Chapter 317

The day after Halloween.

Hogwarts always had its rumors, especially about Hagrid—there was no spell in the world that could make him keep his mouth shut.

So when the first rays of morning sunlight fell upon the Great Hall, Hagrid let slip again.

“Hagrid? Where are you off to?”

At the head table, Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes—Hagrid was unusually cheerful today.

He cradled a giant pumpkin, its insides steaming with pumpkin juice mixed with soft oatmeal and unidentifiable fruit pulp.

His bulky frame filled the entire seat, and when he stood up beaming, the whole table shook.

“Ah, dear Professor McGonagall, yes, I must throw a party for my little heroes.”

“You wouldn’t believe—no, you couldn’t imagine—since first year, dear Green has always been...”

As he spoke, glistening droplets clung to his beard.

“Oh, really?”

Professor McGonagall’s kind smile slowly faded; her blue eyes fixed on Hagrid as she asked softly.

“Little Green, of course, adores pumpkin juice... I must go, Professor McGonagall, or it’ll grow cold with the wind.”

Hagrid seemed to sense something—he knew only one thing now: leave quickly.

The Great Hall was decorated with hundreds of candlelit pumpkins, a swarm of fluttering live bats, and many orange banners ablaze with flame, drifting lazily like colorful water snakes above the ceiling, which churned with impending storm.

Hagrid wiped his beard and hurried off in a fluster.

At the head table, Dumbledore beamed, raising his cup as he watched Minerva McGonagall grow irritated once more—she clearly had recalled something.

“Truth, spoken by different people, always yields vastly different effects.”

He turned to look at Snape; the Potions master had already stormed out of his seat.

His smile grew even brighter.

In the chilly morning, wind biting sharply, a group of young wizards descended the grassy slope toward Hagrid’s cabin by the Forbidden Forest, light raindrops sprinkling their faces.

The weather was poor, yet everyone was brimming with enthusiasm.

“Will Hagrid give me extra pumpkins for decorating my dorm?”

Jia Jia Siting asked gently.

“If you’ve seen that vast pumpkin patch...”

Ron replied eagerly.

When they were only twenty paces from Hagrid’s cabin, the door suddenly opened—but out stepped not Hagrid, but Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed today in the palest lavender robes.

“Hide!”

Harry said urgently, pulling Xiang Xiang Xien behind the nearest bush.

After Xiang Xiang Xien was dragged away, Jia Jia Siting chuckled in silence, Hermione and Ron looked helplessly resigned, and Neville scrambled to hide as well.

“If you know how, it’s very simple!”

Lockhart called out loudly to Hagrid,

“If you need help, just come find me—you know where I am! I’ll bring you a copy of my book—I’m surprised you don’t own one yet.

I’ll sign it and deliver it tonight. Well, goodbye!”

He strode off toward the castle.

Hagrid clutched the giant pumpkin, nearly furious enough to hurl it at Lockhart’s head.

But then he remembered it was for Xiang Xiang Xien, and slumped, lowering it.

Only Hermione, cheeks puffed, cast a spell as Lockhart descended the lawn—he tumbled down the slope.

“I’m surprised you don’t watch where you’re going, oh dear Professor, be careful—don’t end up not lasting a year—”

Hagrid laughed heartily, holding the pumpkin.

“Well done—I mean, Hermione, brilliant!”

Ron admired Hermione for the first time; suddenly he recalled that a year ago, she had been a staunch defender of school rules.

Now she dared to hex professors—she truly belonged in Gryffindor; the Sorting Hat really knew its job.

“Hagrid—what do you mean ‘not lasting a year’?”

As Lockhart rolled away, Harry asked eagerly.

He didn’t want Lockhart to remain as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

Even if he wasn’t Voldemort’s minion, he proved himself a complete fool!

“Harry! Xiang Xiang Xien! Everyone’s here—everyone’s been wondering when you’d come visit me—come in, come in—”

Hagrid beamed even wider.

Inside, he bustled to brew tea; his massive dog Fang immediately rushed to Xiang Xiang Xien’s side and refused to budge.

“Lockhart—he was the only one who applied.

It’s hard to find a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher now; people don’t want the job—they think it’s cursed. None last long.”

As Hagrid spoke, he placed the giant pumpkin on the table, its opening facing a young wizard whose expression subtly shifted.

While Xiang Xiang Xien ate, Harry and the others questioned Hagrid about the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

“The Defense Against the Dark Arts position is a real problem.

I remember one professor who blew himself up while brewing potions and ended up in St. Mungo’s;

another tried casting Dark Magic on students and got sent to Azkaban;

yet another attempted to study some evil ritual and was personally dismissed by Headmaster Dumbledore.

This position? It’s one of Hogwarts’ ‘well-known problems.’”

Hagrid recalled.

Everyone’s attention was captured.

“If only they’d send Lockhart to Azkaban too.”

Ron muttered bitterly.

“Azkaban?”

Harry hadn’t yet fully savored the joy of Lockhart’s troubles and asked curiously.

“Azkaban is an official fortress used to imprison wizarding criminals. Built in the fifteenth century, it became Britain’s wizarding prison in 1718.”

Hermione sipped her sweet pumpkin juice, explaining.

“If Lockhart’s a fool, where did his stories come from?”

Jia Jia Siting posed a question.

This made Hermione’s face change.

For the rest of the time, the young wizards pondered—where had Lockhart stolen his stories from?

And why were these stories so convincingly real?

Hagrid brought out more snacks—candies galore; Xiang Xiang Xien recognized some syrup toffee.

Amid the chatter, Xiang Xiang Xien stared at the poster for Green Bookshop’s opening, silent and uninvolved, wondering: after the Basilisk was dealt with, how would Lockhart be driven out of Hogwarts?

Was Voldemort’s curse still holding strong?

As for Azkaban, among Ravenclaws, some would be housed there, while others would work to send those same people there.

“Harry,”

Hagrid suddenly said, as if remembering something,

“I need to settle accounts with you. I heard you’ve been handing out signed photos—why didn’t I get one?”

Harry, furious, strained to open his mouth, stuck shut.