Hogwarts — Charms Classroom — Halloween Afternoon
Status: Last Class Before Feast. Student Attention Span: Critically Low. Wand Energy: Unhinged.
Aether's Tail-Wag Level: Heroic.
Jim's Mood: Broadway Diva Meets Fireworks Factory.
By the time Harry Potter strolled into Charms class — green eyes flashing silver, hair still somehow windswept despite zero wind indoors — he looked every inch the trickster god in training.
On his left, Hermione marched like punctuality personified. On his right, Ron slouched like a pumpkin that had given up on life. Behind him came Neville, clutching his wand like it might file a complaint, and Daphne and Tracey, walking side by side with matching expressions that said: We're here for the drama, and possibly snacks.
Jim's voice blasted into Harry's brain before he even sat down.
"Ohhh yes. This is my day. My moment. My legacy. Forget Excalibur, forget Mjölnir — we are about to levitate this class into the history books, baby!"
Harry lazily twirled him in his fingers and murmured, "If you explode anything, I'm blaming you."
"Oh please. I don't explode things, darling. I elevate them. Literally. Watch and learn."
Professor Flitwick — who, despite being roughly the size of a garden gnome, radiated more charisma than most headliners — clapped his hands from atop his stack of books.
"Wands out! Today we tackle the elegant art of levitation: Wingardium Leviosa!" His voice practically sparkled as he conjured neat piles of white feathers onto every desk. "A spell that requires finesse. Poise. And absolutely no mumbling, thank you very much!"
Harry smirked faintly, slouching into his seat, while Daphne Greengrass (who looked far too put-together for someone about to levitate poultry byproduct) leaned toward him.
"You going to show off again?" she asked, voice all honey and challenge.
"I don't show off," Harry replied, flashing his silver-flecked grin. "I demonstrate superiority."
Tracey Davis snorted, flipping her dark hair and muttering, "Somebody woke up feeling immortal."
"Somebody is immortal," Jim stage-whispered in Harry's head. "Well. Close enough. And speaking of immortal—look at Hermione go! Good heavens, if precision were a crime, she'd already be doing time!"
Hermione ignored them both as she sat up straighter, wand at the ready, eyes locked on Flitwick like this was the final round of an academic Olympics.
"Swish and flick, everyone!" Flitwick squeaked. "Together now: swish and flick!"
The class repeated the motion like an army of slightly confused conductors. Harry executed his swish and flick with such flourish the feather actually fluttered just from the wind.
Hermione hissed, "Must you always add extra?"
Harry quipped back, "Would you ask Da Vinci to stop at stick figures?"
Jim howled. "OH! Paint her a ceiling, you magnificent rascal! That was art."
Flitwick raised his wand. "Now: Wingardium Leviosa! Clear. Enunciated. Not—" he mimed an exaggerated wing-gar-dum lev-ee-oh-sah, "—whatever that was."
"Who even does that?" Tracey murmured.
"Every Ravenclaw ever," Daphne replied, deadpan.
Flitwick clapped. "All together now! Wingardium Leviosa!"
Harry leaned back in his chair, drawling it at half-volume but perfect: "Wingardium Leviosa."
The class chanted in chorus. Feathers trembled. Some hovered a few inches. One in the back combusted. (Neville.)
"Again!" Flitwick chirped.
This time, Hermione's feather floated with swan-like grace. Ron's wiggled like it was trying to crawl off the desk. Neville's caught fire again. Harry sighed and casually flicked his wand to douse it.
Neville mumbled, "Thanks…"
Harry: "Don't mention it. Seriously. Don't."
Tracey's feather, meanwhile, performed a perfect somersault before face-planting on her parchment. She grinned. "Gymnastics counts."
Daphne's floated halfway up before stalling. "Mediocre," she noted.
Then Harry got serious.
"All right, partner," he murmured to Jim. "Your stage."
"Oh yes. Let me sing for them. Let me rise, let me shine, let me show them what true wandsmanship means!"
Harry swished, flicked, and whispered the incantation.
