Harry Potter and the HQL - Chapter - 16

The first week of term had arrived at Hogwarts in a chaotic storm of timetables, stumbling staircases, and frantically scribbled notes. Third years now had to navigate not only their core classes but also their newly chosen electives. For Harry, that meant Care of Magical Creatures and Ancient Runes—a choice he felt good about, even if the Rune class so far had been mostly about decoding oddly shaped alphabets.

With his satchel slung over his shoulder and a determined look on his face, Harry made his way down the sloping lawns of the castle grounds with Hermione and Neville at his side.

“Are we really doing this?” Neville asked nervously.

“Absolutely,” Harry replied. “I love Hagrid, you know I do. But if we don’t gently suggest some changes, the first class might end with someone in the hospital wing.”

Hermione huffed. “Honestly, a dangerous magical creature on the first day? I admire his enthusiasm, but third years are just getting started with magical creatures!”

“Exactly,” Harry said. “We just want to help him start strong.”

The smell of earth and damp wood filled the air as they approached Hagrid’s hut. Smoke was curling from the chimney, and Fang barked excitedly from behind the door.

Hagrid opened it a moment later, beaming the moment he saw them.

“Harry! Hermione! Neville! What a surprise!” he said, stepping aside. “C’mon in! First class ain’t for another two days!”

They entered the familiar cozy space, filled with its usual hodgepodge of kettles, crossbows, and enormous mugs. A stack of lesson plans lay beside a jar of pickled slugs.

“Tea?” Hagrid asked hopefully, already grabbing the kettle.

“In a bit,” Harry said carefully. “Actually, we came to talk to you about your first class.”

“Oh?” Hagrid blinked and sat down on the giant armchair that creaked under his weight. “I was thinkin’—start big, yeh know? Show ’em something amazin’. Hippogriffs!”

Neville visibly paled.

“Hagrid,” Harry said, keeping his tone soft, “you know I love hippogriffs. But… maybe not on the first day.”

“Third years are just starting electives,” Hermione added. “They’re still getting used to the idea of magical creatures in a real classroom.”

“Unicorns,” Harry said. “The third-years used to study unicorns. Beautiful creatures. Harmless. You could show them to us. Talk about purity, tracking, feeding. Save hippogriffs for the older students.”

Hagrid rubbed his beard, thoughtful.

“But the Ministry approved me, yeh know? Said I could teach proper creatures. Didn’t say I had to treat ‘em like they was kittens.”

“And you will, Hagrid,” Harry said. “But you’ll keep the job longer if no one ends up in the hospital wing on day one.”

There was a pause. Fang gave a quiet whimper and nuzzled Hagrid’s knee.

“Unicorns first, then?” Hagrid asked slowly. “Maybe have the third years learn how ter track ‘em?”

“Perfect,” Hermione said, visibly relieved. “And maybe the fourth years can handle something a little more challenging.”

“And save the hippogriffs for the fifth years and above,” Neville added quickly. “You know, when they’re less… scream-y.”

Hagrid chuckled, the sound deep and booming.

“Alright then. You win. Unicorns it is. Maybe even get ‘em ter touch a few. They’re shy, but they come ‘round.”

Harry smiled. “You’ll be brilliant, Hagrid.”

“I’m jus’ glad yeh all came. Been nervy, yeh know? Never taught proper before. Dumbledore’s got high hopes. So do I.”

Hermione glanced at the lesson plan stack. “We could help you sort those. Organize a few weeks of material if you like?”

“Would love that,” Hagrid said, eyes shining.

And as the three of them helped Hagrid prepare for his first lesson as an official Hogwarts professor, the dark clouds over Hogwarts seemed to lift—just a little.

Because even if Dementors haunted the outer borders of the school… hope was still alive in the hearts of its students.


The scent of aged parchment and candle wax clung thickly to the air as Harry Potter took his seat near the back of the Ancient Runes classroom. The stone walls were lined with faded tapestries and carved runic tablets, some cracked from centuries of wear, others glowing faintly with age-old spells no longer fully understood.

At the front of the room stood Professor Bathsheda Babbling, a cheerful but slightly scattered witch with parchment ink stains on her sleeves and a habit of pronouncing old Norse vowels with poetic flair.

