The Weasley twins joked around as they quickly returned to the common room.

  Harry suspected that the secret passageway might st a few more years—provided the two of them learned how to walk quietly.

  Ron was anxiously waiting at the door.

  "Harry, did you get it?" As soon as they entered, he couldn't help but ask.

  Harry remained expressionless as he handed over a rge bag of candy. "Here you go."

  Ron reached out and took it, confused.

  No… this wasn't what he meant.

  George teased, "Our little Ronnikins, still such a sweet tooth."

  "Dumbledore likes sweets too," Ron countered without shame, casually bringing someone else into the conversation.

  Fred shook his head. "But he's Dumbledore."

  "And you're just a Flobberworm-level Ronnikins," George added.

  Ron waved them off, marching over to Harry. "Harry, I meant our other thing…"

  Harry took off the Sorting Hat and pced it on a chair near the firepce. "Hold on, I have to ask this thing something."

  "Ah, thank you. It's freezing out there." The Sorting Hat shivered as it adjusted itself, clearly enjoying the warmth.

  Harry also pulled a chair closer to the fire and sat down. "I discovered something today."

  The Sorting Hat tilted slightly, signaling its readiness, its floppy tip drooping in a rexed manner.

  "The guy whose hands I cut off—the wounds had traces of the sword oil I used st time," Harry said. "Though it didn't affect him since he's human."

  "I remember cleaning off the sword oil."

  The Sorting Hat zily replied, "It can absorb certain liquids or magical effects carried in blood."

  "Like your sword oil."

  "You didn't tell me that," Harry said as he reached into the hat and pulled out a bottle of Ogre Oil—one he had recently brewed, now feeling a bit cheated.

  The Sorting Hat retorted confidently, "You didn't ask."

  "How long does it st?" Harry asked seriously.

  The hat thought for a moment. "Ten years, maybe twenty. I haven't seen it activate in ages."

  "When Dumbledore wielded it, he was already over sixty, and he never used it."

  "Does it have any other effects?" Harry pressed further.

  The Sorting Hat proudly replied, "Of course. It can cut through water and fire and is immune to certain spells. After all, Godric Gryffindor used it in battle against wizards."

  Harry was impressed. The best weapon he had ever wielded only amplified his Aard Sign, a gift from Lambert.

  The sword's ability to absorb sword oil was especially useful—saving him money.

  How long could he keep leeching off Hagrid's resources? Seven years at most…

  Harry stood up and patted Ron on the shoulder. "Let's head out."

  "Where to? Hogsmeade?" Ron asked eagerly.

  Harry gave him a sideways gnce. "To Hagrid's. I didn't get what I needed."

  "Not even in Hogsmeade?" Ron followed closely. "Should we ask Hermione to try?"

  "Hermione doesn't have money," Harry replied.

  Ron was startled. "I thought she did—she's always buying books."

  "She comes from a non-magical family," Harry expined as they climbed out of the common room. "The amount of gold she can exchange each year is limited."

  "Besides, she's too young. That stuff is contraband. We even ran into a scammer in Hogsmeade."

  "A scammer?"

  Harry recounted the story as they approached Hagrid's hut.

  Ron listened enviously.

  A naive young wizard ventured out, encountering a wicked and ruthless dark wizard, but ultimately outsmarted the vilin.

  What a fairy tale-like adventure.

  Those two obnoxious brothers—why hadn't they brought him along? If they had, he too could have been part of Harry's heroic entourage.

  Harry knocked on the door. Fang rushed out first, tail tucked and whining as it retreated back inside upon recognizing him.

  "Harry? What brings you here?" Hagrid sounded surprised. "Oh, not that you're unwelcome—just didn't expect it."

  "Merry Christmas," Harry greeted before cutting straight to the point. "I need your help with something."

  Hagrid invited them in. "What is it?"

  "I need powdered bicorn horn and African Boomsng skin. Do you have any?"

  Hagrid shook his head. "Why would you need those? They're contraband!"

  Harry was honest. "The first task of Gryffindor's trial requires them."

  "Gryffindor's trial?" Hagrid's eyes widened. "Oh, right, you pulled out Gryffindor's sword when you enrolled. I don't have those things."

  Ron looked disappointed.

  "But I'm heading to Diagon Alley tomorrow to buy some potion supplies for repelling doxy infestations," Hagrid added. "I could check for you. There are always wizards dealing in such things."

  Harry pulled out twenty Galleons from his pocket and pced them on the table. "Thanks, Hagrid."

  "No, no, I can't take money." Hagrid flushed, waving his hands.

