The silence wasn't just quiet. It was the kind of silence that stalks you, sizing you up for a good old-fashioned jump scare. The air had that thick, humming quality, like the castle itself was holding its breath. Which, given that this was Hogwarts and weird was the norm, wouldn't have surprised anyone.
Harry stood still, cloaked in the soft golden glow from the pedestal ahead, staring like it had just insulted his mother. No traps. No infernos. No snarling monsters offering him a deathmatch or a bad hair day. Just... a pedestal.
With a little red stone sitting on it. Innocent. Smug. Possibly sentient.
"...Really?" Harry muttered.
Behind him, the sealed stone wall muffled the voices of his friends. He could just make out Ron grumbling about "tentacles" and Catpool yelling something about "sparkly murder candy."
Harry took one step forward. No screaming ghosts. No explosions. Not even a polite warning siren. The stone sat there, gleaming like it knew all the answers to your existential crises and wasn't sharing.
"I swear, if this is some weird jellybean, I'm going to throw it at Dumbledore's beard," Harry grumbled. He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned toward the pedestal.
Suddenly, Jim's voice exploded in his head, loud and wild like someone had poured a Red Bull into a tornado.
"OHHHHHH! SHINY ALERT! HARRY, IS IT SPARKLY? IS IT GLOWING? DOES IT LOOK LIKE IT WANTS TO ABSORB YOUR SOUL AND ASK FOR YOUR CREDIT CARD NUMBER?!"
Harry groaned. "Yes, Jim. It's glowing. It's sparkly. And it's judging me like I double-dipped a chip."
Aether, Harry's sentient flying cloud (and certified Goodest Boy), hovered nearby, tail-wisps wagging, making soft puff-puff noises that somehow communicated concern and encouragement.
Catpool's voice chimed in next, like a chainsaw dipped in glitter. "OH MY MEOW! It's the Philosopher's Stone! Immortality! Gold! Alchemy! It's like the universe gave you a cheat code and said, 'Go nuts, Monkey King!'"
"You sure it's not a cursed jawbreaker?" Ron's voice piped through the door. "Because this has cursed jawbreaker energy."
Hermione, daughter of Athena and the brainiest butt-kicker this side of Olympus, replied calmly, "Ron, the Stone is a legendary artifact. Ancient. Powerful. It is not a jawbreaker."
"Still looks like candy," Neville mumbled, probably picturing it on a Bertie Bott's label.
Harry reached toward the stone. The moment his fingers touched it, a surge of warmth blazed up his arm—not burning, but intense, like someone had poured sunlight and really old secrets straight into his bones.
Flash. Names flickered in his head. Flamel. Perenelle. The taste of alchemical formulas and the weight of centuries pressed against his thoughts. Aether whirled in slow, reverent circles around him.
"Wooooooow," Harry whispered. "Okay, not a jawbreaker. Definitely not a jellybean. Possibly a glorified horcrux whispering forbidden secrets."
Jim whooped in his brain. "YOU TOUCHED THE THING! HELL YEAH! YOU'RE NOW OFFICIALLY THE MOST WANTED MAGICAL OBJECT SMUGGLER IN EUROPE!"
Catpool added, "And just like that, boom—Harry 'Hotter-Than-A-Dragon's-Butt' Potter has entered the Big Leagues! This is your villain origin story! OR your redemption arc! Depends on lighting."
Harry pocketed the stone with the carefulness of someone defusing a baby basilisk. He expected alarms. Traps. A very stern portrait to tell him off. Nothing.
"Welp," he said dryly. "Either I just became immortal, or Voldemort's going to show up and ask for his lunch money back."
Ron yelled through the wall again, "You dead yet? Or fighting a Lovecraftian noodle monster?"
"Nope," Harry shouted back. "Found a shiny rock. No tentacles. Yet."
Aether drifted beside him and made a delighted puff that somehow sounded like, "Hooray!"
Catpool cheered, "GET THAT BREAD, KING! But also maybe run. Just saying."