The feather didn't just float. It pirouetted, caught the light like diamond dust, then spun into a perfect orbit above his head like it had just been knighted by the cosmos.
Even Aether, curled into his cloud form above the desk, wagged his misty tail and released a delicate puff of glitter on cue.
"Good boy," Harry thought at him.
Aetherion puffed proudly and wiggled his tail again.
Hermione glared at Harry's feather. "Honestly. Show-off."
Harry flashed her a wolfish grin, silver sparks glinting in his eyes. "Better than a no-show."
Jim was already composing a musical number in Harry's head. " Wingardium, oh Leviosa, you're my high-flying queen! Look at me now, Featherina, light as whipped cream! "
Harry groaned under his breath and muttered, "I can't take you anywhere."
Jim responded with a full-on mental curtain call. "AND YET YOU DO. Every. Time."
Ron finally managed to get his feather about three inches off the table before it smacked him in the forehead.
"Progress!" he announced weakly.
"Pity points," Tracey shot back.
Neville's third feather caught fire.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, extinguished it without looking, and deadpanned: "Neville. Seriously. Try not setting Hogwarts ablaze. Just for me."
Neville nodded sheepishly, soot in his hair.
Flitwick, unbothered by the chaos, clapped his tiny hands. "Marvelous work, everyone! Marvelous! We'll stop there for today. Homework: practice. And please… do not burn down your dormitories."
As everyone filed out, Aether floated onto Harry's shoulder, tail curling contentedly, while Jim hummed the overture to his completely imaginary Broadway hit: "Feather Me, Baby, One More Time."
Harry smirked faintly as he walked out, already planning his next move.
Tonight was Halloween.
The real show was just beginning.
—
Hogwarts — Corridor Outside Charms — Halloween Evening Approaching
Status: Class Over. Feathers Traumatized. Students: Free at Last.
Aether: Maximum Floof Mode Engaged.
Jim: Thinks He's the Star of the Show (and he's not wrong).
The classroom door banged shut behind them like it was sighing in relief.
Ron immediately threw his arms overhead, groaning like a ghost in physical therapy. "My wand arm's dead. I want a memorial service for it after the feast."
Hermione's quill was already tucked away as she side-eyed him. "Honestly, Ron. It's called muscle control. Try it sometime."
Ron shot her a look of pure betrayal. "You made your feather do the waltz! The rest of us are still trying to convince ours not to declare independence."
Neville shuffled just behind them, clutching his wand like it might explode on contact. "Mine… only singed my sleeve this time," he offered, his voice almost hopeful. He held up his arm. The faint scorch mark was shaped suspiciously like a chicken wing. "That counts, right?"
Harry clapped him on the back. "Small victories, Neville. At this rate you'll set the table on fire in no time."
Neville blinked. "…Wait."
Behind them, Daphne and Tracey emerged with the kind of perfectly timed strut that made it seem like the corridor itself had been waiting just for them. Daphne's cool blue eyes swept the Gryffindors, her lips curling into a slow, lazy smile that could've melted an iceberg.
"Watching you all flail around with feathers was possibly the most entertaining thing I've seen all term," she purred, voice honey-slick and sharp at the same time. "And I am in Slytherin. We invent drama."
Tracey smirked, her gaze locking right on Harry, the corners of her dark lips quirking upward. "You mean watching him, obviously."
Daphne's gaze followed Tracey's chin tilt and rested on Harry, whose hair somehow still looked like he'd just stepped off a wind machine. His emerald eyes gleamed with silver sparks as he flashed a grin that could make angels nervous.
"Oh, definitely," Daphne drawled. "Main-character energy. The rest of you? Background dancers."
Harry leaned lazily against the wall, twirling Jim between his fingers like a conductor's baton. "Don't hate the glow," he said, voice silk wrapped around a knife. "Hate the gods who gave it to me."
In his head, Jim practically fainted from delight. "YES, MY MONKEY KING. CLAIM YOUR SPOTLIGHT. THEY'RE ALL AUDITIONING FOR YOUR FAN CLUB AND DON'T EVEN KNOW IT. I'M GONNA NEED CONFETTI. WHERE'S MY CONFETTI?!"
