Ron and Hermione had no idea how to persuade Harry.
Blinded, disfigured, sex-changed...
None of these were good things by any stretch of the imagination.
Hagrid too opened his mouth to speak and then closed it, clearly feeling that Professor Snape might actually be capable of pulling off something like that.
"Hagrid, may I make a bold request?" Harry didn't take it to heart. He had finally finished inspecting every object in the room that radiated magical energy. A faint look of joy appeared on his face as he rubbed his hands together and sat down.
Hagrid readily nodded. "Of course, as long as you don't start asking about your parents again, anything goes."
"I'd like to borrow some of your ingredients to brew a... well, a kind of potion." Harry gestured vaguely, offering a simple description. "It's completely harmless."
"I'll pay you accordingly."
Hagrid waved his hands hurriedly. "No need, no need! I just scavenge those things in the Forbidden Forest anyway. Help yourself."
Ron looked envious. "You scavenge all this right in the Forbidden Forest? That's brilliant! I mean, if it's possible, I hope I can become the gamekeeper here someday."
Harry took him entirely at his word and stood up without standing on ceremony at all, setting to work raiding the cabin.
Grease... this was the most important component.
He walked over to the kitchen, picked and chose, and lugged out two massive jars—dog fat and bear lard.
"Harry, that's what I use for cooking!" Hagrid's eyes bulged like lanterns.
Harry set the jars down gently. "Don't worry, I won't use too much."
"Alright, what kind of potion are you brewing?" Hagrid asked, puzzled. He had been studying at Hogwarts for three years now, yet he had never heard of any potion that required cooking grease. "Professor Snape has never asked me for these things either."
"A special kind of potion," Harry explained as he set up the cauldron. "You apply it to a sword to amplify its power."
The Sorting Hat shuddered and cried out, "Kid, what kind of bizarre rubbish are you planning to smear all over the Sword of Gryffindor?"
"It's not bizarre rubbish, it's sword oil," Harry retorted.
The Sorting Hat paused, muttering, "Sword oil?"
"I know about that stuff. Before Gryindor even had this sword, the blades he used were often maintained with sword oil."
"Fine, you really do love that sword."
"But it's a magical artifact forged by goblins; it doesn't need maintenance. It resists the passage of time, remaining in its sharpest possible state every single second."
"I know, but sword oil does more than just maintain the blade," Harry shook his head.
The Sorting Hat yielded reluctantly. "Alright, you can do it, but you have to promise me one thing."
"After you use the sword oil on the Sword of Gryffindor, you must clean it thoroughly before you slide it back into the scabbard. Don't filthy me up."
Harry paused and looked at the hat. "You're a lot dirtier than any sword oil."
"No, I'm not dirty!" the Sorting Hat declared righteously, raising its voice to a shout. "These are the marks left upon me by the passage of time. I am a clean, yet ancient hat."
Harry sighed and placated it, "Yes, yes, of course."
The biggest difference between the herbs of the two worlds lay in magical flora—while most non-magical herbs didn't differ all that much.
Furthermore, the most basic sword oil didn't require an excessive number of complicated ingredients.
Ordinary herbs and animal fat were quite enough to brew it.
He would definitely have to visit the Forbidden Forest later.
It was a natural treasure trove, and no Witcher could resist the temptation of such a place. Back when he used to gather materials for potions and sword oils, Harry would meticulously check his surroundings for herbs every step of the way, plucking whatever he found on a whim.
Monster sword oil: beast fat was indispensable.
Dog fat and wolf liver were required...
Unfortunately, Hagrid's cabin had no wolf liver. Speaking of which... was dog liver any use? Harry stroked his chin, casting a sidelong glance at Fang, who was bounding about happily beside him.
Animals possessed extremely keen senses; Fang froze instantly, let out a whimper, and scurried behind Hagrid.
Hagrid stroked Fang's head, puzzled as to what could possibly be wrong with the dog.
No.
This was Hagrid's pet.
Harry sighed in disappointment.
What about Hangman's Venom, meant for humans? Just in case, he should stock up on some.
One part dog fat, four parts chickweed...
And Cannibal Oil, meant for humanoid maneaters. At the thought of this, Harry glanced at Hagrid—he had always suspected Hagrid was of mixed blood, half human and half giant, ogre, or troll.
Hagrid shuddered. "Harry, what's wrong?"
"Hagrid, could I ask you a favor? The next time you go into the Forbidden Forest, could you help me bring back some wolf liver?" Harry casually made up an excuse.
"Wolf liver?" Hagrid muttered. "That stuff doesn't taste good at all."
Harry lit the fire and began heating the cauldron. "It's not for eating, it's for mixing potions."
"Right then, I'll trade the centaur tribe for some for you next time," Hagrid agreed with a nod.
The Forbidden Forest wasn't entirely populated by magical beasts; it also held ordinary creatures at the very bottom of the food chain, such as bears, wolves, hares, and forest sheep—which usually existed purely as food.
Harry focused entirely on brewing his sword oil.
Ron and Hermione wrung their brains trying to figure out how to bite off a piece of the rock cakes, while chatting with Hagrid about life at Hogwarts and... that obnoxious Malfoy.