Jim, channeling his inner Jim Carrey chaos-goblin, started cackling. "OH-HO-HO, I CAN FEEL IT, HARRY. You just became the world's most eligible bachelor, magical edition. Everyone from Death Eaters to mad alchemists to that creepy guy in Knockturn Alley who smells like pickles will be after your sparkly prize."
Neville muttered, "This feels like that time I fed Trevor an enchanted donut."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose on the other side of the wall. "Harry, for the love of the gods, just come back safely."
Harry turned toward the sealed corridor.
"Well," he muttered, "this just got a lot more complicated."
From inside his brain, Catpool shouted, "ROLL INITIATIVE, YOU BEAUTIFUL MONKEY DEMIGOD! ROLL IT LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT! WHICH IT TOTALLY DOES!"
And with that, the walls began to tremble.
"...Of course," Harry sighed. "There's the boss music."
Aether gave a bark-puff and launched forward, wings flaring.
Ron banged on the wall. "Did you just trigger something?!"
Harry cracked his neck. "Time to earn our immortality."
And with a roar of magic and mischief, the chamber exploded into chaos.
Just another day in the life of the Monkey King.
Only this time, he had the Stone. And the universe wasn't ready for what came next.
—
The rubble hadn't even settled when Harry Potter swaggered out of the swirling dust cloud like the lovechild of a Marvel movie finale and a disaster insurance commercial. His hair, already defiant on a normal day, now resembled a live-action lightning storm mid-mutiny. Ash clung to his cloak like he'd been hugged by a fireplace, and his grin? Oh, that grin had enough chaos baked into it to qualify as an international incident.
Hovering loyally beside him was Aether, his sentient puffball of a cloud, wagging its tail-wisps like an excitable puppy on espresso. The thing buzzed and zipped around Harry, occasionally releasing puffs of glitter that looked like sparkly sneezes of joy.
In Harry's hand? The Philosopher's Stone. Glowing a deep, ominous red like it had just finished binge-watching the entire horror genre and was now ready to star in its own sequel.
"Hey!" Ron Weasley shouted from the now-wide-open corridor, waving his arms as if Harry might suddenly forget where his friends were. "You're not dead! Blink twice if you're not possessed! Blink once if you are! Blink three times if you want me to slap you like a malfunctioning toaster!"
"Ron, what does that even mean?!" Hermione snapped as she sprinted ahead, robes flapping dramatically. She skidded to a stop in front of Harry. "Are you okay?! Did you breathe on it wrong?! What happened?! Why is everything... exploded?!"
"Hi, nice to see you too," Harry said, still beaming. He held up the glowing red stone like a raccoon proudly presenting a priceless heirloom it definitely stole. "Behold! The reason I'll probably need magical therapy and a legal defense team: The Philosopher's Stone."
Neville appeared behind them, clutching Trevor — who now wore what looked suspiciously like a frog-sized helmet made from a thimble and dental floss. "We're prepared for tentacles," Neville announced. "Trevor says it's a vibe."
Jim, Harry's hyperactive, borderline-possessed, mythologically weaponized staff (voiced in Harry's head by what sounded like a caffeinated Jim Carrey with zero impulse control) screamed telepathically: "HE TOUCHED IT! Sound the alarm, Hermione! Your boyfriend has officially unlocked the God-Tier Loot Crate! He rolled a nat-20 on the chaos scale and now he's 15% more French! C'est la vie, baby!"
"Bonjour, nerds," Harry added casually, tossing Hermione a wink.
Ron peered at the stone. "It really does look like candy. Expensive candy. Like, 'Guarded-by-a-dragon-and-you-still-can't-afford-it' candy."
"DO NOT LICK THE MAGICAL PEBBLE, RONALD!" Catpool's voice slammed into all of their heads like a glitter bomb full of profanity. "THAT'S HOW YOU BECOME A SENTIENT LAVA LAMP IN ANOTHER DIMENSION! I HAVE SEEN THINGS! GLORIOUS. TERRIFYING. GELATINOUS. THINGS."
Aether zipped over Ron's head and sneezed starlight at him.
