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Chapter Text

Harry was fast asleep, the covers pulled nearly over his head, as usual.

The sound of Ron’s snores echoed through the room, a steady rhythm. Scabbers was asleep on his back in a little bed made for him, emitting a high-pitched wheeze. Hedwig was perched on a nearby stand, her feathers ruffled in a slight tremble.

His beloved messenger owl had been difficult lately.

Though Harry had never—and never would—confine her to her cage since arriving at the Burrow, it seemed the time spent locked up at the Dursleys’ had left its mark.

Sometimes, he spoke to her, trying to soothe her.

“It’s over, Hedwig,” he murmured softly, hoping his voice might calm her.

But whenever her cage entered her line of sight, she tensed, and Harry couldn’t help but worry. He was beginning to consider leaving Hedwig in the Weasleys’ care—they treated her as if she were at a spa, with endless treats and freedom—or asking Professor McGonagall about keeping her in the Owlery at Hogwarts, should he be forced to return to the Dursleys next summer.

He murmured something softly in his sleep—it sounded pleasant, whatever it was.

Harry turned over in bed, finding the cold side of the pillow, and buried his face in the soft fabric. Despite it being summer, the night was unusually chilly, and he, without realising, had wrapped the thicker blanket tightly around himself—clutching it as though it might slip away. The scent of freshly laundered sheets brought a simple comfort, and he sighed, sinking deeper into peaceful sleep.

Then, something moved in the room.

The door creaked open slowly, without a sound.

Two slender shadows slipped in stealthily, moving with absolute care. Each carried an air-filled package in their hands, and their footsteps were so light that even Ron’s snores didn’t falter.

PAH!

The noise exploded like a gunshot.

“AH!” Ron let out a high-pitched yelp, rolled off the bed, and hit the floor with a thud.

Harry leapt up in shock, and if he’d been a cat, he’d have dug his claws into the ceiling with his fur on end, heart racing.

Scabbers squeaked and tumbled off the bedside table where he’d been sleeping, landing with a heavy thump on the floor, while Hedwig flapped her wings violently.

The shadows revealed themselves with near-synchronised laughter.

Fred and George.

Of course. Who else could it be?

“Merlin, what the hell was that?!” Harry gasped, hand on his chest as he tried to catch his breath.

“Good morning, noble sleeping maidens!” the twins chorused in unison, their tone absurdly theatrical.

“Breakfast is served for your excellencies,” announced Fred in a pompous accent, bowing exaggeratedly.

“Should you grace us by joining us downstairs, we shall be eternally grateful,” added George, mimicking a devoted butler.

Ron got up slowly, his hair mussed and face flushed with irritation. He hated being woken like this, and the twins knew it.

“You’re absolute ruddy menaces,” he grumbled angrily, rubbing his eyes. “Why, in Merlin’s name, did you have to do that? Trying to give Scabbers a heart attack? He’s old enough as it is!”

“Ah, Ronnikins, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” said Fred airily, waving a hand as if what they’d done was nothing.

“You were taking too long to get up—”

“—And Mum asked us to wake you gently—”

“—So we obeyed like the very model of helpful, dutiful sons—”

“As always,” they finished together, with identical, mischievous grins.

“Yeah, yeah, just sod off,” said Ron, exasperated, practically shoving his brothers out of the door.

BAM!

Ron slammed the door with a bang that shook the walls of the Burrow. The sound echoed through the house like thunder, and the redhead froze suddenly, his shoulders tensing as if expecting a hex.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his freckles seeming to burn with guilt against his pale face—he knew exactly what was coming next.

“RONALD WEASLEY!”

Molly Weasley’s voice cut through the air like a whip, rising from the depths of the ground floor with the force of an enraged dragon. The teacups on the table rattled, and even the magical family clock, which displayed all the Weasleys in various states, trembled—Ron’s hand now flickered between “MORTAL PERIL” and “HOME”.

“IF YOU SLAM THAT DOOR ONE MORE TIME, I SWEAR TO MERLIN I’M COMING UP THERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”

There were many things Molly Weasley wouldn’t tolerate.

The Burrow could be chaotic, noisy, full of random cracks and twin-induced mayhem—but under no circumstances was slamming a door ever acceptable.

It was a crime nearly as grave as traipsing mud-soaked shoes across the carpet—leaving marks on the floor that, though easily cleaned with magic, she always ended up scrubbing—, or staying up past curfew.

But the worst of all, the unforgivable sin, was talking back during one of her tellings-off.

Ron gulped, opening the door again carefully, as though it might bite.

Fred and George were there, leaning against the wall with grins stretching ear to ear, eyes alight with amusement—clearly hoping he’d land himself in even more trouble.

“Sorry!” Ron yelled, his voice higher and shriller than he intended, desperately hoping it might quell the maternal fury that would surely come storming upstairs any second.

He glared at the twins, his eyes blazing, and began shoving them silently toward the lower floor while they laughed, narrowly avoiding a kick to their backsides from their younger brother.

Having dealt with the immediate crisis, he shut the door with extreme care, let out the breath he’d been holding, and dragged a hand down his face.

Harry rubbed his eyes, still groggy, and put on his glasses. When he looked at Ron, he couldn’t help a wide grin.

“What?” Ron asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

“That was a truly majestic scream you let out earlier. Very… manly,” said Harry, barely suppressing a laugh.

“Piss off, Harry!”

Not long after, the two headed downstairs for breakfast.

The morning promised to be eventful, as they’d arranged to meet Neville and Hermione in Diagon Alley to buy their school supplies for the year.

The date had been set for ages, and Harry still wasn’t sure if he was more excited or embarrassed. It had been less than a week since the twins’ birthday prank, turning his hair a vibrant blue that seemed impossible to undo, despite Molly’s attempts at Transfiguration.

The charm and potion work Fred and George had laced into the whipped cream was medal-worthy in its execution.

Molly had even suggested postponing the Diagon Alley trip, worried about Harry’s discomfort, but he’d refused.

To him, rearranging everything over some colourful hair was overkill—especially since his hair had never been one of his strong points anyway. Besides, he was learning not to care so much what people thought; it wasn’t his hair that drew stares, but his scar.

Another reason to stick to the plan was the special event that morning, which seemed to have caused quite a stir among the women of the house. Mrs Weasley was especially eager to meet him, while Ginny, though trying to play it cooler, had a gleam of anticipation in her eyes. Even Hermione—to Harry’s surprise—had devoted an entire paragraph to the subject in her last letter, rambling with an enthusiasm usually reserved for rare books or academic topics she liked to discuss with him.

The reason for all this excitement had a name:

Gilderoy Lockhart.

The acclaimed author of Gadding with Ghouls and other bestsellers about his adventures against Dark creatures would be launching his newest book at Flourish and Blotts that very day. His tales of bravery against werewolves, banshees, and other dangerous beasts had not only earned him fame and fortune but had also made him the most sought-after heartthrob in the wizarding world.

“It’s a proper spectacle for the opposite sex,” Fred had remarked the day before, with a mischievous grin.

“From little girls to married witches,” George added, laughing. “They all want a glimpse of the bloke who stars in magical theatre productions and never misses the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts awards at The Wyrd Wynd in Glasgow.”

“And why all this fuss over this bloke? Just for that?” Harry asked.

“Look, I don’t fancy blokes, so these aren’t my words—” George started to say.

“Here comes your excuse," Fred teased “always knew there was something off about you, brother.”

“Piss off!” George punched him lightly on the shoulder. “But back to the point—it’s basically ’cause Lockhart’s a looker. Loads of girls just see him and fancy him for that. Girl stuff, I reckon. Not much more to it, but that’s why they’ll defend the bloke tooth and nail sometimes.”

Harry deduced that Gilderoy Lockhart must be to wizards what George Michael was to Muggles—with the crucial difference that one wrestled monsters in deadly situations and sold books about it, while the other sang and sold albums about heartbreak.

Though he’d never seen Lockhart in person, Harry imagined he was the sort to make witches shriek in voices so high-pitched they could shatter glass, burst eardrums, or even faint from sheer excitement—behaviour Harry found profoundly absurd and ridiculous.

Celebrity gossip had never captivated him in the Muggle world, and apparently, the magical world wasn’t so different in that regard.

“Women being women... what else d’you expect?” Ron muttered as the two whispered about it, descending the stairs extra slowly. “And the worst part is they always claim it’s us—the blokes—who get obsessed with witches. Makes any sense to you?”

Harry frowned.

“I’m not obsessed with witches,” he replied, shaking his head vehemently.

“Neither am I!” Ron agreed. “But look at Fred and George—those two turn completely unbearable when the subject comes up. Mention anything even slightly related and they start waggling their eyebrows like mad. Percy pretends he doesn’t, but he’s just as bad. And Bill and Charlie went through that phase too, if I remember right.”

“D’you reckon we’ll end up like that?” Harry asked, genuinely intrigued. “Seems... well, daft, to be honest.”

“Bet we won’t,” Ron said, lowering his voice further. “Mum doesn’t know, but Fred charmed their bedroom door. If someone unauthorised walks in—meaning anyone but them, since they know how to disable it—the posters of Merly Bright and Susan Milan in bikinis turn into the Weird Sisters wearing winter cloaks.”

Harry couldn’t help a grin. “Brilliant.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But if Mum finds out, reckon they’ll be chucked straight into the gnome garden—upside down this time.”

“And how exactly d’you know about this?” Harry arched an eyebrow.

Ron gave a lopsided smirk. “They think they’re clever, but not half as clever as they think.”

After a hearty breakfast, the Burrow dissolved into its usual loud, cheerful chaos.

Eight people were dashing about, getting dressed and ready for their day in Diagon Alley. Harry was relieved not to worry about his clothes fitting anymore; with a few flicks of her wand, Mrs Weasley could adjust any garment to fit him perfectly. He pulled on his least-faded pair of jeans and a short-sleeved white Muggle t-shirt with a washed-out print of what had once been palm trees and a beach—now so worn it barely resembled a photograph.

“It's vintage,” he told his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Time seemed to drag until everyone was finally ready, but at last, the group assembled in the living room before the fireplace.

It was funny how they were all wearing button-up shirts in a style that blended Muggle and wizard fashion, while Harry stood out clearly in something that looked undeniably, unapologetically Muggle—just a plain t-shirt and jeans.

Then Ron explained how they'd get to Diagon Alley.

“Floo Network, fastest way there,” he said.

“Floo Network?” Harry asked, watching the family's movements with curiosity.

