The Great Hall had mostly recovered from the Great Butter Tsunami of '91. Thanks to Hermione (armed with twelve cleaning charms, a grudge against chaos, and a checklist), Filch (grumbling in the language of goblins), and Aether (who activated his emergency glitter-absorbing puff mode and vacuumed the floor like a sentient Dyson with ADHD), breakfast was back in business.
The food reappeared with cautious optimism—as if the bacon itself had trauma and was waiting to see if Peeves would return with dynamite and an interpretive dance routine.
Harry sat between Ron and Hermione, dressed in Gryffindor red and his usual chaos. Jim, currently in wand form, vibrated like he was three espressos deep and stuck in an existential spiral.
Neville was feeding Kevin bits of scrambled egg. Kevin, the tiny carnivorous cactus, was chewing with glee and making happy warbling noises.
Hermione watched with a combination of curiosity and pure horror. "That thing really shouldn't enjoy breakfast this much. It's unsettling."
Across the Hall, Dumbledore was chatting merrily with Professor Sprout. He was wearing a lemon-yellow robe and a matching fez that had a tiny spinning top on it. McGonagall sat beside him, expression set to "permanently unimpressed." Her left eyebrow had gone into full Arched Judgment Mode, which in Hogwarts was the equivalent of a DEFCON 2 alert.
Then the staff door creaked.
And in shuffled doom.
Quirinus Quirrell entered like someone had hit pause on his confidence settings. Pale. Twitchy. Turbaned like a man compensating for something. He looked about thirty-five but gave off the energy of a guy who'd aged three hundred years over the weekend.
Harry's sixth sense flared immediately. It wasn't his magic. It wasn't even his scar. It was the same sensation you'd get walking into a room that smelled like burning rubber and broken promises.
"New guy's got demon energy," Jim whispered telepathically, his voice pure Jim Carrey, dripping with sass and theatrical panic. "I don't know whether to fight him or stage an exorcism with glitter and interpretive dance."
"Don't tempt me," Harry replied mentally. "I've got glitter bombs in my sock."
Quirrell looked around the Hall like he was expecting someone to assassinate him with a spoon. His eyes landed on Harry.
Everything stopped.
For a split second, Harry felt something else looking at him. Not the man. Something behind the man. Cold. Sharp. Ancient. Like being examined by a snake wearing a crown and a superiority complex.
And then it was gone.
Quirrell gave a jerky bow and shuffled to the staff table. Dumbledore beamed like he'd just handed a baby a chainsaw.
"Children!" Dumbledore announced, holding up his spoon like it was a microphone. "Let us welcome our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirinus Quirrell! He's returned from Albania with... well... with most of his limbs."
Polite clapping followed. Ravenclaws clapped out of obligation. A Hufflepuff dropped his spoon and instinctively shielded his breakfast. Malfoy sneered like Quirrell had just confessed to voting Labour.
Professor Quirrell smiled—or attempted to. It looked like someone had glued a smile to a corpse.
"H-h-hello," he said, voice trembling like a violin string in a hurricane. "I am q-quite d-d-delighted to teach you how t-to d-d-defend yourselves... against... you know. Things."
"Ron," Harry said, "he sounds like Trevor after getting electrocuted by Kevin."
"Poor guy," Hermione muttered. "He's obviously nervous."
"Nervous?" Harry said. "The guy is two shakes away from becoming a haunted puppet."
Jim's voice returned with the subtlety of a megaphone in a church. "I swear on Loki's left butt cheek, something is riding that man like a cursed Uber."
Aether fluffed up protectively around Harry's neck, growling in cumulus.
Kevin hissed again. Not at the eggs. Not even at Malfoy. At Quirrell.
Harry's stomach churned. His sixth sense whispered three words:
Not all there.
Then:
Passenger.
Watching.
Catpool, who had spent the last hour silently curled up on Ron's lap, suddenly yawned and stretched. Then, in Harry's head:
"Oh, I don't like this guy. His aura smells like expired mayonnaise and daddy issues. What's under that turban, huh? Another turban? Maybe a sentient toe? Voldemort's side hustle as a parasitic toupee?"
"Catpool," Harry said mentally, "we're trying to be subtle."
"Subtle is for tax evasion and farting in elevators."
Jim added, "Look, I've seen demonic parasites, magical corruption, and Hogwarts house parties. This guy gives me more bad vibes than all three combined."