Harry hummed. "Save it for the feast."
Hermione, visibly unimpressed, sniffed and pulled her cloak tighter. "Well. Some of us have better things to do than stand around basking in our own egos. Like making sure we're on time for the feast."
Daphne didn't even flinch. "Try not to trip on your self-righteousness, Granger," she said smoothly. "It looks heavy."
Ron froze mid-step, his jaw unhinging like someone had just kicked it loose. "She… she just—"
Harry clapped Ron on the shoulder before his brain melted. "Relax, mate. No one's died from being verbally outclassed. Yet."
Daphne and Tracey reached the main staircase and paused, silhouettes framed in torchlight like they were villains from a very stylish heist movie.
Tracey glanced back over her shoulder, dark eyes sparking. "Enjoy the feast. Save us a pumpkin pasty or two."
Ron muttered under his breath, "Not a chance…"
Daphne just gave a slow, graceful wave, her smile wicked. "Try to keep the castle standing, Monkey King."
Harry called back, "No promises!" His grin stayed sharp and just a little feral as they turned the corner.
Jim practically combusted in his mind. "OH, THE CHEMISTRY! THE TENSION! THE DRAMA! BROADWAY COULD NEVER. YOU JUST WALKED DOWN THAT HALLWAY LIKE YOU OWNED IT, YOU MAGNIFICENT DEMIGOD. SWOONING. I'M ACTUALLY SWOONING. SOMEBODY FETCH ME A FAN."
Harry chuckled softly under his breath. "I'm just here for the pumpkin pie, Jim."
"AND TO LOOK GOOD DOING IT."
The Gryffindors pressed onward through the crowds of students funneling toward the Great Hall, the smell of roasted meat, melted sugar, and fresh bread drifting upward like a promise.
Ron shoved his hands into his pockets, muttering, "Bet you two Sickles Fred and George did something to the pudding. George said they were working on a 'special Halloween edition' of… something."
Hermione groaned, already pinching the bridge of her nose. "I don't even want to know what that means."
Neville trailed behind, trying to wipe the last flecks of soot out of his hair. "Maybe it'll just… be confetti? Or sprinkles? Sprinkles aren't bad."
Harry chuckled under his breath. "Oh, Neville. Sweet summer child."
Aetherion, now sprawled across his shoulder in a foggy little puff of smug, wagged his tail and let out a soft purr of approval. A faint glitter cloud drifted down onto Harry's robes.
"Good boy," Harry murmured, reaching up to scratch under his chin.
The others didn't even blink anymore when Harry talked to his invisible cloud-dog-broom. Hogwarts did strange things to you like that.
By the time they reached the portrait hole, the muffled din of the Great Hall's feast was already echoing faintly up the stairwell. Inside the common room, students were grabbing cloaks, fixing their hair, and double-checking their secret candy stashes.
Harry stretched lazily, his scarf somehow managing to make him look like he'd just walked off a runway instead of out of a classroom. "Everybody ready to go crash the greatest Halloween feast Hogwarts has ever seen?"
Hermione rolled her eyes but still fussed with her hair. "Don't crash it, Harry."
Ron, already halfway through the portrait hole, grinned. "Crash it? He's headlining it."
Neville followed them out, muttering nervously about "flammable desserts".
Harry lingered just a moment longer, letting Aether curl comfortably around his neck and shoulder while Jim hummed the opening bars of what sounded suspiciously like a rock opera in his head.
Tonight was Halloween.
The stage was set.
And Harry Potter never missed his cue.
—
Hogwarts — The Great Hall — Halloween Night
Status: Feast Underway. Floating Pumpkins: Immaculate. Ghosts: Extra Moody.
Aether: Tail Wag: 9000. Glitter Output: Dangerous.
Jim: Center Stage in His Own Mind.
The second Harry Potter—aka Monkey King, Trickster-in-Chief, Son of Loki and Artemis, and All-Around Menace to Order—pushed open the doors to the Great Hall, the entire place seemed to take a collective breath.
