Unwelcome Opinions
The sitting room of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, was a chaotic sea of parchment, sketches, and notes. Harry was in the middle of refining a detailed sketch of Sylvine when the door burst open.
"Harry!" Hermione's voice rang out, followed by the familiar thud of Ron's boots.
Harry startled, nearly dragging his quill across the page. He looked up to see his two best friends standing in the doorway, Hermione's face alight with enthusiasm.
"There you are!" she said, striding into the room. "I was just saying to Ron how good it is that you're finally taking your studies seriously again. I told him you'd been working hard, and look—"
She stopped short, picking up a nearby page, her brow furrowing as she examined it. It was a half-finished sketch of Mount Astralis, with notes scribbled in the margins about glowing caves and Magic-type Pokémon habitats.
"Wait a moment... What is this?" Hermione's voice shifted from pleased to incredulous as she flipped through more pages. "This isn't anything to do with Auror training—or even magical research!"
Ron leaned over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "What are all these little creatures? Is that... a phoenix? No, wait, it's got vines on it. What's that supposed to be?"
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's not a phoenix—it's one of the starter Pokémon for the region I'm creating."
"A what?" Hermione looked positively scandalized.
Ron snorted, picking up another page. "What's this? 'Sylvine, the Forest Spirit Pokémon'? Are you making a magical zoo or something?"
Hermione put her hands on her hips, her gaze sharp. "Harry, this is ridiculous! You're spending all your time drawing... whatever this is when you should be focusing on your Auror studies—or at least something useful!"
Harry's jaw tightened. "It's called the Bewitched Region," he said evenly, trying to keep his tone calm.
"The what region?" Hermione exclaimed, waving a hand at the scattered papers. "Harry, this isn't even real! You're wasting time on some sort of fantasy game—"
"It's not a waste of time!" Harry snapped, his voice rising.
Ron, however, seemed to side with Hermione. "She's got a point, mate. I mean, it's fine if you want a hobby or whatever, but this looks like it's taking over your life. You've got all these notes and maps and—what's this? 'Professor Willow'? Honestly, Harry, what's the point?"
Harry could feel his frustration boiling over. His friends didn't understand—they didn't see what this project meant to him.
"It's creative!" he shot back, his voice sharp. "It's something for me! Not for the Ministry, not for Voldemort's legacy, not for some grand purpose. Just me!"
Hermione folded her arms. "Harry, no one's saying you can't have hobbies. But this—this is... obsessive. You're shutting yourself away with all this nonsense—"
Harry's fists clenched. "It's not nonsense! You don't understand because you've never had to just... stop and think about what you actually want to do with your life!"
Ron raised his hands defensively. "Whoa, mate, calm down. We're just saying—"
"Get out!" Harry bellowed, his voice echoing through the room.
Hermione froze, stunned by the outburst. Ron's face shifted from defensive to concerned.
"I said, get out!" Harry repeated, his voice trembling with anger.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, with an indignant huff, Hermione slammed the notebook she was holding onto the table.
"Fine," she snapped, her cheeks flushed. "If you're going to act like this, we'll leave you to your... 'region.'"
Ron hesitated, glancing at Harry, but when his friend refused to look at him, he sighed and followed Hermione out of the room.
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Harry alone in the wreckage of their argument. He sank into his chair, his heart pounding. The room felt eerily quiet now, the only sound the faint rustle of papers as he breathed.
For a moment, he considered packing everything away—throwing it all into a drawer where no one would see it again. But as his eyes fell on the map of the Bewitched Region, still spread out on the table, the thought vanished.
"They don't get it," he muttered to himself, picking up his quill again. "But that doesn't mean I'm stopping."
With a deep breath, Harry turned back to his work, the familiar comfort of creation slowly washing away the sting of his friends' words.