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Chapter Text

Of all the ways Harry Potter had imagined arriving at Hogwarts on that September morning, a near-death adventure aboard a flying car had definitely not been among them—not even in his worst nightmares.

Severus Snape marched the three boys to his office in the dungeons, his black, silent footsteps echoing like threats through the shadowy corridors.

Because of their absurd delay, they had missed not only the Sorting Ceremony but also the Welcome Feast. Now, well past midnight, a heavy silence enveloped the castle, as if even the walls were holding their breath.

The Potions Master’s office was as gloomy as its owner, but unlike the rest of the dungeons, it was dry and warm—though the warmth was hardly comforting.

Crammed shelves stretched to the ceiling, laden with glinting jars containing strange and sinister ingredients: gnarled roots, gleaming eyes, and viscous substances that seemed to watch them back. Oddly, no foul smell lingered—just a metallic, herbal scent, as if fear itself had been distilled there. In one corner, a stone table held an intricate setup of glassware, tubes, and extinguished cauldrons, reminding Harry, with a chill down his spine, of the lessons he dreaded most.

Snape settled into his black leather chair, long, pale fingers steepled on the desk, his dark eyes—cold as river stones—boring into the boys as if they were particularly irritating grubs.

Harry, Ron, and Neville were squeezed into the hard wooden chairs before him, so tense they could barely breathe. The only sound breaking the silence was the intermittent crackle of a lone candle, its flame flickering like a warning.

“Do you have any idea of the magnitude of the trouble you caused?” Snape continued, slicing through the silence like a blade. “Or have your incompetent minds yet to distill the potion of clarity? Because, from where I stand, you seem utterly devoid of it.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Snape raised a pale hand, silencing him with a gesture as sharp as his words.

“Do not speak, Potter.”

With a fluid motion, he drew a copy of the Daily Prophet from his black robes and slammed it onto the desk. The headline displayed a photo of Mr. Weasley’s Ford Anglia hovering over London, its ungainly wings visible to any Muggle who happened to look up.

FLYING CAR TERRORISES LONDON: MINISTRY STEPS IN WITH MASS COVER-UP

The three boys read the bold letters.

“Fifteen Muggles,” Snape enunciated, each word dripping with poison. “Fifteen Muggles witnessed your brilliant escapade. The Ministry has been mobilised, agents had to scramble to Obliviate those who saw, and all because you three—three irresponsible fools—couldn’t manage to arrive at school like normal wizards.”

“Obliviate?” Harry blurted before he could stop himself, his eyes locked on the headline.

Snape leaned forward, his black eyes boring into Harry’s face as though trying to wrench the truth straight from his mind.

“A Memory Charm,” he explained with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Erases unwanted events from anyone’s mind, wizards and especially Muggles—when performed correctly, of course. But given that you three decided to turn London into your personal stage, a considerable effort was required to prevent our world from being exposed like some circus spectacle.”

Ron, who until then had seemed to wish he could merge with the chair, risked a glance at Snape.

“We didn’t mean—”

“Silence!” Snape cut in, his head whipping around with viper-like speed. “I am not finished.”

Ron swallowed his words, lips pressed into a thin line of suppressed fury.

“I ought to congratulate you,” Snape continued, sarcasm dripping like acid. “You’ve managed to stand out before the first day of term. An impressive feat… especially for you, Potter. So like your father.”

Harry felt his blood boil in his veins. He knew exactly where this was headed.

“Arrogant. Insolent. Reckless,” Snape spat each word like a personal insult. “And above all, narcissistic… always craving attention, expecting special treatment, aren’t you? Exactly like James Potter.” His eyes narrowed. “Must run in the family.”

Harry clenched his fists, fingers trembling with anger as he felt his aura pulse hot in his chest. But as much as he wanted to shout, he knew—Snape was waiting for it, so he stayed silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction, already in enough trouble as it was.

“But that’s not fair!” Ron exploded, shoving forward in his chair, his ears turning as red as his hair. “It was my idea to take the car—”

“Ah, of course, the Weasley clan,” Snape cut in, his voice so sharp it seemed to slice the air. “How could I not have guessed? You lot never do know moderation, do you? Either you think too much—like those insufferable twins of yours—or you don’t think at all, as seems to be the case for the rest of your family. Only a Weasley would think nicking a flying car was a fantastic solution… and still fail so spectacularly.”

Neville, who had been trying to make himself as small as possible in his chair, flinched as Snape’s black eyes turned on him.

“And you, Longbottom?” Snape hissed. “What’s your excuse? Or was this just another case of ‘following the herd’ because your brain is incapable of functioning on its own?”

“I-I do think for myself, Professor!” Neville stammered, sinking further into his chair as if willing himself to vanish.

Snape arched an eyebrow slowly, his face a portrait of disdain.

“Do you, now?” he murmured, drawing out the words as if savouring each syllable. “Like when you flooded the Slytherin common room with Dungbombs? Was that your stroke of genius? Or do you think I’ve forgotten that disgusting little stunt?”

Neville’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his face flushing deeply.

“I-I just… w-we didn’t—”

Harry kicked Neville’s ankle discreetly, silencing him.

“As far as we know,” Harry said, keeping his voice steady despite the lump in his throat, “it was the Slytherins themselves who did that. You’ve got no proof it was us.”

Snape leaned forward, his long, pale fingers pressing into the desk as his black eyes bore into Harry like wands poised to cast a curse.

“You and I both know it wasn’t my house, Potter,” he replied, each word as cold as ice. “And I don’t need proof. What you did today says everything I already knew about your character—you’ve just made it public.”

Abruptly, he rose, his tall, gaunt frame casting a sinister shadow that swallowed the wall behind him.

“And now,” Snape continued, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “thanks to your idiocy, the entire school knows that the famous Harry Potter and his gang have already started causing trouble before even setting foot in Hogwarts. Not that this surprises me. I expected some foolishness from you, Potter... but even I was impressed by how quickly you managed to outdo yourselves.”

Ron, who had been gripping the arms of his chair so tightly his fingers had turned white, let out a muffled noise of frustration.

“It wasn’t all Harry’s fault!” he burst out, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. “We had to run from two griffins and still—”

“Griffins?” Snape interrupted, his lips curling into a sneer of pure scorn. “You truly expect me to believe that pathetic lie? That you were engaged in some epic battle against magical creatures while flying in an illegally enchanted car?”

“It’s not a lie!” Ron exploded, his face now the same colour as his hair, his fists trembling with indignation. “If you’d been there—”

“If I had been there, Weasley,” Snape cut in, leaning forward like a vulture over its prey, “you three wouldn’t even have made it off Platform Nine and Three-Quarters!”

He sat back, his glare sweeping over them.

Harry clenched his fists so hard he felt his nails digging into his palms. Enduring the griffins, nearly being hit by the Express, the car’s freefall and almost becoming dinner for giant spiders had been terrifying, but enduring Snape’s accusations—being called a liar and irresponsible—burned inside him like a badly brewed potion.

“Don’t call us liars!” Harry exploded before he could stop himself.

“Keep your mouth shut, Potter!” Snape snarled, his black eyes glinting dangerously as he raised a bony finger. “And mind your tone when speaking to me.”

Harry looked away, breathing deeply through his nose. It was clear Snape would spend the next few hours pouring his usual venom over them.

“What you did was an insult to this institution,” Snape declared, crossing his arms, his voice colder than the dungeons in January. “An act of unprecedented stupidity. And as such...” He paused dramatically, “you three will be sent home. Tonight.”

The words fell like a death sentence. Harry, Ron, and Neville exchanged panicked glances, their hearts pounding so loudly they could almost hear them.

“No, they will not.”

The calm, melodious voice came from the doorway.

The three turned so fast Neville nearly fell off his chair. There stood Dumbledore, his long purple robes shimmering softly in the candlelight, with Professor McGonagall in her usual green robes behind him. The Headmaster’s mere presence seemed to make the air more breathable.

“Albus!” Snape exclaimed, rising so quickly his chair scraped against the stone floor. “You are aware of what these three delinquents have done? The Daily Prophet has made it quite clear the danger they posed to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy!”

Dumbledore raised a wrinkled hand in a placating gesture, though his blue eyes remained serious.

“I understand today’s events were... concerning,” he began, walking calmly to the centre of the room. “But nothing irreparable has occurred. The Ministry has contained the situation with their usual efficiency.”

“Concerning?” Snape repeated, his upper lip curling into a bitter smile. “They nearly exposed our world to dozens of Muggles! Had they been Slytherins, the expulsion letters would already be written.”

“But they are not Slytherins, Severus,” McGonagall interjected, her Scottish brogue sharpened by irritation. “They are my students, Gryffindors, and under my responsibility.”

Snape shot a particularly poisonous look at Harry before replying:

“Then I suppose, Minerva, this is a sad day for your house. Gryffindor has had more worthy students... in nobler times.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed behind her rectangular spectacles.

“They will be punished appropriately, you may be sure,” she replied, her chin raised with dignity. “But our definitions of 'nobler times' seem to differ considerably, Severus. From what I recall, your own Slytherin students are hardly models of perfection. All students make mistakes, from every house.”