Candles hovered in lazy orbits. Pumpkins floated overhead, carved faces flickering mischievously. The smell of roasted meat and cinnamon-sugar pastries rolled through the room like a warm hug and a sugar high rolled into one.
Harry adjusted his scarf with a little flick that could have been choreographed. His emerald eyes—shot through with silver flecks that seemed to glow under the candlelight—swept across the room with all the calm authority of someone who owned it.
Which, to be fair, he kind of did.
Jim's voice, as usual, went straight for the dramatics in Harry's head.
"Ahhhhh, behold, the stage of stages!" Jim crowed like a Broadway producer who'd just discovered Hamilton. "The crowd! The lighting! The smell of poultry and poor decisions! Harry, darling, please—for me—strut like you mean it."
Harry chuckled under his breath. "Relax, Jim. I'm already strutting. Can't you feel it?"
"Oh, I feel it, Monkey King. You're practically radiating lead-role energy. Don't forget to bow when they throw roses."
Hermione glanced up at him, exasperated as always, and muttered, "Don't make a scene."
Harry smirked faintly, his voice like silk with a bite. "Oh, Hermione. I am the scene."
Beside him, Ron muttered through a dreamy gaze locked on the treacle tart table. "Yeah, scene later, pie now."
And bringing up the rear was Neville, who looked like he'd been personally wronged by every pumpkin in the room. He whispered to himself in a deathly serious tone: "Pumpkin pasty, not flammable. Pumpkin pasty, not flammable…"
On their way to the Gryffindor table, Harry made a calculated detour. Straight toward the Slytherins.
Because of course he did.
There, Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis sat like twin queens at their end of the bench, the picture of poise and perfectly-coordinated villainy. Daphne's icy blue gaze caught Harry's like she'd been waiting all night for this moment, and her lips curled into a lazy, lethal smile. If confidence could wear heels, it would look like her.
"Well, well," Daphne drawled, voice smooth as honey and twice as dangerous. "The Gryffindors have arrived. Try not to trip over your own ego, Potter."
Harry leaned an elbow on the end of the table, looking for all the world like he had nowhere more important to be than right there, smirking at her.
"Don't worry, Greengrass. My ego's already three steps ahead of me. Maybe try to keep up."
Jim screamed in his head like a fangirl spotting her idol at Comic-Con.
"YEEEES! SEVEN-COURSE ROAST WITH A MIC DROP GARNISH! YOU ARE KILLING ME, MONKEY KING. DEAD. BURY ME IN THE CONFETTI."
Tracey, leaning lazily against Daphne with all the understated menace of a black cat in moonlight, gave him a smirk that was almost a challenge. "Save us a pumpkin pasty. Or three."
Harry straightened just enough to flash her a grin sharp enough to draw blood. "Depends. What's it worth to you?"
Before Tracey could deliver what was sure to be a soul-shattering comeback, Hermione grabbed his sleeve.
"Stop antagonizing them," she hissed. "And sit down before you light something on fire just by standing here."
Harry allowed himself one last wolfish smile at Daphne and Tracey before moving on. Aether, puffed up on his shoulder in Maximum Floof Mode, sneezed an affectionate swirl of glitter over Harry's collar like an exclamation point.
"Good boy," Harry murmured under his breath, giving the cloud-dog a scratch under the chin.
"YES!" Jim howled. "STRUT, YOU MAGNIFICENT DEMIGOD. SPRINKLE THAT STAR POWER ALL OVER THIS DULL SCHOOL. YOU'RE LIKE IF DAVID BOWIE HAD A BABY WITH THOR AND SENT HIM TO BOARDING SCHOOL."
On their way to Gryffindor table, they passed Hufflepuff territory, where Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott waved. Susan's bright red hair glowed in the candlelight, and she gave Harry a look of amusement.
"Hey, Potter," she called. "Don't let the Slytherins steal all the drama tonight."
Harry tipped an invisible crown to her with a wink. "Please. I'm a one-man drama department."
Hannah giggled behind her hands.
Hermione groaned so hard it sounded like it hurt. "You're exhausting," she said.
Harry, without missing a beat, shot back, "And yet, you keep following me."