“Of course, dear. It's one of the easiest ways to travel in the wizarding world. Never used it before?” asked Mrs Weasley kindly, holding a small pouch that appeared to be full of glittering powder.

Harry shook his head. “No... I've Side-Along Apparated once, but never this.”

“Well, it's quite simple,” Molly explained, taking a pinch of the powder. “You just take a bit of this powder, step into the fireplace, throw it at your feet, and say your destination clearly. And I do mean clearly,” she emphasised, giving him a serious look.

Harry frowned, slightly apprehensive. “What happens if I say the wrong name?”

“Best not to find out,” Fred replied with a sideways grin.

“Saves a lot of bother later,” George added, wearing an identical mischievous expression.

“Why?” Harry asked, already dreading the answer.

“Because you might end up somewhere completely different,” Ron explained, shaking his head as though this were obvious.

“No need to worry, Harry,” said Mr Weasley with a reassuring smile. “I'll go first and show you how it's done.”

Arthur took a handful of the glittering powder and stepped into the fireplace.

“Diagon Alley,” he declared clearly before tossing the powder down. Immediately, emerald flames engulfed him, and he vanished.

“See? Quite straightforward,” said Mrs Weasley encouragingly. “Now you have a go. And don't fret—the flames don't burn,” she added, handing him the pouch. “Oh! And keep your elbows tucked in—yes, just like that, tight to your sides.”

Harry took a deep breath, grabbed a generous pinch of the magical powder, and positioned himself in the fireplace. Feeling all eyes on him, he grew slightly nervous and blurted out:

“Dygnally!” as he threw the powder at his feet.

The green flames swallowed him in a blink, and he disappeared.

“What did he say?” Ron asked, bewildered.

“Something like 'Diganal Allay'?” suggested Ginny, frowning.

A young woman—no older than twenty-three—was softly singing as she chopped vegetables to add to a bubbling cauldron of stew.

Her singing was abruptly cut off by a startled yelp when Harry appeared out of thin air, quite literally spat out of the sooty, smoke-filled kitchen fireplace.

He skidded across the floor and, before he could recover, slammed his back against an unsteady shelf, sending something crashing onto his head with a thud.

An open bag of flour emptied its contents over him in an instant, coating him in white.

His glasses clattered to the floor, one lens cracked.

“Cough! Cough!” He spluttered, sending more flour dust swirling around him.

“Merlin's beard! Who are you?” the girl exclaimed, eyes wide with shock.

Harry tried to answer, but instead coughed again, releasing another cloud of flour as he groped blindly to stand up.

The young woman, realising he needed help, rushed over and hauled him to his feet. When her eyes fell on the scar on Harry's forehead, she gulped audibly.

“Blimey, you're... Harry Potter!”

“That's my name,” he croaked, brushing futilely at the coating of flour, soot and grime now covering his clothes.

He gave a humourless smile at his reflection in a nearby copper pot, then picked up his glasses, lips thinning when he saw the cracked lens.

“Brilliant, now I look properly ridiculous. Well done, Potter,” he thought, chastising himself. “Now even my glasses are broken.”

She was staring at him with something close to awe, as though he were a museum exhibit.

“Sorry, I... didn't expect you to arrive like this,” she said with a nervous laugh, handing him a towel.

“Covered in soot, flour, and with blue hair?” Harry replied, trying for levity.

She gave a small chuckle. “Yeah, something like that. I'm Amelia, by the way. Are you okay? You didn't get hurt, did you?”

Harry managed a weak smile, still dusting flour off his shoulders. “No, just my dignity took a bit of a beating.”

Amelia laughed softly before turning back to her cauldron. “Fair enough. I was starting to think I'd have to chuck this whole batch thanks to the mess you made,” she teased, gesturing at the floury chaos.

Harry looked around, noticing the kitchen was actually quite cosy. The walls were lined with shelves of ingredient jars, recipe books and magical utensils. The smell of cooking food was delicious, and the place had a peaceful air despite the minor disruption caused by his dramatic entrance.

“I... didn't mean to cause all this fuss,” Harry began, still embarrassed. “I'm sort of new at this. Floo travel isn't exactly the gentlest way to arrive.”

“It's alright, don't worry. Happens to everyone at least once,” she reassured him before drawing her wand.

“Reparo,” she said with a subtle circular flick.

Harry watched, fascinated, as a whitish glow emanated from her wand tip. As if by magic, the spilled flour streamed back into its bag, which floated neatly back onto the shelf. The shelf's cracked base mended itself, and even the soot vanished from his clothes, returning to the fireplace as though it had never left.

Harry grinned. Even now, this world could still surprise him. He truly loved magic.

“Er... where exactly am I?” Harry asked, trying not to sound nervous. “Is this Diagon Alley?”

Amelia smiled kindly and nodded. “Yes, you're in Diagon Alley. Actually, we're in the kitchen of The Wizarding Whisk, which faces Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, you know? The potion ingredients shop?”

Harry quickly got his bearings and let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Relaxing slightly, he recognised his situation wasn't so bad after all.

He hadn't the faintest idea where he'd actually landed, but if he was in the Alley, that was a start.

“Ah, right,” he said, nodding as he began thinking how to find his friends. “I should get going, Amelia. Sorry about the mess. Do I owe you anything for the trouble?”

“Oh, no need to apologise,” she replied. “And you don't owe me anything either. The exit's just over there.”

She pointed to a door at the back of the kitchen.

“Alright. Thanks, really,” Harry said gratefully before leaving the kitchen and the establishment, receiving curious looks from customers and staff alike as they watched him go.

Harry began walking through Diagon Alley, trying to orient himself.

The place was bustling, witches and wizards hurrying between the cramped shops. It had been over a year since his last visit, and truth be told, he couldn't quite remember where each shop was located, nor whether he should turn right or left. The sensible thing would be to look for a sea of red-haired Weasleys.

After walking for some time without spotting anyone familiar—and ignoring the curious stares directed at his completely out-of-place attire, blue hair, and cracked glasses—he decided it wouldn't hurt to ask someone where Flourish and Blotts was.

He spotted a shop assistant cleaning the windows of a store called Broomstix—a broom shop—and moved to approach him.

But before he could reach the man, a familiar female voice called from behind.

“Harry!”

He turned quickly, and before he could react, a missile of bushy brown hair collided with his chest, hugging him so tightly he nearly toppled over.

There was no mistaking that hair.

But instead of the familiar scent of ink, parchment and freshly cut grass, she now carried the sweet, silky fragrance of green apple shampoo.

“Hi, Hermione!” he said, grinning awkwardly.

He felt something between his chest and stomach—probably his aura—bouncing excitedly, as though overjoyed to see her again. And he truly was. He'd missed his friend, in a way letters could never quite fill.

Hermione's parents approached, and she stepped back slightly, giving Harry a proper look at her.

Hermione was a bit taller than last year—though still roughly his height. Her hair was as bushy as ever. Her face had grown slightly more defined, and her brown eyes sparkled with happiness at seeing her friend. Her wide, beaming smile revealed the same slightly protruding front teeth she'd always had.

It was the same Hermione he knew.

“Are you alright? Why is your hair blue? And your glasses are all cracked! Did you get into trouble? Where were you? Oh! I know—you came by Floo, didn't you? Did it go wrong?” The words tumbled from Hermione in such a torrent that Harry barely had time to blink.

“Easy there, sweetheart,” said John, laughing as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Let the boy breathe.”

“Oh, sorry,” Hermione murmured, swallowing hard and clearing her throat, though her fidgeting fingers betrayed her anxiety.

“I'm fine,” Harry replied, managing a smile. “And yeah, I ended up in the wrong fireplace, but it's all sorted now.”

Emma smiled softly, her eyes warm with affection. “It's so lovely to see you again, Harry.”

He shook her outstretched hand politely before greeting John.

Mr Granger, just like last time, shook his hand with a firmness that nearly made Harry's knuckles crack. Without hesitation, Harry returned the grip with equal intensity.

John seemed satisfied, the corners of his mouth twitching in approval.

A man thing? Probably. Made any logical sense? Not at all.

Harry suspected John simply despised limp handshakes—and, well, he couldn't blame him for that.

Before he could say another word, Hermione whipped out her wand with a swift motion and pointed it directly at his face.

“Oculus Reparo!”

Harry's eyes widened as a magical tingle spread across his temples. The cracks in his glasses sealed as though they'd never existed, the lenses now clear and perfect.

“Blimey—thanks, Hermione!”

“You're welcome,” she replied, tilting her chin up with a proud smile.

“You can do spells already?” Harry asked, remembering the underage restrictions.

“Technically, no,” Hermione admitted, lowering her voice. “We're underage, after all. But no one's going to trace such a simple spell in a wizard-packed public place like Diagon Alley, especially being this far from my house. And you needed to see, didn't you?”

“I feel like wizarding opticians must hate that spell,” John remarked, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“But seriously, why is your hair blue?” Hermione asked, curiosity still burning. “You didn't mention it in your last letter?”

“No, this happened after that,” Harry explained. “Blame the twins for this one... They decided to prank me on my birthday. I ate some doctored whipped cream, and, well, I'm stuck like this till Friday,” he said, shrugging.

“Those two,” Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes. “I hope they don't land us in trouble this year... and that includes you,” she added with an accusatory look.

Harry feigned indignation. “Me? But I never do anything!”

The Grangers laughed while Hermione shook her head, clearly unconvinced.

“Harry! Hermione!” A familiar voice called, and soon Neville appeared, accompanied by his grandmother and the Weasleys.

Harry had always noticed Neville's peculiar way of dressing—having been raised solely in the wizarding world, he preferred more formal attire than a Muggle would wear daily. Today, he wore a button-up shirt, dress trousers, a fastened waistcoat, and a tightly knotted tie.

It was clear the Longbottoms' financial situation was better than the Weasleys', judging by the quality of their clothing.

Mrs Longbottom wore her signature hat with a stuffed vulture and a crimson handbag.

The group, now thirteen-strong, seemed to occupy half the street.

After many greetings, Harry recounted where he'd ended up and what had happened, drawing good-natured laughter with his story involving flour and the minor chaos in the restaurant kitchen.

Along the way, they passed an ice cream parlour where the adults treated each child to a cone. Neville, Ron, Ginny and Harry all chose chocolate, while Hermione—the sole exception—picked vanilla, her favourite flavour.

Harry ate his in happy silence. It was his first-ever ice cream cone, and it tasted better than he'd ever imagined.

“That reminds me of the time,” said Arthur with a nostalgic smile, “when I forgot my destination name while using the Floo Network. Ended up in a wizarding solicitor's office near Gringotts. Poor bloke fell right off his chair in shock!”