A heavy silence hung in the office as the two professors stared each other down, neither willing to yield first. The tension between them was almost palpable, as if the very air were charged with unspoken magic.

Dumbledore, with his usual air of calm, raised his hands in a placating gesture, his gentle smile half-hidden by his long silver beard. He approached the three boys with slow steps, and Harry felt immediate relief at his mere presence—it was as if sunlight had entered those gloomy dungeons.

“As all three are under Gryffindor’s care,” he said, his voice melodious and steady, “I trust Professor McGonagall will handle the appropriate consequences. Severus, there’s no need for concern—proper measures will be taken.”

Snape inclined his head in a near-imperceptible nod, his face settling back into that impenetrable expression not even the shrewdest could decipher.

“If I may offer a suggestion, Minerva,” he began, his voice so smooth and controlled it seemed absurd to recall that mere seconds ago he had been on the verge of expelling them.

“I’m listening,” replied McGonagall, raising an eyebrow in a gesture Harry knew well—it was the same one she used when Fred and George tried explaining themselves after a prank.

“When the time comes to assign their detentions,” Snape continued, his black eyes lingering on Harry as if savouring each word, “I would dearly love to enlist Mr. Potter’s... special talent in preparing the missing ingredients for this year’s lessons. After all, his aptitude for the subject is... remarkable,” he said with clear irony, “and the best of the three, if we consider last year’s grades.”

Harry’s stomach twisted as if he’d swallowed a bucket of slugs. He clenched his fists so hard his nails left crescent marks in his palms.

“Brilliant start to term for you too, you greasy bat,” he thought vehemently, keeping his lips tightly sealed.

Snape curled his lips into his most unpleasant smile, as if he’d heard every word. It wasn’t the first time Harry suspected he could read minds—but if he could, he’d better have gotten the message.

“So... we’re not... not being expelled?” Neville ventured to ask, his voice as shaky as his hands, which twisted nervously at the hem of his robes.

“No, Mr. Longbottom, you are not being expelled,” McGonagall answered, her tone firm but not without a spark of relief. Her gaze, however, made it clear the matter was far from over.

“I leave them in your hands, Minerva,” said Dumbledore, offering the boys one of his twinkling smiles. “Regardless of today’s events, I do hope this year proves exceptionally fruitful for you three—that you may embrace all Hogwarts has to teach. Goodnight—and do try not to stay up too late, hm?”

“Yes, Professor,” the three mumbled in unison, their voices as dejected as their expressions.

“Excellent,” Dumbledore nodded, turning to leave while murmuring something about “being too old for these things,” “urgently needing a lemon drop,” and “staying up far too late, it simply won’t do.”

Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing—even in that tense situation, Dumbledore’s peculiar manner was impossible to ignore.

Snape, meanwhile, cast one last inscrutable look at the trio, his face as expressionless as a stone mask, before turning to his desk, clearly deciding they were no longer worth his time.

“With me,” McGonagall ordered, her Scottish brogue sharpened by severity, as she turned on her heel.

Harry, Ron, and Neville followed her out of the dungeons, the cold, damp air of the corridor feeling almost refreshing after the suffocating atmosphere of Snape’s office.

Neville let out a muffled sigh as they walked, his shoulders finally relaxing slightly.

“I thought we'd end up on the streets before even the first day of term,” he murmured, looking at the other two with a mixture of relief and guilt.

They began climbing the stairs, and the exhaustion of the day quickly caught up with the boys. Ron leaned in towards his friends with the relieved expression of someone who'd just escaped Snape's lair.

“I forgot it's seven floors,” Ron groaned wearily.

Harry gave a small smile, despite the awful day, and leaned closer.

“Eight, actually,” he whispered back. “We're still in the dungeons.”

“Ooh...” Neville moaned, looking even more dejected.

“Well, climbing eight floors is still better than going back to the Burrow tonight,” Ron remarked, in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what he was talking about.

Just the thought of facing his furious mother made him gulp audibly.

After climbing the castle's endless staircases, they finally reached McGonagall's office.

The professor awaited them with her upright posture and stern expression, her lips pressed into a thin line. With a curt gesture, she pointed to the chairs in front of her desk.

“Sit,” ordered McGonagall, her voice as dry as the autumn leaves covering Hogwarts' grounds, though lacking its usual sharpness.

The three boys obeyed immediately, their stiff bodies sliding into the chairs as if facing a tribunal's verdict. Harry could feel cold sweat trickling down his back as he carefully avoided the professor's piercing gaze. McGonagall settled behind her oak desk, fingers steepled, observing them with that look that always made Harry feel like a particularly interesting specimen under a magnifying glass.

“I know it is not in your nature—despite what Professor Snape may suggest—to arrive at Hogwarts in such a... peculiar manner,” she began, her eyes narrowing as she scanned each pale face before her. “Therefore, I wish to hear your account of events. The full account.”

What followed was a chaotic, overlapping retelling, with the three boys speaking at once, interrupting and finishing each other's sentences as if competing to tell the most unbelievable—yet true—story.

Harry described how the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters had inexplicably refused to work. Ron, with sweeping gestures that nearly knocked over an inkpot, explained the “brilliant” decision to use the flying Ford Anglia. Neville, his voice trembling like the leaves of a Whomping Willow, recounted the disastrous flight and the encounter with the griffins.

“And then we crashed—right in the middle of the Forbidden Forest!” Ron exclaimed, his wide eyes reflecting the terror of the memory. “And we thought we were lucky to have survived, until—”

“Until those... blue things appeared,” Neville cut in, his flailing hands sketching vague shapes in the air. “They were jumping everywhere, and—”

“And then the spider showed up,” Harry finished grimly. “It wasn't a normal spider. It was...”

“The size of a house!” Ron said quickly, his arms spreading so wide he nearly smacked Neville in the face. His eyes were so wide the pupils looked like tiny black dots in a sea of blue. “And that thing had loads—hundreds—of babies crawling everywhere! I almost—I almost—” He gulped.

Harry knew it wasn't just for dramatic effect. Ron's fear of spiders was legendary.

McGonagall, who had until then remained as still as a statue, finally reacted.

Her thin lips pressed together even tighter, forming a line so straight it might have been drawn with a ruler, and Harry swore he saw a slight tremor in her hand as she raised her spectacles to rub her eyes.

“Now, to summarise,” she said at last, her voice dangerously calm like the surface of a lake about to freeze, “not only did you break the rules by not waiting for a responsible adult to collect you and bring you to school properly, but you chose to travel alone in a magically enchanted Muggle vehicle—”

“We didn't enchant it,” Ron muttered.

“—nearly exposed our world to at least fifteen Muggles,” McGonagall continued, ignoring the interruption, “encountered griffins, unknown creatures from the Forbidden Forest, and a fully grown Acromantula with her offspring, and by some miracle—and I use that word quite deliberately—managed to arrive at school in one piece?”

“Well, when you put it like that—” Harry began, trying to soften the situation.

“I don't want to hear another word, Potter,” McGonagall cut in, raising her hand with such authority that Harry felt his mouth snap shut involuntarily.

There was something in her eyes, however, that didn't match the severity of her voice—a glint Harry might almost have called admiration, if it weren't completely absurd. It was as though, despite everything, she was impressed by their survival skills—or perhaps simply stunned by their boundless stupidity.

The professor leaned back in her chair, fingers drumming on the desk as she studied the three boys as if seeing them for the first time.
The silence that followed was so thick Harry could hear the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in the grounds.

The three boys exchanged anxious glances but remained silent, as still as the stone statues lining Hogwarts' corridors.

“You could have waited for help at the station,” McGonagall went on, her square spectacles reflecting the candlelight as she spoke. “You could have missed the train and arrived the next day—we would have arranged a solution. A flying carriage, the Floo Network, or even the Knight Bus, if you preferred.” Her eyes narrowed. “But no—you chose to act on your own, in one of the most irresponsible displays I've witnessed in all my years teaching here.”

She took a deep breath, her thin lips compressing into a line so straight Harry could have sworn it was drawn with a set square.

“The barrier has never failed before, that much is true,” she admitted, “but that is no excuse for the decision you made. I want you to understand perfectly what I'm about to say: never—I repeat—never again repeat anything like this. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Professor,” they chorused, their voices echoing automatically as if they'd rehearsed the response.

McGonagall studied them for a long moment, her piercing eyes seeming to weigh the genuine remorse in each face, before finally lacing her hands together on the desk.

“You will be duly punished for your actions, as is to be expected. Furthermore,” she added, making Neville gulp audibly, “your families will receive a letter detailing the entire incident.”

Harry kept his face carefully neutral, but inwardly felt a flicker of relief. He doubted Vernon Dursley would even open the letter—and if by some miracle he did, he'd probably use the parchment to light the fireplace or something equally dismissive.

“However,” McGonagall continued, “given the... extraordinary circumstances you've described, I shall allow you to rest before disciplinary measures are implemented. And believe me,” she warned, with a look that made even Ron shrink in his chair, “measures will be taken. Beginning with a fifty-point deduction from each of you.”

The impact of her words was like a wand-strike to the gut. Fifty points each! Before term had even properly begun! Harry could almost hear the despairing groans Fred and George would unleash when they found out.