They touched on topics outside of Hogwarts as well.
Like how anyone could possibly have the audacity to rob Gringotts, and how he had actually managed to escape.
Hagrid felt fortunate that he had also visited Gringotts that day on Mr. Dumbledore's business, and thankfully he had gone ahead of time and missed running into that heinous criminal.
Harry didn't care about that at all.
He was still young and had no reputation to speak of—Gringotts was hardly going to clutch a handful of Galleons and invite a completely unremarkable young wizard like him to investigate a burglary case.
By dinnertime,
Ron and Hermione could no longer hold out, dragging a thoroughly reluctant Harry away from Hagrid's cabin.
Today's harvest had been exceptionally bountiful.
Ron gained a rock cake, Hermione gained a lump on her head from bumping it, and Harry had successfully brewed seven vials of sword oil. He resolved in his heart to visit Hagrid's cabin often; this was a friend he was determined to keep.
Such opportunities, however, were scarce.
First-year studies weren't overly burdensome, but this brand-new magical and potion system held an immense fascination for Harry.
Over the weekend, he chased down several professors with questions—Snape being the sole exception. It wasn't that Harry didn't want to ask him questions, but rather that Snape had zero desire to see him.
Every time, Harry could only seize the moment right after Potions class ended, rushing to fire off a few questions before Snape blew his top.
It left Ron in a state of constant terror.
The Gryffindor hourglass was equally terrified.
From Monday through Thursday, the gem count climbed brilliantly, only to crash and burn every Friday. At first, the little lions weren't quite used to it, but later on they practically begged for even more points to be lost.
Their glorious Lion Prince had once again provoked the old snake king of Slytherin!
The more points deducted, the more it proved just how furious he was.
The Gryffindors maintained a stellar attitude: sure, we're losing points, but our Head of House is the one suffering.
During the first few weeks,
the little lions still dutifully worked hard and studied under Harry's guidance, but as time dragged on, their true natures inevitably exposed themselves.
Frivolity and play—these were what they truly pursued.
Only Harry and Hermione stood out like anomalies, reporting to the library every single day like clockwork.
Just as Ron had said on the train, his future homework would have to rely on Harry—and indeed, that was exactly how things played out.
Harry didn't mind.
Once he finished his own assignments, he would casually toss them onto the table in the common room for everyone to circulate.
Hermione gritted her teeth. "Harry, you can't keep spoiling them like this!"
"They need to write their own work."
The other little lions buried their heads, pretending not to hear. Ron opened his mouth, closed it again, and mumbled something unintelligible.
However, very soon,
another piece of news managed to sweep away the unpleasantness Hermione felt.
Flying lessons were about to begin, causing the young wizards to plunge into eager discussions the moment they finished copying Harry's homework.
Harry was quite interested as well.
He found it a tremendous headache to deal with flying monsters like griffins, pterodactyls, and sirens; compared to his proficiency with signs and swordsmanship, his crossbow accuracy wasn't all that great.
He desperately hoped he could fly, even if it meant riding a broomstick.
If the flying lessons had one single drawback, it was that they had to share them with Slytherin.
On Thursday afternoon,
the long-awaited flying class finally began. Before Harry could ask many questions, Ron urged him eagerly away, and the two hurried down to the Quidditch pitch.
Madam Hooch was a spirited and dashing woman, but her teaching was meticulous, perhaps because she had witnessed numerous classroom accidents in the past, or perhaps because Gryffindors and Slytherins were attending together.
Yet...
When accidents decided to strike, no one could stop them.
There were two major troublemakers in the Gryffindor class.
One was Seamus, whose problems always cropped up during Charms and Transfiguration. Spells that proved completely harmless in anyone else's hands invariably resulted in explosions when cast by him.
The other was Neville, whose mishaps always occurred in Potions class. Fortunately, Harry was always there to pick up the slack, and at worst, a potion would simply fail to brew.
And now...
Neville was in trouble again.
He soared up into the air and plummeted heavily back down, leaving Madam Hooch with no choice but to leave the young wizards unattended while she escorted the casualty to the hospital wing.
"Look at that big lump!" Malfoy couldn't wait to sneer the moment Madam Hooch left. "He's just the sort of thick-headed, clumsy troll the Head of House keeps talking about."
"Can you believe a wizard actually managed to fall off a broomstick?"
"Shut up, Malfoy!" Parvati frowned and snapped.
Pansy snickered. "Oh, look at you defending Longbottom. Did you take a fancy to that dim-witted, chubby little crybaby?"
Malfoy's eyes suddenly lit up. He lunged forward to the spot where Neville had just fallen, picked up an object, held it high in the air, and shouted tauntingly at Harry, "Potter, look at this! What is it?"
"It belongs to your clumsy little sidekick."
"A Remembrall."
"Oh, his brain definitely needs something like this—only old folks use it."
He wore a provocative expression, his eyebrows arched high.
"First of all, Neville is not my sidekick," Harry said expressionlessly. "Secondly, I think... Malfoy, you'd better put his things down."