Laughter spread through the group, but was soon interrupted by Mrs Weasley, who seemed impatient.

“Come along, come along, or we'll be stuck in a huge queue for the signing! And the boys still need to buy their schoolbooks!” Molly exclaimed, taking charge and leading the group toward Flourish and Blotts.

“Signing?” Harry asked Ron and the twins, confused. “I thought he was just selling his book?”

“Of course not!” Hermione cut in, eyes shining with excitement. “Gilderoy Lockhart's releasing his autobiography Magical Me! Today's the chance to get his autograph! Isn't it wonderful?”

“It's brilliant!” Ginny added, clutching her new cauldron tightly. “He's an incredibly powerful wizard. Once he went missing for three weeks after being captured by trolls in Stockton-on-Tees. And you know what he did? Defeated them all single-handedly!”

Hermione gasped, impressed. “I read about that! It was right after he published his second bestseller, Voyages with Vampires, wasn't it?”

“Yes!” Ginny confirmed eagerly.

Harry, however, began tuning out as the two continued exchanging details about Lockhart's supposed feats. They might as well have been discussing a superhero like Superman or Batman rather than an actual wizard.

“Merlin save me,” Ron muttered to Harry and Neville, who stifled knowing chuckles.

Harry glanced at the twins, who seemed more interested in an impromptu finger-wrestling match as they walked, while Percy, as usual, remained aloof, surveying shop windows with apparent disinterest.

The excited chatter between Hermione and Ginny continued until they reached Flourish and Blotts, which was packed with witches and wizards—though predominantly witches.

The air inside was stifling, and Harry felt like a sardine crammed in a tin. At the far end of the overcrowded shop, Lockhart stood before a towering stack of his new books. He posed for photos with his chest puffed out, fists planted on his hips, and a smile so bright it might have come straight from a spell.

He was of average height, with wavy, golden blonde hair that shone brightly, sparkling blue eyes, and a smile featuring teeth so white they seemed to glow like pearls. As Harry had guessed, he was handsome enough to actually be the girls' favorite celebrity—like a wizarding version of George Michael. His clothes were clearly made from luxurious fabric, and he radiated self-confidence with his fists planted firmly on his hips.

He appeared to be in his early thirties, his well-maintained looks carefully cultivated to project a more youthful vibe.

“Blimey, people actually like this bloke?” John remarked, squeezing aside to let another wizard pass.

“Hermione says he's something of a popular hero,” Emma commented, keeping her voice low. “Like a war veteran to us?”

John frowned as if she'd said something absurd.

“Do I look like a preening peacock?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Emma whispered something in his ear with that special smile she reserved only for him—whatever she said made him laugh outright.

Then John looked at Hermione curiously.

“So this is the chap you've read all the books about, princess?” he teased.

Hermione turned violently pink upon hearing the nickname her father usually only used at home. Lately, he seemed determined to use it in public too, much to her utter mortification.

Her reaction drew quiet snickers from Harry and Neville, who were close enough to hear.

“Dad!” she exclaimed, glaring at her father's silly grin before huffing in frustration.

“Sorry, sweetheart, force of habit,” he said, though his expression didn't look the least bit remorseful.

Hermione pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced.

“Yes, it's him. And doesn't he look incredible up close?” Her voice took on a dreamy quality.

“Must be...” her father murmured, eyeing the man warily from a distance.

A collective feminine sigh echoed through the shop as Lockhart flashed another dazzling smile for the cameras.

Lockhart sighed happily, beaming at the crowd.

“And as I was saying, this smile has won me Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award five times—I daresay I'll break my own record this year with a sixth consecutive win.” He gave a practised chuckle.

Emma rolled her eyes and glanced at her husband, who merely shrugged at the wizard's widespread appeal.

Augusta, on the other hand, frowned and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “a generation of foolish girls.”

“If he puffs his chest out any more—” Fred began.

“—he might actually pop,” George finished with a solemn nod.

Ron groaned in despair as he eyed the queue for purchasing books. “For Merlin's sake, I just want to buy my books, not worship some nutter.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron.

“Why don't you try being more like Mr Lockhart and smile for once?” she teased sharply.

“Because if I smiled like that, I'd look like a right clown too,” Ron shot back.

“Honestly, we just want our books, Hermione,” said Harry, ignoring her disapproving look. “You can queue for the signing if you want.”

“I will,” she replied decisively. “Since they're his books, it's only fair.”

Without another word, Hermione joined the signing queue, accompanied by Ginny and Mrs Weasley.

Meanwhile, at the back of the shop, Lockhart was recounting how he'd single-handedly subdued a vampire—binding it in silver chains and narrowly rescuing a Greek duchess.

“You should've seen her face!” he declared. “I nearly had to carry her out when she froze staring at me!”

The other Weasleys dispersed through the shop while the Grangers browsed the shelves and Mrs Longbottom observed Lockhart with undisguised disdain.

Harry, Ron and Neville regrouped near the exit where there was more space, reviewing their book lists.

“Going by the school list, Hermione's right. We'll need his whole collection,” said Neville, frowning at the parchment.

“Brilliant,” Ron grumbled. “How many's that?”

Neville furrowed his brow as he counted on his fingers. “Seven, apparently.”

“Bloody hell, seven of these things?” Ron threw his hands up in disbelief.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Didn't you read your Hogwarts letter? It was all there.”

“Why would I? I knew I'd be buying them with you lot anyway,” Ron replied casually. “You always read everything, and the list's the same.”

Neville snorted a laugh through his nose. “Well, you've killed your own argument there.”

As they talked, Harry didn't notice someone observing him intently—their curious gaze lingering first on his blue hair, then on his scar.

“Merlin's beard! It's Harry Potter!” a voice exclaimed loudly enough to draw everyone's attention, including Lockhart's, who stopped talking for the first time since they'd arrived.

Harry's stomach dropped.

“Shite...” he muttered.

“Harry Potter?” Lockhart's voice boomed from the shop's rear. “Here? What an honour! Come here, my boy! Come here!”

Before Harry could react, the crowd began pushing him toward Lockhart.

“What a fantastic encounter, ladies and gentlemen! Harry Potter coming in person to collect my autograph on my latest release? I couldn't be more honoured!” Lockhart exclaimed, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders.

Harry frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but was blinded by a barrage of camera flashes as photographers captured the moment.

“A round of applause for this unforgettable occasion!” Lockhart demanded, beginning to clap. The crowd enthusiastically followed suit while Harry wished he could disappear on the spot.

“But tell me, Potter, what happened to your hair? Not a tussle with goblins, was it?” Lockhart joked, eliciting titters from the audience.

“Long story,” Harry muttered uncomfortably.

The sound of magical quills scratching furiously echoed as reporters scribbled down every word.

“I understand, I understand,” said Lockhart, running a hand through his wavy locks and flashing another dazzling smile at the crowd. “I've had my share of hair-raising adventures... if you catch my drift.”

More muffled giggles.

“Now that I have the illustrious Harry Potter here, I believe it's time for an exclusive announcement,” Lockhart proclaimed, pointing at a reporter. “Write this down, Rebecca!”

He winked at her, and she blushed.

“I've accepted the position as Hogwarts' new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor!” he declared proudly.

The crowd gasped collectively. Harry saw Hermione and Ginny gazing hopefully while Ron, Neville, the twins and even Percy wore expressions of disbelief.

“Of course, there was considerable negotiation,” he continued. “My schedule is rather packed, as you know—adventures don't write themselves!” More giggles erupted. “But if the next generation needs guidance, and if Hogwarts wishes for one of its most brilliant former Ravenclaw students to return home—now as a professor—then so be it! I've accepted the post!”

A moment of stunned silence was followed by applause and cheers. More camera flashes went off, making Harry increasingly irritated.

Ron snorted at the news while Neville heaved a heavy sigh.

Harry himself felt torn between wanting to vomit—from Lockhart's arm clamped around his shoulders, rocking him side to side like a boat in rough seas—and cringing at Hermione and Ginny's starstruck reactions as they sighed like lovestruck fools, mirroring the other schoolgirls in the signing queue.

“Since young Potter came here specifically to honour me—”

“I didn't—” Harry tried to interject, being ignored.

“—I shall gift him my complete signed book collection, absolutely free!”

Another round of applause and camera flashes made Harry wish even more fervently to be outside. He was ushered away from Lockhart's “special guest area,” carrying a stack of books.

Noticing the exorbitant prices, Harry decided to give them to Ginny as a gift, relieved this might help the Weasleys financially.

Ginny flushed furiously as she accepted the present, too shy to meet his eyes.

Harry frowned in exasperation.

“What kind of power does this bloke have to make girls act like this?” he wondered to himself.

“Always got to be the centre of attention, haven't you, Potter?” Draco Malfoy's icy, disdainful voice cut through the air, making Harry turn immediately. “Your ego's so inflated you've taken to dyeing your hair now too? And coming dressed like some vagrant?”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry retorted, his brow furrowed.

He was accustomed to Draco's venomous sarcasm, but that didn't make it any less irritating.

“What're you doing here?” Ron asked, stepping beside Harry and narrowing his eyes. Neville mirrored the movement but remained silently glaring.

“What d'you think I'm doing here? Are you really so thick you need me to spell it out?” Draco sneered, flashing that malicious grin that made Ron's fists clench instinctively.

Harry shot Ron a quick glance before turning back to Draco.

“Let me guess,” he began, crossing his arms. “You came to get an autograph from your secret crush?” He jerked his thumb toward Lockhart, who was still charming the crowd. “Go on then, Malfoy. The queue's over there with the girls. And try not being a complete git for once—maybe then someone might actually like you for the first time in your life.”

Draco's eyes narrowed and his cheeks pinkened slightly, but he couldn't muster a better retort immediately.

Ron barked a short laugh. “Yeah. While you're at it, ask him to teach you how to smile without looking constipated.”

Draco ignored the jibe, his face twisting in disgust.

“It's utterly degenerate what sort of riffraff they allow in these shops nowadays,” he said, casting a meaningful look at the Weasleys. “And even more pathetic is you, Potter, associating with this... blood traitor scum.” He spat the words as if they were contaminated.

Harry blinked in confusion at the insult.

Blood traitor scum?

He'd never heard a more ridiculous insult. But judging by Ron's reaction—his jaw working in contempt—it clearly meant something.

“Don't talk to him like that!” Ginny exclaimed, jumping in front of Harry with her face flushed and eyes blazing.