"It hummed," Neville said.
"It judged me," Harry replied, casually spinning the stone on one finger. "I think it remembers that time I said I'd use it as a skipping stone into Dumbledore's beard."
Hermione crossed her arms, gears visibly turning in her demigod daughter-of-Athena brain. "It was supposed to be hidden. Guarded. Sealed behind a mirror like the most cursed easter egg in history. What was it just doing out in the open like... like..."
"Like the last cookie in a cursed cookie jar?" Harry offered. "Exactly. And then—"
He raised the Stone dramatically. Lightning cracked (probably coincidentally).
"Boss music."
Ron squinted. "So... was there a monster?"
"Nope. Just the Stone looking me dead in the eyes and trauma-dumping five hundred years of alchemical philosophy into my cerebrum."
Jim chimed in, *"AND NOW HE CAN READ ALCHEMY, SPEAK LATIN, AND BAKE A MEAN BAGUETTE! OUR HERO!"
Catpool howled, "ALSO, HE'S GOT A TIGHT LITTLE MAGICAL BOOTY THAT NOW GLISTENS WITH THE POWER OF TWILIGHT! SOMEONE WRITE A SONG! HARRY POTTER AND THE PHALLIC ROCK OF FOREVER!"
Harry sighed. "Catpool, not the time."
"It's always the time for inappropriate theme songs! I'm the X-rated Disney Sidekick this universe didn't know it needed!"
Hermione looked like she was actively calculating the odds of throttling Harry and getting away with it in court.
"We need to leave. Now. Before something—"
The hallway groaned like a haunted whale.
Dust shifted behind them.
And from the darkness slithered a shape. Massive. Wet. Wriggling with the enthusiasm of a jellyfish made of oil, hatred, and pure eldritch nonsense.
Ron went pale. "...tentacles. Called it."
Trevor croaked in what was probably Latin.
The thing shrieked. It was part scream, part slurp, all existential terror. Aether hissed protectively and spun into a battle tornado.
Harry pocketed the Stone and cracked his knuckles.
Jim whooped, "BOSS FIGHT, BABY! Summon the cutscene! Get the popcorn!"
Catpool screamed, "CALAMARI WITH A SIDE OF TRAUMA! LET'S GOOOOOO!"
Hermione stepped forward, wand raised and eyes glowing silver. "Everyone, behind me!"
Neville nodded grimly and pulled out a plant that probably had fangs.
Ron muttered, "This is why we can't have nice things."
Harry grinned and spun Jim into his hand. The staff stretched, sparked, and laughed maniacally in his head.
"Let's see," Harry said, eyes glittering, "if immortality comes with a combat upgrade."
Aether whooshed like a good boy with vengeance.
Cue boss music.
Cue chaos.
—
The tentacle monster did not get the memo about personal space.
It lunged, a nightmarish blur of slime, teeth, and what looked suspiciously like the leftovers of a seafood buffet that had been left out too long. The hall echoed with a sound somewhere between a wet fart and a dragon hiccuping.
Harry, naturally, was already airborne.
Jim, his staff-slash-possessed-weapon-slash-magical-menace, extended with a WHOOSH-CLANG-KABLAM, runes flaring like they'd just done shots of espresso and regret.
"I LIVE AGAIN!" Jim howled in Harry's head, voice pitching between a Shakespearean actor on too much sugar and Jim Carrey on a Tuesday. "LET'S MAKE BAD DECISIONS WITH STYLE, MONKEY PRINCE!"
"Is there any other way?" Harry smirked, flipping midair like Cirque du Soleil if it had anger issues and parental abandonment themes.
Aether, the golden-furred, cloud-shaped goodest boy to ever exist, zipped after him like a very excited, sparkly marshmallow.
Behind them, Catpool emerged from the chaos, riding on Aether like some unholy fusion of Deadpool and Tinkerbell. Shirtless, sunglasses on, dual wands out like pistols. And yes, glitter cannons strapped to his thighs. Don't ask.