As if to emphasize their misery, their stomachs growled in unison—a humiliating reminder they hadn't eaten anything substantial since breakfast, and that Mrs. Weasley's sandwiches had been shared with Neville.

McGonagall sighed, and for the first time since they'd entered her office, Harry caught a glimmer of compassion in her eyes.

“I presume you're ravenous,” she said, her tone slightly softer. “The least I can do is arrange for you to eat in the common room. Fribsky!”

Pop!

With a characteristic crack, a house-elf appeared before them. The tiny creature had pointed ears that drooped like bat wings, dressed in what appeared to be a clean tea towel repurposed as a tunic, with Hogwarts' crest proudly displayed on its chest.

“Could Fribsky bring these three something to eat in the Gryffindor common room, please?” McGonagall requested.

“Of course, Professor!” the elf replied eagerly, its ears flapping excitedly. “Fribsky will fetch the finest sandwiches and hot soup! And perhaps some apple pie too!”

As soon as McGonagall thanked him—

Pop!

—the elf vanished as quickly as he'd appeared.

Harry couldn't suppress a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Don't thank me yet,” she replied, rising with her usual upright posture. “Now, I'll escort you to the common room. And I expect,” she added, fixing each with a look that promised dire consequences for further disobedience, “to hear of no more outrageous incidents involving you this year. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Professor,” the three chorused, standing so fast their chairs nearly toppled backward.

The walk was silent, peaceful even, until they reached the corridor ending with the Fat Lady's portrait.

When they arrived before it, she greeted them cordially and swung open—McGonagall didn't need to say the password, being Head of Gryffindor.

“Ah, one more thing, Mr. Weasley,” the professor called.

Ron stopped, turning to face her before they entered.

McGonagall offered her first pronounced smile since she'd laid eyes on them that evening.

“I thought you'd like to know your sister, Ginevra, has been Sorted into Gryffindor.”

Ron, despite everything, broke into a proud grin.

“Wouldn't expect anything less from her.”

“Excellent. I've no doubt she'll thrive in our house. Now, off you go.”

When they finally clambered through the Fat Lady's portrait hole—exhausted, starving, and still flecked with dirt from the Forbidden Forest—the Gryffindor common room was steeped in near-palpable silence.

The candles had long burned out, leaving only the flickering glow of the fireplace to illuminate the empty room. It was well—well—past midnight, and most students had retired to their dormitories.

Or nearly all.

In a corner by the hearth, a solitary figure lay curled in an armchair.

Hermione still wore her full uniform, having used her own cloak as a makeshift blanket. Her usually disciplined brown curls now tumbled haphazardly across her face, which looked extraordinarily serene in the golden firelight.

“Should we wake her?” Neville whispered, casting a hesitant look between Harry and Ron.

“Yes,” Harry replied in an equally low voice. “She probably stayed up waiting for us.”

It made perfect sense.

When they hadn't come through Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, news of their dramatic flying car arrival must have spread through Hogwarts like wildfire. They'd likely been the main topic at dinner, with increasingly exaggerated versions being shared between tables—if Harry knew anything about how rumours flew through those stone walls.

And Hermione, being Hermione, would have been worried sick.

Ron nudged Harry, his blue eyes bright with sudden excitement.

“Hey, look!” He pointed to one of the nearby tables.

On the polished oak table by the window—not coincidentally the one their quartet always used—were three neatly arranged plates, accompanied by a platter of assorted sandwiches, steaming bowls of soup, generous slices of apple pie, and a jug of fresh pumpkin juice. The house-elves, it seemed, spared no effort in looking after students—especially those who arrived starving after a near-death adventure.

“I'll wake her,” Harry murmured, stepping quietly toward the armchair.

He crouched down to Hermione's level and gently shook her shoulder.

“Hermione?” he called softly. Up close, he noticed how much younger and relaxed her features looked in sleep—an unusual sight, since Harry had never seen her asleep before.

“Hmm?” She groaned sleepily, blinking slowly until her brown eyes flew fully open.

For a brief moment, she seemed completely disoriented, until recognition lit up her face.

“Harry! You're here!” Hermione sat up abruptly, rubbing her eyes to banish the last traces of sleep. “Where were you? Why didn't you go to the station? Is it true you came in a flying car? Are you hurt? You're absolutely filthy! Have you eaten anything? Are you getting detention?”

“Hey, good to see you too, Hermione,” Ron quipped, brushing past them and flopping heavily into one of the chairs by the laden table.

Hermione frowned and crossed her arms determinedly. “Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you're in? This whole madness—”

“Yeah, we've heard that about fifty times today,” Ron interrupted, rubbing his tired eyes. “If you want, you could write it on a scroll and pin it to the noticeboard to save time for future lectures. Snape nearly skinned us alive, and McGonagall finished the job by hanging our hides out to dry.”

“Let me guess,” Hermione said, ignoring Ron's sarcasm, “this was your idea, wasn't it?”

Ron looked away, clearly uncomfortable—his expression was confession enough.

“If he hadn't, we wouldn't have made it to school,” Harry defended quickly, before Hermione could continue her interrogation.

“Yeah, and we also wouldn't have nearly died like three times... or more,” Neville mumbled, already pulling up a chair and attacking a sandwich with the appetite of someone who'd gone hours without food.

“WHAT?!” Hermione let out a muffled shriek, her eyes widening like two full moons.

“Long story,” the three chorused, far too exhausted to go into details just then.

Hermione fixed each of them with a piercing stare, clearly torn between scolding them severely or sitting down to hear every detail of their adventure. Finally, she sighed in resignation and, with a precise nod, gestured to the laden table.

“Eat first. But after,” she warned, jabbing an accusatory finger at each of them, “I want to hear this 'long story'. Every detail. Every. Single. One.”

Harry exchanged a meaningful look with Ron and Neville.

From the determination in Hermione's brown eyes, it was clear she didn't intend to let a single detail slip by.

“At least you're not taking points,” Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses.

“Don't remind me...” Neville mumbled dejectedly.

The sun was already rising when the three boys were forced to get up. With aching muscles and puffy, sleep-deprived eyes, they made their way down to the Great Hall.

In the dormitory, Seamus and Dean had bombarded them with questions about the flying car story. Ron, already tired of retelling it for what felt like the thousandth time, summarised the events quickly, shuddering when mentioning the Acromantula.

The previous night, Neville had begged Hermione to save her more complicated questions for breakfast, and she'd reluctantly agreed.

Now, as they descended the stairs toward the Great Hall, they ignored the curious stares and muffled laughter from other students.

“So... it was because the platform barrier wouldn't work?” Hermione asked, frowning as they walked.

“That's what we wanted to know,” Harry replied, adjusting his bag strap. “Is there some limit on how many people can go through at once?”

“Not that I know of,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “The enchantment's ancient and reliable. And yesterday's paper didn't mention any issues. So it must have started working normally again afterwards.”

“Awesome,” Ron sighed. “Just our rotten luck then.”

As they pushed open the massive doors to the Great Hall, they were met with the infectious energy of the first day of term. The aroma of toast, scrambled eggs, sausages and coffee filled the air.

They greeted their Gryffindor housemates. Harry noticed Ginny blushing violently at the sight of him while unsuccessfully trying to disguise how her cutlery shook. Further down, the Weasley twins were laughing with Angelina, Katie and Alicia, who looked more beautiful than ever and full of summer energy. Oliver Wood, meanwhile, was already passionately discussing the new Quidditch season, while Percy, bored, rolled his eyes.

The four settled at the Gryffindor table—Harry and Ron on one side, Neville and Hermione opposite. The morning light streaming through the high windows illuminated the heaping plates of food, creating an almost ironic contrast to last night's harrowing adventures.

“They still don't know about the points, do they?” Ron muttered between bites of toast thickly slathered with butter, while pouring tea into his mug until it nearly overflowed.

“Doesn't look like it,” Harry replied equally quietly, spearing a sausage with his fork. “Better enjoy it while they're still smiling at us.”

“Why does this stuff only happen to us?” Neville pondered, pouring pumpkin juice into his glass with hands that still trembled slightly.

“Told you before,” Ron chuckled, scattering crumbs across the table, “it's Harry. He's a magnet for trouble.”

Hermione frowned, her unruly curls bouncing with the movement. “Harry attracts trouble? Since when?”

Harry suddenly raised his hand, cutting them off. “Wait... did you hear that?”

“Oh no, here we go again,” Neville laughed, exchanging an amused look with Ron.

Hermione looked from one to the other, completely baffled. “What's happening?”

“It's just,” Ron explained, struggling to contain laughter, “every time something terrible's about to happen, Harry always asks if we heard 'that weird noise'.”

“Idiotic boys...” Hermione huffed, crossing her arms tightly. “You nearly died last night and this morning you're joking about it like you're the twins?”

“Such is life,” Ron shrugged, speaking through a full mouth. “Better to laugh than cry. Last year I nearly became plant food and got thrown by a giant chess piece. If I don't laugh about it, I'll cry.”

“Speaking of which,” Harry said with a mischievous grin, “Ron, which is your left and which is your right hand?”