Dumbledore, meanwhile, had buttered his goblet. Just… rubbed it. With a knife.
McGonagall didn't even blink. She just sipped her tea. At this point, she was immune.
"Did he just butter his drink?" Ron whispered.
"No, Ron," Harry said. "He seasoned it."
"Dementia, remember," Jim whispered. "Cursed by Loki. Probably thinks he's drinking soup. Or casting spells with it. Or thinks it's his wife. Honestly, I don't even know anymore."
Catpool let out a dramatic sigh. "He hired that guy. That guy! Dumble-dooby-doo is currently one sherbet lemon away from licking walls."
Harry stood, plate in hand. "Right. We need to prepare."
"For class?" Hermione asked.
"No. For war."
The camera would've zoomed in on his face if this were a movie. Dramatic music. Maybe a hawk cry.
Neville blinked. "Wait. Is it starting already?"
"Something's already started," Harry muttered. "And it's watching us."
Aether growled. Kevin spat a seed. Jim transformed into nunchucks for no reason. Catpool pulled a tiny katana out of his tail and started humming the Kill Bill theme.
Something was coming.
And the Monkey King was ready to burn it all down.
—
Just as Ron Weasley managed to smuggle yet another piece of toast under the table (presumably for later, or maybe to bribe Crookshanks), the Hogwarts seating chart was about to be thrown into a blender.
Four students—two Slytherins and two Hufflepuffs—approached the Gryffindor table like they were claiming territory in a cafeteria-based version of Risk.
Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis sauntered in first. Daphne moved like she owned the place, chin high, gaze cool, and the aura of a girl who could file a lawsuit with just a look. Tracey was all smirk and swagger, her every step humming with the energy of someone who was definitely about to cause problems.
Behind them came Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott, looking like sunshine and cupcakes… if said cupcakes were also armed with biting sarcasm and a low tolerance for nonsense.
Gasps shot through the Great Hall like someone had just hexed the pumpkin juice into tequila.
Ron's eyes bugged. "Are they lost?"
"Or planning a coup?" Neville whispered, inching closer to his plate like it might protect him.
"They're sitting here," Harry said, totally casual, because of course he was. He was Harry. The Monkey King. The Son of Loki and Artemis. Chaos Incarnate with a side of golden toast. "They're with us."
Ron blinked. "Is that legal?"
Harry poured himself some pumpkin juice and gave the kind of slow, smug grin that should've been illegal on school grounds.
"Technically, yes."
Cue the dramatic entrance of Professor Severus Snape, looking like a thundercloud had married a vampire and birthed a Potions Master.
Black robes swirling, nose flaring, and the sneer cranked to max, he descended upon the Gryffindor table with a stack of green timetables held like sacred tablets.
"What," Snape said, voice dripping disdain like expired syrup, "do you think you are doing, Miss Greengrass, Miss Davis?"
Daphne didn't even glance up. "Consuming breakfast, Professor."
"At the Gryffindor table. That is against the rules."
"No, it isn't," Harry said.
Snape turned slowly, like a snake who'd just heard someone insult its tie.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, it's not against the rules. Hogwarts regulations only require House-specific seating for the Start-of-Term Feast, Halloween Feast, and End-of-Year Feast. Rest of the time, students can sit wherever they want."
The Great Hall fell into stunned silence. Somewhere, a fork clattered to the floor.
Catpool—curled up on the table next to the butter dish—snorted. "Boom. Roasted. Slytherin burn with a side of regulatory slapdown. Did it just get hot in here, or is that Snape's blood pressure?"
Jim, in his wand form strapped to Harry's forearm, vibrated with chaotic glee. Tell him to check the bloody rulebook, Banana Boy! Gimme an opening and I'll slap him in the face with a printed copy. On fire. In song.
Snape's eyes narrowed into slits. "Ten points from Gryffindor for—"
"—Trying to educate you?" Harry interrupted, eyes gleaming like mischief and prophecy had a baby. "You might want to check Hogwarts: A History, revised edition, page 143, subclause five."
Snape sputtered.
"Or, better yet," Harry continued with a bright grin, "we could ask someone who actually knows the rules."
Enter Professor McGonagall, aka the Iron Queen of Sass and Schedule, gliding over like a Scottish warship with red timetables in tow.
Behind her came Professor Sprout, slightly muddy and entirely unfazed, followed by the tiniest academic storm cloud in existence—Professor Flitwick—whose eyes sparkled like he'd just been invited to a trivia deathmatch.
