious.

Hermione didn’t look up. “Special holiday edition for The Stars Magazine. I’m doing a feature on how the students spent their Christmas holidays, especially those who stayed back to work in the factory.”

Harry smiled. “I hope you’re not painting me as a slave driver.”

Hermione glanced up briefly, her lips twitching into a smirk. “No. You’re being painted as an overworked broomstick tycoon who probably forgot what sleep means.”

Harry chuckled and let his head fall back against the glass. “Accurate.”

He watched the landscape pass in a blur of white hills and frozen rivers, thinking back to the younger students who had come to help at the factory. Most of them hadn’t signed up just for galleons. They came to learn, to experience magic freely outside the restrictions of home. Especially the Muggle-borns—working at the factory in Hogsmeade meant casting spells without fear of Ministry warnings, which was no small joy for them.

He remembered the laughter of first years learning to levitate bundles of twigs and the squeals of excitement when their cleaning charms actually worked. He’d watched them leave each evening, arms full of wizard sweets and proud smiles on their faces, already planning what gifts they’d bring their parents and siblings. That had warmed Harry’s heart more than the fireplace in his office.

Their appreciation had followed him onto the train.

“Thank you for letting me work at the factory, Harry!” a small voice had piped up earlier when he passed through the corridor.

“My mum loved the chocolate frogs,” another had added, hugging a paper-wrapped parcel.

Dozens of such greetings came from first and second years—many of whom Harry had never met before Hogsmeade. But now, they beamed at him like he was someone they truly knew, not just The Boy Who Lived. And Harry returned every smile, grateful and slightly overwhelmed by it all.

Back in the compartment, Hermione rolled up her parchment. “I’ve also added the new Starlord advertisement,” she said. “With the Floo order address and our new owl hub location in Hogsmeade.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, sitting up straighter. “We’ll probably get flooded with letters again.”

“I’d say that’s a good problem.”

Just then, the door to their compartment slid open.

“Well, well,” came the familiar sneer. “Look who’s acting like he owns the train.”

Draco Malfoy strolled in with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him like mismatched trolls. He crossed his arms and smirked at Harry, taking in the sight of the now somewhat rumpled and bleary-eyed broomstick maker.

“I saw that ridiculous ad in the daily prophet,” Draco said, lips curled with disdain. “Your Starlord looks like something a troll would ride.”

Harry didn’t even blink. “Hi, Malfoy.”

“Oh, please. Do you really think it’s better than a Firebolt?” Draco continued, ignoring the greeting. “My father says Firebolts are ten times faster.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Your father probably hasn’t touched a broom in ten years.”

Draco turned his glare to her. “Stay out of it, Granger.”

Harry raised a brow. “You done yet?”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“If you’re here to insult me, I suggest you make it short,” Harry said calmly. “I’ve had a long break, and I’m really not in the mood.”

Crabbe snorted as if that was somehow threatening. Malfoy’s sneer faltered slightly. It was one thing to taunt Harry in first year. It was quite another to stand in front of the most popular student in school, leader of the Stars Club, Quidditch League founder, and now co-owner of the most talked-about broomstick brand in Europe.

“Come on,” Draco muttered, turning on his heel. “This compartment smells like smoke and hard work.”

The door slid shut behind them, leaving only the muffled footsteps fading down the corridor.

Hermione glanced at Harry with a smile. “You really handled that well.”

“I’m too tired to be annoyed,” Harry replied, stretching his arms. “Malfoy’s just upset he can’t brag about being in the league.”

“I heard Marcus Flint turned down his offer to be seeker in his team,” Hermione added, laughing.

“Smart.”

Outside, the snowy peaks of Scotland loomed closer. Hogwarts would soon be in sight. The castle would be warm, welcoming, and once again brimming with magic.

And as Harry leaned back into his seat, listening to the rhythmic clatter of the train, he couldn’t help but smile.



The January chill hadn’t quite left the stone halls of Hogwarts, but a warmth had returned with the students flooding back from their holiday. Laughter echoed in the common rooms, parchment fluttered in classrooms, and the corridors were once again alive with a dozen voices all at once. With the launch of the Starlord complete and the league in full swing, Harry felt as though life had finally settled into a steady rhythm again.