“Oh, sod off Harry, I was nervous!” Ron protested, giving his friend's shoulder a playful shove while laughing. “I know the difference, I just said I didn't so you'd stop nagging.”

“Not to be rude,” Neville murmured timidly, “but you're terrible at lying.”

“I'm not lying,” Ron retorted immediately.

Neville let out a quiet chuckle. “Then pass me the plate of food to your left, please.”

Ron hesitated visibly, his blue eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to calculate mentally.

“Want me to wind up your watch to help?” Harry offered, feigning seriousness.

“Shut it,” Ron growled, but eventually handed over the correct plate after a brief moment of confusion.

“Congratulations,” Harry said solemnly. “After nearly getting us killed over this, if you genuinely didn't know, I'd have you committed.”

While the boys laughed as if watching a comedy show, Hermione remained stern, her fingers drumming impatiently on the table. She bit her lower lip and leaned forward, her forehead creased with worry.

“Don't you all find this extremely odd?” she asked, her voice laden with seriousness.

“Nearly dying three times in one day?” Harry shrugged. “Getting used to it.”

“Nearly dying is bad enough,” Ron remarked with a grimace. “But nearly becoming spider food? Disgusting...”

He shuddered visibly, as if he could still feel the creature's hairy legs crawling on his skin.

“It was horrible, I know,” Harry admitted casually, spearing another sausage. “But to be honest, spiders can be decent company. I lived with a few when I was little. Non-venomous ones, obviously,” he added, as if discussing the weather.

The memory surfaced effortlessly—dark nights in the cupboard under the stairs, where spiders had been his only companions. He'd learned quickly that screaming in fear only earned him beatings from the Dursleys, and asking for help was as useful as talking to walls. Over time, fear had given way to a peculiar resignation.

As Harry ate his scrambled eggs and sausages with apparent normalcy, he didn't notice his three friends freezing, their forks hovering mid-air, staring at him with expressions ranging from horror to deep bewilderment. The three exchanged meaningful glances, a silent conversation passing between them.

“Well... but that's not what I meant,” Hermione added after an awkward silence.

“Then what?” Harry asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.

“Stop and think: the platform barrier only failed for you. Then, of all possible places, a griffin egg smashed right into your car. And, as if that wasn’t enough, you ended up surrounded by dangerous creatures right after. That’s too many coincidences, don’t you think?”

Neville frowned and scratched his head, clearly uncomfortable. “Are you saying someone... set this up?”

Hermione shrugged, her brow furrowing as she looked at them. “I don’t know. I just know it’s too much weirdness for one day.”

Harry grew thoughtful. “That elf... Dobby. He said I shouldn’t return to Hogwarts. Could that be connected?”

“At this point,” Neville muttered, “I wouldn’t doubt anything.”

Before they could continue, the Great Hall erupted into a flurry of feathers and flapping wings. Dozens of owls swooped in through the high arched windows, carrying letters and morning papers. Harry immediately noticed how Ron and Neville paled when two bright red envelopes landed with a characteristic thud in front of each of them.

“Oh no...” the two groaned in unison, like men condemned to the gallows.

“It’s from Mum,” Ron murmured, his face turning the same shade as his freckles.

“And mine’s from Gran,” Neville added, his hands trembling slightly as he touched the envelope.

“These are about what happened yesterday, aren’t they?” Hermione asked, though she knew perfectly well the answer.

“It’s worse,” Ron sighed deeply. “They’re Howlers.”

“Howlers?” Harry repeated, frowning.

“You’re about to find out,” Neville replied grimly. “Ron, want to open yours first?”

“What if I... don’t open it?” Ron suggested with fragile hope. “Can I just... throw it away?”

“Better to open it,” Neville advised, shaking his head. “If you don’t, the reaction will be much worse when you go home.”

With trembling hands, Ron broke the seal on the envelope. Immediately, the parchment unfolded in mid-air, forming a gigantic mouth that seemed made of living paper.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!”

bellowed Mrs. Weasley's voice, thundering through the Great Hall like a storm.

A sudden silence fell over the students, all eyes turning toward the Gryffindor table. Even the professors at the High Table paused their conversations to watch.

“YOUR FATHER AND I ARE ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED BY YOUR BEHAVIOUR! TAKING THE FLYING CAR WITHOUT PERMISSION? IN BROAD DAYLIGHT? IN A MUGGLE AREA? YOUR FATHER IS FACING AN INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY BECAUSE OF YOU!”

Ron seemed to shrink with each word, his face turning redder than his hair, while poorly suppressed snickers erupted from other tables—particularly Slytherin, where Draco Malfoy and his cronies looked especially entertained.

“YOU'RE LUCKY YOU WEREN'T EXPELLED! BUT WHEN YOU GET HOME, YOU'LL UNDERSTAND THE GRAVITY OF WHAT YOU'VE DONE, DO YOU HEAR ME?”

The voice then softened abruptly

“Oh, and congratulations, Ginny, my dear. We're so proud of you. We know you'll make an excellent Gryffindor.”

Ginny turned red to the tips of her ears as the Howler disintegrated into ashes, leaving an awkward silence in its wake.

“Encore performance?” Draco Malfoy called out just loud enough to be heard across the tables. “Looks like Longbottom's getting a thrashing when he gets home too!”

Ron, Harry, and Hermione shot murderous glares in Malfoy's direction as the entire Hall laughed, but they didn't have time to retort before Neville, with a resigned sigh, opened his own Howler.

“NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM!”

Augusta Longbottom's voice filled the Hall with an authority that would make a general tremble. If possible, it was even more intimidating than Mrs. Weasley's, laden with centuries of family tradition.

“HOW DARE YOU INVOLVE YOURSELF IN SUCH A RECKLESS SCHEME? A FLYING CAR? HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST YOUR MIND?”

Neville shrank into his seat, his shoulders hunching as if trying to disappear into his robes.

“YOU ARE A LONGBOTTOM! YOUR ANCESTORS WOULD BE ASHAMED! YOUR FATHER—”

The voice cut off abruptly, as if Augusta had restrained herself.

“A LONGBOTTOM MUST ACT WITH HONOUR AND DISCIPLINE! I'VE DRILLED THIS INTO YOU YOUR ENTIRE LIFE, AND YET APPARENTLY IT'S MADE NO DIFFERENCE! BEING A GRYFFINDOR IS NO EXCUSE FOR IRRESPONSIBLE BEHAVIOUR! I EXPECT A FULL WRITTEN EXPLANATION, DETAILED, BY THE END OF THE DAY!”

When the Howler finally fell silent and crumbled to ashes, Neville remained frozen for a long moment before murmuring, barely audibly:

“She's not letting this go anytime soon.”

Around the Great Hall, students gradually resumed their conversations, though many still cast curious and amused glances toward the Gryffindor boys.

Fred and George rose from the older students' table in perfect sync, exchanging that particular look that always preceded mischief. As they passed the group, Fred—or was it George?—leaned in with an expression of mock concern that wouldn't fool even a first-year.

“George, I think Mum might be... a tad cross with our dear Ronnikins,” said Fred, placing a dramatic hand over his heart.

“Cross? I'd say she's absolutely devastated!” George replied, eyes sparkling with mirth. “After all, it's not every day your youngest son makes the Daily Prophet headlines before term even starts.”

“Imagine the scandal,” Fred continued, shaking his head, “if it had been our car?”

“Well, technically it was,” George corrected, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “If you consider it belonged to Dad...”

“Absolute truth,” Fred agreed, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “He spent all summer fixing that dented bumper after that little collision...”

“Hey, I've moved past that incident!” George protested, feigning offense, though his lips quivered with suppressed laughter. “But seriously now... where exactly is the car?” he asked, genuine curiosity breaking through.

Fred nodded, equally intrigued. “Right, we didn't see it parked anywhere this morning...”

Ron, already pale enough to rival a ghost, choked on his scrambled eggs.

“Well... about that,” he began, avoiding his brothers' gazes. “After it dropped us off... the car sort of... ran away. Went into the Forbidden Forest.”

The twins exchanged looks of pure comic horror, clearly imagining their parents' reaction upon learning the fate of the precious Ford Anglia.

“Bad business, Ronnikins, very bad business,” George murmured, shaking his head with exaggerated gravity. “Lucky for me I had absolutely nothing to do with this situation.”

“Quite right. And for the official record,” Fred added, giving Ron's shoulder a friendly pat that made his younger brother wince, “I never taught you to drive. Never. Under any circumstances.”

“Oh cheers for the unconditional support, you two. Truly inspiring,” Ron shot back, his sarcasm as thick as the jam on his toast. “Now if you don't mind, we'd like to finish our breakfast in peace?”

“Course, course, we were just leaving,” Fred said, raising his hands in surrender.

“Just wanted to make sure our dear baby brother was recovering from the trauma,” George finished, his mischievous grin lighting up his face.

“Look after them, Hermione, yeah?” they said in perfect unison, as they often did.

Hermione didn't even look up from her plate, her shoulders slightly hunched and hands resting in her lap with unusual stiffness.

George frowned, exchanging a quick glance with Fred.

“Hermione?” he tried again, his voice slightly less cheerful.

“What?” she replied curtly, finally raising her eyes—but only enough to glare at her juice glass.

