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HRA# Chapter 48: Straight Talk—Ronald and the Blood Feud with the Centaurs
🕑 Added 2025-02-21 02:21:25 +0000 UTC"It’s obvious, as a professor, Professor Snape isn’t going to poison you to death," Hermione said sarcastically. "And have you forgotten? Fred and George are serving detention too. They were part of the second wave that joined the fight."
"As senior students, I imagine their punishment will be even worse—Parvati came in with a whole stack of notes! No one who was involved in that train brawl is getting away scot-free!" Hermione looked almost numb. "I even saw Percy get one!!"
"Well, that makes sense," Ron said dryly. "I remember someone punched Percy in the eye, and then he just jumped in—no idea who did it, but I gotta say, good job."
"That’s your brother, Ron!" Hermione shot him a glare. "You can't say that about him!"
"Alright, alright," Ron muttered, then looked at Harry with a desperate expression. "Seriously, Harry, can you do a Divination for me? See if I’ll make it back alive from Snape’s detention—because if not, I’m not going!"
"Sorry, Ron, but I don’t see the point in predicting something when we already know the outcome," Harry said matter-of-factly. "Professor Snape may be unpleasant, but he’s still a professor—he’s not going to kill you. You’re being a little unfair to him."
"Ha! I’m being unfair to him?" Ron's voice rose before he suddenly lowered it again. "It’s not just a little unfair—I’ve never thought he was anything but horrible!"
"I'm afraid, Harry, you’re the only person in all of Hogwarts who thinks Snape is just bad at expressing himself," Ron sighed dramatically. "You’ve seen how he treats me. Merlin, what fresh torment is he going to come up with tonight?"
"Will he make me squeeze Flobberworm mucus with my bare hands? Or have me taste-test one of his new experimental potions?"
Looking utterly defeated, Ron had already started imagining the gruesome horrors that awaited him that evening.
"Uh, what about me?" Neville asked blankly, turning to Harry. "Can I get a Divination? Honestly, I think Filch might actually make me eat a toilet. Like, lick it clean or something."
"Filch wouldn’t do that," Harry said, barely holding back a laugh. "He’d never go against what Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall allow—don’t worry!"
"Wait a minute!" As if suddenly snapping back to reality, Ron turned to Hermione. "What about you? Where’s your detention?"
"With Filch," Hermione’s voice wavered slightly, and there was even a hint of a sob. "What do I do? I’ve never had detention before! I was never punished in my Muggle school either! I’m doomed!!"
Harry instantly understood.
No wonder Hermione was this panicked—she’d never been punished before. She was the perfect student.
The first time is always the hardest.
"Ah, so that’s why," Ron said, looking enlightened. Then he grinned. "Remember all those threats Filch always makes? Hermione, I heard from Fred that he’s got a whole collection of shackles and whips in his office."
"They say he’s always wanted to string up misbehaving students and give them a good lashing. Who knows, maybe those chains are still stained with old students’ blood."
"Shut up! Shut up, Ron!!" Hermione shrieked.
But Ron wasn’t stopping—his fear of Snape was momentarily forgotten, replaced by the joy of scaring Hermione. He kept digging through his mind for more terrifying details to throw at her.
"...Who knows what Filch might do? You know he’s always wanted to punish students properly, and now he’s got a whole bunch at his mercy. Hmm, maybe he’ll sneak in a few lashes when no one’s looking—"
BAM!!
Ron took the first Fist of Destruction.
Before he could even react, he was hit by the Second Strike of Annihilation, followed swiftly by the Third Blow of Erasure.
"I SAID SHUT UP!!"
Hermione had punched with such speed that she completely forgot to be scared of her first-ever detention. Furious, she stormed out of the boys’ dormitory, leaving Ron groaning and clutching his face on the bed.
"You went too far, Ron," Neville said sympathetically. "Hermione’s smart—she wouldn’t have believed you anyway… You really only needed to say the first part."
"Merlin’s kneecaps… I can’t… breathe…" Ron wheezed, writhing on the bed in pain.
Regardless of how unwilling or terrified they were, detention was inevitable. As long as they wanted to stay at Hogwarts, no student could escape the consequences of their actions.
"Wish me luck, mates," Ron said solemnly, as if marching to his doom. He gave Harry and Neville a quick hug before heading toward the dungeons.
"Guess it’s time for us too," Neville swallowed hard before exchanging a nervous glance with Hermione, and they both left the common room.