Snape, robes fluttering like outraged bats, turned to his colleagues. "Surely, Minerva, you can't believe this absurdity—"
McGonagall didn't even blink. "Mr. Potter is entirely correct."
She handed Harry his timetable like it was a golden ticket.
"I've reminded the staff of this for years. Apparently, no one listens unless the reminder comes with a dramatic confrontation in the middle of breakfast."
Professor Sprout gave a hearty chuckle. "Oh, it's true. Poor Badgers crying in their porridge, thinking they couldn't sit with their Ravenclaw study buddies."
Professor Flitwick nodded so hard he nearly somersaulted off the bench. "Quite right! Perhaps now our students will finally intermix and discover the joy of friends who don't treat sarcasm like a foreign language."
"Or who don't explode things just to say 'oops,'" Ron muttered.
Fred and George raised their pumpkin juice in a salute from across the hall.
Catpool stood upright like a little gremlin war general. "Ladies and gentlemen, and magical beings of ambiguous gender identity, we are witnessing the dawn of a new era! An era of mingled toast! Interhouse alliances! Possibly a prank war so glorious it will be recorded in the stars!"
Aether, Harry's flying cloud, who had been curled at the ceiling like an overly enthusiastic ceiling fan, zipped down and began happily spinning in circles above the table.
Good boy, Harry said through the bond, and Aether beamed literal sunshine.
Jim (still vibrating like a caffeine-fueled pogo stick): Wrecked him. Absolutely wrecked. Call the magical medics, because Snape's pride just flatlined.
Snape, now red-faced and resembling a man who'd bitten into a lemon named Harry, handed out the Slytherin timetables in silence and stalked off without another word.
Ron gave Harry a look that was half awe, half fear. "Mate… you just destroyed Snape's entire breakfast."
Neville blinked. "And possibly his worldview."
Hermione shook her head, still stunned. "I had no idea. I always thought the seating rule was permanent."
"Exactly," Harry said, sipping his juice. "Which is why we're changing things."
Catpool bowed. "Breakfast has been broken. Long live breakfast."
Somewhere across the hall, a first-year screamed, "I'm sitting with my twin brother now!" and the Great Table Migration began.
Epic chaos. Legendary rebellion. And all before Potions.
The revolution had officially begun.
And it started with toast.
—
Chaos had officially RSVP'd to breakfast at Hogwarts. It arrived wearing mismatched House colors, dragging its confused cousins Social Reform and Mild Anarchy along for the ride.
Benches screeched across the stone floor like a banshee choir on roller skates. Plates juggled themselves to new locations. People were swapping tables like it was speed-dating for Houses. A Ravenclaw and a Slytherin were in a passionate debate about wand core compatibility. A Hufflepuff and a Gryffindor arm-wrestled over who was nicer. Somewhere in the shuffle, a third-year tripped over a teacup and declared it the best day of their life.
Reunion snippets flew through the Great Hall like confetti.
"Wait, I thought you hexed me in third year?"
"That was my twin. Who's still a git. I'm the nice one."
Over by the old Hufflepuff table (now part of the Great Friendship Conga Line), a Slytherin girl in a perfectly ironed uniform stared across at a Hufflepuff boy with bedhead that could legally be declared a health hazard.
"I missed you," she said, in that breathy way reserved for dramatic moments and overpriced teen dramas.
"You sat across the room for six years," the boy replied, blinking.
"There was a line."
"Let's break it together."
They hugged. Somewhere nearby, a second-year fainted into their pumpkin juice.
Back at what used to be the Gryffindor table—now Ground Zero for the Social Revolution—Harry Potter leaned back with the smug grin of someone who had poked the universe and gotten exactly what he wanted.
"Well," Tracey said, biting into a piece of toast like it owed her money, "that was hot."
Harry gave her a look that was 50% Loki mischief, 50% Artemis serenity, and 100% Monkey King chaos. "You're welcome."
Jim—formerly a staff, currently a floating golden snark dispenser—hovered nearby, vibrating like he'd just snorted espresso through a pixie stick.
"I AM THE REVOLUTION," Jim declared telepathically. "I'M GONNA WRITE AN EPIC POEM ABOUT THIS. IN FLAMING RUNES. ON A UNICORN. THAT FARTS INCLUSIVE POLICIES."