Ron muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Merlin save us all…" while already piling rolls onto his plate like they were building materials.
Neville hesitated before the table, wide-eyed at the ghosts swooping over them, and gave them an awkward little wave.
"Uh. Happy Halloween…?" he said politely, and one of the ghosts actually tipped its head in acknowledgment before gliding away.
Harry slid into his seat like a king returning to his throne. Aether fluffed himself up into the shape of a perfect glittery halo over his head. Jim immediately struck up what sounded like a full brass band in Harry's head.
"AND HERE HE IS, FOLKS!" Jim shouted, his voice practically cracking with excitement. "THE MYTH. THE LEGEND. THE DEMIGOD WHO STOLE THE SHOW AND THE PIE—HARRY. BLOODY. POTTER. TAKE A BOW, MONKEY KING!"
Harry picked up a roll, broke it in half, and said under his breath,
"I'm just here for the pumpkin pie, Jim."
"AND TO LOOK GOOD DOING IT."
Pumpkins glowed.
Ghosts floated.
The feast roared to life all around him.
And Harry Potter?
He was just getting started.
—
The Great Hall looked like every Pinterest board's dream of autumn had exploded in candlelight and cinnamon.
Harry Potter strolled in at the head of his little squad — emerald-silver eyes gleaming, scarf trailing like it had choreography, Aether riding his shoulder in full Maximum Good Boy mode.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Jim stage-whispered into Harry's brain, his voice so loud and dramatic Harry was tempted to shush him aloud, "the curtain rises. The crowd gasps. Enter the Monkey King. Take a bow, darling."
Harry resisted the urge. Barely.
Hermione flanked him like the goddess of Logic and Disapproval.
"Harry," she muttered, tugging her robe straight, "don't you dare make a scene tonight."
He grinned sidelong at her.
"Oh, Hermione," he murmured. "I am the scene."
That earned him a groan and a muttered, "Hopeless."
Ron, meanwhile, was already halfway to his seat, eyes locked on the pudding table like it was a religious pilgrimage.
"Scene later," he called back through a mouthful of treacle tart, "pie now!"
Neville brought up the rear, clutching a pumpkin pasty and looking suspiciously like it might detonate at any second.
"Maybe this one won't catch fire," he murmured to no one in particular.
"Dream big, Neville," Harry called over his shoulder.
At Harry's ear, Aether purred and wagged his foggy little tail, sending a sprinkle of harmless gold sparkles drifting down onto Harry's collar. Harry reached up to scratch him under the chin.
"Good boy," he said.
"EXCELLENT BOY!" Jim howled in his mind. "THE BEST BOY! GIVE HIM A STANDING OVATION, HOGWARTS!"
Harry just rolled his eyes and grabbed a roll.
Two suspiciously synchronized shadows slid into the empty seats opposite him, and there they were: Fred and George Weasley, both grinning like Christmas came early.
Fred leaned an elbow on the table, all wounded-hero charm.
"Evening, little brother," he said, throwing a wink at Ron.
George mirrored him perfectly.
"Evening, little brother's fan club," he added, giving Harry and company a very formal nod.
Hermione's eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.
"What," she said, "did you two do?"
Fred gasped. "Hermione Granger! Do you really think—"
"—that we'd do something tonight of all nights?" George finished.
"Yes," Hermione and Harry deadpanned in perfect unison.
The twins shared a look of pure twinly satisfaction.
"Well then," Fred said, clasping his hands. "All the more reason to keep your eyes on the pudding, eh?"
"Tick-tock," George added ominously before they slinked away into the crowd, cackling.
"Oh, they're terrible," Hermione muttered.
"They're artists," Jim countered in Harry's head, faux-sniffling. "But don't worry, Monkey King. Your star still shines brighter. We'll upstage them. Big finish. Fireworks. Maybe real ones."
"Not tonight," Harry thought back. "Probably."
From across the Hall, Daphne Greengrass raised her goblet in a salute so smooth it could've been bottled and sold. Tracey Davis gave Harry her usual subtle smirk — the kind that promised she was keeping receipts.