“Welcome, third years!” she chirped brightly. “Today we begin with the basic Elder Futhark—a beautiful script, sacred in its structure, ancient in its power!”

Harry listened quietly, nodding when appropriate, and took neat, polite notes. But in truth, everything she said was something he had studied years ago.

This is all first-stage material. I was decoding protection wards and broom stabilizer runes last year.

Still, Harry didn’t want to offend Professor Babbling. He admired her enthusiasm and her effort, and more importantly, he understood what it felt like to be overlooked or talked over. So he played the part of a curious learner.

After class, while other students left groaning about confusing symbol sets and pronunciation drills, Harry made his way up one of the quieter staircases toward the Astronomy Tower’s lower level—where Professor Sinistra occasionally hosted informal magical theory discussions.

She was there, as expected, organizing star charts when Harry stepped in.

“Potter,” she said with a warm but knowing smile. “Escaping the simplicity of Futhark Day One?”

Harry gave a modest shrug. “It’s... familiar material. But I’m not in the business of embarrassing professors.”

“Wise,” Sinistra replied, motioning him closer. “Though I doubt you’ll be able to hide your aptitude for long.”

He pulled out Runic Dynamics: Volume II from his bag, flipping to a section on spiral matrices.

“I’ve been working on stabilizing high-altitude enchantments using this format. But the book says it fails under wind-based interference, and I’ve tested it successfully. I think the problem’s in the anchor sequence.”

Sinistra peered over the diagrams. Her eyes gleamed.

“Correct again. Most rune theorists never questioned this framework. You did. That alone sets you apart.”

“I don’t want to replicate spells,” Harry replied. “I want to build them.”

“And that,” she said, “makes you a true enchanter.”

Back in Professor Babbling’s classroom, Harry kept his head down. He answered when asked, handed in perfectly accurate but not too advanced homework, and acted like any other attentive student.

Meanwhile, in private, he crafted rune structures to stabilize high-speed brooms, tested insulation glyphs against elemental backlash, and even dabbled in animated sigils—runes that responded to user emotion.


The Gryffindor common room was alive with the crackle of firelight and the soft murmur of conversations. Some students were lounging on couches, others huddled over last-minute homework, and a few were arguing over Wizard Chess by the window. But in one corner, near the hearth, Harry Potter had created a space that everyone silently agreed belonged to him.

It was his workstation—a small round table surrounded by low chairs, a personal lamp that gave off golden-white light, and an impressive collection of parchments, enchanted instruments, and scattered rune-carved stones. Whenever Harry worked there, nobody—not even Fred and George—interrupted.

Tonight, he was immersed in modifying the Starlord—his most ambitious broomstick yet.

Harry sat with his sleeves rolled up, sketching fine lines across a long sheet of parchment. He was layering complex rune sequences to direct magical propulsion, adjusting the energy flow patterns for mid-air braking, and weaving wind absorption spirals into the tail-fin layout. Every line mattered.

Several older students glanced over now and then. A few whispered.

“That’s not just broom design… that’s rune art.”

“He’s enchanting each component separately. I don’t think even Babbling teaches that.”

But no one dared approach. It was known: when Harry was working, you left him alone.

The portrait hole swung open with a loud creak, and in stumbled Ron Weasley—soaking wet from the evening drizzle, hair matted to his forehead, and an expression somewhere between confusion and fear.

He spotted Hermione, who was sitting in an armchair across from Harry, revising her Arithmancy notes, and marched straight toward her.

“Hermione,” he said breathlessly, “she said I’m going to die.”

Hermione looked up, blinking. “What?”

Harry looked up from his parchment, startled. “Ron?”

Ron dropped onto the seat beside her, eyes wide.

“Trelawney—I mean, Professor Trevanni—she said my light will be snuffed out before the frost thaws. That I’ll face a shadow I can't escape. Said she saw it in tea leaves, smoke, and my posture!”

Hermione sighed and crossed her arms. “Ron, it's Divination. Honestly.”

“And you were there to hear this?” Harry asked, turning more fully now, his quill hovering.