Catpool, the pink-furred feline wrapped in a Gryffindor scarf, plopped himself onto the table, sending a bowl of porridge flying.
"Listen up, you butterbeer-sipping bundles of teen angst! This is history! This is glory! This is... slightly burnt toast, but I'll take it!"
He turned and winked directly at... well, you.
"And you thought this was gonna be another boring breakfast scene, huh?"
Ron, whose brain was still catching up, pointed at Catpool. "He just broke the fourth wall again, didn't he?"
"Mate, I never even acknowledged there was a wall," Catpool said proudly, flipping onto his back and kicking his paws in the air. "Also, fun fact: I'm not wearing pants."
"He never wears pants," Hermione muttered.
"Can't cage genius, babe," Catpool sang into her brain.
Aether—the sentient cloud and certified good boy—swirled above the crowd, puffing sparkly clouds that smelled faintly of sugar quills and triumph. One of them poofed into a heart shape before raining down a gentle mist of happiness.
Neville stared at the mist. "Is this cloud... giving me serotonin?"
"Yes," Harry said. "And hydration. Aether's a multitasker."
Professor McGonagall approached like a panther with perfect posture. Her expression was neutral. Her eyes, however, sparkled like someone who'd just seen Umbridge step on a rake.
"While I generally frown upon weaponizing breakfast for ideological rebellion," she said crisply, "I'll allow it. This once."
She reached into her robe and pulled out a roll of parchment.
"Ten points to each of you—for reminding this school that unity is not a speech. It's a choice."
They stared at her.
Then Professor Sprout waddled over with a grin so wide it could qualify as a portkey to comfort.
"Ten more for Hufflepuff," she added cheerfully, "for sheer emotional bravery."
Professor Flitwick popped up like a magical whack-a-mole.
"Ten from Ravenclaw! For strategy, for logic, and because honestly, that was some top-tier chaos."
He paused, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves.
"And please consider befriending more Ravenclaws. We have snacks and anxiety."
Ron's eyebrows tried to leave his face. "That's… thirty points each."
Hermione's mouth worked silently. "Times eight... that's two hundred and forty."
Susan inhaled like she'd just been told the Goblet of Fire was now a group project. "Are we… winning breakfast?"
Catpool rolled off the table and landed with an unnecessarily loud thump.
"Victory tastes like toast! And inter-House snogging! And the unshackled moans of a thousand tortured seating charts!"
Jim lit up like a neon sign. "Quote me on this: SUCK IT, SNAPE!"
From across the hall, Snape slowly turned his head.
Jim whispered in Harry's mind, *"He heard that, didn't he?"
Harry, utterly unbothered, took a sip of tea. "He felt it in his soul."
Aether zoomed above, trailing fireworks shaped like House mascots holding hands. The students beneath looked up, and—for the first time in Hogwarts history—saw no lines.
Just tables. Just kids. Just breakfast.
Daphne smirked, cutting into a croissant with the precision of a spy.
"Not bad."
"Not bad?" Harry echoed. "We just instigated a school-wide paradigm shift before our eggs even cooled."
He leaned back, eyes glinting.
"Let's see what we can accomplish before lunch."
Catpool raised a paw. "Can it involve fire?"
"And glitter?" Jim asked hopefully.
Aether puffed a cloud that resembled a thumbs-up.
Ron groaned. "We're all gonna get detention, aren't we?"
"Definitely," Harry said, grinning. "But at least we'll sit together."
—
Just as the Great Hall began to settle into a breakfast-fueled buzz—somewhere between happy chaos and organized magical rebellion—Professor McGonagall clapped her hands once. It echoed like an ancient war drum signaling the beginning of an academic crusade.
With a rustle of enchanted parchment and a dramatic whoosh, class timetables appeared in front of each wide-eyed first-year.
"Finally," Hermione breathed, clutching her scroll like it was a sacred relic. "I've been waiting for this all summer."
"Didn't you already memorize the first-year schedule?" Ron asked, squinting at his own like it might bite.
"Yes, but I didn't know how they'd group us," Hermione replied.
Harry leaned over his parchment, a smirk forming like a storm cloud.
"Gryffindor and Slytherin. Together. In every class."
Ron groaned. "So, Malfoy and Parkinson? Bloody brilliant."
"Oh, cheer up, Weasel," Tracey said, flipping her scroll like it owed her money. "You also get us. Which means more brains and better hair."