George cleared his throat, clearly thrown by their friend's uncharacteristic response. “Nothing... just... have a good day.”

“Fine,” she muttered, giving a shrug that convinced no one.

“Everything alright, Hermione?” Harry asked gently, leaning forward.

“Of course, I'm perfectly fine,” she replied automatically, pursing her lips as she took a precise sip of juice.

“No, you're definitely not,” Harry thought, but in a rare moment of caution, bit his tongue before saying it aloud.

The three boys exchanged concerned looks but decided—with rare wisdom—to remain silent.

A while later, Harry noticed Ron and Neville still looking glum about those letters.

“You two okay?” Harry asked, looking between his friends while Hermione kept her eyes fixed on her plate, her hand propping up her head.

“No,” Ron and Neville answered simultaneously, drawing a laugh from Harry that lightened the tense mood at the table.

For a brief moment, Harry felt relief at realizing he wouldn't receive a Howler.

Yet that feeling was quickly replaced by something quite different. He knew exactly why he'd never receive one—and the reality of it hit him like a cold wave.

Why did this always happen? Why did he always feel like this?

Sometimes he wished he could never feel this wretched melancholy again.

Swallowing hard, he tried to push away the tightness in his chest threatening to settle. A fleeting thought crossed his mind—something he'd never dare say aloud: he wished, just once, that he could receive a Howler from a mother... from someone who cared enough about him to send such a thing.

Neither Mrs. Weasley nor Augusta Longbottom had sent those letters out of malice, but because they'd been so worried—seeing them safe must have triggered some psychological reversal in their minds. They didn't want to see them in danger again, and Harry had no one who could feel that way about him.

The idea—however strange—left him unsettled, but Harry didn't let it show.

He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and went back to eating as if nothing had happened—though those five seconds had felt much longer and heavier.

Harry was pulled from his thoughts by a tap on his shoulder. He turned, along with Ron, Hermione and Neville, to see who it was.

A short boy with light brown hair and an almost radiant smile stood before them, clutching a camera. He looked so excited he could barely keep still.

“Hi, Colin,” Hermione greeted, recognising him from last night's feast.

“Hello!” Colin replied, his eyes shining with excitement as he turned directly to Harry. “I'm... I'm Colin, Colin Creevey! You're Harry Potter, aren't you?”

“Yes—” Harry began to answer, but Colin cut him off, speaking so fast he hardly seemed to need to breathe.

“Brilliant! I'm in Gryffindor too! Got Sorted last night! And I was wondering... would you let me take your picture? Just so I can prove I've met you?”

Before Harry could even open his mouth, Colin continued pouring out words.

“Because I know all about you! You defeated You-Know-Who and got that lightning-shaped scar... that's amazing, isn't it? I mean, this whole place is amazing! It's like Disneyland but real! I didn't even know I could do magic until I got my Hogwarts letter!”

Hermione, Ron and Neville exchanged glances, trying to suppress their laughter, while Harry looked completely dazed by the torrent of information.

“Merlin, help me” Harry thought desperately.

“Colin, right?” Harry asked slowly, trying to keep up with the boy's pace.

“That's right!” Colin confirmed enthusiastically. “So... can I take the photo?”

“Well... alright?” Harry responded, sounding more like a question than agreement.

Clac!

Before he could reconsider, Colin had already pressed the button. A blinding flash from the camera left Harry blinking, while a sound echoed through the Hall.

“Nice!” Colin exclaimed, clutching the camera like a treasure. “Pleasure to meet you, Harry!”

With that, he went running back to the first-year table without waiting for a reply.

“What was that?” Neville asked, clearly amused by the situation.

“Harry's got himself a number one fan, it seems,” Ron teased, hiding a smile behind his pumpkin juice.

“I don't have a fan!” Harry protested, still rather bewildered by it all.

“If you didn't before, you do now,” Ron laughed, shoving a piece of sausage into his mouth. “And I'll bet he'll be wanting more photos.”

After breakfast, the quartet took a brief respite in the castle's inner gardens, settling onto the stone benches beneath an ancient tree's shade. They needed to organize their weekly schedules—in the whirlwind of events, they'd forgotten to note down their classes, and now seized these quiet minutes to sort it out.

“Hermione, can I borrow your timetable to copy?” Neville asked politely, holding his own blank notebook.

“Of course,” she replied promptly, opening her bookbag with a fluid motion and withdrawing an immaculately organized notebook.

“Cheers,” Neville thanked with a smile.

“I'm just popping to the loo, you can start copying and I'll be right back,” she announced before striding off with quick steps.

Neville's smile transformed into bewilderment when he opened the notebook to the first page. He blinked several times, as if not believing his eyes.

“What is it?” Ron asked, leaning over Neville's shoulder to peek.

When his blue eyes caught the contents, he made a dramatic gagging face—which in turn made Neville choke back actual nausea with a hand over his mouth. His weak spot was anyone vomiting near him or pretending to retch.

“What's going on?” Harry questioned, confused.

“See for yourself,” Ron answered—handing the notebook to Harry while pinching it between two fingers like tweezers—with exaggerated disgust.

Harry frowned and examined the page. His face gradually assumed the same disbelief as his friends.

The schedule was laid out with meticulous precision. Hermione had used rulers to create perfect tables, with weekdays aligned horizontally and class periods vertically. Colored ink highlighted different subjects, and small margin notes suggested supplementary reading. Everything supremely organized—typical Hermione.

Except for one peculiar detail.

Beside every Defence Against the Dark Arts class, she'd drawn tiny glowing hearts that pulsed gently on the paper, some even shifting between pink and red hues. Worse still, she'd clearly applied a charm to make the hearts move, spinning and floating across the page like enchanted butterflies.

It was, without doubt, the most disturbing notebook Harry had ever seen.

“Merlin's pants...” he murmured slowly.

“She... she really likes Lockhart then,” Neville observed.

“Best copy what's there before we catch it,” Ron said, pulling a quill from his bag.

The boys hastily copied the timetables, trying to ignore the dancing hearts that seemed to mock their discomfort.

When Hermione returned, Ron couldn't restrain himself.

“What?” she asked, noticing their odd looks.

“Hearts? For DADA? Really?” Ron questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione flushed like a summer sunset, snatching the notebook from Harry's hands in one sharp motion when she realized all three boys were staring at her strangely.

They said nothing, but the way Harry scratched his neck, Neville coughed and looked away, and Ron continued judging her from head to toe like some bizarre zoo specimen, made their opinions perfectly clear.

“I should've left you lot without schedules!” she snapped, shoving the notebook back into her bag with excessive force. “Professor Lockhart will be an excellent instructor, those were just simple doodles to help me remember his classes, nothing more!”

“Hmm, right, and I'm the Minister for Magic,” Ron agreed sarcastically.

He fell abruptly silent when Hermione shot him a look that could melt lead. Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched toward their next class, her brown hair swinging like a cloak of indignation.

The boys exchanged meaningful glances. None of them believed Hermione's flimsy explanation, but they knew better than to comment further. She was more temperamental than a griffin with a headache—and no one in their right mind provoked an irritated griffin.

Least of all the three of them, with what amounted to a practical PhD on the subject.

They all headed to their first Herbology lesson of the year. Neville was visibly excited, more so than even Hermione, who rarely failed to appear the most eager student for any class.

But strangely she remained quiet, having barely spoken two words as they walked the corridors.

Harry thought it might be because of what happened with her notebook and their judgment about her, but even things like that wouldn't shake her enthusiasm for academic matters, especially new topics from that year.

After initial greetings, Professor Sprout led the class to greenhouse number four, the most remote one at the far end from the entrance. At the back of the greenhouse filled with magical plants and gardening tools stood an isolated pot containing a lazily moving green plant.

“Today we'll be studying the Venomous Tentacula,” Professor Sprout explained firmly. “Don't approach it, understood? The name makes perfectly clear what could happen if you touch it improperly.”

A nervous murmur rippled through the class.

Many girls—Hermione being the notable exception—looked terrified when Sprout casually mentioned the plant was carnivorous, feeding on humans and magical creatures like Chizpurfles, small crab-like parasites.

Harry exchanged a knowing look with his friends, and they all seemed to remember last year's unpleasant encounter with the Holoplunc when they'd nearly died to the carnivorous plant without even being able to scream because of those damned colorful mushroom spores.

It was then that Harry stopped paying attention to the lesson, lost in his own thoughts.

“How many times have I nearly died in less than a year?” he reflected, scratching his arm while staring fixedly at his workstation as the professor explained something he wasn't hearing. “Starting with the troll in October... then the Popcorn and Voldemort in the forest... actually better not know.”

Harry shook his head, not wanting to dwell on it, when at the back of the room Draco Malfoy snickered and whispered something that made other Slytherins laugh.

Harry caught part of the joke—something about “serving up Mudbloods as appetizers for the venomous plant”—but chose to ignore it.

Whatever it was, it wasn't worth his attention.

Professor Sprout moved to the center of the greenhouse, her mud-caked boots making soft squishing sounds with each step.

With a welcoming smile, she asked:

“Who here has puppies as pets?”