The scene in Gryffindor Tower was honestly bizarre. The room was still packed with students, chatting and laughing—except every few minutes, someone else would leave for detention.
With almost the entire Gryffindor House involved in the train fight, nobody was spared.
In the end, it felt more like students heading off to a massive, cross-year lecture than a punishment.
Harry watched as his friends disappeared into the crowd before turning and making his way toward Hagrid’s hut.
As he descended the stairs, a strange feeling crept up on him. Something was off.
Other students were either going to Filch, Professor Sprout, or Snape for detention—but nobody seemed to be headed the same way as him.
That suspicion was confirmed when he arrived at Hagrid’s cabin. Looking around, he realized—he was the only student there.
"Hey, Hagrid. Good evening," Harry greeted. "My detention is with you, right?"
"Harry! There yeh are!" Hagrid was busy in his garden, straightening up when he heard Harry’s voice. "Yep, yer with me—had ter personally ask Dumbledore ter let me have yeh for this one."
"You asked for me?" Harry repeated. "What do you need me for?"
"Ahahaha!" Hagrid let out a booming laugh. "Nothin’ too special… or, well, maybe it is. D’you remember the first time we met? When I took yeh to Diagon Alley?"
"I remember," Harry said. "What about it?"
"Centaurs, Harry! Remember? I told yeh I’d take yeh to see their divination if I ever got the chance! You didn’t forget, did yeh?"
At the mention of Centaurs, every muscle in Harry’s body tensed. Instinctively, his hand moved beneath his robe, gripping the handle of his warhammer.
Not out of fear, but wariness.
Any Tauren who heard the word Centaur—or Horse-Men, as they were sometimes called—would immediately enter a state of high alert.
There was a deep history behind it.
The Tauren, known in their own tongue as the Shu’halo, were a noble people who embraced the natural world. Once nomads, they had since united upon their ancestral lands. In Harry’s experience, the Tauren were a deeply spiritual race—respecting nature, honoring their elders, and upholding peace and honor above all else. They worshiped the Earth Mother and the Sky Father, living in harmony with the land.
Tauren warriors were strong and reliable, but violence was never their first choice.
Unlike the Orcs, who thrived on battle, the Tauren preferred counsel, reflection, and wisdom before taking action.
But in rare cases—when justice called for it—the Tauren would take up arms, their rage slow but unstoppable.
And nothing fueled that rage more than the Centaur.
In most cases, there were only three words that could truly enrage a Tauren—Centaur.
Mulgore. To the Tauren, Mulgore, nestled in the heart of the continent of Kalimdor, was the ancestral homeland where their people had lived in peace for generations—a land of tranquility, happiness, and beauty.
That was until the Centaur stormed in from Maraudon, their stronghold in Desolace.
Like a plague, the Centaur swarmed across the land—vicious, ruthless, barbaric, and utterly merciless. These creatures murdered their own fathers and turned Desolace into a wasteland before launching their brutal war against the Tauren—invading, pillaging, slaughtering.
Though the Tauren fought valiantly under the blessing of the Earth Mother, they could not overcome the Centaur—for those beasts reproduced at an absurd rate.
It was like trying to fight off a swarm of locusts. By the time a young Tauren could be trained into a warrior, an entire horde of new Centaur would already be born.
After countless bloody battles and devastating losses, the Tauren were forced to abandon their ancestral homeland. With an unquenchable hatred for the Centaur, they wandered the endless plains, driven to the very brink of extinction.
In the midst of this crisis, it was Harry—unwilling to accept his own weakness—who ventured out and returned with strange green-skinned warriors. The Orcs.
With the aid of these newfound allies, Cairne Bloodhoof led his people in a final, desperate war. At last, the Tauren drove the Centaur from their land, reclaiming their ancestral home of Mulgore.
After a thousand years of wandering, the Tauren finally had a land to call their own. For this, all Tauren would forever owe a debt to their Orcish brethren.
And Harry... Harry had come to Azeroth in the midst of the Bloodhoof Tribe’s wandering.
He grew up in that desperate exile, nurtured and protected by Cairne and his family. Under their care, he learned the ways and language of the Tauren, and in his ignorance, took his first steps on the path of the Shaman.
Harry would never forget those darkest nights—the times when the entire tribe would be jolted awake by war cries and the roars of battle. The battle shouts of Tauren warriors, their totem poles swinging fiercely, the cruel laughter of the Centaur, and the merciless slaughter that followed.
Blood gushed forth—Centaur blood, and the blood of his own friends.
Blood and vengeance. Rage and hatred.