Ron blinked. "Alright, not entirely terrible."
"Correction," Daphne added, sipping her pumpkin juice like royalty. "It's a House cocktail of doom and genius. I approve."
Neville frowned. "Wait—we've got Double Potions first thing tomorrow? With Snape?"
Jim's voice echoed in Harry's head, dripping with theatrical horror: OH NO. DOUBLE DUNGEONS WITH DRACULA. Hide your necks, kids. He's thirsty.
Tracey sighed. "I thought Potions would be like wizard baking."
"It is," Daphne said. "If your instructor is a moody bat wrapped in grease and self-loathing."
Harry patted Neville's back.
"Hey, we'll survive. Worst case, I fake a seizure and blame it on magic indigestion."
I volunteer as tribute! Jim shouted. I'll do a dramatic death spiral. Sparkles. Screams. Spontaneous interpretive dance.
"Please don't," Harry muttered aloud.
Susan, two seats down with Hannah, unfurled her own timetable.
"We've got Charms with the Ravenclaws first, then History of Magic, and after lunch, Herbology with Professor Sprout."
Hannah grinned. "That's like being taught by a cupcake and a grandma garden gnome. I love it."
Hermione leaned across the table. "Professor Flitwick invented the Levitation Charm. He's brilliant."
Aether barked from above, curling into a lazy spiral and shimmering in soft blues.
Harry grinned at the cloud. "You're a good boy."
Aether wagged his tail-like mist, puffing out a mini-rainbow.
"Transfiguration after breakfast," Hermione continued, eyes scanning like a general planning a magical siege. "Professor McGonagall. I hope we get to turn matchsticks into needles."
Ron shuddered. "I hope we get to turn needles into not needles. Fred and George gave me a 'practice wand' last night. It lit my socks on fire."
Harry raised a brow. "You lit your socks on fire before school even started?"
"Some of us are overachievers," Ron mumbled.
Tracey smirked. "And here I thought Gryffindors didn't explode until finals week."
"Defense Against the Dark Arts after lunch," Harry said. "Professor Quirrell."
"Oh joy," Daphne deadpanned. "Professor Quivery-McStammerface."
"I heard he once hexed himself trying to remove a sneeze," Tracey added.
"Optimism," Harry said, trying to sound hopeful.
Everyone stared at him.
"Fine," he sighed. "Cautious optimism."
Realistic pessimism, Jim corrected. Let's just assume he's got the survival instincts of a lemming in a dragon pit.
Hermione leaned toward Daphne. "Looks like we've got all the same classes."
"So either we ace everything or form a mutual revenge pact against the education system," Daphne replied.
"Classic bonding," Tracey said. "The best friendships start over shared trauma and sarcasm."
Harry tapped his wand (and by extension, Jim) against the table. "Ready to make magical history, team?"
Let's blow some minds and not eyebrows, Jim said. Mostly because I like your eyebrows, Potter. They add symmetry.
"You would notice symmetry," Harry said. "You're basically a glorified golden ruler."
Excuse me?! I am a sacred cosmic artifact! Not a bloody protractor with delusions of grandeur!
Ron frowned. "Why is your wand yelling?"
"Because that's just how Mondays work now," Harry replied.
Catpool, curled dramatically around Harry's feet, rolled onto his back and threw his paws into the air like he was being arrested by breakfast.
"Listen up, magical meatbags," Catpool declared telepathically, voice gleeful and just a bit unhinged. "The moment this class starts, I'm taking bets on who dies first from boredom. Odds are in favor of Neville, unless Quirrell forgets how breathing works again."
"Oi!" Neville cried.
"Sorry, buddy," Catpool said, licking a paw. "It's nothing personal. Just raw stats. Also, your survival aura is...meh."
"Your face is meh," Neville muttered.
Oof. Someone get St. Mungo's. He's got burns, Jim quipped.
Catpool fake-gasped. "That's it. I'm filing for emotional damages. Also, this timetable is missing something critical: nap breaks, snack breaks, and time allocated for illegal magical shenanigans."
Harry leaned back, arms behind his head. "We are the illegal magical shenanigans."
Ron gave a long-suffering sigh. "I already miss my bed."
"C'mon," Harry said, standing up. "First class. First impressions. Let's show them what the next seven years of Hogwarts is gonna look like."
"Like an educational apocalypse with a soundtrack?" Tracey asked.
"Exactly."