Two hands rose timidly among the students: Megan Jones from Hufflepuff, with her messy braids, and Kevin Entwhistle from Ravenclaw, who looked surprised to be one of the few. Dogs, after all, were extremely rare at Hogwarts—owls, cats and toads were far more practical, requiring less care and space, though there were small magical creatures like Puffskeins, but they were exceptions just like dogs.

“Very good,” continued the professor, casting a meaningful look around the room. “I advise against bringing them for walks near the greenhouses. Can anyone tell me why?”

As expected, Hermione's hand shot up before the professor even finished the question.

“Miss Granger,” Sprout indicated, her eyes shining with approval.

“Because Venomous Tentacula also include dogs in their diet, Professor,” Hermione answered in her clear, lecturing tone—the voice of someone who'd read Carnivorous Plants of the Wizarding World cover to cover. “Especially puppies, since they're easier to digest due to their size.”

A heavy silence fell over the greenhouse, broken only by the nervous rustling of some leaves. Several students' eyes widened.

“Correct answer, Miss Granger! Five points to Gryffindor,” Sprout announced with a satisfied smile. “And I should add that, beyond size, puppies have weaker defensive instincts, making them... well, an even more tempting snack, so to speak.”

Hermione merely noted something in her book, not even smiling at the praise—strangely unusual for her, as she normally sat up straighter with pride when earning house points.

“Maybe it's because... well, they're puppies,” Harry thought, observing his friend with a frown.

“But... puppies?” Hannah Abbott exclaimed, horrified, pressing her hands to her mouth as if holding back a scream. “That's awful!”

“That's what I thought... I mean, obviously it's awful,” Harry reflected to himself. “I'm going mad... And talking to myself definitely doesn't help.”

He let out a low, involuntary chuckle at the image of his own voice echoing in his head like a madman's.

The nearby girls—including Parvati and Lavender—turned to stare at him with expressions of disgust, clearly convinced he was laughing at the idea of puppies being devoured.

Harry stopped laughing when he noticed the stares directed at him, nearly running a hand through his hair before remembering his gloves were caked with dirt.

Professor Sprout tilted her head with an understanding expression, but her tone was firm.

“I know it seems cruel, Miss Abbott, but this is the reality of Herbology. Not all magical plants are harmless. Some can be deadly, and that's precisely why we're here: to learn how to handle them before something happens.”

The class murmured again, though now with more subdued unease.

“You must understand, especially those who recently discovered they're magical,” Sprout continued, gesturing to the writhing Venomous Tentacula in its pot, “that the wizarding world isn't a fairy tale, as many silly stories like to pretend. If you underestimate something, it could cost you dearly. Very dearly. That's why pay close attention to what I say next...”

“The wizarding world is no fairy tale...”

Those words echoed in Harry's thoughts.

He knew it was true. For a brief moment, his mind flashed to the grim book he'd read in the library about Unforgivable Curses, then to the previous year—to the bodies of unicorns, killed for greed and power, and to Voldemort's reborn face on Quirrell's head.

Before, he might have believed the magical world was like Colin Creevey described: an extraordinary, enchanting amusement park like the Muggle Disneyland.

But that was just an illusion.

After what he'd faced the previous day and the year before, Harry didn't need anyone to tell him magic could be as dangerous as it was fascinating.

However dark that was.

After the double Herbology lesson, the group headed to lunch. Ron, with the typical expression of someone who believed himself starving enough to faint, complained at least three times about how long the lesson had taken, while Hermione remained completely oblivious to his whinging, or any other topic the group discussed.

After eating, they made their way to their next Transfiguration class, navigating the corridors while dodging two panicked sixth-year Gryffindors running late for Potions—Snape would definitely deduct more points for that.

Hermione didn't look at anything or anyone in particular as they walked, which worried Harry. She'd been acting strangely all day—angry in the morning and now seeming sad and uncomfortable.

Harry frowned, now more concerned about his friend.

“Hermione? You're not yourself—what's wrong?” Harry asked gently, moving closer to her.

“Yeah, I noticed too,” Neville added, joining them.

She sighed, defeated and timid, hugging the thick book she carried tighter, as if it were a teddy bear.

“Look, I'm... I'm fine, just... thoughtful,” she replied vaguely, avoiding their eyes.

“Well... if you need us, we're here, alright?” Neville offered calmly.

“Mhm,” she murmured without enthusiasm.

Within minutes, they were all in the Transfiguration classroom, where Professor McGonagall awaited them with her usual upright, stern posture.

The lesson began with a thorough explanation of the theory behind transfiguring living creatures into objects—an advanced topic requiring not just precise wand movements, but deep understanding of magical intent.

Harry, who had always excelled at Transfiguration, paid close attention, but even he struggled with the more complex details. He quickly jotted down some unresolved questions on a parchment to review later in the library.

“Today, we'll put into practice what we've just discussed,” McGonagall announced, holding a beetle that squirmed between her fingers. “Your goal is to transfigure this insect into a button. Remember: intent is the foundation of Transfiguration, but—as always—it must be accompanied by concentration, clear articulation of the spell, and precision. You may begin.”

Hermione, as expected, already had her wand raised before the professor finished speaking. Her movements were fluid and precise, and within seconds, her beetle transformed into a perfectly round button with an impeccable, glossy finish.

Ron, beside her, was red with effort, his ears burning with frustration. He'd already tried at least a dozen times, and though his beetle had technically become a button, the result was... questionable. The object still wriggled, tiny legs flailing frantically as if trying to escape the desk.

Harry couldn't help a discreet smile seeing Hermione finish first—not that he minded, of course, but it always warmed his heart to see her proud of herself, especially when she could barely contain the sparkle in her eyes after success.

He didn't take much longer himself.

With a firm flick, his beetle transformed into a well-crafted button—and if he were honest, perhaps even slightly better than Hermione's, though he quickly suppressed the thought as if it were unforgivable vanity.

Neville, however, was struggling terribly.

His wand—already quite damaged and wrapped in tape—seemed determined not to cooperate. He held it with an expression of resigned desperation, as if silently begging for a miracle.

In one last desperate attempt, Neville swung his wand too forcefully, and a bolt of magic shot from it like a rogue firework, hitting Justin Finch-Fletchley's desk with a crack.

“Careful, Longbottom!” McGonagall scolded, adjusting her glasses sharply. “Aiming is essential, unless your goal is to transfigure your classmate's desk into an elephant!”

Justin, who'd leapt from his chair with a yelp, glared at Neville with a mix of irritation and fear.

With a sigh, McGonagall turned to Harry. “Mr. Potter, perhaps you could assist Mr. Longbottom. It seems he requires more hands-on guidance.”

“Of course, Professor.” Harry nodded, a knot forming in his stomach.

He tried helping, murmuring encouragement and demonstrating the correct movement, but the magic simply seemed to slip through Neville's fingers like water. His beetle, far from transforming into anything useful, now ran in circles across the desk as if mocking the failed attempts.

Neville looked at Harry with mingled gratitude and shame.

“I... think I need more practice,” he mumbled, shoulders hunched.

Harry didn't know what to say. Some things, he knew, had no easy solution—especially when they involved broken wands and already-shaken confidence.

As they left the Transfiguration classroom, Harry noticed Neville still carried the weight of his failure on his shoulders.

His normally open, kind face was closed off in pure frustration, eyes fixed on the floor as if willing it to open up and swallow him. Neville wasn't the type to be easily discouraged by poor marks—he was more than accustomed to stumbling through spells and potions—but this time felt different.

“It's the wand” Harry thought, his stomach twisting. “His father's broken wand.”

That object should have been a precious heirloom, a link to the past, and there it was—taped together, failing precisely when Neville needed it most. The weight of disappointment must have been nearly unbearable.

As they walked down the corridor toward their next class, Harry considered striking up a conversation with Hermione—perhaps discussing transfiguration theory or just distracting her with some silly remark. But she seemed lost in her own thoughts, lips pressed into a thin line, and he decided not to bother her.

Just then, as they turned the corner, laughter echoed behind them.

Harry turned and saw Neville, his face still flushed with embarrassment but now sporting a genuine smile. Ron stood beside him, gesturing animatedly, clearly in the middle of a story—or, more likely, an awful joke. It didn't matter how bad it was; what mattered was that Neville was laughing, and that alone felt like a victory.

“If anyone knows how to cheer someone up, it's Ron, don't you think?” Harry murmured, feeling a comforting warmth in his chest.

Hermione offered a small smile—not the radiant one she reserved for academic triumphs, but something softer.

“It's true,” she agreed. “He has this unique talent.”

The rest of the day passed at a slow, tedious pace, culminating in History of Magic. Professor Binns floated at the front of the classroom, his monotone voice droning like a slowly deflating balloon as he lectured about medieval secret societies.

Harry, who had given up fighting sleep with his head propped on his arms, jolted upright when Hermione's sharp elbow jabbed into his ribs.

“Wha—? Huh?” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Class is over,” Hermione whispered, gathering her books with a disapproving look. “Unless you'd like to spend the night here, of course.”

Harry yawned, stretching his arms, and followed her out of the classroom, relieved to finally escape that endless tedium.

The next morning carried an air of tense anticipation as students made their way to the first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson of the year.