“Look at this, Potter's got himself a little girlfriend, how touching,” Draco mocked, crossing his arms with that infuriatingly smug smile. “Pity the Ministry has to fund another pauper's meals at Hogwarts this year.”

Ginny turned scarlet and stepped back, embarrassed. But before Draco could continue, Ron moved forward, putting a protective arm in front of his sister.

“Talk to my sister like that again, Malfoy, and I'll snap you in half,” Ron growled through clenched teeth.

“I'd love to see you try,” Draco hissed back, voice dripping with contempt. “You're as useless as your father is at holding down a proper job.”

Ron's face darkened further, and Harry knew that under different circumstances—somewhere more appropriate—this would end with hexes flying.

Hermione appeared then, carrying her stack of signed books. She was about to say something excitedly to them but stopped upon noticing the scene.

Her expression hardened upon seeing Draco.

“He had to be here today of all days?” Hermione huffed, adjusting the books in her arms. “Can't we shop in peace?”

“Now even this... thing shows up!” Draco said, pointing at Hermione with utter scorn. “What a hovel this place has become!”

Hermione's face twisted in disgust, ready to retaliate. Before she could speak, however, a firm voice cut through:

“What did you just call my daughter?”

Mr Granger stepped forward, his face stern and gaze fixed on Draco.

“Are you her father?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow with affected nonchalance.

“I am, and I'd like you to repeat to my face what you just said, young man.”

“I called her a thing, and I could call her something far worse,” Draco shot back quickly, his face twisting into a venomous smile. “ And I don't remember ever giving a muggle permission to address me. I don't even know why you're here—this isn't your place. Go back to your bizarre little world.”

Mr Granger's eyes narrowed as he positioned himself between Draco and Hermione—who instinctively moved closer to her father, seeking his protection. Malfoy faltered slightly as John advanced, taking an involuntary step back.

“Now, now, Draco, let us be civil,” came a cold, controlled voice from behind him.

A tall, imposing man placed a hand on Draco's shoulder.

His long blond hair was as meticulously groomed as Draco's shorter cut. His ice-blue eyes were cold and assessing, with a glacial rigidity to his expression. He wore a long black linen overcoat from some extremely expensive-looking Italian wizarding brand, a tailored waistcoat, dress shirt, and gloves—all in funeral-black shades—with an aristocratic wizarding cane completing the look.

“We haven't been introduced,” the man said, addressing Mr Granger. “Lucius Malfoy. Draco's father.”

Harry clenched his fists upon realizing who this was. None other than a despicable monster who wielded his family's political influence and aristocratic standing like a weapon.

“If you are indeed his father,” Mr Granger replied steadily, “you've either failed to educate him, or he's forgotten how to treat others.”

All the children watched as the tension between the fathers escalated—everyone except Draco swallowing hard, anticipating where this might lead.

Lucius narrowed his eyes, looking Mr Granger up and down with condescension.

“Rest assured, Muggle. I've taught him perfectly well to distinguish who deserves respect and who does not. It's unfortunate we must tolerate... certain types of inconveniences.”

Mr Granger opened his mouth to retort, but Lucius simply looked away, dismissing him as though he didn't exist. Instead, his gaze settled on Harry, lingering on his forehead.

“Harry Potter,” he said slowly, with calculated interest. “So this is the legendary mark left by the Dark Lord.”

He tilted his head slightly, examining Harry's scar as if it were a rare artifact.

“Fascinating. The wizard who gave you this was truly remarkable.”

Harry's stomach twisted, but he didn't look away.

“The monster who did this is vile and a damned murderer,” Harry hissed fiercely, his voice thick with anger.

Lucius raised an eyebrow and gave him a frigid look. “You're very bold to speak that way.”

“Why? Are you scared of him?” Harry asked without breaking eye contact. “Because I'm not.”

Lucius hesitated, regarding him with an impassive mask.

The tense silence was broken by Mr Weasley's hurried arrival.

“What's going on here?” he asked, casting a suspicious look at Lucius.

As Lucius turned slowly to face him, no one noticed the precise moment he slipped a small black-covered diary into Ginny's cauldron.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Lucius Malfoy said icily, smoothing his immaculate sleeve. “Merely a small misunderstanding. After all, it's common for those of different... standings to fail seeing eye-to-eye.”

Arthur didn't take the bait, but his jaw visibly tightened. “If this 'misunderstanding' involves insults, then it does concern me. Especially when directed at children.”

“Children?” Lucius gave a dry, contemptuous laugh. “I'd say some here have already learned to meddle where they're not wanted. And to frequent places they've no business being in the first place.”

His cold, cutting gaze landed directly on Hermione, who instinctively pressed closer to her father. She'd always had him to protect her in life, and had never lost the habit of staying near him when threatened.

But her hesitation lasted only a moment before she lifted her chin again, her expression turning almost defiantly determined.

“But of course,” Lucius continued, his voice now a whisper that seemed to slice the air, “I'd expect nothing less, considering the company you keep, Arthur.”

“Watch your tongue, Lucius,” Arthur replied quietly but firmly. “We're in the same place, buying the same supplies for our children. I don't believe you're in any position to imply otherwise.”

Draco snickered, but a sharp look from his father silenced him.

“Naturally,” Lucius went on, ignoring Arthur's retort. “Still, it's fascinating to observe how some people strain to appear equal when they so clearly aren't.”

He delivered this with a pointed look at Mr Granger, who clenched his jaw, keeping a protective hand on Hermione's shoulder.

“If we're speaking of equality, perhaps we should discuss the value of proper upbringing,” Arthur shot back, stepping forward. “Like teaching one's children basic respect regardless of standing.”

“And perhaps,” Lucius countered frostily, “we might discuss keeping undesirable elements from invading our world. A pity the Ministry seems so lax.”

The Weasleys, Grangers and Harry could practically feel the air thickening around them, as though all of Diagon Alley had paused to witness this silent clash between two diametrically opposed men.

Ginny knew her father—only out of respect for the Grangers and Mrs Longbottom—was restraining himself from punching the odious man. She broke the silence by adjusting her cauldron.

“Come on, Dad,” she said softly, tugging Arthur's sleeve.

Arthur hesitated, then nodded.

“You're right, dear.” He looked directly at Lucius, eyes blazing. “If you wish to continue your prejudice, do it elsewhere.”

Lucius offered a cold smile. “Always a pleasure, Arthur. I wish you good fortune this year. You'll need it.”

Without responding, Arthur began shepherding the family away.

Harry, however, remained locked in a staring contest with Lucius, neither willing to look away first.

“Come, Harry,” said Arthur, taking the boy's arm.

As they walked off, Harry threw one last look at Lucius, who stood perfectly still with his hand on Draco's shoulder like a controlling gesture.

Of all the things Harry had encountered in the wizarding world, one of his greatest certainties was the utter revulsion he felt for that family.

Harry woke that morning with a broad grin spreading across his face as he remembered what day it was.

First of September—the day he'd return to Hogwarts, the place where he truly felt at home, the first place that had ever properly welcomed him.

Though he'd loved his time at the Burrow, considering it home during those weeks, nothing could surpass the anticipation of returning to the ancient castle.

The Weasleys had been extraordinarily kind to him. Even Percy, in his somewhat peculiar way, had been helpful in his own manner, lending him books to read and even discussing potential Ministry careers he might consider.

And Harry had to admit, he hadn't the faintest idea what he'd do after Hogwarts, but he knew he had plenty of time to figure that out.

Ron, as always, had been his greatest companion, joining him in every game and mischief during those days.

Ron's easygoing nature and talent for daft jokes frequently sent Harry into fits of laughter—and the reverse was equally true. Whenever Harry delivered a well-timed sarcastic remark, Ron would laugh until his face turned red and his eyes watered. Between them existed an effortless camaraderie that intertwined perfectly with their shared friendship with Neville. Harry had no doubt: the three of them would be inseparable, no matter what.

He recalled one particular holiday moment when Neville was still with them, sweating in the summer heat during a particularly disastrous game of Exploding Snap, grumbling about being “out of shape.”

“Are you sure Quidditch actually helps with this?” Neville asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I mean, we've played a few matches, but I'm still sort of... you know, flabby?”

“Mate, let me tell you something,” Ron began, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “I've got five fat friends, and you're all five of them. Happy?”

“Says the lamp head,” Neville retorted, crossing his arms.

Ron burst into loud laughter. “Lamp head? that's cold”

“Pumpkin head, then,” Harry suggested, shrugging with a mischievous grin. “Just add two blue dots in the middle and it's your face when your mum tells you off.”

“Oh shut it, twiggy,” Ron growled, giving Harry a friendly shove. “If you don't put a Galleon in your pocket, the wind'll carry you off.”

“I'll just hold onto Nev,” Harry shot back, snorting with laughter. “He's softer.”

“I'll show you soft,” Neville muttered with a smile, slapping a card down.

Truly, their friendship was something special. And Neville, though usually reserved, had his moments of playful banter too.

But even if that had been all, it would've already been the best summer of his life—this constant companionship.

Yet they also had Mrs Weasley to thank. Molly had treated him almost like an eighth son.

She constantly asked if he was alright, tended to his scrapes, and fussed over him like a mother would. When it grew late and chilly outside, she'd insist he put on a jumper; when he seemed peckish, she'd offer him something to eat—always gentle with him, unlike her stricter demeanour with Ron or her other children when they misbehaved.

On the other hand, Arthur engaged him in long conversations while they tinkered with the family's old car. He shared stories of his youth and described growing up in a completely magical world—which, interestingly, sounded quite similar to Ron's own childhood tales.

Fred and George were also a major source of entertainment, always plotting pranks and, much to Harry's occasional misfortune, now including him as a target from time to time. Not that he minded; he never held a grudge.

One particularly memorable occasion even saw Harry secretly joining one of their pranks against Percy.

The twins had sprinkled Fainting Fancies on their older brother's bed, and the results were hysterical. Percy's uncontrollable giggles the moment he lay down echoed through the house—he laughed so hard he could barely speak.

It was the first time Harry had seen someone laugh angrily, and he had to admit it was brilliant.

He'd bitten his lips raw trying not to laugh as Molly delivered a legendary telling-off to the twins, gesturing at Harry and saying, “Why can't you be more like Harry?”

Fred and George never revealed his involvement in distracting Percy by borrowing another book, since his “good boy” reputation proved useful for certain pranks.

Harry chuckled as he carefully folded his clothes into his trunk. The memory of Percy's prank still made him laugh to himself.

