Harry's feat of soloing the basilisk cost Gryffindor a hundred points. The House hourglass that tracked their score practically emptied on the spot. Everyone's hard work—gone.
And yet, it did nothing to stop him from becoming a hero in his classmates' eyes. For a while, first-years from other Houses even started calling him "the Lion King," and Gryffindors wore it like a badge of honor. They'd gone to see the basilisk's corpse, and after that, everyone agreed Harry was a living legend—worthy of a Special Award for Services to the School, something that ought to be displayed in a trophy case for every student who ever set foot in Hogwarts to admire.
All the professors—except that old bat, Snape—seemed to appreciate Harry. Professor Flitwick lavished praise on his extraordinary courage. Ms. Moonshadow never withheld a warm smile when she saw him. And Professor McGonagall, though she always scolded Harry for being reckless, carried a distinctly satisfied look in her eyes.
Only Snape grew even more vicious and cutting toward Harry. Every word out of his mouth sounded like it was meant to grind the boy's self-esteem into dust. In every Potions class he threw fits, the pressure in the room so low it made people nervous to breathe. The others couldn't believe how Harry endured it, but he always did the same thing: after Snape finished ripping into him, Harry would calmly answer, "Yes, Professor."
That response only made Snape angrier—his face turning as dark as burnt toast. The students all thought it was a brilliant counterattack: retreating to advance, the kind of slow-burn move that would eventually give the old bat a stroke.
Kind-hearted Skyl even suggested after class that Snape drink more chamomile tea. "You've been running a little hot lately," he said with a shrug. "Not Potions—just something people do back where I'm from. Might not help, but drinking more water never hurts. I'd hate for you to have a brain hemorrhage and drop in the middle of a lesson."
"Thank you for your concern, Skyl," Snape said coolly. "You should save your hometown remedies for Dumbledore. Compared to me, he needs your… help far more."
The fallout from the basilisk incident didn't stop there. Parents had sent their kids to Hogwarts believing it was the safest place in the world. Who would've thought that barely two months into the school year, they'd be dealing with something like this? A basilisk had been living under Hogwarts Castle.
Once the news spread, complaint letters nearly flooded the headmaster's office.
Dumbledore didn't seem worried about the complaints at all, letting the shrieking noise of Howlers echo around his office.
No one could tolerate that kind of sound unless something else had already seized their attention. Dumbledore truly did look worn thin, and lately, whenever he couldn't decide what to do, he applied for reinforcements—like a panicked President slamming a desk and shouting, "Get me Ms. Moonshadow!"
Skyl and Moonshadow both received a text message: Dumbledore was asking them to come to the headmaster's office.
Moonshadow drifted ahead. Along the way, every construction worker who saw her straightened up like soldiers being inspected by a queen. Skyl had long since gotten used to her grand entrance, but he didn't exactly admire it.
"When you finish filling up the score," Moonshadow said in another world's language as she walked, "can you lend me Mora for a few days? Relax, I won't hurt your precious baby."
"Mora's my big bro," Skyl replied. "How am I supposed to loan out family?"
Moonshadow looked at the Book of Mora in Skyl's hands with open pity and clicked her tongue. "Wow. So you're the type who turns family into books. That's… bleak. I was actually thinking about marrying you once, but for the sake of personal safety, I'll pass."
Skyl's face went dark. "Who'd want to marry an ancient woman who's been alive for trillions of years?"
"You black-hearted book peddler!" Moonshadow snapped.
"You shameless grandma who flirts with mortals!" Skyl shot back.
Trading jabs the whole way, they reached the stone gargoyle. Today's password was: Lemon Sherbet.
The stone gargoyle was usually silent, but this time it couldn't help letting out a sigh. The moment it moved aside to reveal the passage behind it, the Howlers' noise spilled down the staircase like a flood.
"DUMBLEDORE! IS THIS HOW YOU RUN A SCHOOL? A BASILISK JUST WANDERING AROUND UNDERNEATH LIKE IT OWNS THE PLACE, AND YOU LET YOUNG HARRY GO FIGHT IT! HAVE YOU EVEN THOUGHT ABOUT—"
That Howler belonged to Mrs. Weasley. No doubt about it.
Wizards were wild that way—no suffocating hierarchy—so even a stay-at-home mother had the nerve to send Dumbledore a Howler. And considering Dumbledore's personal reputation, the fact that he was getting this many Howlers meant things really had gone off the rails. There were more new students this year, and the trouble had multiplied with them.
