Chapter 57: The Forbidden Forest

The next morning, news that Gryffindor had lost 200 house points spread through the school like wildfire.

At first, no one believed it—until they checked the massive hourglasses tracking the House Cup. The green stones for Slytherin had surged upward, while Gryffindor's rubies had plummeted to rock bottom.

The castle exploded with gossip.

Gryffindor, once in first place, was now dead last. Slytherin, previously second, had soared into the lead.

From breakfast onward, Slytherins celebrated as if they had already won the House Cup, cheering and whistling every time a Gryffindor passed by.

Gryffindors, unsurprisingly, were not happy—especially not with the culprits behind it all. Harry Potter, in particular, was on the verge of being completely ostracized.

It made sense. Of the six students who lost the points, Fred and George were frequent offenders—everyone was used to their antics by now.

Harold was the same, maybe even worse. He'd lost over twenty points early in the year for being late, another twenty for the dormitory explosion incident, and other small deductions here and there.

But unlike the Weasley twins, Harold had earned all his points back through various means. Once the losses and gains balanced out, the Gryffindors had nothing to complain about. In fact, some even admired him for owning up to his mistakes like a true Gryffindor.

So, when the list of point-losers came out, most people didn't even include Harold in their outrage.

Neville Longbottom, as always, didn't draw much attention. The last two were first-years who followed Harry around—naturally, people lumped them in as his lackeys.

Which meant all the resentment landed squarely on Harry's shoulders.

He was a wreck for days, overwhelmed with guilt and shame. At one point, he even approached Oliver Wood to quit the Quidditch team.

But Wood wouldn't hear of it.

"That's not going to help!" he'd barked. "If we can't win our matches, how are we supposed to claw our way back up the rankings?"

That just added to Harry's pressure. Every day, he was either training or burying himself in the library.

Sometimes, Harold would run into him in the common room and catch a flicker of envy in Harry's eyes.

It was real.

They'd all been caught and punished together, but somehow Harold had come through it unscathed. None of the other students seemed to blame him. Even Professor McGonagall—who'd been furious that night—never showed Harold any lingering hostility afterward.

Just look at the detentions. The others received their slips over breakfast. But Harold?

McGonagall had personally told him.

"Your detention begins tonight at eleven. Meet Filch in the Entrance Hall. He'll take you into the Forbidden Forest."

She'd said it after a Transfiguration class, with that same stern tone. "I hope this punishment serves as a lesson."

A lesson in what, exactly, she hadn't said.

"I understand, Professor," Harold replied calmly, then left the room.

The Forbidden Forest, huh? And fully authorized by a teacher, no less…

Harold's eyes gleamed. Was this really a punishment, or more like a reward?

Fred and George seemed to agree.

Their own punishment was cleaning the Trophy Room with their least favorite brother—Percy.

And they weren't allowed to use magic.

"There are over three hundred trophies in there!" Fred moaned. "Why can't we go to the Forest?!"

"Why not send that dimwit Slytherin instead?!"

"Maybe… because Professor McGonagall thinks the three of you work well together?" Harold said dryly, giving them a side-eye that was dripping with disdain.

Seriously? They had the Marauder's Map and still managed to walk right into McGonagall?

And they had the nerve to vouch for their "professionalism"?

Please.

Fred and George understood exactly what that look meant. Both of them flushed deep red.

"We were caught off guard, alright?" Fred said, clearly defensive. "How were we supposed to know she'd be there?"

It didn't help that their job had been to keep watch for professors… and they'd completely forgotten in their excitement after grabbing the Willow branches.

"Stupid Ron's fault," George muttered.

They'd pieced it together—though calling it "piecing" was generous, considering Malfoy had proudly announced the whole thing in the common room, basking in his role as the hero who secured Slytherin a shot at their seventh House Cup.

Apparently, he'd scuffled with Ron and "accidentally" picked up a letter.

That letter just so happened to detail their dragon-smuggling plans: time, method, location.

So he'd run straight to McGonagall.

No one believed the dragon bit, of course. But the rest? Very plausible.

Which meant… if Ron had been just a bit smarter or more careful, they might never have crossed paths with McGonagall that night.

Fred and George were furious.

And then came the regret. They'd seen Ron's dot leaving the castle on the map, and they'd done nothing. If Ron had walked out the front door… he may as well have delivered himself into Filch's arms.

Fine. They'd messed up. No excuses.

That night at eleven, Fred and George trudged off to the Trophy Room with buckets and rags, heads held high in silent resignation.

Meanwhile, in the common room, Harry said a quiet goodbye to Ron and Hermione, then followed Harold and Neville to the Entrance Hall.

Hagrid had said he needed four students for the task. Hermione had been given a different punishment.

When the three of them arrived, Filch was already there—along with a very sulky Malfoy.

"Come with me," Filch ordered, leading them out of the castle.

Along the way, he muttered about how much he missed the good old days, when troublemakers could be strung up by their ankles in the dungeons.

He "accidentally" let slip that their punishment would involve the Forbidden Forest, surrounded by werewolves and five-legged beasts.

Only Neville seemed to take it seriously. He trembled the entire walk.

Malfoy started smug, but once he realized they were actually going into the Forest, he went pale and quiet.

Harry held it together. Harold?

He looked as calm as ever.

Filch's scare tactics worked on naïve first-years, maybe. But Harold knew the dungeons had been sealed off during Armando Dippet's era—Dumbledore was never reopening them.

And the Forest? That wasn't a punishment.

That was an opportunity.

He was excited.

His total lack of fear made Filch's smirk falter a little, but by then, they were nearing Hagrid's hut.