"WHO ORDERED THE CALAMARI FROM HELL?" Catpool bellowed. "I SWEAR I ASKED FOR EXTRA TENTACLES AND LESS EXISTENTIAL DREAD!"
Hermione groaned. "Why do I even try?"
Ron, wielding his wand like it might magically turn into a sword and save him the embarrassment, peeked from behind a toppled suit of armor. "We are so boned. I mean, there isn't even a word for how boned we are. Mega-boned. Ultra-boned. Hyper--"
"Shut up and zap something!" Hermione snapped.
Neville, bless him, hurled his demon plant like a grenade. It latched onto a tentacle with the clingy enthusiasm of a toddler hopped up on sugar and trauma.
"Trevor, attack pattern BLOODY CHAOS!" Neville cried.
The tentacle shrieked. Aether yipped.
Harry somersaulted off the ceiling. Yes, off the ceiling. Physics took one look and quietly excused itself from the narrative.
"Jim, dramatic flair, please."
"OH, YOU WANT DRAMA? HOLD MY RUNES!"
Jim ignited. Flames burst from the staff, golden and crimson, shaping themselves into dragon heads that roared like they were late to a rock concert.
Harry slammed Jim down on a tentacle. The resulting explosion sent slime flying in all directions like magical confetti at a very cursed birthday party.
"HA! EAT ELEMENTAL RAGE, YOU SENTIENT SQUID SNOT!" Jim cackled.
"I think I just got slimed," Ron muttered, picking seaweed out of his ear.
"Guys, focus!" Hermione was glowing now—literally. Her demigoddess aura flared as she summoned a shield of pure logic and judgment. One tentacle bounced off and retreated like it had been given detention.
Catpool, still hovering, tapped his temple. "Hey, Monkey King, got an idea."
Harry sighed. "If it involves nudity, glitter, or interpretive dance, I'm out."
"No promises," Catpool said. "But what if we combo-wombo this sucker?"
Jim gasped. "YES. YES TO THE COMBO-WOMBO. I LOVE THAT PHRASE. WE'RE GETTING THAT ON A SHIRT."
Harry vaulted forward, running up the tentacle monster like it was a cursed jungle gym. Jim grew to twice his size, ablaze with divine chaos.
"HEY, UGLY!" Harry shouted. "TIME FOR YOUR COMPLIMENTARY BEATDOWN, DELIVERED BY THE MONKEY KING AND HIS SENTIENT STICK OF DOOM!"
The tentacle monster hissed.
"Oh, you wanna hiss? Hiss this!" Harry backflipped, bringing Jim down in a flaming arc of mythological judgment.
The explosion rocked the castle.
When the dust settled, the tentacle horror was nothing but a smear of goo, burnt regrets, and a faint scent of seaweed and failure.
Everyone stood still.
Then Neville coughed.
"Did it just say 'ouch' in Parseltongue before exploding?"
Trevor croaked affirmatively.
Harry grinned, goo-covered and slightly on fire.
"Ten points to Gryffindor for not dying horribly," he said.
Hermione, still radiating battle goddess energy, narrowed her eyes. "Negative fifty for the property damage."
"Can I be excused from homework if I have PTSD?" Ron asked hopefully.
"No," Hermione said.
Catpool wiped ichor off his face. "So, real talk: what are the odds the teachers didn't hear that? Because that boom was, like, felt-in-the-bones level."
Jim sniffed. "Minerva's probably going to swat Harry with a rolled-up newspaper again."
Harry winced. "Yeah, she still hasn't forgiven me for the thing with the troll and the pudding."
Aether circled the group, puffing proud little sparkles like a dog showing off a stick he found. Then he licked Hermione.
"Ew. No. No sparkly tongue baths," she muttered.
"Okay," Harry said, slinging an arm around Ron and Hermione, who looked varying degrees of traumatized. "Let's get back to the tower, pretend this never happened, and act like totally normal students with no magical weapons, talking clouds, or fourth-wall-breaking psychopaths in our posse."
"TOO LATE!" Catpool shouted, popping confetti.
They walked away, some limping, some glowing, some plotting sarcastic commentary for their future therapy sessions.
