The parchment had been folded neatly and tied with a strip of string made from twisted thestral hair. Harry found it beside his plate during breakfast, half-hidden beneath the Daily Prophet. The handwriting was unmistakable—thick, wobbly, and slightly smudged:
Harry,
If yeh got a bit o' time, come down ter me hut around 7 this evenin'. Got somethin' I need ter show yeh. Bring yerself only.
— Hagrid
Harry folded the letter slowly, his chest tightening.
He realized, uncomfortably, just how long it had been since he'd spoken to Hagrid properly. Not since Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban.Not since his lessons with Salazar began, and the world had shifted beneath his feet.
And through it all, Hagrid—kind, loyal Hagrid—had remained silent and patient, waiting for Harry to remember that he was still there.
I've neglected him, Harry admitted to himself as he tucked the letter into his robe. He's always been there for me. Since the very beginning.
That evening, the castle corridors emptied as dinner concluded. Laughter and footsteps faded as students retreated to common rooms, leaving only torchlight and the distant echo of patrolling prefects. Harry sat in thle Gryffindor common room, cloaked in silence, watching the minutes tick down.
At exactly 6:50 PM, he rose without a word, slipped on his invisibility cloak, and quietly climbed out through the portrait hole.
The Fat Lady snorted in her sleep but didn't stir.
The castle breathed in slow creaks and flickering shadows. Harry moved like a ghost through the stone hallways, the silvery cloak hiding him completely. He avoided Filch, ducked past a yawning Ravenclaw prefect, and made his way down the sloping corridors to the entrance hall.
The doors groaned slightly as he pushed through into the cool, open air.
The sun was dipping low in the sky, painting the Forbidden Forest in hues of bronze and indigo. Hagrid's hut stood at the edge of the trees, smoke curling from the chimney like a sleepy dragon's breath.
Harry crossed the grass quickly, the chill of the evening tugging at his cloak. As he approached, a soft yellow light spilled from the hut's small windows, casting long shadows across the pumpkin patch.
He pulled off the invisibility cloak just before knocking.
The door opened almost instantly.
"Harry!" Hagrid's booming voice was full of warmth, and his thick beard split with a wide grin. "I was beginnin' ter think yeh weren't comin'!"
Harry smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, Hagrid. Things have been… busy."
"I know, I know," Hagrid said, stepping aside to let him in. "Blimey, I figured yeh must be up to yer eyes in tournaments, newspapers, students whisperin' an' all. Thought maybe yeh'd forgotten me."
"Never," Harry said honestly, stepping into the cozy, firelit room. "I've just… had a lot on my mind."
Fang the boarhound lumbered up, tail thumping, and nudged Harry's hand with his wet nose. Harry scratched his ears as Hagrid busied himself pouring two large mugs of steaming liquid from a battered kettle.
"Hot chocolate," Hagrid said, offering one of the mugs. "Bit o' somethin' stronger in mine, but this'll do yeh good."
Harry accepted it gratefully and sank into one of the overstuffed armchairs near the fire. The warmth seeped into his bones, and for a moment, he simply breathed.
"I've missed this," he said quietly.
Hagrid looked over, his dark eyes kind. "Yeh look tired, Harry. Not just from lack o' sleep, either. Worn down, like yer carryin' too much."
Harry stared into his mug. "I am carrying too much, Hagrid. More than I should. More than anyone knows."
"Yeh can always tell me, yeh know," Hagrid said. "I may not understand everythin'—I'm not a genius like Dumbledore—but I've got ears an' a good memory."
Harry smiled faintly, but didn't answer.
Hagrid let the silence stretch for a moment before setting down his mug with a loud clink. "But that's not why I called yeh down. I have a date with Madame Maxime today'."
Harry blinked, trying to process what he'd just heard.
"A… date?" he repeated, almost dropping the cup of hot chocolate he was nursing.
Hagrid beamed like a schoolboy. "Aye. A real one this time."
Harry blinked again. "With… with Madame Maxime?"
"The very same," Hagrid nodded proudly, his chest puffing. "She's the headmistress of Beauxbatons, yeh know—bit tall, bit elegant. Real class."
Harry was stunned. Of all the things he expected from this visit, romance had been the last on the list. "I—I didn't even know you were… dating."