Across the room, Ron watched Harry with an expression caught between suspicion and amusement. He knew exactly what his friend was laughing about—after all, he'd been the lookout ensuring their mum didn't catch them red-handed during the mischief.

“You still laughing about that?” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Can't help it,” Harry replied, a mischievous grin spreading. “Percy kept threatening to wallop Fred and George, but... trying to scold someone while cackling like you've heard the funniest joke ever isn't very convincing, is it?”

Ron snorted, shaking his head. “Not one bit. Looked more like a nutter shouting at his own reflection.”

“Looked like the Joker from Batman,” Harry remarked.

“The what?” Ron asked, confused.

Harry rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Never mind.”

After a hearty breakfast, Molly handed each of them a thick chicken sandwich for the train journey. However, the morning proved more chaotic than expected. Harry noticed time slipping away faster than it should, especially as Fred, George and Ginny tore through the house like demented Cornish pixies, searching for misplaced items. Among the lost belongings were books, scrolls, ink bottles, and—in Ginny's case—a stuffed bear she tried to pass off as unimportant, turning violently pink whenever someone mentioned it near Harry.

While the others finished packing, Harry decided it would be easier for Hedwig to fly directly to Hogwarts, since she grew visibly distressed just looking at her cage.

He'd curse Vernon if he could, for frightening her so badly. His uncle could hit Harry all he wanted, but he'd better never lay a finger on his owl again.

“See you there, yeah girl?” he said softly.

Hedwig gave a soft hoot before taking flight, disappearing into the blue sky.

Finally, everyone squeezed comfortably into the family car.

Arthur had cast an Engorgement Charm on the car's interior to fit everyone, insisting flying to London would be more practical than using the Floo Network—especially with their mountain of luggage and sensitive supplies that couldn't safely be shrunk, since the children didn't know how to reverse such spells.

Upon arriving at bustling King's Cross Station, the chaos continued, the entire family weaving through Muggles who glanced at them curiously before promptly forgetting their existence or suddenly remembering urgent appointments.

The station's great clock showed the train was nearly due to depart.

Near Platform 9¾, they found Neville checking his watch anxiously beside his grandmother, who looked as unflappable as ever.

“Merlin's beard, Molly, any later and you'd have missed the train!” Augusta exclaimed after brief greetings, her tone scolding.

“I told them to pack last night, but did anyone listen? Of course not!” Molly replied, shooting pointed looks at her children.

Fred, George and Ginny immediately ducked their heads with performative remorse.

Ron glanced at Harry gratefully—having been convinced to pack when originally told, he'd avoided this round of reprimands.

“You lot need to hurry!” Augusta said impatiently. “That train's leaving, and I've a governors' meeting before the Sorting ceremony.”

Neville had explained during the holidays that his grandmother had served on the Hogwarts Board of Governors for years. She maintained fierce opposition to Lucius Malfoy—unsurprising, given how difficult it would be to reconcile with someone whose allies had brutally tortured her son and daughter-in-law into insanity.

Though that detail had faded from many memories, Augusta Longbottom hadn't forgotten. Neville shared how after the first wizarding war, Lucius Malfoy had escaped punishment as a Voldemort supporter by claiming Imperius Curse influence, using his political connections to avoid Azkaban.

Neville hugged his grandmother tightly; she patted his head in a gesture that seemed more stern than affectionate. Harry distinctly caught her muttering as she left:

“...and make your father proud this year. I know you can—just apply yourself properly.”

Neville mumbled something unenthusiastic as he watched her disappear into the crowd.

Molly and Arthur had already shepherded Ginny, Percy and the twins through the barrier, leaving only the three friends.

“Come on, you two!” Ron called excitedly, steering his trolley toward the concealed platform entrance.

Harry aligned his trolley with Neville's.

“Don't know why, but I always close my eyes going through,” Neville confessed nervously.

“Relax, I do that too,” Harry admitted with a grin.

“Right, on three!” said Ron, barely pausing before shouting, “Three!” and sprinting forward.

Harry laughed at Ron's haste and pushed his trolley after him, Neville following.

However, instead of passing seamlessly through—

CLANG!
CRASH!
CLONK!

They crashed headlong into the solid station wall.

The collision sent all three tumbling to the ground, trunks scattering everywhere. Trevor's and Scabbers' cages went flying, and Harry saw stars as his head spun, utterly bewildered while passersby cast curious glances before moving on—just as disinterested as when the whole family had arrived. King's Cross, as Hermione had once mentioned, was thoroughly warded against Muggle notice.

“What the—?!” Harry groaned, rubbing his head and already anticipating a lump.

Neville, still dazed on the floor, pressed his palm against the wall, frowning.

“It's solid... Are you sure this is the right passage?”

“'Course it is!” Ron huffed, getting up while rubbing his sore shoulders. “My whole family just went through!”

“D'you think the enchantment failed?” Harry suggested, still trying to process what happened.

“Might have... Maybe it needs time to reset after so many people went through at once?” Neville theorized as he retrieved Trevor's cage, quickly latching it to prevent another great escape.

Harry checked the station clock and his stomach dropped.

“Bloody hell! The train's left!” he exclaimed in alarm.

“What?!” Ron and Neville chorused, whipping their heads toward the clock.

“We're stranded!” Neville looked on the verge of panic. “What do we do now?”

“Hold on!” Harry said quickly, trying to calm himself as much as the others. “We can still get to Hogwarts. The train's just transport—there must be another way.”

Ron grew thoughtful before breaking into a grin that could be described as either brilliant or deranged.

“My dad's car!” he declared with widening eyes, grabbing Harry's arm as if this were the plan of the century. “We can fly it!”

“But won't your parents need it back?” Harry asked.

“If they came in it, they'll want to return in it,” Neville agreed hesitantly.

“The barrier's sealed—how would they get back through?” Ron countered. “Besides, my parents can Apparate. Stop arguing! Come on!”

Without waiting for objections, he bolted toward the car park, leaving Harry and Neville exchanging uncertain looks before chasing after him.

“Chuck everything in the boot! I'll drive!” Ron declared as Harry and Neville loaded their trunks.

“You actually know how to drive this thing?” Harry asked pointedly.

“'Course I do... sort of. Fred taught me the basics. How hard can it be?” Ron shrugged.

“Isn't it illegal for minors to drive these things?” Neville asked, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt.

“Yeah, but not in emergencies, and this is an emergency!” Ron fired back.

“If you don't rip the bumper off like George did, it'll be a miracle,” Harry muttered, suppressing a laugh as he slammed the passenger door.

“No promises!” Ron replied with a strained grin, turning the ignition.

The car growled like a dragon with a cold, its nonexistent soundproofing making every engine vibration rattle through the cracked leather seats, chattering Harry's teeth involuntarily.

Ron, his ears as red as his hair, jerked into reverse violently, nearly crushing a parked car's bonnet. A blue van honked furiously as they passed, and the heavy, resistant steering wheel forced Ron to wrestle with it like he was manning a ship's helm.

“Merlin's pants, this is a bloody maze!” Ron grumbled, sweating profusely.

“There! Straight ahead to the main road!” Harry pointed forward, fingers glued to the dashboard as if that might help.

“BRAKE!” Neville screamed from the backseat, clinging to the headrest like his life depended on it—which, at that moment, it very well might have.

BAAAM!

A silver car crossing the street slammed its brakes, swerving violently as Ron pulled unceremoniously into traffic.

“Check your mirrors! And use your bloody indicator!” Harry yelled, his heart pounding faster than a Snitch.

“Merlin's pants, I'm trying!” Ron growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “D'you see everything I've got to do at once?!”

“You need to get airborne,” Harry insisted, scanning their surroundings. “But how do we do that in the middle of the city?”

“Just... fly,” Ron shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

At a red light, with a queue of cars ahead, Ron saw his chance. With a dramatic yank of the lever, the car lurched upward, nearly scraping the roof off a blue sedan.

“Why the hell do Muggles invent these stupid red stopping points?!” Ron exclaimed, glaring at the traffic light as if it had personally offended him. “Just keep going—makes no sense!”

“I should've known better when you said Fred taught you to drive!” Harry death-gripped the seatbelt as Neville in the backseat looked paler than Nearly Headless Nick.

Ron wasted no time smashing the invisibility booster, and the car vanished instantly, leaving only a gust of wind behind. As they climbed higher, leaving London's skyscrapers behind for peaceful countryside, the ride finally smoothed out.

“D'you think anyone saw us?” Neville asked, peering cautiously out the window as if expecting the entire Ministry to come flying after them in outrage.

“Nev, you seriously asking that?” Harry replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh... right, stupid question,” Neville mumbled, sinking into his seat. “But this won't get us in trouble, will it? Flying cars aren't exactly... Muggle-normal.”

“Relax,” Ron said distractedly while adjusting the mirror. “They've got those little green blokes with big heads—you told me about them, remember Harry? They'll believe anything.”

“Aliens?” Harry supplied.

“That! Aliens!” Ron nodded approvingly. “Anything weird in the sky, they blame it on them, right? They'll just think it was another...”

“Flying saucer,” Harry finished.

“Exactly.”

Harry unfolded a wizarding map he'd found in the glovebox and began navigating.

“Keep heading this direction. Hogwarts should be about... here,” he said, pointing.

“Got it.”

The journey continued more calmly as the boys chatted about various topics, though Quidditch dominated the conversation.

They flew for hours—long enough for the uncomfortable seats to become unbearable. Eventually, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ron noticed something wrong with the car.

“Bloody hell, the charm's broken!” the redhead swore when the invisibility booster failed, leaving them fully visible again.

He mashed the button repeatedly to no avail.

“We're miles from any towns now—doubt it matters,” Harry commented, consulting the map.

“There!” Neville suddenly exclaimed, pointing out the window. “That's the bridge the Express crosses! I recognize it!”

“Good, but... where's the train?” Harry asked, frowning as he looked down.

“Must've passed already,” Ron suggested, adjusting the wheel. “We'll just follow the tracks—it'll turn up eventually.”

THUD!

The sound of something solid hitting the car echoed loudly, making everyone inside the vehicle jump.

“Did you hear that?” asked Harry, turning to look out the window.

Neville nodded, peering outside. “Felt like we hit a rock.”

“Only if the rock hit us,” Ron argued. “There’s no way I hit something mid-air—I’m not that bad a driver.”

“Debatable,” Harry snorted a laugh, and Neville chuckled along.

“Oi! Have a little faith in your mate here,” Ron joked.

Harry cranked the window handle several times and rolled down the passenger window. He stuck his neck out, trying to make sense of what had happened. When he pulled back inside, his expression was a mix of confusion and surprise.