Behind them, the hallway lay in ruins. Slime dripped from the ceiling. The smell of burnt calamari hung in the air.
Chaos, as always, had left its signature. But for now, Gryffindors needed their beauty sleep.
Tomorrow, they'd face classes.
Tonight, they'd survived.
Barely.
—
Chapter Continued: "Retreat of the Goo-Warriors"
The hallway still reeked of scorched slime, magical ozone, and something that could only be described as Voldemort's gym socks dipped in despair.
Hermione whipped her wand in tight, furious circles, casting seventh-level cleaning charms like an Olympian having a mental breakdown. Her hair was singed at the tips, and her eyes glowed with the unholy light of a daughter of Athena who had seen things.
"We. Are. Leaving," she said, and the hallway trembled in agreement.
Harry, wiping neon goo off his glasses, muttered, "Not arguing. But also—ew."
He flung a blob off his sleeve. It hit Ron, who let out a screech that could've summoned banshees.
"That was my only clean jumper! Mum'll hex my eyebrows off!"
"Ron, sweet pea," Jim said in Harry's mind, his voice dripping with Jim Carrey levels of sarcastic cheer, "if that jumper survives one more crisis, we're sending it to the Department of Magical Artifacts for preservation."
Catpool, now half-smeared with what looked like glittery snot, deadpanned into everyone's brains, "This goop is stickier than a cursed condom in a sandstorm. If my tail gets fused to my balls, I'm suing."
Neville gagged loudly.
His fanged plant let out a smug burp. Probably from digesting part of a goo-thing's tentacle.
"You okay, mate?" Harry asked, clapping Neville on the shoulder.
Neville nodded. "I think my plant just achieved sentience. It's naming itself Kevin."
"Kevin the carnivorous cactus," Jim hummed. "That's got spin-off potential."
Aether—the adorable, anxiety-riddled flying cloud that smelled faintly of marshmallows and ozone—zipped ahead like an overcaffeinated golden retriever.
Harry grinned. "Good boy, Aether. Check for more slime monsters or emotionally constipated ghosts."
Puff!
Aether darted off, leaving sparkles like he'd exploded a fairy with ADHD.
They bolted down the hall, Ron limping like someone had hexed his soul.
"I need therapy. And snacks. Mostly therapy. With snacks."
"You think that's bad?" Harry muttered. "I've got a chaos staff with a sass problem, a floating storm cloud bestie, and apparently I'm the magical love child of Loki and Artemis."
Neville nearly tripped over his own feet. "Wait—you what now?"
"Yeah, it's a thing," Harry said. "Explains the shapeshifting and savagely perfect cheekbones."
Jim popped in, telepathically of course: "And don't forget my influence! He's got the sarcasm of Tony Stark and the combat instincts of Jackie Chan with a hangover."
Catpool added, "And the emotional depth of a wet paper towel. He's growing. Like a fungus."
Ron groaned. "Why does everyone dump life-altering news on me when I'm covered in goo and having an existential crisis?"
"Because trauma builds character!" Catpool declared. "Also, statistically speaking, you're the comic relief. You'll live until at least book six."
"Still not comforting!"
They turned a corner. The suit of armor there was curled in a fetal position, mumbling something about green tentacles and unpaid overtime.
"Move!" Hermione snapped, her inner general in full force. "If McGonagall sees us like this, it's fifty points from Gryffindor and a lifetime sentence scrubbing toilets with Filch's toothbrush."
"Blame Peeves," Neville said quickly.
"We always blame Peeves," Hermione said.
They flew up the staircase like caffeinated pixies—past a ghost who screamed something about vengeance, Mrs. Norris who hissed like she'd seen Catpool's search history, and a corridor that smelled suspiciously like cinnamon and demonic contracts.
"Password?" the Fat Lady asked, pinching her nose at the smell.
"Goo-gone!" Ron tried.
"No."
"Not today, Satan?"
"Still no."
"Snape's Spicy Secrets?"
"Get out."
Hermione rolled her eyes and said, "Squirrel hammer time."