That is, until the rumor reached him.

He was halfway through breakfast in the Great Hall when Seamus Finnigan leaned across the table and muttered, “Oi, Harry, did you hear about Hagrid?”

Harry looked up from his toast, confused. “What about him?”

“He’s in the hospital wing,” Seamus said, voice low. “One of the lads who caught a cold during the break said he saw him when Madame Pomfrey was handing out Pepper-Up Potion.”

Harry blinked. “Hagrid? Since when?”

“No idea,” Seamus said, shrugging. “But apparently, he looked bad. Real bad.”

Harry was on his feet before the conversation finished.

Neville caught up with him just outside the Great Hall. “Did I hear that right? Hagrid’s hurt?”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, already walking faster. “No idea how. I didn’t even know he was injured.”

“I’m coming,” Neville said firmly. “Hermione’ll want to know too.”

They found Hermione in the library, predictably, and explained what they'd heard. Her reaction was immediate.

“Oh no—Hagrid?” she said, slamming her book shut and standing up. “What happened?”

“No one knows,” Harry said. “But I’m going to the hospital wing now.”

“I’ll come too,” she said without hesitation, gathering her things.

As they hurried down the long corridor leading toward the hospital wing, Hermione muttered, “He must’ve run into something dangerous in the forest. Probably tried to hug it.”

Harry gave a short laugh. “That’s exactly what he would’ve done.”

“Or maybe,” Neville said, half-joking, “he finally succeeded in cross-breeding a hippogriff and a thestral. Wouldn’t put it past him.”

Their mood turned somber the moment they stepped through the tall, arched doors of the hospital wing.

The familiar smell of disinfecting potions lingered in the air. The wing was quiet, save for the faint clinking of vials and the rustle of linen sheets. Near the far end of the ward, separated slightly from the others by a drawn curtain, they could see Hagrid’s enormous boots sticking out past the edge of the bed.

Madam Pomfrey appeared before they could get any closer.

“No running in the hospital wing!” she said sharply, then noticed who it was. “Oh—Mr. Potter. I suppose you’ve heard.”

“Is he going to be alright?” Harry asked quickly, eyes drifting past her to the figure on the bed.

Pomfrey sighed. “He’s lucky to be alive, honestly. But yes, he’ll be fine. He’s unconscious now, but stable. Give him a week or two, and he’ll be stomping around again.”

Hermione looked concerned. “What happened to him?”

“That oaf never learns,” Pomfrey muttered, crossing her arms. “Wandering around that forest alone, doing Merlin knows what. Something attacked him—scars down his side, and deep burns on his arms. Poisoned talons, most likely. Took hours to stabilize him.”

Harry stepped around her gently and approached the bed.

Hagrid lay still, massive frame nearly overflowing from the hospital bed. His tangled black beard rested on his chest, and his arm—bandaged from shoulder to wrist—twitched slightly as if in a dream. What was visible of his skin was marked with dark scars that glistened faintly under the charm Madame Pomfrey had applied.

Harry swallowed hard. “He looks awful.”

“He’ll live,” Pomfrey said briskly, coming over to adjust a potion vial beside the bed.

Harry turned to Pomfrey. “Is he… in pain?”

“Not while he’s asleep. And I’ll keep him that way for another day or two. You can visit him after that, but for now—just let him rest.”

Harry nodded and looked back at Hagrid one more time. “We’ll come again.”

As they exited the ward and walked back through the castle, their conversation was quiet.

“Do you think this has something to do with that woman in the forest?” Neville asked eventually.

“Bellatrix?” Hermione said with a frown. “The centaurs said they’d seen her. Maybe she’s stirring up something worse.”

Harry remained silent. His eyes were narrowed slightly, thoughtful.

“If it was Bellatrix,” he said at last, “then I will kill her.”

They stopped in the hallway, students bustling past around them, and for a moment Harry felt a heavy weight settle on his shoulders.

“We’ll find out what happened,” he said quietly. “And when Hagrid wakes up… he’ll tell us everything.”