“Of course she was!” Ron said. “Third floor tower room. Smells like dust and cheap perfume.”

Harry blinked. Then looked at Hermione. “Wait. You were there?”

Hermione tensed. “Well… yes.”

“But you were in Ancient Runes with me,” Harry said slowly, brow furrowed. “Remember? The two classes happen at the same time.”

Hermione hesitated.

Neville, sitting nearby and flipping through his Herbology text, looked up with interest.

“She’s also in Divination,” Neville added. “She and I have the same seat.”

Harry turned back to Hermione, his voice softer now. “Hermione… how can you be in both classes? At the same time?”

Hermione looked away, guilty.

“It’s complicated.”

There was a pause. A heavy silence settled in as firelight flickered between them.

Harry didn’t press.

He could see she didn’t want to talk about it—whatever secret she was carrying, she was determined to carry it alone. And even though he was curious, even worried, he respected her too much to pry.

“Alright,” Harry said quietly. “Just… don’t overdo it, okay?”

Hermione gave him a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Harry.”

Ron, still looking shaken, mumbled something about sleeping in full armor for the rest of the term.

And across the common room, as thunder rumbled faintly outside the castle walls, Harry returned to his blueprints, though his thoughts were no longer entirely on the Starlord.


The third-year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws filed into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom with a mix of anticipation and unease. The classroom itself was colder than usual—not in temperature, but in atmosphere. The torches on the walls burned low, and the windows were partly shuttered, casting shadows across the wooden desks.

Professor Theron Graves stood at the front of the room.

He did not smile. He did not greet them.

He watched them.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with two deep scars on his face—one cutting across his cheek and another just above his brow—Graves looked more like a hardened mercenary than a Hogwarts professor. His robes were charcoal black and sleeveless beneath his traveling cloak, revealing worn bracers at his wrists. His hair, streaked with iron-gray, was cropped short. His wand was holstered openly on his belt.

He looked like someone who had seen war.

Because he had.

When the last student took their seat, Graves stepped forward.

“Let me make one thing clear,” he said, voice deep and clipped, his eyes scanning the room. “This is not a classroom for fantasy. This is not a storybook.”

No one moved.

“I’ve reviewed your previous year’s Defense curriculum,” he went on, picking up a thin, purple-covered book from the desk. Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Hexes.

He held it out in front of him.

And then he set it on the desk—and blasted it apart with a non-verbal spell. The shredded cover fluttered to the floor like confetti.

Gasps rippled through the room. Even Hermione looked startled.

“That,” he said calmly, “was not Defense Against the Dark Arts. That was celebrity trivia.”

Neville whispered, “Blimey,” under his breath.

“This term,” Graves continued, “we begin again. And we begin with magical theory. No flashy spells until you understand what magic is, how it behaves, and how it defends or destroys.”

It was Padma Patil who raised her hand first.

“Sir… may I ask—what did you do before Hogwarts hired you?”

Graves paused. His cold eyes flicked to her, then to the rest of the room.

“I was an Unspeakable.”

There was silence.

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up.

Even Fred and George would have whistled if they were in the room.

Everyone who understood the weight of that title sat a little straighter. The Department of Mysteries—the hidden wing of the Ministry, sealed by enchantments even Aurors couldn’t enter without clearance. The Unspeakables worked there. And no one—not even the Minister of Magic—knew exactly what they did.

“What kind of mysteries did you solve?” Dean Thomas asked.

“What did you study?” added Seamus.


“Did you ever fight anything dark?” came from Lavender.

Graves held up a hand.

“Enough. You’re curious. That’s good. But I am under an Unbreakable Oath. If I speak of my work… I die.”

Dead silence.

“You’re free to speculate,” he said, pacing slowly before them. “Most people do. But know this—nothing I teach you will be hypothetical. Every defense I pass on was tested in the field. Every spell I require of you might save your life.”

He stopped walking. Turned back to the class.

“Now. Open your parchments. We begin with shield charm layering, and why layering defensive spells without proper rune anchoring can make your protection shatter from the inside.”

Harry leaned forward, quill in hand. This—this—was real.

And for the first time since starting Hogwarts, he felt like they were truly about to learn how to fight back.