The portrait yawned open like it, too, had seen things.
They stumbled into the Gryffindor common room like traumatized raccoons escaping a bin fire. Hermione immediately silenced the room. The fireplace, the portraits, and even Ron.
"Nobody speaks. We go to bed. We never talk about this again."
Catpool was already reclining on a couch Aether had conjured, wearing bunny slippers and a pink bathrobe that said Mr. Merc on the back. "Too late. I've already outlined chapter one of Harry Potter and the Wet Tentacle of Emotional Baggage."
"I will hex you so hard you become a Hufflepuff," Hermione said.
Jim added, "Personally, I'm pitching The Goo-nies. We'll need a dance number and a parody of Celine Dion's greatest hits."
Ron groaned into the couch. "I want a new life. Preferably one without goo demons."
"Can't relate," Catpool said. "This was the best date I've had in months."
Harry trudged up the stairs, staff trailing behind him like a tired old warrior. Aether floated loyally behind him, puffing little happy clouds like a dog wagging its tail after a successful fetch mission.
At the dorm door, Harry paused, looked back at his friends, and smirked.
"Just another normal night at Hogwarts."
"Normal?!" Jim gasped. "You fought cosmic slime with a chaos stick and a living cotton ball!"
Catpool waved. "See ya in the fanfic! I'm tagging this under action/horror/smut."
The door closed with a soft click, sealing behind it a legend of magical goo, savage burns, and an over-the-top adventure no one would ever believe.
Except Catpool.
Because he was already uploading it to WizardNet.
Title: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Goo.
—
The next morning hit Hogwarts like a flobberworm in a rave—confused, sticky, and slightly glowing.
Golden sunlight stabbed through the Gryffindor boys' dormitory curtains like it had a personal vendetta. The room looked like a crime scene from a glittery monster movie. Socks clung to the ceiling in fear. A suspiciously gooey scarf was draped over the chandelier. Someone's wand was embedded in a wall like it had attempted escape mid-chaos.
Aether—the floating cloud of rainbow mist and sentient sass—had nested himself in Harry's laundry pile, snoring softly and exhaling tiny marshmallow-scented puffs.
Harry groaned and opened one eye, expecting post-apocalyptic silence.
Instead, he was greeted by Jim.
Not just any Jim. JIM.
The staff formerly known as the Ruyi Jingu Bang, now the loudest magical artifact this side of the Veil. Jim was currently hovering beside the bed, sparkles bursting from his golden pole as he belted show tunes from Wicked.
"DEFYYYYYY GRAVITYYYY!"
"Jim," Harry croaked, "you are literally the reason I have trust issues."
"You're welcome!" Jim said in his best Jim Carrey impression. "Also, just so you know, the slime tentacle in your sock drawer is now sentient and wants voting rights. You're a dad!"
Catpool, who had apparently slept hanging upside down from the ceiling like a glittery, foul-mouthed bat, cracked one eye open and grinned like Christmas had come early and brought tequila.
"Morning, sunshine! I see your hair still looks like it lost a fight with a lawnmower and then sued for emotional damages. Ten points to Gryffindor for consistency."
He pointed a paw at the ceiling, where glow-in-the-dark graffiti screamed: "GOO-POCALYPSE SURVIVOR – DAY 1. #SQUADGOALS #IAMTHEGODOFCHAOS"
Ron rolled over and groaned like the ghost of regret. "Tell me last night didn't happen."
Neville sat up and immediately checked on Kevin, his cactus. Kevin was now twice the size, glowing faintly, and humming the theme from Jaws.
Dean stumbled in, looking shockingly fresh, sipping pumpkin juice like he hadn't just survived magical Armageddon. "You guys sleep like trolls after a pub crawl. Seamus and I thought someone summoned a banshee with bronchitis."
"Did someone explode a cauldron?" Seamus asked, already in uniform, the only one chipper enough to be legally questionable. "Because it smells like a frog funeral in here."
Harry pointed weakly at Ron. "Blame the jumper."
Ron raised a hand and offered a lazy, single-finger salute.