“Er… it’s an egg. A giant egg hit the car and smashed. The door’s covered in gunk.”

“A giant egg?” repeated Ron, incredulous, staring at Harry as if he’d lost the plot. “You sure? Chickens don’t fly or chuck eggs about!”

“Um… guys?” began Neville, his voice quiet and shaky as he looked outside, trying to process what he was seeing and hoping he was wrong.

But he was completely ignored.

“I said giant, Ron. Like this,” said Harry, gesturing with his hands to indicate something the size of an ostrich egg. “No chicken could’ve laid that.”

“You haven’t seen what Gertrude can lay,” said Ron, shrugging. “Mum feeds her magical corn, y’know? At least triples the size.”

“Course I know, I’ve lived with you the past two months, haven’t I?”

“And you still doubt her egg-laying skills?” Ron raised an eyebrow. “D’you know whose omelettes you’ve been eating?”

“Guys…,” Neville tried again, his voice slightly louder now, swallowing hard, but the engine noise drowned him out.

“Not just me—you ate them too,” Harry went on. “In fact, you had three helpings, not to mention stacking them with ham in sandwiches.”

Ron shrugged. “Got a reputation to uphold. Besides, nowt beats ham and omelette sandwiches.”

“Yeah… suppose so.” Harry cleared his throat. “Er… wasn’t Gertrude the roast chicken your mum made for dinner last week?”

“What?! ’Course not!” Ron exclaimed, outraged. “Mum would never put Gertrude in the pot! That was Daisy. Poor thing was on her last legs. Found her dead in the coop… died in her sleep, at least. She was the one who kept pecking Ginny’s—”

“GUYS!” Neville repeated, his voice now desperate.

“What?!” Harry and Ron asked in unison, frowning as they turned around.

“GRIFFINS!” Neville shrieked, pointing out the rear window.

Ron and Harry exchanged a look of disbelief before twisting to see where Neville was pointing through the back windscreen.

Outside, two enormous winged creatures with razor-sharp talons and curved beaks hovered in the sky, streaking toward the car like arrows, their eyes blazing with hatred.

Of all the creatures Harry had read about in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them—his bedside book the previous year—the text made one thing abundantly clear: never, ever, under any circumstances, break a Griffin’s eggs.

Doing so was practically signing your own death warrant.

“AAAAH!”

All three screamed in pure terror as the creatures reached them.

The sharp talons began scraping the car’s roof, shaking it violently mid-air. The metallic screech of claws tearing through the bodywork mixed with the Griffins’ roars and the boys’ panicked shouts.

“WE’RE GOING TO DIE!” Neville shrieked, curling into his seat, trembling from head to toe.

The Griffins were furious.

One of them tore through the car’s roof like it was paper, jabbing its beak through the cracks.

“PULL THE CAR DOWN!” Harry bellowed, flinching back as one Griffin pecked at his window, cracking it dangerously.

“AH!” Neville let out a panicked scream, throwing himself sideways as a talon burst through the rear window, narrowly missing his face.

Ron was white as a ghost but, without hesitation, yanked the gearstick downward.

Yet in his haste and clumsiness, he jammed the already-damaged gearbox—the one Arthur still hadn’t fully fixed since George’s crash weeks ago.

The car nosedived, accelerating wildly, and all three were thrown from their seats.

Harry’s stomach lurched as if he were on the last ride of his life.

“PULL UP NOW OR WE’LL CRASH!” Harry roared, gripping the door handle as the ground rushed toward them at a terrifying speed.

“I’VE BUGGERED THE GEAR!” Ron yelled desperately, wrenching the stick uselessly. It wouldn’t budge. “IT’S FUCKING STUCK!”

Harry’s panic surged. If they didn’t act, they’d be dead in seconds. He shoved a sweaty, shaking hand into his pocket and drew his wand.

He recalled a spell he’d read in one of Percy’s books, used in that Diagon Alley kitchen.

It might be their only hope—though his chances of nailing it first try were slim, barely knowing how it worked.

“HARRY, DO SOMETHING!” Ron shouted, glancing at him while still yanking at the gearstick.

“Reparo!” Harry stammered nervously, tracing a frantic, sloppy circle with his wand.

Nothing happened.

“WE’RE REALLY GOING TO DIE!” Neville screeched, his voice jumping an octave as his face turned even paler.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to block out the deafening engine, the Griffins’ wings, his friends’ terror—even if it was bloody justified.

He clung to Professor Flitwick’s advice: “Intent with action, Mr Potter! Spells aren’t just waving and reciting—you must believe!”

Harry tightened his grip on his wand, forcing focus. He nearly whipped his mind into recalling the subtle flick Amelia—that cook—had used.

“Reparo!” he repeated, clearer and firmer, executing the motion more precisely this time.

For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened.

Then a faint glow erupted from his wand, and the gearbox groaned audibly, as if invisible hands were wrenching it back into place—into neutral.

Ron instantly slammed it into reverse.

The engine snarled like it might explode, but the car obeyed Mr Weasley’s magical modifications. With a jolt, it slowed its fall and levelled out, skimming the train tracks so close the undercarriage scraped the rails.

They were now nearly wheels-down on the high bridge linking two tunneled hills.

“Merlin, Morgana, and Circe!” Ron gasped, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“They’re still after us!” Neville cried, looking back in horror.

Before they could breathe, a deep, threatening sound echoed: the whistle of a locomotive.

“The Express!” Harry said, leaning forward to spot the train—but there was nothing ahead.

Ron whipped his head left and right.

“Can’t see it—”

“BEHIND US!” Neville screamed, pointing out the rear window.

All three boys turned and felt their stomachs drop. The massive red Hogwarts Express was charging toward them, belching thick steam that dissolved into the cold morning air.

TUUUUUU!

The train's shrill whistle echoed like a final warning. Harry gripped Ron's arm tightly, his knuckles white from the pressure.

“FLOOR IT!” Neville shouted.

Ron slammed the accelerator to the floor, but the flying car—though magical—was no match for the train's speed.

“WON'T THOSE BLOODY BEASTS GIVE UP?!” Ron roared as one Griffin dove toward the car, pecking the wing mirror with such force it nearly tore clean off.

“GET OUT OF THE TRAIN'S PATH!” Harry shouted, pointing desperately at the approaching locomotive, its whistle now deafening.

Ron wrenched the steering wheel hard left, sending the car into a wild 360-degree spin that narrowly avoided the Hogwarts Express. The train roared past them, buffeting the car so violently the Griffins were thrown off balance, their wings flapping in disarray.

Inside the Hogwarts Express, in a cosy compartment, Hermione sat with Ginny, attempting to focus on one of Lockhart's books in silence—though her eyes moved across the pages without truly absorbing the words.

“D'you think they'll make it on time today?” Hermione asked, lightly chewing her lip.

Ginny glanced up from her own book and shrugged. “Dunno what happened. But Dad or Mum might bring them. Suppose they don't strictly need the train.”

Both returned to their distracted reading until a faint, distant noise caught Hermione's attention. Outside, had anyone looked out the window at that exact moment, they'd have seen the Weasleys' flying car under attack by two furious Griffins, with Harry, Ron, and Neville screaming inside as the vehicle spiralled wildly. But to Hermione and Ginny, it was merely a muffled commotion lost in the train's rumble.

Hermione frowned, certain she’d heard something. Outside the window, the boys were still battling the creatures.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, looking at the redhead.

Ginny raised her eyebrows. “What?”

The car vanished from view just as Hermione turned to the window. All she saw now was the beautiful panoramic vista of the valley beyond the bridge.

“Oh... nothing. Thought I heard shouting or something.”

Ginny giggled. “Most you'll hear is snoring. When I went to the loo, nearly everyone was asleep with their curtains drawn.”

“Fancy a kip?” Hermione offered.

“Suppose, if you don't mind.”

Hermione nodded and sighed. “Don't mind at all.”

She stood to draw the curtains, blocking the window's view—

—Just as the flying car rose back to window level.

“WE NEED TO GO FASTER!” Neville screamed, clinging to his seat.

“THIS PIECE OF SHITE CAN'T GO MORE THAN THIS!” Ron growled, leaning forward as if it might magically squeeze extra speed from the car.

Harry suddenly remembered the secret buttons Mr Weasley had shown them weeks prior.

“Under the steering wheel! There's a speed boost button! Press it!”

“There's two buttons here!” Ron panicked. “Which one?!”

“The right one!” Harry said uncertainly.

“My right or yours?!” Ron cried.

“IT'S THE SAME BLOODY RIGHT!”

“Er—so this one, then!”

Ron mashed a random button. Immediately, the car's roof detached and launched upward, smacking the Griffins back momentarily. They were now completely exposed to the enraged beasts.

“THAT'S FUCKING LEFT!” Harry bellowed.

“I DON'T KNOW THE DIFFERENCE!” Ron yelled back.

“PRESS THE OTHER ONE!”

This time, Ron hit the correct button.

With a thunderous roar and blue flames erupting from the exhaust, the car shot forward like a bullet, slamming all three boys into their seats. They held on for dear life as the car tore through the sky, leaving both the train and the Griffins—now mere distant specks—far behind with no hope of catching them.

A tangible relief swept through the car as they gained distance.

The icy wind lashed their faces, tousling their hair and bringing a sliver of clarity after the chaos.

“I swear, Ron,” Harry panted, trying to catch his breath, “I’ll make you learn the difference between left and right today.”

“I was nervous, alright?” Ron shot back indignantly, flicking on the headlights. “’Course I know the difference.”

He was a terrible liar.

“I think I had a heart attack…” Neville mumbled from the back seat, hand clutched to his chest.

“Oh, you’re exaggerating, Nev,” Ron said as if their ordeal had been nothing. “Wasn’t worse than the Popcorn or that holoplunc last year—I mean—we’re in a car and…”

He trailed off under Harry and Neville’s deadly serious stares. Ron clamped his mouth shut, eyes fixed ahead in a poor imitation of focused driving.

They drove on for a long while. Night began to close around them, leaving only a purple bruise of sky on the horizon.

Harry just shook his head, turning to Neville, who seemed to want to say something.

“D’you think we lost them?” Neville asked, voice still thick with anxiety.

“Hope so,” Harry replied, crossing his arms. “But if they spot us again, they’ll want our heads.”

“Brilliant. Just brilliant,” Ron muttered, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Bloody flying chickens! Why’s it always got to be a griffin?”

“Two, actually…” Neville corrected. “And quite large.”