—And the bitter agony of being too weak to fight back. Hiding under a collapsed tent, powerless, as the gentle souls who had cared for him fell one by one before his eyes.
Harry took all that helplessness, all that hatred, and forged it into resolve. The first enemy he ever killed with his own hands was a Centaur. He roared as he struck it down, severing its head with his blade and raising it high, letting its blood soak him.
Harry no longer remembered how many Centaur he had slain. Old or young—it didn’t matter. He only knew that when there were no more of those wretched beasts in sight, Cairne, his father in all but blood, finally built a sanctuary upon a wind-carved mesa called Thunder Bluff. It became the home of all Tauren tribes.
“...Harry? Harry?”
Hagrid’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. When Harry snapped back to reality, he found Hagrid staring at him with concern.
“You alright?”
“...I’m fine, Hagrid,” Harry took a deep breath. “Just... remembering some things. Some memories... once they surface, it’s hard not to get lost in them.”
“Oh, oh... well, as long as you’re okay,” Hagrid said hesitantly. “You, uh, looked a little scary just now—uh, maybe let’s put the hammer away?”
“That little hammer of yours won’t do much against an angry Centaur. And if they see you holding a weapon, they might take it the wrong way.”
Hearing this, Harry looked down at his hand—somehow, at some point, he had drawn his warhammer. And he was gripping it tightly.
“Don’t mind it, Hagrid,” Harry said as he slid the hammer back into his belt. “So, where were we?”
“Lost in thought, were ya? Eh, never mind, as long as you’re alright.” Hagrid shrugged. “I was just saying—I went to ask Professor Dumbledore about your detention, and ran into Professor Snape. He was there to request your detention too.”
“Hah, sounds like I’m in high demand.” Harry chuckled. “And?”
“And Dumbledore gave you to me,” Hagrid chuckled as well. “You should’ve seen Snape’s face—blimey, I think I really upset him this time.”
“Careful, Hagrid. You might want to watch what you eat and drink for a while,” Harry joked. “Snape is a Potions Master, after all. If you start feeling weird... run straight to the hospital wing! Madam Pomfrey might be able to save you.”
Hagrid burst into booming laughter.
“Can’t be helped, Harry, can’t be helped,” Hagrid laughed so hard he started hiccupping. He clapped Harry on the shoulder and said, “Centaurs don’t hold their rituals every day, y’know. They only do it twice a year—once around this time, just before Halloween, and once at the start of summer.”
“Today happens to be the day of their ritual, and I figured you wouldn’t want to miss it—so I called you over. Better than detention, right?”
“In matters like this, even if Snape is furious, there’s not much he can do.” Hagrid grinned triumphantly. “Clearly, Dumbledore agreed that what I had planned for you was more important.”
“Can’t argue with that. I’d much rather meet the Centaurs of the Forbidden Forest,” Harry nodded. “Though, watching their divination hardly feels like a punishment. Sounds more like a reward. Bet plenty of students would love that kind of ‘detention.’”
“Oh, Harry, don’t ruin it,” Hagrid waved a hand. “Would you really prefer to be scrubbing toilets under Filch’s beady eyes? Or worse, spending time with Snape? Not that he’d make you do hard labor... would he, Harry?”
Even when talking about Snape—who had made a habit of deducting points from Gryffindor—Hagrid still called him ‘Professor.’ But the castle’s caretaker, Filch, got no such courtesy.
Despite his towering frame and imposing build, Hagrid now looked oddly pitiful as he tilted his head and looked at Harry.
“Don’t say dumb things, Hagrid.” Harry naturally punched Hagrid’s thigh, then started toward the hut. “So, according to you, this is the last Centaur ritual of the year? Miss it, and we’ll have to wait until next year. Do we need to bring anything? Do they accept Galleons?”
“Oh, sure they do. Even Centaurs want things now and then. They usually ask me to buy things for them, and sometimes I help them sell their own goods—you know, Centaur tribal crafts,” Hagrid said as he happily followed Harry. “Things like animal hides, herbs, and handmade trinkets. Some wizards really like collecting that stuff.”
“But you don’t have to pay today, Harry,” Hagrid said proudly. “You’re with me. And I’m their friend—so don’t worry about it.”
“Is that so? You don’t look like you’re just going to visit friends.” Harry couldn’t help but remark as he watched Hagrid swap into sturdier boots and start strapping on weapons.
Comments
Samuel S.
"Who knows, maybe those chains are still stained with old students’ blood." Uh....kinky.