Dean blinked at Neville. "Mate, is your cactus glowing?"
"Nope," Neville said, too quickly. "That's your imagination. Happens after goo exposure. Very common. Totally not sprouting limbs."
Harry finally sat up. His hair was so disastrous Aether gave it a pity-pat with a cloud-limb before giving up and retreating with a shameful puff.
Catpool telepathically butted in, his voice sounding like Ryan Reynolds with a Red Bull IV drip.
"FYI, I licked the slime last night. I see through time now. Also, I'm pretty sure Jim made out with the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy."
Jim huffed. "It was consensual, okay? And he's a good listener!"
Aether, trying his best, poofed a clean set of robes for Harry out of rainbow mist and pure serotonin. He also added a tiny cape. Because Aether believed in flair.
"I want one," Ron muttered.
"He's not for sale," Harry said, standing and cracking his back like a tired demigod. "And he cries during musicals."
"Same," Neville whispered.
"I cry during Taco Tuesday," Catpool added. "But only because I love tacos too much."
Ron groaned. "Why are all my friends clinically unhinged?"
"Because it's Hogwarts," Harry said. "And you didn't read the fine print."
Kevin coughed up a slime tentacle. It tried to crawl away. Neville calmly picked it up and tucked it into a tea tin labeled "DO NOT FEED AFTER MIDNIGHT."
Ron glanced at the clock. "Ten minutes 'til breakfast. Can we just... have a normal day?"
Jim let out a maniacal laugh.
Catpool flipped midair and landed in a split. "Normal? Bro, you live in a castle with murder staircases, mood-swing paintings, and a poltergeist with an actual pee fetish."
Aether farted confetti. It smelled like cinnamon rolls and victory.
Harry grabbed his staff, which shrank down to wand form.
He looked in the mirror. Wild hair, bruised knuckles, faintly glowing eyes—somewhere between wizard, monkey god, and sarcasm elemental.
He smirked.
"Let's go cause some mild-to-moderate havoc. Under supervision. Probably."
Ron sighed like a man walking to the gallows.
Neville patted Kevin.
Catpool grabbed Jim, who shrieked, "Consent! CONSENT!"
Dean and Seamus burst back in.
"Is it true Peeves enchanted the butter again?" Seamus asked.
Dean nodded. "Filch declared war on socks."
And somewhere downstairs, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—complete with peg leg, trauma cape, and a talking parrot named Sheila—was about to let a rogue boggart with parental abandonment issues loose in the Great Hall.
But for now, for these precious few minutes… they had peace.
Aether spelled out "YOU GOT THIS" in glowing mist.
Catpool farted a mariachi band.
It was going to be a great year.
—
Once they were dressed—Harry in storm-colored robes conjured by Aether's sparkly self-esteem puffs, Ron in a jumper that may or may not have still had residual goo-stains, and Neville carrying Kevin in a suspiciously quivering sock—they descended the Gryffindor stairs like men walking to their own trial.
Which, honestly, wasn't far off from Hogwarts breakfast.
Jim, in his wand form—aka Riyu Jingu Bang, ancient staff of chaos, mischief, and exactly zero self-awareness—was holstered in sleek leather on Harry's arm like a snarky magical sidearm.
"Ready to cause mayhem, Banana Boy?" Jim whispered into Harry's mind with the glee of a toddler handed a sugar quill and a blowtorch.
"Let's poke reality with a stick. I feel bendy this morning."
"You're always bendy," Harry muttered under his breath. "And somehow aggressively flexible in a metaphysical way."
"That's the spirit! Now let's swing through breakfast like it's a Waffle House brawl. Also, I'm ninety percent sure McGonagall hates me."
"She hates you because you turned into a pogo stick and tried to joust Flitwick last term."
"FOR SCIENCE!" Jim declared.
"Can we not get detention before toast this time?" Ron asked from behind Harry, still rubbing at his eyes and clearly not ready for the level of unhinged coming from Jim.
Neville just cradled Kevin gently. "He's still digesting."
