This Quidditch match hadn't exactly gone smoothly. A lot had gone wrong—most notably, Harry had nearly been flung from his new broom thirty feet in the air.
After the match ended, all Harry wanted was somewhere he could talk freely. So after a brief celebration, he and Ron and Hermione made their way to Hagrid's hut.
It was the safest place he could think of.
Harry stepped forward and knocked.
Usually, Hagrid opened the door right away, but this time they waited a long while, and there wasn't a sound from inside.
Even Fang wasn't barking.
"No one's home?" Harry glanced toward the window, but the curtains were drawn—he couldn't see a thing.
"That's weird. I swear I saw Hagrid come back," Ron added, stepping up to peer through the keyhole. "I mean, I couldn't possibly mistake him. Right?"
"Maybe he and Fang went back into the forest," Hermione offered.
Just then, the door creaked open from the inside.
"Hagrid!" Harry looked up, surprised. "I thought you weren't home."
"Ah, I was caught up with something," Hagrid said a little sheepishly. "Come in, warm yourselves up."
The three of them didn't think much of it. They hurried into the hut—November wind was sharp as blades, and the warmth of the fire was a welcome relief.
Then they noticed the hut wasn't empty.
"Harold…" Harry blinked. "What are you doing here?"
"As you can see," Harold gestured to the giant wooden club on the floor. "Woodwork."
It was only then that Harry noticed the saw in Harold's hand—and the pile of wood shavings at his feet.
He didn't really get it, but he didn't press further.
The three exchanged quick glances. Ron looked like he was about to say something, but quickly changed the topic to the weather.
Harry and Hermione followed his lead.
Since they hadn't planned this ahead, their conversation was clumsy at best. They jumped from the weather to homework, then to Quidditch—each topic more forced than the last.
At first, Hagrid made a few comments, but even he fell silent eventually. The room grew increasingly awkward.
Hermione frowned. She'd noticed from the start—Hagrid seemed nervous. His eyes kept darting to one particular spot.
Sometimes, he'd turn his head mid-sentence as if checking something behind him.
Making a mental note, Hermione followed his gaze.
All she saw was a crackling fireplace—and a worn bedsheet hanging nearby. Nothing unusual.
Weird. What was he so nervous about?
She glanced around the small hut again but didn't spot anything obviously out of place.
He hadn't gone to the match today. Hermione was pretty sure he was the only Gryffindor who didn't attend.
She supposed you could say he wasn't interested in Quidditch. That wasn't uncommon—she wasn't exactly a fan either.
She'd only gone to support Harry and her house. Events didn't come often at Hogwarts. It was worth going just for the atmosphere.
But Harold hadn't gone. Not because he had something important to do—but just to shave a stick.
Harry and Harold were supposed to be friends, right? Hermione didn't quite understand how someone could skip their friend's first-ever match just to tinker with a piece of wood.
And then there was Hagrid, acting so strange…
Hermione's eyes moved back and forth between Hagrid and Harold. She still couldn't figure it out, and it was driving her mad.
Then Ron, of all people, spoke up.
"Hermione, right? Don't you think—"
"We can trust Harold," Hermione said suddenly, cutting him off in frustration. "Let's just say it. No need to dance around it."
"O-of course we trust him," Ron replied, a bit stiffly.
"What are you lot talking about?" Hagrid set down a tray of pine-needle tea for them.
"Someone tried to hurt Harry. During the match," Hermione said. "He nearly fell off his broom!"
"It was Snape!" Ron added quickly. "Hermione and I both saw him muttering a spell. He was staring straight at Harry the whole time!"
"Nonsense." Hagrid frowned. "Why would Snape do that?"
"We don't know. But we saw it," Ron insisted.
"Maybe he was casting a counter-curse," Harold chimed in calmly. "After all, you do need to keep your eyes fixed on a target while breaking a curse." Get full chapters from 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅•𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾•𝗇𝖾𝗍
"Harold?" Ron looked at him in disbelief. "You're seriously—"
"Don't get me wrong," Harold cut him off. "I'm not defending Snape. Just offering a possibility. Based on the current facts, it's not impossible."
Harry and Ron said nothing. Hermione stared into her tea, thinking.
"You guys go ahead and talk," Harold said, standing up. He pointed to the club on the floor, now much thinner than before. "Hagrid, mind if I take this with me?"
"Go ahead," Hagrid said with a shrug.
It was just a stick. Letting Harold have it was no big deal.
"Thanks." Harold levitated the club with a flick of his wand, guiding it around the group and out the door.
Whether Snape had tried to harm or help Harry no longer mattered.
Because Harry had already made up his mind.
Prejudice is like a mountain—and Harry's prejudice against Snape could form an entire range.
Even if Harold told him the truth right now, he probably wouldn't believe it. Even if the real culprit confessed, Harry would still harbor doubts.
To be fair, Snape had brought this on himself. After everything he'd done, most people would've snapped by now. The fact that Harry hadn't already lost his temper said a lot about his patience.
After dropping off the club in his dormitory, Harold finally headed to the Great Hall for lunch.
Not long after, Harry, Ron, and Hermione returned as well.
Strangely, they didn't sit near Harold like they usually did—instead, they chose seats far away.
Harold could understand.
To three eleven-year-olds, what he'd said earlier was practically betrayal—might as well have joined the enemy. It was natural they needed time to process it.
But Harold wasn't bothered.
Between classes, homework, fine-tuning the wand core in Hagrid's hut, shaping the wand body, and carving runes into it, he barely had time to think, let alone worry about what Harry and his friends were feeling.