Aether whooshed above them in a loop-de-loop, trailing sparkling mist across the hall like a cheerleader with ADHD.
The timetable curled shut with a snap, and Jim shouted in Harry's head, TO WAR, YE MAGICAL DELINQUENTS! WE RIDE FOR TRANFIGURAAAAATION!
—
After saying goodbye to Susan and Hannah—who were still passionately arguing whether enchanted muffins would be adorable or absolutely horrifying if they had wands—the chaos crew of Gryffindor and Slytherin misfits headed off to Transfiguration.
The halls of Hogwarts, to put it mildly, looked like a magical IKEA showroom staffed by caffeinated raccoons. First-years darted around clutching schedules like they were sacred scrolls, portraits were shouting contradictory directions ("Left! No, my left!"), and one ghost was conducting a midair opera solo in the middle of a stairwell like it was Tuesday. (Which it was.)
A portrait of a pompous knight in chainmail squinted down at the group as they passed.
"You're late!" he barked, waving his sword like an angry traffic cop.
Ron glanced at his watch and blinked. "We've got ten minutes!"
The knight sniffed. "Which makes you nearly late. In knight etiquette, ten minutes early is five minutes late."
"I think I just got guilt-tripped by medieval drywall," Ron muttered.
Hermione, as usual, was already several steps ahead, both physically and metaphorically. "Let's keep moving," she said briskly. "We don't want to miss Professor McGonagall's first impression."
"Oh, I dunno," Tracey said. "Missing it might actually prolong our lives."
They rounded a corner, only to find the staircase had moved. Again.
"This place is actively trying to murder us," Neville muttered, clutching the railing like it owed him child support.
Harry glanced upward. "Or it's just testing our cardio. Hogwarts: The Wizarding World's deadliest obstacle course."
Jim, currently disguised as an elegant wand strapped to Harry's forearm, vibrated in solidarity.
This staircase has about as much stability as your love life.
"Jim, I'm eleven."
Exactly.
They finally reached a spiral staircase that seemed to have aspirations of becoming a rollercoaster. It shifted under their feet every third step, either for dramatic effect or to weed out the weak.
"Why can't Hogwarts just have normal hallways?" Ron groaned, stumbling up the last few steps like he was climbing Mount Doom.
"Because Hogwarts is sentient," Daphne said sweetly, "and bored."
"Also a little unhinged," Tracey added. "Like if a library married a funhouse and had a baby with a mood swing problem."
Aether, Harry's winged cat-dragon-thing—long story—glided overhead, tail curling like a smug little question mark.
"Even he's judging us," Neville muttered. "And he doesn't pay rent."
"Don't worry," Jim said brightly, in a voice only Harry could hear. If we die, I'll haunt the staircase personally. And then sue it. For slander. And homicide.
"You're a stick," Harry whispered.
Excuse you—I am a magical artifact forged from celestial gold, imbued with chaos, and armed with excellent comedic timing.
"You're a stick with ego issues."
It's not ego if it's true, Monkey King Jr.
As they passed through a sunlit corridor filled with shimmering dust motes and stained glass that threw rainbows on the floor, Aether tried to chase a beam of light and nearly faceplanted into a wall. Harry snorted. Ron nearly tripped over him.
"You alright, mate?" Ron asked.
"I'm good," Harry replied, catching Aether mid-air like a Quaffle. "He's just having a sparkle-related identity crisis."
They reached the door marked Transfiguration—Professor M. McGonagall.
And just like that, the mood did a nosedive off a cliff.
Ron adjusted his robes like he was about to face a firing squad. "So, uh… how likely d'you think it is we get turned into toads if we mess up?"
"Fifty-fifty," Daphne said calmly.
"That's… oddly comforting."
Hermione had already yanked out her textbook, three quills, a spare scroll, and what looked like a backup wand holster. "Everyone ready?" she asked, eyes bright with equal parts fear and ambition. "Wands out, spines straight, let's not be the group that gets turned into furniture."
"I can't feel my legs," Neville whispered.
"I can't feel my soul," Jim offered.
"Jim," Harry muttered, adjusting his sleeve to tap the wand once. "I will duct-tape you to a garden gnome."
Promises, promises.
Ron glanced at the classroom door like it might bite him. "Why does walking into class feel like entering the Hunger Games?"
"Because, Ronald," Harry said, flipping his hair with dramatic flair he definitely inherited from Loki, "this is the arena. And you, my ginger friend, are tribute number one."