As they stepped into the Gryffindor common room, the mood shifted. Less 'post-apocalyptic laundry explosion,' more 'incoming parental lecture.'
Hermione Granger stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, foot tapping, and an expression that screamed I know everything and I'm waiting for you to lie about it.
"Good morning," she said crisply. "I trust you three had a quiet, uneventful night?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Define quiet."
Jim mentally cleared his throat.
"Careful, Monkey King. She's got that look. You know, the 'I've-read-the-manual-on-you' look."
"Let me guess," Hermione continued, "the glowing cactus, the rainbow cloud, and the graffiti on the ceiling were all accidental?"
"We can explain," Harry offered.
"I doubt that very much," Hermione shot back.
"Technically," Neville said, clutching Kevin a little tighter, "the cactus is a victim."
Hermione sighed. "Honestly, Neville, you've named it Kevin. You can't just name every dangerous magical plant and expect it to be socially acceptable."
Kevin hummed ominously and sprouted a single, waving frond.
"It waved at you," Ron pointed out.
Hermione chose to ignore that. Instead, she turned her eyes to Aether, who had just floated down beside Harry and was currently attempting to poof Hermione a bouquet of apology daisies. The daisies promptly combusted in a gentle puff of pink fire.
Hermione did not look amused.
"Breakfast," she said curtly. "Now."
"Ooooh, Mum mode activated," Jim chimed in. "RUN, MONKEY BOY. I'LL COVER YOU!"
"You're strapped to my arm."
"Fine, then I'll dramatically flail and shout encouragement."
And so the Fellowship of the Slightly Burned Breakfast Boys, plus Hermione and one ominously glowing cactus, made their way down the Gryffindor staircase. The castle was already alive with sound: portraits yelling across corridors, first-years squealing at moving staircases, and Peeves somewhere overhead screaming, "BUTTERED OR BUSTED!" with suspicious laughter.
They passed a Slytherin third-year hanging upside-down by enchanted shoelaces. No one even blinked.
"So, who do we think the new DADA professor is?" Ron asked, adjusting his robes. "Dean said it might be the bloke with the peg leg and parrot."
"Oh yes," Hermione said, "Professor Drake. Retired cursebreaker from Gringotts. Lost a leg fighting a mirror-djinn in Albania. The parrot's named Cicero and is apparently fluent in five dead languages."
Harry's eyes lit up. "A man after my own chaos."
"Don't you dare corrupt him," Hermione said sternly.
"Challenge accepted," Jim whispered gleefully.
And then—
BOOM!
A flood of butter erupted from the Great Hall.
Like, actual butter—sizzling, sliding, golden doom churning across the floor like a culinary avalanche of death.
"PEEVES!" Filch shrieked from the far end of the corridor, wielding a mop like a war hammer. "YOU SLIPPERY LITTLE BASTARD!"
From somewhere overhead came the echo of manic giggles and the unmistakable sound of a polka accordion.
Harry calmly yanked his staff from the holster. "Well," he said. "So much for normal."
"Dibs on the toast debris!" Jim shouted, gleaming with excitement.
Neville sighed and whispered to Kevin, "Not now, buddy. Hold the tentacles."
"Brace for impact!" Ron cried as a stick of butter rocketed past his head like a cursed projectile.
And Aether? That brave, loyal cloud boy?
He deployed a glittery, rainbow-scented forcefield of sparkles, shielding the group from the worst of the butter wave.
"Good boy," Harry muttered.
"Can we go one day without cursed breakfast?" Hermione yelled.
Jim responded by spontaneously transforming into a surfboard and dragging Harry into the wave like a professional chaos gremlin.
"SURF'S UP, YOU TOASTY MORONS!"
And so the Gryffindors surfed into the butter flood, chaos reigned, Kevin softly hummed the Imperial March, and Catpool—now dangling from the chandelier above the Great Hall—shouted through the mind link:
"WEEEEEEEEEEE! I TOLD YOU ALL BREAKFAST WAS A CONTACT SPORT!"
Just another perfectly average morning at Hogwarts.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!