Harry raised his pumpkin juice back with just enough flare to make Jim squeal.
"OH! OH! THE TENSION! THE FLAIR! THE ANGSTY, FLIRTATIOUS ENERGY! I'M DYING, DARLING. DYING. AND YOU'RE KILLING ME BEAUTIFULLY."
"Tone it down," Harry muttered.
"NEVER."
At the Hufflepuff table, Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott both spotted him at the same time. Susan waved first, her coppery-red hair catching the candlelight like fire. Hannah giggled and gave him a thumbs-up.
Harry dipped his head, let a little smile play at the corner of his mouth.
Hermione caught him doing it and groaned.
"You're exhausting," she told him.
"And yet," Harry said, already reaching for the roast potatoes, "you sit next to me."
Aether let out a happy little puff and curled into the crook of his neck, tail still wagging.
Ron, meanwhile, finally surfaced from his chicken long enough to point at the ceiling.
"Uh… why are the ghosts singing?"
Sure enough, Nearly Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron were circling each other midair, trading verses in a song that sounded like a mashup between an Irish wake and a karaoke night gone terribly wrong.
Neville ducked instinctively when Nick's head swung past. "Maybe it's festive?"
"Festive for who?" Hermione asked flatly.
"Hauntingly festive," Harry offered dryly, earning himself one of Hermione's patented withering glares.
Jim, of course, was in heaven. "HAH! YOU CAN'T TEACH TIMING LIKE THAT, MY BOY. BRAVO. BRAVO. GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT."
Harry popped a bite of pie into his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and let his gaze wander over the room.
Pumpkins glowed like jack-o'-lantern constellations overhead.
Candles flickered in pools of gold.
The ghosts sang terribly.
And the Gryffindor table, chaotic as ever, felt like home.
Aether nuzzled his ear, rumbling in contentment.
"Good boy," Harry murmured again, and this time even Jim quieted for a second.
For a second.
"ALL RIGHT!" Jim bellowed in his head, back to full-volume diva mode. "ACT THREE! WHAT DO WE THINK? GRAND FINALE WITH THE PUDDING? SPARKS? DRAGONS? ALL OF THE ABOVE?"
Harry smirked faintly and raised his goblet. "Let's just see what the night brings."
Pumpkins.
Pie.
Chaos simmering just below the surface.
—
The Great Hall had just hit peak cozy: candles flickered, pumpkins floated like little orange suns, and the ghosts were busy low-key judging the students' fashion choices. Then, in stomped Professor Quirrell like he was headlining Shakespeare's Tragedy: Troll Edition.
His turban was crooked, face pale enough to make a ghost jealous, and his eyes were bulging so hard Harry was half-convinced they might pop off and orbit the ceiling.
"T-T-TROLL!" Quirrell shrieked, voice cracking like a banshee with a sore throat. "IN THE DUNGEONS! A MOUNTAIN TROLL! RUN—"
Before anyone could react, he grabbed his chest, clutched it like it was a cursed object, and then executed the most dramatic spin-and-collapse Harry had ever seen outside of a soap opera.
Thunk.
The room froze.
Jim's voice screamed in Harry's head like an overenthusiastic stage announcer: "OH, MY STAGE GODS, DID HE JUST DIE ON COMMAND?! THAT SPIN! THAT FALL! GIVE THIS MAN AN OSCAR, A DRAMATIC READING OF 'HAMLET,' AND A TRIP TO BROADWAY! HE'S NOT A PROFESSOR—HE'S A PERFORMING ARTIST!"
Harry, ever the critic, took a slow sip of his pumpkin juice and muttered, "That was so over the top, I half expect him to break into song."
Hermione's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Harry!"
"What? I'm just calling it like I see it."
Meanwhile, chaos erupted. Students were either screaming, diving under tables, or whisper-screaming, "It's coming for Neville!" — which made Neville choke on his pumpkin pasty.
Dumbledore, sitting serenely as if someone had just told him it was a nice day for tea, waved vaguely. "Students… do… ah, not panic. Excellent advice. Prefects, kindly… escort your… houses to… ah, dormitories. Yes. Off you pop."
