Maybe the Order of Merlin had little to do with Merlin himself.
But without a doubt, it was the highest honor in the British wizarding world, something nearly every wizard dreamed of receiving.
"They want to give me an award?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore nodded. "A Second-Class Order of Merlin."
"Second-Class?" Harry repeated.
Dumbledore nodded again.
Harry's tone stayed calm: "Albus, you know me. I've never cared much about these kinds of things. But even Cornelius Fudge got a First-Class badge."
He laughed a little, with a trace of mockery.
Dumbledore looked a bit helpless—he couldn't really argue.
The Order of Merlin was prestigious, but not infallible.
There were moments of fairness, like now, when they recognized true achievements.
And there were moments of injustice.
Just like Harry pointed out: Cornelius Fudge had a First-Class badge.
He was awarded for "great contributions to magical peace and wise policymaking"—an excuse so flimsy that even the Wizengamot members had been stifling laughter when it was handed out.
Even they didn't believe Fudge's supposed "achievements."
Since then, the First-Class medal he received had become a joke. Especially now that Fudge was out of office, the calls to revoke his medal were growing louder.
Fudge had no achievements—nor terrible misdeeds either.
Still, anyone could tell Harry didn't think highly of the former Minister.
Harry looked at Dumbledore steadily.
Hermione often talked about the Order of Merlin; Ron had once even counted on his fingers how many medals he ought to receive.
Harry knew the standards:
First-Class: awarded for heroic, life-changing achievements for the wizarding world.
Second-Class: for outstanding contributions or exceptional achievements within a field.
Third-Class: for meritorious service.
Dumbledore had won First-Class for defeating Grindelwald.
Peter Pettigrew—before his betrayal was revealed—was awarded First-Class posthumously, largely because people tend to look more kindly on the dead.
Newt Scamander had a Second-Class medal for his contributions to magical creature research.
Even Professor Slughorn had one.
Snape didn't—but Harry figured someday, in his eighties or nineties, he would.
Considering the value of Harry's potion—
Solving a problem that plagued the magical world for centuries, it deserved a First-Class medal.
However—
Most wizards still harbored deep prejudice against werewolves—stronger even than blood prejudice.
Protecting and respecting Muggle-borns was now the right thing to do.
But no one ever talked about "protecting werewolves with magic."
To the wider wizarding world, Harry's potion was just a major breakthrough in potion-making, not some grand social achievement.
Harry lifted his teacup, sipping lightly. "It means nothing to me."
"Please decline it for me."
"Having to go to the Ministry sounds annoying."
"And besides, even though I wrote the paper, we both know it's Professor Snape who really deserves the honor."
Dumbledore nodded, unsurprised by Harry's answer.
He had only asked out of courtesy—he now had a polite refusal to send back.
"So you called me here just for that?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore shook his head. "There's one more thing. The owner of Chocolate Frogs wrote to me. He wants to know if you'd agree to appear on a card."
He looked extremely serious—more so than when discussing the Order of Merlin.
Harry's expression turned strange.
"You can't possibly have never eaten a Chocolate Frog?" Dumbledore looked shocked.
Harry shook his head. "No, I have. You just seem... unusually invested in this."
"Of course," Dumbledore said, smiling warmly. "There are two things I care about most."
"One: Hogwarts. I'd like to die here someday if I must."
"Two: Chocolate Frog cards."
Harry blinked. "What about Grindelwald?"
Dumbledore's expression stiffened.
"I should report you," Harry teased.
Dumbledore shook his head, not saying a word.
"Forget the card," Harry stood up, shaking his head. "Being printed on one is just too weird."
"Are you sure?" Dumbledore tried again, voice almost coaxing. "All it takes is a photo."
"Maybe holding the Sorting Hat and the Sword of Gryffindor?"
Harry glanced at him disdainfully. "You're being suspiciously enthusiastic. I bet Chocolate Frogs gave you a stake."
"I wish they had," Dumbledore muttered. "Their products are interesting, but the flavor's mediocre—the chocolate is too hard. They ought to adjust the recipe."
Harry sighed. "Maybe I should ask Professor Snape to fix your brain."
Dumbledore laughed. "Severus is the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor now."
"Maybe he'll find some dark magical creature lurking in there," Harry said dryly.
"A buzzing doxy, perhaps?" Dumbledore chuckled harder. "Then I could release a new edition of my card."
Harry rolled his eyes and turned to leave.
Dumbledore sighed regretfully.
The Order of Merlin committee was even more disappointed.
They couldn't understand why Harry Potter would refuse an honor everyone else would die for.
But—
Harry didn't need flashy honors.
The Order of Merlin needed Harry.
December 1st.
Friday night feast.
Students were eagerly chatting about tomorrow's Quidditch match—
When suddenly, the castle doors swung open.
A procession of wizards in crimson robes strode in, solemn and stately.
The lead wizard carried a red box.
Students turned to stare.
"Who are they?" someone whispered.
The crimson-robed wizards looked aged, but unlike worn-out elders, they had the polished air of Dumbledore or Slughorn—those who had lived comfortably, well-cared for.
"They're from the Wizengamot," someone answered.
The mighty Wizengamot—
Why had they come? And why so formal?
"Did something happen at the Ministry?" Ron mumbled, gnawing a lamb chop.
Harry shook his head. "They're probably here for me."
Ron froze, still chewing, and stared.
Hermione caught on, gasping. "The Order of Merlin award?"
Harry nodded.
"But usually you have to go to the Ministry!" Ron said, puzzled.
Harry set down his knife and fork, staring steadily at the approaching group. "I found going to the Ministry a hassle, and the ceremony too tedious. I had Dumbledore decline on my behalf."
The crimson-robed wizards, feeling Harry's gaze, quickened their pace.
The lead wizard placed the box before Harry.
"Mr. Potter, we are deeply grateful for your contributions to the wizarding world. The Order of Merlin hereby awards you the Second-Class Medal," he said solemnly.
Harry nodded.
They didn't linger—Dumbledore had told them Harry disliked fuss. After a brief handoff, they continued to the staff table.
The other Houses, noticing the brief stop by Harry, guessed what had happened—and Gryffindor's table exploded in excitement.
"Order of Merlin!" Neville gasped, wide-eyed.
Hermione opened the box.
Inside gleamed a clover-shaped gold badge, centered with a majestic oak tree, and a purple ribbon dangling below.
"They came all this way just for you," Seamus said in awe.
Harry shook his head lightly. Watching Hermione fiddle with the medal, he said quietly, "I didn't really want it."
"But I didn't expect them to deliver it personally."
The little lions fell silent, hanging onto every word.
Meanwhile, at the staff table—
The lead wizard exchanged greetings with Dumbledore, then turned to the Great Hall, amplifying his voice with a spell:
"Magic is wondrous, and wizards, like magic itself, are full of miracles."
"Hogwarts has nurtured an exceptional student, one who, while still attending school, has already made a great contribution to the magical world."
"He has resolved a thousand-year-old curse that plagued wizards for generations: lycanthropy."
"The entire Order of Merlin concurs, and through the Wizengamot, we present Mr. Harry Potter the Second-Class Order of Merlin, in recognition of his outstanding contributions in potion-making and his service to magical peace."
The students across all Houses broke into lively cheers.
They had guessed right.
"No wonder he's Potter!"
"Merlin, if I could get even a Third-Class someday, I'd die happy."
"Me too."
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Powerstones?
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