Hermione walked several paces ahead of the group, her brown hair swaying with each anxious movement, fingers drumming against the cover of Travels with Trolls. Her mood still wasn't quite normal, carrying a peculiar edge.

“I've got a feeling this is going to be torture,” Ron muttered to Neville as they descended a stone staircase. “Either he'll drone on about some monster he supposedly defeated, or worse.”

Neville, who normally would be the first to agree with any gloomy prediction, this time considered the possibility with unusual optimism.

“If he at least teaches us how to defeat those creatures like he claims to have done...” He shrugged, not entirely sure he wanted to learn such things, “that'd be something, wouldn't it?”

“Ah, but now you're being far too ambitious, aren't you, Longbottom?” Harry said with mock seriousness, adjusting his glasses.

“Quite right,” Neville agreed, suppressing a laugh. “Do allow me to apologize for my audacity.”

“Not accepted,” Harry replied, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I mean, didn't Hermione say he learned the vampire language in... what was it? A week?” He snorted.

Ron snapped his fingers as if struck by an important memory.

“And still had to negotiate peace between vampires and werewolves in Hungary—without a translator!” The dramatic emphasis on the last phrase made all three boys laugh so loudly it echoed down the corridor.

Hermione, who'd been pretending not to hear, turned with a withering look.

“Don't be so unfair to him!” she protested, though a slight tremor in her voice suggested even she had doubts. “He's got incredible life experience! We could learn loads from him if you'd just give him a chance...”

The boys sighed in unison. This wasn't the first—and likely not the last—time Hermione defended Lockhart against their remarks.

“He's insufferable!” Ron exploded. “Couldn't stand five minutes with him at Flourish and Blotts... and I live with Percy!”

The comparison was so unexpected Harry and Neville lost control, their guffaws echoing off the stone walls.

“Comparing Lockhart to Percy is just cruel,” Harry managed between laughs.

“But to whom? Lockhart or Percy?” Neville asked with characteristic innocence, which only made Harry and Ron laugh harder.

Hermione shook her head, her hair forming a brown cloud of indignation.

“You only ever see the worst in people... and he's not that bad!” she insisted, putting as much conviction into her voice as possible.

“Thinking like that, maybe we should give him a chance, right?” Neville ventured timidly. “Maybe we caught him on an off day at the shop?”

“After he humiliated me in front of the entire bookshop for no reason?” Harry reminded them, his good mood evaporating. “If that was his off day, I don't want to see his good one.”

“He didn't humiliate you!” Hermione countered, cheeks flushing. “He was just... excited to meet you! Who wouldn't be?”

Harry rolled his eyes so hard he momentarily feared they'd get stuck. Ron and Neville silently shared his sentiment.

The ensuing silence grew so thick that Neville, ever sensitive to atmosphere, cleared his throat to break the tension.

“Well... at least it can't be worse than Binns,” he tried, turning down the corridor to the Defence classroom.

“Don't jinx it,” Ron grumbled, adjusting his bag.

Hermione crossed her arms determinedly, chin raised in challenge. “I want to see your faces after a few lessons with him. Maybe then you'll recognize his worth.”

The three boys exchanged looks that clearly expressed their skepticism, but they knew better than to continue the debate.

When Hermione believed herself completely right about something, she could be as stubborn as a troll trying to push through a locked door—and just as willing to argue until someone yielded or collapsed from exhaustion.

As they entered the classroom, Harry noticed the environment was radically different from the previous year. The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, once stuffy and reeking of garlic, was now bathed in sunlight streaming through open curtains.

However, the positive aspects ended there.

The walls were lined with enchanted portraits of various smiling Lockharts in heroic poses, hands on hips and chests puffed out. The most ridiculous one showed him—dressed as a painter—painting a portrait of himself defeating a dragon in an utterly absurd manner, standing fearlessly before it without flinching from any flames.

Inside the classroom, several girls from all four houses chattered excitedly about him, while Draco Malfoy and other Slytherin boys leaned against the walls or sat on desks, looking bored by the female enthusiasm, arms crossed and muttering.

It was perhaps the first time Harry realized, with some unease, that he might share Malfoy's perspective without even knowing exactly what the other boy was thinking.

That couldn't be a good sign.

“What a circus,” Ron grumbled, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “But what did I expect?” he added, mostly to himself.

Harry agreed, sighing heavily.

“This is going to be a looong year,” he said, drawing out the word.

BANG!

Before they could comment further, the door burst open and Lockhart strode in, radiant in turquoise robes, his smile dazzling as if he'd just stepped out of a fashion show rehearsal.

“Good morning, class!” he exclaimed, arms spread wide as if expecting applause. “I hope you're ready for a lesson you'll never forget!”

Students settled in while Lockhart approached the largest portrait of himself—nearly two meters tall—which attempted to look imposing with a heroic stance and a gleaming smile.

“I believe you all know me,” he began confidently, hands on hips.

All the girls nodded vigorously without blinking.

“I'm constantly in the media and was introduced by Headmaster Dumbledore at the Sorting Ceremony,” he continued, “but should any of you, for some unfathomable reason, not know me yet, allow me to properly introduce myself.”

He paused dramatically, swirling his cloak, his smile widening further.

“I am Gilderoy Lockhart, your new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award—though, of course, I don't like to boast. I didn't defeat that Chimaera in Cyprus just by smiling at it, did I?” He finished with a laugh, which the girls echoed with giggles and sighs.

The boys, meanwhile, exchanged exasperated looks.

“Now, I assume you all have my books with you?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “Excellent!” He drew his wand and summoned a stack of parchment from his desk drawer. “We'll begin with a little test today.”

Harry frowned, his discomfort growing.

A test? On the first day?

Ron and Neville looked equally baffled, while Hermione sat with her chin raised, wearing a distinct I-told-you-so expression.

“We'll start simple, no fuss, as I need to assess your current knowledge,” Lockhart continued, flicking his wand to send parchments floating precisely before each student. “I must say, seventy questions felt rather sparse—I could've done more—but this will suffice for now.”

“Seventy questions?!” Ron whispered in disbelief to Harry beside him.

“Did you read the book?” Harry muttered back.

“Course not!” Ron replied indignantly, as if it were obvious. “Who d'you take me for? A complete idiot?”

Harry sighed, feeling the weight of impending failure. “Bollocks, neither did I.”

With a desperate gesture, Ron craned his neck, trying to peek at Hermione's parchment in front of them.

“Can you see her answers?” he whispered, voice low enough to avoid detection.

“No, her hair's in the way,” Harry replied with another sigh. “It's impossible.”

“Bloody perfect time for her to sit in front rather than beside us,” Ron grumbled, huffing in frustration.

Truthfully, Hermione's hair had always been voluminous and thick, like a curtain of brown curls. Seeing anything beyond it was nearly impossible, especially when she leaned over her test, creating a natural barrier between the rest of the class and her parchment.

When Lockhart approached, surveying the class over their heads, the two fell silent, abandoning any attempt to peek and starting to answer the exam. Harry scribbled his name and the date at the top of the page.

“At least I can manage that much” he thought to himself.

He was beginning to worry about the questions and wondered if he'd have time to answer them all. But as he started reading them, his jaw dropped.

What is my favourite holiday?
What do I most enjoy doing?
What life-changing birthday gift did I receive at age ten?
What is my favourite colour?

"...What kind of fucking test is this?!" Harry thought to himself.

Using Magical Me as reference, Harry filled in the answers almost mechanically, feeling like a complete idiot for having feared this test as if it held any actual value.

At the end of the allotted time, Lockhart collected the quizzes, stacking them on his desk with an exaggerated flourish. He began marking the tests right then and there, his eyes gleaming as he read through the answers.

Before starting to grade, Lockhart held up a quill for the class to see, displaying it as though it were some rare treasure.

It was a peacock quill, shimmering and multicoloured, completely unlike the plain white, grey, or black quills the students were accustomed to using. The sunlight streaming through the castle windows made its iridescent hues glint in an almost pretentious manner.

“Must've plucked it from his own arse. Bet that hurt like hell,” Ron muttered to Harry, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought back laughter.

Harry choked, his eyes watering as he struggled not to burst out laughing.

“You know, this quill has an extraordinary history,” Lockhart announced with a dramatic sigh, as if about to reveal a life-or-death secret. “I received it after saving the magical city of New Delhi from a dreadful vampire. Of course, very few heard about the incident—modesty forbade me from allowing it to be publicised. But the Minister for Magic, so grateful, presented me with this quill. Symbolic, of course, but how could I resist? I needed something worthy of signing my correspondence, didn’t I?”

His beaming smile swept across the room, as dazzling as it was irritating.

The girls sighed, eyes wide with admiration, while the boys rolled their eyes and muttered less-than-complimentary things under their breath.

When he reached the bottom of the pile, he looked up directly at Hermione, a broad, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face.

“Miss Granger!” he began, his voice dripping with admiration. “The very least I can say is that I am impressed!”

Harry, even without looking directly at her, knew Hermione was turning as red as a tomato.

“You were the only one,” he continued, pausing for dramatic effect, “who got all seventy questions correct. Many got even the most basic details wrong—such as my favourite colour being lilac, not pink, as some wrote. It’s shocking how people can mix up something so elementary.”