As the prefects herded the crowd toward the exits, the Great Hall noise level doubled and panic ticked up a notch.
But Harry, who was halfway out of his chair, cut through the din with a voice sharp enough to slice through enchanted pumpkin pie.
"Headmaster!"
Dumbledore blinked at him, clearly puzzled, like he'd forgotten why he'd stood up in the first place. "Yes, my boy? Ah… Harry, is it?"
Harry's emerald-and-silver eyes locked on the Headmaster, voice calm but firm. "Professor Quirell just told us there's a mountain troll in the dungeons. The Slytherin dorms are also in the dungeons. Maybe sending the students there isn't exactly the safest plan?"
Silence fell like a Death Eater at a knitting circle. Even Daphne and Tracey — halfway out the door — froze, eyebrows raised in "Did he just?" disbelief.
Jim was howling internally. "YAS! LOGIC! LIKE A THUNDERBOLT STRAIGHT TO THE HEAD! FINALLY, SOMEONE WITH COMMON SENSE. TAKE A BOW, MONKEY KING!"
Dumbledore scratched his beard, eyes distant like he was trying to remember where he left his wand.
"Oh," he said, slow and confused, "ah… yes. I hadn't thought of that. Quite right. Quite right indeed."
McGonagall sprang up, a whirlwind of tartan fury, her voice slicing through the room like a Valyrian steel sword. "Enough! No one leaves the Great Hall until given permission! Prefects, round everyone back here. No dormitories tonight! Stay put and stay safe."
The prefects stopped dead, herding the students in reverse, while McGonagall's glare swept the hall like a broomstick through leaves. "No exceptions! Anyone caught leaving without my say will answer to me personally."
Harry slid back into his seat, smirking like the kingpin of Hogwarts logic, while Jim did a slow, exaggerated standing ovation in Harry's mind. "BRAVO! YOU, MONKEY KING, JUST SAVED THE ENTIRE SCHOOL FROM A GIANT RUBBER TROLL AND MADE THE HEADMASTER LOOK LIKE HE SHOULD PROBABLY RETIRE TO A QUIET COTTAGE. LEGENDARY."
Aether, ever the perfect companion, swirled up in a glittery puff, nuzzled Harry's cheek, and gave a reassuring little woof that scattered sparkles over his collar.
"Good boy," Harry murmured, scratching behind the cloud's ethereal ear.
Across the Hall, Daphne's smirk sharpened into something that said, Impressed but don't get cocky, while Tracey's Olympic-worthy smirk said she was mentally scoring Harry's performance.
Hermione leaned close, voice low and fierce: "You just backtalked the Headmaster."
Harry sipped his pumpkin juice like it was the best kind of rebellion. "No, Hermione. I simply pointed out a logistical flaw."
She pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, Why am I friends with this lunatic?
Ron, busy with dessert, shook his head in amusement.
"Bet the troll has no idea what it's in for. Halloween's weird. Stuff always happens."
Harry's grin went just a little feral.
"Then let's find out who the real monster is tonight."
Jim's voice was already building the soundtrack for Act Three. "THAT'S THE SPIRIT! MONKEY KING, THE NIGHT IS YOURS TO COMMAND. LET THE TROLL TASTE YOUR WRATH!"
The floating pumpkins glowed.
The candles flickered.
The ghosts kept their vigil.
And Harry Potter?
He was ready for the real show to begin.
—
By the time most of the Great Hall settled into something vaguely resembling order again, Harry already had his plan in place. He sat perfectly still, silver-green eyes shining under the candlelight, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Like a king in disguise, waiting for the peasants to catch up.
Ron, who was shoveling custard into his mouth like it was his last meal, noticed first.
"Oh no. You've got that look," he muttered.
Harry glanced lazily his way, all innocence.
"What look?"
"That 'let's do something stupid and heroic' look," Ron said. He gestured at Harry with his spoon. "You get that look every time you're about to drag us into mortal peril. Which… yeah. I'm in."
Hermione whipped her head around so fast, her curls practically hissed. "No. Whatever it is, no. I can see it in your eyes, Harry."