  Harry shook his head. "It's not for you—it's for those selling the items."

  Friendship shouldn't mix with money. Even among Witchers, clear transactions were maintained—though the occasional shared drink didn't count.

  Hagrid reluctantly agreed, thumping his chest in assurance. "Alright, I'll make sure to get you the best deal."

  After some more conversation, Harry and Ron left, politely refusing Hagrid's offer of rock cakes—an indestructible culinary challenge.

  By the time the Christmas holiday was ending, Hagrid finally sent a letter via owl.

  "Got them?" Harry rushed inside, eager.

  Hagrid hesitated, gesturing to a box on the table along with eighteen Galleons and a pile of Sickles. "Only the Boomsng skin. No powdered bicorn horn."

  Harry opened the box to find the Boomsng skin, fresh and slightly iridescent, stripped within the past month.

  "Thanks, Hagrid." Harry's tone was earnest. "You've solved half the problem already."

  Hagrid pushed the coins toward Harry. "I have an idea for the horn. There are some in the Forbidden Forest, but they're a bit… tricky."

  "And the snow's heavy now. It might take some time to find them," Hagrid added.

  Harry smiled. "No rush. I'm only a first-year—still have six and a half years to go."

  Hagrid stared at him, stunned. "Harry, you should smile more. You look just like your mum when you do."

  When Hermione returned from the holidays and heard they had the Boomsng skin and the potion recipe, cking only powdered bicorn horn, her expression turned wistful.

  "How long until Hagrid gets it?" Hermione asked, holding a book on bicorns. "They're XXXX-rated dangerous creatures."

  "And I remember he isn't technically a qualified wizard?"

  "Don't worry—Hagrid can handle it," Harry assured her. "He's strong. Even the troll I fought wouldn't stand a chance against him."

  Hermione still frowned. "Should we try stealing from Snape's storeroom?"

  "See? I told you that was the easiest option," Ron said triumphantly, hands on his hips.

  Harry shook his head. "That's the st resort."

  Hagrid's efficiency, however, proved slower than expected.

  By February, there was still no news.

  Unable to wait, Harry decided to check on Hagrid in person.

  After their Friday csses and lunch, they rushed to Hagrid's hut.

  Approaching the house, Harry stopped abruptly, frowning.

  "What's wrong?" Hermione asked.

  Harry drew his wand. "Something feels off."

  Though the weather was warming, the hut was tightly sealed, with the curtains drawn and an unusual heat radiating from within—so intense it felt like a wave against his skin.

  Hermione and Ron stayed quiet, holding their breath as they followed Harry to the door.

  Knock knock.

  Harry called, "Hagrid, are you home?"

  A muffled voice answered, "Who's there?"

  It was Hagrid—and he sounded fine. Harry rexed slightly. "It's me, Harry."

  "Hold on," Hagrid replied, sounding flustered. After a while, the door creaked open, and they were let inside.

  The heat was overwhelming, the fire in the hearth bzing fiercely—much hotter than in winter.

  "Harry, you'll still have to wait a bit for the horn," Hagrid stammered. "I haven't been able to—"

  Harry ignored him and walked straight to the firepce, stopping abruptly. "There's an egg in there, Hagrid. Is this your lunch? That's quite a crude cooking method."

  "Oh… uh… that… it's a very special creature's egg," Hagrid stammered, visibly nervous. "I'm trying to hatch it."

  "A dragon egg?" Hermione interjected suddenly. "I've read about them—some types require this kind of heat to hatch."

  Ron's voice shot up. "A dragon egg?!"

  "Hagrid, it's illegal to keep dragons! It's been banned since the 1709 Wizard's Convention!"

  Hermione gnced at

  Ron in surprise. She didn't know this. How did Ron, who usually napped through History of Magic, know such specifics?

  "My brother Charlie works with dragons in Romania," Ron expined, scratching his face.

  Harry felt the egg's immense life and magical energy—a superb material.

  "Where did you get this? During that trip for the Boomsng skin?" Harry asked, resisting the urge to reach out and touch it.

  Hagrid pulled at his beard. "No… a few nights ago, I was drinking in Hogsmeade, asking around about bicorn horn powder for you."

  "A stranger came up wanting to py cards. After a few rounds, he bet this dragon egg—it was clear he was desperate to get rid of it."

  Harry straightened, raising an eyebrow. "Betting a dragon egg? Was anyone else there?"

  Hagrid shook his head. "No, just us two. A dragon egg's too conspicuous."

  "Tell me everything about that night," Harry said, sitting back down beside Hagrid.