A few students exchanged incredulous looks—the girls dismayed at having missed something, the boys at the sheer absurdity. But Hermione, though clearly embarrassed, couldn’t quite hide the proud gleam in her eyes.

“Therefore,” Lockhart concluded, puffing out his chest, “I shall award twenty points to Gryffindor for Miss Granger’s outstanding work. Let her be an inspiration to you all!”

Ron shot Harry a disbelieving look.

“Twenty points for a bloody colour?!” he whispered.

Harry gave a quiet, humourless laugh.

“Be glad Hermione fancies him and she’s in Gryffindor, at least,” he shrugged. “Twenty points for a colour’s not the worst.”

Lockhart dismissed the class.

As they left the classroom and headed toward the Great Hall for dinner, Ron lingered behind with Hermione, arguing heatedly about what they'd just endured.

“Seriously?” Ron demanded, his ears turning red with indignation. “This was the lesson that was supposed to make me see his 'worth'? Well, here's my face now!”

He scrunched his face into an exaggerated imitation of Lockhart's gleaming, self-indulgent smile.

Hermione pressed her lips together, her eyes blazing.

“Stop being so insufferable!” she retorted, adjusting her bag with a sharp jerk. “He was trying to teach something important, even if in a... different way. It's not his fault if you refuse to understand!”

“Oh right! It's always my fault, isn't it?” Ron shot back, his voice echoing down the empty corridor. “I should've known Defence Against the Dark Arts would be about guessing someone's favourite colour! How useful! Next time a dragon shows up, I'll ask if it prefers emeralds or rubies before turning into a barbecue!”

Hermione crossed her arms so tightly Harry, walking a few paces ahead with Neville, could almost hear the fabric of her robes creaking.

“You're twisting everything on purpose!” she said through clenched teeth. “That's not the point! It's about understanding how he thinks, how he... how he communicates! He's trying to make learning more accessible, but all you do is complain. It's infuriating!”

Ron threw his hands up in dramatic disbelief.

“Accessible? Accessible to who, exactly? His fans who memorise every word of his books?” He paused, mimicking Lockhart's saccharine tone: “'Oh dear students, today we'll learn to survive a ghoul attack... but first, let's discuss my latest haircut!'“

“He never said that!” Hermione shrieked, now visibly flushed. “If you'd just look past your prejudice—”

“I tried, Hermione!” Ron interrupted, flinging his arms wide. “I tried, and all I learned was that if a vampire attacks me, I should ask its blood type preference rather than hexing its arse!”

Hermione let out an exasperated huff.

“Your problem is you're too stubborn to see any method beyond what you already know!” She jabbed an accusatory finger. “You criticise before even trying to understand!”

Meanwhile, Harry and Neville—already exhausted by the particularly frustrating lesson—quickened their pace, letting the argument fade slightly behind them. Neither had the energy or patience to mediate that particular row right now.

“You thought that lesson was a complete waste of time too, didn't you?” Harry asked, pushing his glasses up his nose as he gave Neville a weary look.

“Absolutely,” Neville agreed immediately, his round face lighting up with relief at finding someone who shared his opinion. “At least I'm not the only one.”

“Right,” Harry smiled, though it didn't reach his green eyes, still tired from the frustrating class. “Those two were just looking for an excuse to start arguing, I reckon.”

Neville gave a nervous chuckle.

“Was only a matter of time.” He then abruptly changed subjects, as if remembering something important: “Oh, Harry, did you know I've started supporting the Montrose Magpies?” His face brightened at mentioning the team. “They've got the most fascinating history in the league!”

Harry knew Neville had developed a shy but genuine interest in Quidditch after their casual matches during the holidays.

He turned to his friend with a curious smile.

“Aren't the Montrose Magpies that team always leading the league?”

Neville flushed slightly but shrugged with a timid grin.

“Well, they've been on a good streak lately,” he said quietly. “And their fanbase is... really lively, you know?”

“Ah, I see,” Harry said, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You like backing the winners, then?”

“Who doesn't?” Neville replied, trying to mask his embarrassment with a laugh. “I've enough disappointment in my life—why go looking for more?”

Harry laughed, but his expression turned more serious when he asked: “Does Ron know?”

Neville suddenly looked down at his own feet as if his shoes were extraordinarily interesting.

“Actually, no... I was going to say, but...” His voice faded into a mumble.

“But the Magpies are the Chudley Cannons' arch-rivals, aren't they?” Harry finished, giving Neville a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Ron hates them with a passion. He’s going to be... well, a bit gutted when he finds out. He’s the one who got you into Quidditch in the first place.”

Neville let out a nervous laugh, his face twisting into an expression of pure discomfort.

“I know, I know... he’ll probably hate me for it. But when I saw the Magpies play...” His eyes lit up with genuine excitement. “It was like finding my team, you know? The kits are brilliant, the team’s history...”

“Ron’ll come round, eventually,” Harry tried to reassure him, though his smile held a trace of doubt. “He’s competitive, but deep down, he just wants everyone to have a good time. Even if he’d never admit it.”

“Yeah... hope so,” Neville replied, still looking rather worried. “But if I start supporting the Magpies and he sticks with the Cannons, our casual matches are going to get... interesting.” He laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

“No doubt,” Harry agreed, raising an eyebrow with a mischievous grin. “But we’ve still got the Gryffindor team, haven’t we? Just don’t tell me you’re going to start rooting for Slytherin, because then I’d be properly hurt.” He gave Neville a playful nudge.

Neville laughed, the tension beginning to ease.

“Well, they say Hufflepuff’s got a cracking Seeker,” he teased, just as Cedric Diggory passed by in the corridor with a few friends. “Might start wearing yellow and black to matches, who knows?”

Cedric nodded at Harry, who returned a polite smile before they continued on their way.

Harry raised both eyebrows at Neville, his grin turning decidedly wicked.

“Do that, and the twins’ll ‘convince’ you to switch back to red and gold... in a way that probably wouldn’t be very pleasant. For you, anyway. They’d definitely have a laugh. And so would I, likely.”

Neville grimaced at the thought of what Fred and George might do, especially with Harry possibly egging them on.

“Best stick with red and gold, then,” he said, laughing nervously.

“Wise choice,” Harry joked, bumping Neville’s shoulder with his fist.

It was then that they both noticed the echoes of Ron and Hermione’s argument had become impossible to ignore. Even at a distance, their furious voices carried clearly, suggesting the row, far from dying down, was escalating by the minute.

Ron’s eyes bulged, his ears turning red as embers as he threw his hands up dramatically.

“Ridiculous? I’m the ridiculous one here?” His voice echoed down the empty corridor, making a few first-years ahead quicken their pace. “For Merlin’s sake, Hermione, you’re defending a professor who spent the whole lesson handing out a bleeding quiz about what colour best matches his eyes!”

Hermione spun so sharply her bushy brown hair whipped the air like a hurricane.

“You’re twisting everything, as usual!” she shrieked, eyes blazing dangerously. “He was trying to teach emotional connection to magic! Something you clearly wouldn’t grasp even if I drew you a ruddy diagram!”

“Emotional connection?” Ron barked a laugh that sounded more like a snarl. “Next lesson, he’ll have us defeating trolls with poetry, will he? Or maybe negotiating with dragons using sonnets?”

“At least he’s trying something different!” Hermione shot back, stepping forward with a trembling finger. “While you just snipe from the sidelines like some sort of Defence Against the Dark Arts expert! Which you’re not!”

Ron turned as red as a chilli pepper.

“Oh yes, because memorising all his books makes you the ultimate authority, does it?” Ron shot back with equal intensity. “Guess what, Hermione, knowing Lockhart’s exact height WON’T save you from a werewolf!”

“STOP putting words in my mouth!” Hermione was now shaking with rage, her hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles turned white. “You’re IMPOSSIBLE when you’re like this! Arrogant, stubborn, and—and—”

“And WHAT?” Ron challenged, leaning forward with his chin jutting out. “Go on, say it! Or are you just going to stare at me like I’m some sort of bug in your lab?”

A charged silence fell between them. Hermione took a sharp breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You know what, Ronald?” she said, eyes blazing with fury. “If you disagree, don’t talk to me! I hate having to put up with you when you’re like this!”

Ron looked as though he’d been hit by a Petrificus Totalus, but before he could respond, Hermione spun on her heel, her robes swirling dramatically behind her like the wings of an enraged raven.

“Hermione, wait—” Harry tried to intervene, but she was already storming down the corridor, her footsteps echoing like hammer blows.

Ron stood frozen, gaping alternately at Hermione’s retreating back and at his friends, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“But... she... I didn’t... What the hell just happened?!” he spluttered, gesturing wildly at the empty space where she’d been.

Harry and Neville exchanged a look that plainly said, “Now you’ve really done it.”

“I reckon... maybe you should’ve stopped at ‘defeating trolls with poetry’...” Neville muttered, rubbing his arm nervously.

Ron grunted something unintelligible and kicked at the air in frustration, but didn’t reply. They trudged on in silence, the distant echo of Hermione’s rapid footsteps still audible.

If she’d been angry before, she could probably curse someone with a look now.