Harry arched a brow at her.
"That's unfair. You don't even know what I'm—"
"You're going after the troll," she snapped.
He grinned. "See? And they say you're not psychic."
She buried her face in her hands. "This is such a bad idea."
"Depends who you ask," Harry replied. "The troll might say it's a terrible idea."
Even Aether snorted a little cloud of glitter in what was clearly approval.
Neville, bless him, tried his best to look brave. He almost managed it.
"Wouldn't it be smarter to let… you know… the actual teachers handle it?"
Harry tilted his head, deadly calm.
"Sure, Nev. We could do that. But then who's going to keep it from turning one of our classmates into a pancake while the professors play 'Pin the Wand on the Dementor' over there?"
Neville swallowed. "…Okay. Yeah. I'm in."
Harry's smirk sharpened into something just shy of feral. "That's the spirit."
And that's when a drawling, honey-edged voice cut in behind him.
"Well, well," Daphne Greengrass purred, one hand casually resting on his chair back as she leaned down just enough for her smirk to melt the air. "I thought I heard Gryffindor's monkey king plotting something reckless."
Harry didn't even flinch. He just tilted his head, slow and deliberate, and shot her a sideways smile sharp enough to cut glass.
"Ah, Daphne. So nice of you to stop moisturizing long enough to join us. We're hunting a troll. You coming? Or are you worried it might smudge your lip gloss?"
Daphne's smile turned dangerous, which, in Harry's opinion, only improved it.
"Try to keep up, Potter," she said, straightening with a toss of her hair. "We're in."
Right on cue, Tracey appeared at her side, full deadpan. "Someone's gotta make sure you don't die of your own ego. Fine. We're in too."
From a few seats over, Susan's voice piped up, her red hair catching the light as she stood. "You'll need someone who can patch you up if you get hurt. That's me. I'm coming."
Then Hannah — all quiet courage and soft worry — stood too. "And… you'll need someone to scream if it gets too close. I'm good at that."
Harry eyed his now-growing squad and let out a low chuckle. "Well then. Looks like we've got ourselves a hunting party. Team Troll. Catchy, right?"
In his head, Jim was losing it. "YES! TEAM TROLL! THIS IS THE GREATEST CROSSOVER EPISODE IN THE HISTORY OF HOGWARTS! YOU — MY LITTLE DEMIGOD DISASTER — YOU ARE LEADING AN AVENGERS-LEVEL ASSEMBLE MOMENT RIGHT NOW AND I AM HERE FOR IT!"
Aether wagged his foggy tail fast enough to kick up the tablecloth and let out an excited little bark-cloud that sparkled like stardust.
Hermione groaned into her hands. "You're all insane."
Harry reached over and clapped her on the shoulder. "And yet you're still sitting with us."
That earned him a faint blush and a muttered: "…Someone has to keep you from getting killed."
Fred and George, watching the whole thing with matching grins, couldn't resist chiming in.
"Don't forget to bring us a souvenir, Potter!" Fred called.
"Bit of troll toe, maybe!" George added.
Harry raised his goblet and saluted them lazily. "Sorry, boys. First come, first smashed."
The twins howled with laughter, slapping the table as Harry rose from his seat and motioned for the others to follow.
Jim's voice boomed in his head like an over-caffeinated Broadway announcer. "AND SO THEY DEPART! THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE TROLL! EIGHT STUDENTS! ONE CLOUD! ONE RIDICULOUSLY OVER-QUALIFIED STAFF! AND MORE SASS THAN THIS CASTLE CAN HANDLE!"
The candles flickered dramatically overhead.
The pumpkins glowed ominously.
And as his little squad fell into step behind him, Harry threw one last look over his shoulder — emerald eyes gleaming with silver sparks — and smirked.
"Let's go meet our monster."
Aether puffed into a glowing little halo above his head and wagged his tail like a crown.
Jim, practically sobbing with pride, whispered in his skull: "GO GET 'EM, KID. YOU'RE MAKING ME PROUD. I'M GONNA WRITE A MUSICAL ABOUT THIS."
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