The walk down the Astronomy Tower's spiral staircase lacked the nerve-wracking terror of the climb up.
The night wind was still damp and biting, but to Harry, Ron, and Neville, it felt like a victorious breeze snapping against a banner.
When they pushed open the heavy doors of the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey—wearing her nightgown and a thunderous expression—was applying Essence of Dittany to Ron's mangled, bloody hand.
"Hiss—" Ron winced, but his eyes were startlingly bright, dancing with an irrepressible, wired energy.
"Did you see that, Harry?" Ron kept his voice low, ignoring Madam Pomfrey's glare, grinning from ear to ear. "Umbridge's face! One second she's strutting around threatening Azkaban, and the next, the Headmaster shuts her up so hard she can't even speak!"
In his mind, tonight was a flawless prank that would go down in Gryffindor history.
He didn't bother to think about what Dumbledore's "specific teaching experiment" actually meant, nor did he care about the parchment Umbridge had looked so smug about taking. He only knew that the great Dumbledore had used a clever excuse to play those arrogant Ministry bureaucrats for absolute fools.
"That sneaky bastard Draco is dead meat," Ron crowed, punching the mattress with his bandaged hand. "He definitely thought his plan was airtight. Tomorrow morning, when he sees Hagrid out in the yard feeding Fang like nothing happened, and realizes Norbert was sent off legally, I swear I want a Muggle camera just to take a picture of his stupid face!"
"I don't get the riddles the Headmaster and that Umbridge woman were playing at—what teaching experiment? Who cares! As long as Dumbledore steps in, there's absolutely no problem!"
For Ron, the Malfoy family plot was just a soap bubble easily popped by Dumbledore's absolute authority. Gryffindor courage paired with the Headmaster's protection was the ultimate, invincible law in this school.
Harry leaned against the wall of the hospital wing. His palms were still sweaty from the tension, but a hot current of warmth surged in his chest.
He had saved Hagrid. He had protected his friends.
For the first time all year, Harry truly felt the reality of being a hero. The suffocating weight of his own inadequacy, which had crushed him for so long, finally lifted.
Up on the Astronomy Tower, when Umbridge announced their arrest, he really had felt despair. But Dumbledore's appearance was like the morning light that always arrives at the critical moment in fairy tales, effortlessly burning away the gloom.
Dumbledore was right, Harry thought silently. Rules are rigid, but justice isn't. As long as you dare to stand up, as long as it's to protect the people we care about, even if the process is a little reckless, the result will always be good. He even started to think Hermione's earlier worries were a bit paranoid. Hermione knew all the legal clauses, but she didn't understand Dumbledore. She definitely didn't understand the power of a white wizard in the magical world—a power that transcended parchment and official documents.
Harry let out a long breath, recalling Dumbledore's gentle parting words: Bravery and recklessness are often separated by a single line. He took this as approval. The Headmaster wasn't blaming them; he was validating their intentions.
This sense of honor, recognized by the highest authority, gave Harry an almost fanatical, die-hard faith in Gryffindor courage. He didn't have the political awareness to notice the imperceptible exhaustion in Dumbledore's posture when the old man signed that document.
In the Savior's eyes, tonight's Hogwarts was still a utopia overflowing with miracles and sanctuary.
Unlike Harry's certainty and Ron's excitement, Neville's reaction was much quieter.
Back in the dormitory, moonlight spilled through the stained glass onto his bed. He sat on the edge, thumbing the right cuff of his robes that Dumbledore had magically repaired.
Don't be afraid, Neville. You faced your fear tonight. Your grandmother would be very proud. The Headmaster's voice echoed in his mind.
Truthfully, Neville's legs had been turning to jelly the entire walk back. He had no idea why that official named Chilton suddenly changed his tune, nor did he understand why Umbridge plastered on a fake smile. The obscure political clashes and sharp verbal spars between the adults blew past his ears like the wind, leaving no trace.
He only remembered one thing: He, Neville Longbottom, the idiot who broke his wrist in flying class, had held up a crate containing a live dragon right in front of Ministry officials tonight, and he had earned Dumbledore's praise.
"I did it..." Neville murmured, rubbing his cuff, a flush of pure excitement creeping up his neck.
The suffocating weight of his own inadequacy, which had crushed him for so long, finally lifted. He finally felt he deserved the Sorting Hat's decision. His fear of the dragon was real, his panic at almost being caught by Filch was real, but none of that stopped him from soaking in a profound sense of bravery right now.
By 3:00 AM, rustling whispers still echoed in the Gryffindor first-year boys' dormitory.
"Tomorrow's Potions class is gonna be hell. Snape will probably find every excuse to dock points from us," Ron yawned from his four-poster bed.
"Let him," Harry smiled, eyes closed in the dark. "It's worth every point. As long as Hagrid's okay."
"Yeah... worth it," Neville whispered in agreement from across the room.
They drifted off into a deep sleep, filled with the satisfaction of a victorious rebellion and an absolute, unwavering belief in Gryffindor's reckless bravery. In their dreams, justice would always defeat evil regulations fueled by hot blood.
However, in the real world, true cruelty often wears the cloak of warmth.
Just outside the Hogwarts castle walls right above their heads, the rain began to fall harder.
These three boys, sleeping with happy smiles, had no idea that the brave crusade they were so proud of tonight had fallen precisely into a calculated trap, exactly as Lucius Malfoy had hoped.
They didn't realize that their hot-blooded recklessness had become the perfect excuse for the Ministry to pry open Dumbledore's defenses. They had even less of an idea about the kind of bloody storm the Hogwarts Campus Management Safety Risk Assessment Report—the one Umbridge had smugly tucked away—would unleash in the near future to strip the school of its autonomy.
The vultures of the adult world had already returned fully loaded, beginning to carve up the flesh and blood of power and profit in the shadows.
Meanwhile, the lion cubs at the center of the storm, having lost Hermione's guidance, were busy singing praises to courage and victory.