"Well, I'm not," Hagrid said gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. "But… I asked her ter dinner. Nice and simple. Got a few things cooked. She said yes." His face turned as red as a dragon's underbelly. "Thing is… she's French, Harry. And the French—well, they care a lot about, y'know… appearances."
It took Harry a moment to catch on. "You want help… getting ready."
"That's the spirit!" Hagrid pointed at his own massive chest, then gestured broadly at his wild hair and tangled beard. "Help me with… all this."
Harry choked down a laugh. "Hagrid… I'm really not an expert in—beauty care products."
"Aye, I figured. But you've got the kind o' magic that could make a difference."
Harry sighed, then stood up. "Okay, when is she arriving?"
Hagrid checked a dusty pocket watch with a cracked glass. "Half an hour."
"What?!"
"She said seven-thirty. Wanted a moonlit walk."
Harry was already rolling up his sleeves. "Right. Let's get to work."
First, he examined the oversized wizard cloak Hagrid had laid out.
"Did… you try to sew this yourself?"
Hagrid shrugged. "Might've."
There were patches sewn in with thick twine, and buttons that didn't match. Harry didn't bother asking more questions. With a flick of his wand and a muttered "Vestimentum Reficio," the cloak shimmered and restructured. It darkened to a deep forest green with gold trim, well-fitted across Hagrid's massive frame, and enchanted with a self-cleaning charm.
"Blimey," Hagrid murmured, inspecting himself in the cracked mirror. "That's real stylish, that is."
Next, Harry turned to the boots. With a bit of transfiguration and a stylish touch, the clunky dragon-hide boots slimmed into polished, reinforced black leather, with subtle detailing of acromantula webbing.
"Don't look like me feet'll crush the floorboards anymore," Hagrid said, awed.
"You're still going to crush them," Harry muttered.
He paused. "Hagrid, what's that?"
On the table was a tiny, withered bunch of daisies, tied with brown string.
"Flowers," Hagrid said proudly. "Thought they'd cheer her up."
Harry stared at them, then drew his wand.
"Floralis Maxima."
In a brilliant burst of soft light, the daisies transformed into an elegant bouquet: deep red roses with silver-veined petals, snowy lilies, and rare bluebells that shimmered faintly in the candlelight.
"Oh my…" Hagrid's voice caught in his throat. "Harry… that's… that's just…"
"Elegant," Harry finished.
"Yeah," Hagrid said softly. "Elegant."
With a deep breath, Hagrid stood straighter and puffed his chest again.
"I reckon I'm ready."
Harry smiled. "You look… shockingly decent."
Hagrid chuckled, then glanced at the door. "Harry, before yeh go—bring yer cloak. I want yeh to come along."
"Come along?"
"Not like that. Stay hidden. But I want yeh ter see this. You'll want to see it. You'll understand why."
Harry frowned, but didn't argue. He reached into his enchanted satchel, pulled out the invisibility cloak, and swung it over himself.
"Alright," he said under the silvery veil. "Lead the way."
Hagrid stepped out of his hut, lantern swinging in one hand, bouquet in the other. The night air was brisk and sharp, the sky filled with stars. The Forbidden Forest stood still, as if watching silently.
From the path leading up the hill, a tall, graceful figure approached, silhouetted by moonlight.
Madame Maxime.
Even under the enchantments of the cloak, Harry could feel the aura she carried: proud, poised, and undeniably majestic. Her long robes shimmered in soft satin blue, her dark hair pinned up with silver combs. She stopped when she saw Hagrid and gave a reserved smile.
"Bonsoir, Monsieur Hagrid."
Hagrid turned red from neck to forehead.
"Evenin', Olympe. Yeh look… radiant."
"Merci." Her voice was low and warm. She looked at the bouquet with a small, surprised smile. "And ze flowers… are beautiful."
Harry grinned behind his cloak. That was his cue to fade into the shadows.
Hagrid held out his arm awkwardly, and after a brief pause, Madame Maxime accepted it.
Together, they walked slowly toward the edge of the lake, under the star-strewn sky.
Even under the silvery sheen of the Invisibility Cloak, Harry's face was a picture of confusion.
Why is he taking her into the forest? Harry wondered, trailing silently behind Hagrid and Madame Maxime as they moved away from the lake, away from the cozy candlelit dinner Hagrid had prepared so painstakingly.