The headmaster's office was a white sea of letters. Several Howlers drifted in midair, still screaming. Portraits of former headmasters covered their ears, faces twisted in agony.
Skyl snapped his fingers, and every Howler fell silent.
"Oh, Skyl, Ms. Moonshadow—you're finally here," Dumbledore said, still perfectly composed, like a white birch standing upright in the middle of a battlefield.
"Professor," Skyl asked, "more trouble?"
Dumbledore nodded. He handed them an official letter from the Ministry of Magic to read.
It was a plea for help from the Minister for Magic.
"Fudge is about to be pushed out," Dumbledore said, not even trying to hide his dislike. "And they intend to put Lockhart in as Minister for Magic. It's hard to believe."
If the complaints Dumbledore received were a light snowfall, then what Cornelius Fudge got hit with was a blizzard. Rumor had it his administrative assistant had to swim to reach his office.
The same Halloween that featured a basilisk prowling through Hogwarts' pipes also saw a monster named Hatred rampaging through the world's communications networks.
Just last month, the wizarding world had been full of voices praising the No-Maj world. Cooperation and exchange between wizards and No-Majs had seemed like the natural next step.
But by the end of October, something felt wrong. A North American wizarding paper exposed a horrifying story: a No-Maj laboratory had been holding eleven foreign wizards prisoner. When they were rescued, they were barely lucid—broken, unable to control their magic. The No-Majs had carried out experiments on them that were beyond cruel.
Then, on Halloween night, furious wizards retaliated against ordinary people. The laboratory's scientists were hung from the Empire State Building, and the building's exterior was smeared with massive amounts of glowing magical paint. Firefighters who tried to respond were attacked by a swarm of crows; one young man fell and snapped his neck on impact.
Helicopter reporters captured it all in perfect clarity. The story detonated across the news. The whole country erupted.
Since the Soviet Union's collapse last winter, the United States was the undisputed top dog, and national pride had flooded society. The wizards' actions enraged every No-Maj watching. Armed civilians in large numbers launched assaults against Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and MACUSA was rocked to its foundations.
In the week after Halloween, the bloodshed only escalated. The entire world watched the wizarding war in the Americas with sick dread in their stomachs.
Wizards and No-Majs were like two porcupines: their first contact after centuries began with warmth, but now they'd gotten too close—and the quills drew blood.
On November 10, the Daily Prophet ran an editorial titled: Is Cornelius Fudge Fit for Office? The piece argued that the wizarding world needed a strong, hardline leader.
And beyond attacking Fudge, the writer hinted at the end: if the old man in Nurmengard were still active, things wouldn't have turned out this badly. He—or his supporters—should step forward and confront the No-Majs, setting an example for ordinary wizards everywhere.
No question: whoever wrote that was a Grindelwald loyalist. In normal times, an article like that would never make it into the Daily Prophet. Now it was sitting brazenly on the front page. The wizarding world truly had become treacherous and strange.
Dumbledore looked deeply troubled. "Anger is spreading, Skyl. Perhaps we ought to do something."
Skyl couldn't foresee the distant future—but he wasn't worried in the slightest. After all, he was the safety net. Even if everyone on Earth died, he could just close the Book of Mora and the whole thing would be… done.
"You're an educator," Skyl said, trying to reassure him. "These are problems for politicians. And honestly, over in America, schools are just like that—if there aren't sirens in the background, does it even count as a school? Let's handle our own side first. Push the construction teams to finish that White Tower sooner. Once the array is activated, Hogwarts will be completely safe."
Dumbledore reluctantly accepted Skyl's argument. In this turbulent season, one person alone couldn't reverse the tide. He decided to focus on protecting the next generation. Besides, the castle still wasn't truly safe. The basilisk was gone, but Slytherin's Heir was still out there somewhere, hidden in the dark, ready to return at any moment.
The headmaster asked Ms. Moonshadow to teach the students more defensive magic. Moonshadow, however, didn't think forcing growth was necessary. Keeping lessons on a normal schedule, she believed, would help calm people down.
December arrived before anyone noticed. The world grew more and more tense. In the Ministry election, Fudge fell, and Lockhart took his place as the new Minister for Magic. The moment he stepped into office, he made grand declarations about protecting world peace—only he couldn't offer any real plans or policies to back it up.
On the day Lockhart took office, Skyl received an official offer of employment from the Ministry. The new Minister for Magic wanted to invite him to serve as his political adviser.
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