"Thanks, Harry. That's very comforting."
"I try."
Jim hummed ominously. If she turns you into a pincushion, I'll avenge you with arson, sarcasm, and an interpretive dance set to bagpipes.
"Please don't do that."
Too late. It's already choreographed.
They stood in front of the door for half a second longer, hearts pounding, adrenaline rising like they were storming the Bastille. Hermione inhaled deeply. Ron looked like he wanted to puke. Neville was gripping his wand like it might sprout legs and flee the country.
Harry, grinning now, pushed the door open.
"Let's go turn matchsticks into needles, or needles into existential trauma. Either way—we're making history."
And with that, the door creaked open, welcoming them into the world of serious transfiguration… and very possibly, mild academic doom.
—
Meanwhile, somewhere between the third and fourth floor of Hogwarts...
Catpool was on a mission.
A secret mission. A mission so secret, so hush-hush, so top-tier classified that even he wasn't entirely sure what was going on. But hey—when your dad's Loki, God of Mischief, formerly James Potter, now part-time interdimensional troublemaker and full-time chaos connoisseur, you learned to just roll with it.
His objective: Find the Room of Requirement. Steal the Diadem of Ravenclaw. Deliver it to Daddy Loki. Don't destroy Hogwarts. (Or do. TBD.)
Catpool skulked along the corridor like a very sleek, very deadly, very loudly narrating ninja.
"Catpool slinks through the shadows," he whispered to no one in particular, tail flicking. "Silently. Gracefully. Heroically. His paws make no sound. His butt? Majestic."
He paused beside a suit of armor and struck a dramatic spy pose, one paw shielding his imaginary earpiece.
"This is Agent Purrlock. I've infiltrated enemy territory. Target is hidden inside a magical architectural anomaly. Possibly sentient. Definitely rude."
The armor, probably enchanted but now deeply regretting its existence, said nothing.
"Don't worry," Catpool whispered to it. "If you see something, say something. Unless it's my tail. That's classified."
He trotted off, ears twitching, until he reached the seventh floor.
That's when things got weird.
Weirder than usual. Which, for Catpool, meant the hallway suddenly smelled like lemon-scented betrayal and beef jerky. (Don't ask.)
"Ohoho… I smell plot relevance."
He halted, peering at the blank stretch of wall opposite a tapestry depicting trolls learning ballet. (One of them had better form than Ron, which was depressing.)
"Alright, Room of Requirement," Catpool said, pacing three times in front of it with exaggerated flair, "I require a room. With a diadem. Ancient, magical, probably cursed. Maybe bedazzled. Bonus points if it's got mood lighting."
The wall shimmered. A door appeared like magic—which was fitting, since this whole place ran on caffeine, nostalgia, and spells that would terrify the Ministry.
Catpool's eyes gleamed. "Oh, you beautiful, adaptive little mystery box."
He pounced inside before the door could change its mind.
The Room of Requirement was enormous. Towering shelves of hidden junk stretched toward the ceiling. It looked like the storage closet of every hoarder in magical history.
"Oh, look," Catpool cooed. "The Room of Lost Potential. And possibly lost socks."
He bounded across broken cauldrons, shattered statues, and what looked suspiciously like a cursed Easy-Bake Oven.
"Diadem, diadem, wherefore art thou, diadem? Shine for me, you sparkly tiara of doom—"
Then he saw it. Glinting from atop a massive statue of a vaguely smug wizard: The Diadem of Ravenclaw.
"Bingo." He rubbed his paws together. "Time to grab it, bag it, and bounce before the castle starts throwing enchanted textbooks at me."
He leapt up the statue like a caffeinated parkour artist, snagged the Diadem in his teeth (tasted like dusty wisdom and regret), and posed at the top like Simba claiming Pride Rock.
"To Loki I go! With treasure in paw, dramatic music in the background, and only a 73% chance I've triggered an ancient curse!"
The moment he hit the floor, the walls rumbled.
From the shadows, something began to stir.
"Okay, not to panic," Catpool said, turning tail and sprinting for the exit, "but I think I woke up Hogwarts' version of a Roomba… and it's hungry."
As the Room of Requirement door slammed behind him, Catpool vanished into the corridor with a delighted cackle.
"Mission accomplished, Daddy Loki," he muttered, Diadem jingling in his backpack like cursed party loot. "One tiara, as requested. With flair."
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