He can imagine how many hours Hagrid must have spent earlier that afternoon making sure everything was perfect. The hut had smelled like roast meat and something citrusy. Harry had taste-tested the mashed turnip with spiced gravy and the caramel apple tart—both surprisingly edible.
Definitely not Hagrid's work alone, Harry had thought with suspicion, There's no way he cooked that tart without help… probably got one of the Hogwarts house-elves to assist.
But now, instead of serving that meal, Hagrid was stomping into the dark forest with Madame Maxime on his arm, his lantern bobbing with each heavy step.
"Why bring her into the Forbidden Forest?" Harry whispered to himself. "This can't end well."
He should have warned Hagrid. Should have reminded him not to babble all night about his obsession with magical creatures. But it was too late now.
The air grew colder the deeper they went into the woods. The towering trees cast long, skeletal shadows over the mossy floor. Moonlight barely reached here. Harry kept his steps light and slow, careful not to snap twigs or disturb the underbrush.
Eventually, the sound of Hagrid and Madame Maxime's voices faded into murmurs. He could no longer make out the words, only the low rumble of Hagrid's excitement and the soft lilt of Madame Maxime's replies.
They were deep now—too deep.
Then, it happened.
A shrill, ear-splitting SCREEEEECH tore through the forest, shaking the leaves loose from their branches. A gust of wind followed, heavy with heat and ash.
Harry's blood went cold.
More screeching followed—louder, deeper, angrier. The forest trembled with the sound of giant wings beating against metal.
Harry pushed forward, weaving through the trees, slipping behind gnarled trunks and low-hanging vines. He emerged at the edge of a wide clearing—and froze.
Dragons.
Three of them.
Enormous, terrible, and magnificent.
The creatures towered over the clearing, each chained inside reinforced iron cages that groaned under their weight. The dragons were straining, shrieking, clawing, and slamming against the bars in a frenzy of defiance. Smoke billowed from their nostrils, and sparks lit the night air like fireflies.
Harry's eyes widened in awe.
The one to the left was a Common Welsh Green, with shimmering emerald scales and a long whip-like tail that lashed furiously against its cage.
The center dragon—massive and terrifying—was a Hungarian Horntail. It had black scales like charred steel, with horns that curled from its skull like a demon's crown. Its eyes glowed with amber fury as it bashed its head against the bars, fangs snapping inches from the Ministry handler standing too close.
And the third… a beautiful but ferocious Chinese Fireball, scarlet scales glowing like embers, its face framed by golden spikes, breathing small bursts of flame in a pulsing rhythm.
Harry stepped closer, forgetting for a moment he was hidden. His breath caught in his throat.
They're for the Tournament…
The realization dawned on him like a thunderclap. The First Task.
There were three dragons—meant for the three champions.
They're not expecting me participate anymore, Harry thought. The Ministry must've finally accepted I'm not competing.
He didn't know if that made him relieved… or disappointed because with his new powers he really wanted to fight a dragon.
"They're beautiful," came Hagrid's voice from ahead. "Aren't they just… magnificent?"
Madame Maxime stood beside him, her expression unreadable. "Zey are dangerous."
"Course they are," Hagrid said proudly. "That's what makes 'em brilliant."
Madame Maxime's eyes narrowed slightly. "Zis… is part of ze Tournament?"
Hagrid gave a nervous chuckle. "Er—might be. Don't tell no one, eh?"
She raised one elegant eyebrow. "And you 'ave shown me anyway."
"Trust you," Hagrid said earnestly. "You love magical creatures too. Figured you'd appreciate it."
There was a long silence.
"Let us return," Madame Maxime said at last. "Before ze dinner grows cold."
"Aye," Hagrid said, disappointment flickering in his voice.
The two of them turned back the way they came, lantern bobbing between them.
But Harry stayed.
He stood, unmoving, his eyes locked on the dragons.
They were still fighting—throwing themselves against the cages, wings smashing the bars with thunderous clatter, teeth gnashing, smoke and fire spilling into the air.
He could see the magic runes etched into the cages—binding enchantments, suppressing spells, runic locks glowing red-hot. It took a lot to contain a dragon… and these dragons were barely contained.
The First Task is going to be lethal.
Harry's fingers curled unconsciously around his wand.
He wasn't supposed to care. He wasn't competing. But seeing the dragons—feeling the fire, the power, the threat—they stirred something inside him.
Something old.
Something ready.