Despite the tension still hanging thick as fog, the boys gradually adjusted to the wind whipping their hair and stinging their eyes. The car, now at a steadier speed, seemed calmer after their frantic escape—though that mad dash had thrown them completely off course.

With no clue where they were, they drifted through the darkening sky, taking far longer than planned to find their way back. Night fell swiftly, swallowing the horizon, and Harry was forced to whisper “Lumos!” to light the map flapping in his hands—which, admittedly, did little against the wind determined to tear it from his grip.

Just as despair began to settle like a weight in his chest, something on the horizon made their hearts leap with relief.

There it was—Hogwarts.

The castle stood majestic against the night sky, its towering turrets and glittering windows blazing like a beacon of safety, promising shelter and familiarity. For one precious moment, the sight of that comforting silhouette seemed to dissolve their fears, as if nothing bad could happen within those walls.

But then—

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—SPLUT!

A horrible, choking, deeply concerning sound erupted from the engine, as if the car were coughing its last breath. The vehicle lurched violently, tilting dangerously to one side, and the boys’ fleeting relief vanished, replaced by a sudden cold dread gripping their stomachs.

Harry frowned at his friends.

“Did you hear that?” he asked tightly.

“Mhm-hum,” Neville mumbled, nodding with wide eyes, his hands clutching Ron’s seatback so hard his knuckles whitened.

Ron, meanwhile, stared fixedly at the control panel, his face pale in the flickering instrument lights.

He poked the magical flight-fluid gauge with a fingernail, as if will alone could nudge the needle upward. But to his horror, it stayed stubbornly lodged in the red.

“No…” he whispered, fingers tightening on the wheel. “Not now, please—”

“Not what?” Harry asked, though part of him already knew.

“Not again… not again…” Neville whimpered, curling into himself in the back, knees drawn to his chest as if that might shield him.

“Merlin’s pants, the flight fluid’s nearly gone!” Ron yelped, jabbing a shaky finger at the gauge.

“W-what does that mean?” Neville squeaked.

“Means,” Harry said, licking his lips, “when it runs out, we… fall.”

A heavy silence filled the car, so thick it felt suffocating. Even the wind outside seemed to stop whistling, as if the world were holding its breath.

“Ron, for Merlin’s sake, land the car!” Neville begged, wide eyes locked on Ron as if his life depended on it—which, to be fair, it did.

The trouble was, it wasn’t just the fuel. The car was now at a dizzying height, so far up it might’ve been mistaken for a shooting star, its headlights twin comets.

Ron cleared his throat, avoiding their gazes.

“Right… about that—”

“Please tell me you know how to land,” Harry interrupted, staring at him with mounting disbelief.

“Fred hasn’t… quite taught me that bit yet,” Ron admitted, forcing a strained smile that didn’t hide his panic. “Thought we’d use the Quidditch pitch… or the path to it. Nice and flat. Can’t be hard.”

Harry gaped.

In the back, Neville shrank further, muttering what sounded like a silent prayer, his face parchment-white.

“What do we do now?” Harry asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Ron swallowed hard, adjusting his grip on the wheel.

“Reckon there’s a gallon in the—”

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK… KNOCK… KNOCK…… KNOCK.

The engine gave one final shudder—then silence.

For a heartbeat, everything froze. The wind died. The car hovered, as if time itself had stopped.

Then, with a slight dip, it began to fall.

“AAAAAAAH!”

All three screamed in unison, voices merging into pure terror as the car plummeted, the boys clinging to their seats like that might save them from the rapidly approaching ground.

The speed of their fall increased with every second, gravity seeming determined to wrench them from the car at any cost.

Harry clung to the seat with all his strength, feeling the fabric scrape against his fingers as Neville, behind him, gripped the headrest in the tightest embrace he'd ever given anything. Ron, however, seemed fused to the steering wheel, his arms wrapped around it as if holding on might save them.

Not a single coherent word escaped any of them.

Piercing screams filled the confined space, mingling with the wind howling around the spiralling car.

The trees of the Forbidden Forest, once an indistinct mass of darkness, became alarmingly sharp in the moonlight—every branch and leaf horribly detailed as the ground rushed up at a sickening speed.

Harry, unable to face what seemed certain death, squeezed his eyes shut.

A whirlwind of thoughts assaulted his mind. He saw his life flash before his eyes.

Hogwarts. Ron and Neville. Hermione.

But most of all, he thought of how desperately he still wanted to live. To laugh, to run, to explore the wizarding world. To be happy with his friends.

He didn’t want to die.

Yet this seemed the end.

All three had their eyes screwed shut as they screamed, faces frozen in pure terror.

They didn’t see the bright, blinding glow that pulsed silently through the trees below—right where they were destined to smash.

The expected impact never came.

Instead, a muffled whump filled the air—like a giant cushion swallowing the car—followed by a screech from the engine and a final dull thud.

Harry’s body lurched forward violently, his forehead nearly hitting the dashboard before he was thrown back against the seat.

Then—silence.

The world seemed to pause. Harry felt oddly calm for reasons he couldn’t explain, like a wave receding into the ocean after crashing ashore.

Everything was still, save for a slight swaying around them, as if the car were... caught?

Harry opened his eyes, blinking dazedly.

His heart hammered against his ribs, the sound of his ragged breathing the only noise. He looked around, blinking again to clear his blurred vision.

The car was tilted sideways, cocooned in what looked like... branches? No—not just branches. Giant leaves, intricately woven, forming a natural net that had cushioned their fall.

“Are we... dead?” Neville whispered, still clutching Harry’s seatback, his voice trembling.

“Is the afterlife this dark?” Ron croaked, peeling his hands off the wheel with a groan.

Harry stared out.

“No... this—this is the forest. We’re still in the Forbidden Forest,” he said, pointing at the towering, ominous trees surrounding them.

“W-we’re alive?... Merlin, we’re alive... WE’RE ALIVE!” Neville gasped, disbelieving, nearly leaping with relief as Ron and Harry joined his hysterical celebration.

After a brief bout of cheering, silence fell.

“But... what stopped us?” Harry asked.

All three leaned forward, peering through the cracked windscreen. The car appeared to have landed on a thick mat of vines and moss—like some makeshift plant web that had absorbed most of the impact.

“The trees saved us?” Ron murmured.

“Magical trees don’t just decide to cushion falls—they’re not that sentient, except the Whomping Willow, and that one kills you if you get close.” Neville said, still white-knuckling Harry’s seat. “This is weird.”

Ron carefully pushed the car door open—then yelped as something creaked ominously beneath them.

Harry and Neville followed him, still slightly unsteady on their feet.

And indeed, around the car, a tangled mass of branches, vines, and leaves stretched out like a natural mattress, as though the trees had cushioned the car's fall. Yet the strangest thing was the feeling it gave off—almost as if they were being watched.

“That wasn’t luck,” said Harry, frowning.

He bent down to touch the vines and felt a faint tingling in his fingertips.

Ron took a step back, looking around with wide eyes. “D’you reckon… this was done by something? Like, on purpose?”

Before anyone could answer, a low, guttural sound came from the shadows of the trees, followed by the rustling of leaves. Neville jumped backward, nearly tripping over a branch.

“What was that?” he whispered, his voice rising an octave.

Harry stood frozen, his wand already in hand. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t want us here.”

Ron swallowed hard, pulling out his own wand. “Merlin’s pants, I hope it’s not another griffin…”

Suddenly, the vines beneath their feet began to move, slithering like live snakes. Neville shrieked, leaping aside, while Harry and Ron staggered back, watching as the vines slowly retracted toward the trees, leaving the car—or what remained of it after that journey—on the ground.

“It’s like… it’s letting us go,” Harry murmured, still gripping his wand tightly.

“Or warning us not to stay,” Ron replied, his expression a mix of relief and dread.

“Can we stop arguing and just leave, please?” Neville whimpered.

“Yeah, if this bloody car hadn’t failed earlier,” Ron grumbled, “I’d’ve said there’s magical fluid in the boot. Dad keeps some spare—”

“And you took this long to mention it?” Harry asked indignantly.

“I didn’t remember off the top of my head!” Ron protested, wrenching open the boot to grab the fuel. “fuck, I nearly got killed by griffins and then run over by a train—I’m not at my best, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

“Alright, neither am I,” Harry said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But just so you know, the fuel cap’s on the right side of the car.”

“Shut it.”

“Just saying…”

Without wasting another moment, Ron—just to be safe—poured all the remaining fluid into the fuel tank, which was quite a lot, since his dad always underfilled it. But he wasn’t thinking about careful measurements, not with his head pounding the way it was.

The three climbed back into the car, which groaned but, to their surprise, still seemed functional. Ron turned the key in the ignition, and the engine responded with a weak whine before finally rumbling to life.

“Right, we’re alive. Now let’s get out of here before that changes,” Ron said.

Harry nodded. “Fine… but to where?”

“Technically forward,” Neville pointed out. “The car didn’t change direction while falling, did it?”

“Suppose you’re right,” Ron sighed, easing on the accelerator.

“So d’you mean wherever we’re facing is our north now?” Harry asked.

“No, but I reckon that makes sense—we just need to go straight,” Neville argued.

“You two are absolute masters of geolocation,” Harry said drily. “If someone dropped you in the desert, you’d walk out in a day blindfolded. Ever thought of getting jobs in the field?”

“You got a better idea?” Ron asked.

“Look at the stars. We had a year of Astronomy, remember?”

“Oh… well, fair point,” Neville agreed, squinting up at the stars to orient himself.

“You sound like Hermione,” Ron grumbled. “Must’ve inhaled too much dust from those library books last year.”

And so they went, driving cautiously through the forbidding forest.

The darkness was near-total, with only the weak headlights illuminating the path. Branches and leaves occasionally scraped against the car’s sides, and the sounds of the forest—distant cries of creatures and the rustling of trees—made the atmosphere feel even more threatening.

Then Harry heard a high-pitched sound, like a distorted laugh, echo through the woods. He turned to look behind them but saw nothing but blackness.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Neville burst out, throwing his hands up in defeat.

Harry and Ron stared at their friend as if he’d sprouted a second head.

“What?!” Neville glared at them, equal parts furious and bewildered.

“You’ve never sworn before,” Ron remarked, and Harry nodded.

“But bloody hell!” Neville went on, indignant. “So far on this trip, every time Harry notices something, something bad happens! First the egg, then the engine failing, and now what? A troll? Bollocks! I just want to get to that fucking castle—is that too much to ask?”

Neville was now frantically scanning their surroundings.

“See, Harry? You’re a jinx,” Ron joked nervously, his eyes darting about too.

“I was gonna say something just now, but I’m too fond of your mum,” Harry shot back, forcing a laugh to ease the tension.

Suddenly, something small, blue, and glowing zipped past the car, followed by four more similar figures. The creatures were about twenty centimetres tall, with wings, flitting about chaotically.

“What the hell are those?!” Ron yelled, swerving sharply to avoid one.

“Are they… friendly?” Neville asked, clutching Harry’s seatback again.

The things began laughing, pointing at the trio as if they were some sort of joke.

“Looks like they’re… playing?” Ron said uncertainly, struggling to keep the car steady as more of the creatures circled them.

“I don’t trust it—not in this forest,” Harry replied, drawing his wand.

One of them—a particularly nasty-looking one with an ugly scar over its left eye—flew straight at Neville and yanked his ear hard, nearly lifting him out of the car.

“HELP!” he flailed as he was hoisted up.

“Hold on!” Harry shouted, reaching for him, but Ron was quicker.

“Grab tight!” Ron let go of the wheel and lunged, seizing Neville round the middle and hauling him back into the car with such force that they both toppled onto the seat.

Neville gasped, eyes bulging.

“They’re trying to take us!” Neville fumbled for his wand, more for comfort than actual use.

In response, the scarred creature flew at Neville again and, this time, snatched the wand right from his grip.

“Oi, give that back!” he cried in panic.

With a jerk of its tiny hands, the creature hurled the wand into the air, where a second blue fiend caught it and snapped it in half like a dry twig.

When the wand was tossed back to Neville, its tip hung limp and broken, a strand of unicorn tail hair visibly poking out from the splintered wood.

“My wand!” Neville exclaimed, clutching the broken piece with a look of utter despair.

The scarred creature let out a shrill laugh and launched itself at Ron, yanking his hair.

“OI! Piss off!” Ron yelled, trying to bat the creature away with one hand while still steering with the other.

Harry fired a spell, aiming his wand at the things.

“Depulso!”

The creatures dodged easily, cackling as they continued tormenting Ron.

“Harry, do something!” Ron shouted, swinging wildly at the infuriating pest.

“I'm trying!” Harry shot back, raising his wand again.

“Use fire! They won't like that!” Ron suggested, missing another swipe as his hair was pulled sharply.

So Harry took aim and shouted with determination:

“Incendio!”

The jet of flames that erupted from his wand nearly hit two of them, singeing a third, but the spell seemed to scare them enough that they all fled.

“Yeah, run for it, you gits!” Ron snarled, fury dripping from his voice.

He accelerated, trying to get away as fast as possible. But something was wrong.

The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating what looked like a wall of webs. The trees ahead were draped in thick spider silk, so dense it resembled curtains of silk rather than natural webbing. But what truly made all three freeze was what stood at the center of that clearing.

“What's that?” Neville asked, his voice cracking slightly, fear plain in his tone.

Before them, in the middle of the clearing, a massive shadow loomed.

The creature's long, hairy legs trembled slightly, and its eyes gleamed in the dark, reflecting the headlights.

It was an enormous spider.

The monster was the size of a full-grown elephant, but its sprawling width made it occupy an even larger, more intimidating space.

Around it, smaller offspring began emerging, their monstrous forms skittering through the forest.

Harry's face went pale as he recognized the creature.

“Acromantula... ACROMANTULA!” he said desperately, fear tightening his throat.

“ACROMAN—WHAT?!” Ron screamed, disbelief written across his face.

“GIANT SPIDERS! STEP ON IT!” Harry bellowed, his hand gripping the seat as if clinging to the only thing that still felt safe.

“Food... dinner is served, my children...” the giant spider whispered, making the trio's blood turn to ice.

Ron, his face now a mask of panic, didn't think twice.

He slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the car's tires screeched before lurching forward, speeding away from the creature with a roar. But the spiders were after them, fast as lightning, the largest making a dry clicking sound with every step. One of them, with long, blade-like legs, leaped onto the bonnet, its claws scraping the metal with a sound like nails on a chalkboard.

“WHY SPIDERS?!” Ron shrieked in terror.

“GET OFF, GET OFF ME!” Neville wailed desperately, scrambling away from another climbing up the side toward him.

With a solid kick, he sent it tumbling back into the darkness.

The whole thing happened in the blink of an eye, but Ron was caught off guard as something grabbed his head.

He felt an enormous weight, a sticky sensation, and before he could react, a smaller spider had latched onto his hair. Desperate, he let go of the steering wheel and began shaking his head violently, trying to dislodge the creature attacking him while screaming in panic.

Harry seized the wheel, yanking the car away from a tree they nearly collided with.

With Harry now steering from his seat, the car swerved sharply, veering out of the clearing. The spiders were still there, but the distance between them now seemed safe enough.

“Don't stop! Keep going, Harry!” Neville cried, still looking back, eyes bulging, as the car accelerated through the forest.

It felt like an eternity, but by some miracle—or perhaps his quick Quidditch reflexes—Harry managed to dodge every tree in their path without crashing.

Ron finally managed to fling that spider out of the car and grabbed the wheel again, his hands trembling uncontrollably as he took over steering.

Gradually, the spiders began giving up the chase, and the eerie sounds of the forest returned, mingling with the grumble of the Ford Anglia's engine.

None of them spoke for a long time. No jokes, no attempts to lighten the mood—the shock was too great. They'd already had more than enough trouble for one day.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing pulse, until he spotted something ahead.

The forest opened into a wider area, and he recognized the trees and path that would lead them to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He'd been here before, in his first year, when he'd seen the unicorns. It was a clear landmark.

It helped him remember where they were.

“Turn left at that tall rock and go straight—we'll head right for the castle,” Harry directed.

Finally, they broke free of the forest and exhaled in relief as the towering castle loomed closer than ever. In the distance, they could see the boats docked at Hogwarts' landing, meaning the first-years had already arrived.

“I think... I think we missed the start of the Sorting Ceremony,” Neville murmured.

“That must've been a century ago—took us forever to get here,” Ron said, his voice still shaky from the ordeal.

“Just want somewhere without griffins, trains, or forbidden forests, if that's not too much to ask,” Harry grumbled.

“Spiders—and somewhere without spiders, please,” Ron added, his voice thick with lingering fear.

The redhead swung the car around to park near the castle entrance, but as they arrived, the engine suddenly made a strange noise. The headlight flickered, and the motor sputtered as if on its last legs.

“Useless thing!” Ron gritted his teeth, slamming his palm against the wheel as the car lost power.

They had basically rolled into the flowerbeds near Hogwarts' front gates when, without warning, the car gave one final, violent shudder.

“I think he's—” Neville began, but didn’t get to finish his sentence, because the next instant, the car braked sharply.

With a brutal impact, the three were hurled from the car, their trunks shooting through the air as if they had minds of their own.

Neville, with unexpected agility, managed to grab Trevor’s cage at the last second; the toad trembled in pure terror, eyes bulging. Ron, however, wasn’t so lucky—Scabbers hit the ground with a dull thud, squeaking at the impact.

The car, visibly irritated, honked one last time, emitting a shrill, almost sarcastic sound. Then, it gave a sharp swerve, tyres skidding on the ground before speeding off towards the Forbidden Forest.

“Oi! Come back!” yelled Ron, staggering to his feet and waving his arms as if he could summon the vehicle back.

“It’s gone, Ron,” said Neville, placing a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Ron let out a defeated groan.

“Mum and Dad are going to kill me...”

Neville carefully pulled out his wand, now almost completely snapped, held together only by a thin, flexible strand of wood.

He closed his eyes and sighed mournfully, holding back tears.

Harry knew that was his dad’s wand. The thought of something similar happening to his Invisibility Cloak unsettled him. Just imagining it, he felt a weight in his chest—he’d be devastated.

Without a word, Harry placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Words were unnecessary in that moment.

“I’ll need some Spellotape...” Neville murmured, his voice barely audible. “And a lot of courage to face my gran’s lecture when she finds out.”

Harry gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “It’ll be alright, Nev. This wasn’t your fault.”

Neville shook his head slowly, pocketing the broken wand with near-reverent care.

“Don’t think she’ll take it that easily, but... thanks,” he replied, his voice hoarse, thick with sorrow.

Harry took a deep breath, glancing towards the castle ahead.

The towers, with only a few lights still glowing, most students already asleep, stood out against the night sky. The castle itself was such a welcoming sight that, for a brief moment, he almost forgot the chaos they’d faced to get there.

“I’m never getting in a car again,” Neville declared suddenly, breaking the silence with a firm tone. “Never. Not even if you pay me.”

“At least we’re alive, eh?” said Harry, giving his friends an encouraging pat on the back to lift their spirits.

But he noticed Ron was as pale as a ghost, eyes still wide as he stared towards the Forest.

“Relax, mate,” said Neville, attempting optimism. “He’ll come back eventually... I think.”

Ron shook his head sharply.

“No... it’s not that...” He swallowed hard, shuddering. “That thing. That giant acro-whatsit. Fuck... I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life.”

Neville looked at Ron, then towards the castle entrance, understanding exactly how he felt.

“Well, it’s not just the spiders that’ll haunt our nightmares now,” he murmured, glancing at the castle.

Harry followed Neville’s petrified gaze and felt a sudden chill run down his spine. There, emerging from the shadows like a vision straight from their worst nightmares, a tall, gaunt figure flung open the imposing oak doors of the castle with a bang that echoed across the empty courtyard.

Severus Snape advanced towards them, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of some sinister bird. The pale moonlight sharpened the angles of his face, turning his usual unpleasant expression into something truly terrifying. His black eyes—cold and hard as polished stones—had already spotted them, and the promise of suffering in that gaze was clearer than any words.

If this day were a particularly cruel level in some game of chance, the griffins, the Express, the freefall, the blue demons, and the Acromantulas would’ve just been the opening challenges. Snape, with his silent fury and calculated movements, seemed to have emerged as the final boss—the one no sane player would ever want to face.

“I think he’s come to kill us,” Neville whispered, his voice so thin it was barely audible over the rustling of nearby trees.

Harry swallowed dryly. For a brief moment, he imagined trying to explain to the Ministry how they’d survived deadly magical creatures only to be murdered by the Potions professor.

But if they were going to be dead in a few minutes, they wouldn't have to bother explaining themselves.

“Brilliant...” he muttered, feeling that familiar knot of dread tightening in his stomach as the professor approached, each step echoing like a sentence.