*Warning- There is an instance of drugging in this story. I would like to make clear now that I DO NOT condone this kind of behavior and discourage the act of smoking. I vape but even I admit that it is indeed a very nasty behavior. Sky right now has a slightly skewed moral compass but he does not act out in a malicious manner. This act of drugging will be a one time thing and will NEVER be repeated again throughout this story unless its against an enemy with poison or some such.*
The Gryffindor common room buzzed with end-of-October chatter, cushions rearranged, pumpkin-shaped biscuits being traded for exploding snap cards, and someone in the corner charming a squash to float like a balloon. It was the kind of evening that tasted of cinnamon and near-freedom.
"Deathday Party?" Harry read aloud from a thick, curling scroll handed to him by a ghost owl earlier that evening.
Ron groaned. "Oh, no. You're not seriously thinking of going, are you?" He looked up from the couch, where he was lazily tossing a quill into a butterbeer bottle.
"Nick invited me personally," Harry muttered. "He said it was going to be... atmospheric."
"Sounds like code for damp, cold, and miserable," I said. "Pass. Hard pass. HELL NO pass."
Ron chuckled. "What, afraid of a little moldy food and transparent entertainment?"
"I've been hoarding this feast since first year, Weasley," I said, folding my arms. "Do you know how many enchanted desserts I've stashed? How many secret servings of roast duck I've catalogued? I'm not giving that up for spoiled cheese and ghost violin solos."
Ron squinted. "Wait—how has food from last year not gone bad?"
"Stasis charms, obviously," I replied. "What do you think I am, an amateur hoarder? Please.""
Hermione, from her seat near the fireplace, added without looking up, "I'm staying here too."
Ron narrowed his eyes. "You always stay with him. Are you two dating or something?"
Harry, beside him, perked up. "Actually... yeah. You two are always together."
Hermione visibly stiffened and pretended to flip a page in her book, though her ears were practically glowing.
I glanced around. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were definitely listening in from two cushions away.
"Who knows?" I said easily. "I wouldn't outright dismiss it down the line."
From the direction of the gossip twins came an audible squeal.
Hermione went slightly redder and muttered something about reading in peace.
"Anyway," I said, leaning back smugly. "Enjoy your moldy feast. I've yet to miss a Halloween dinner, and I'm not about to trade roast boar and floating tarts for plates of rotten food and black mold."
Halloween in the Great Hall was nothing short of glorious. Candles hovered lower, casting warm shadows over towers of sweets and silver platters stacked with roasted meats and butter-basted vegetables.
Hermione watched me with a new kind of amusement now. With the secret of my storage ability out in the open between us, she began to see me differently—and more sharply.
She caught me in the act: while one hand casually devoured a hunk of roasted boar from my plate, the other, barely noticeable beneath the table, flicked slices of turkey, ham, and duck from nearby platters directly into my inventory.
She raised an eyebrow as I swiped a glazed leg of lamb right off the serving tray while a distracted Ravenclaw was mid-sentence.
But the true highlight of the evening was Fred and George.
They kept reaching for food—and missing.
Every time one of them reached for a turkey leg, it vanished just before their fingers made contact. They'd pause, blink, then glance at each other.
"You took mine!" Fred accused.
"I didn't touch it!" George swore.
"Where is it going?"
I chewed innocently and offered no explanation. Hermione's shoulders trembled as she tried—and failed—not to laugh. She leaned closer and whispered, "You're going to get caught."
"Only if I start taking desserts off Dumbledore's plate," I said.
She snorted into her cider.
We ate, we laughed, and we watched floating jack-o-lanterns release firework sparks with every bite.
Hermione leaned on her elbow near the end, watching the students dance around enchanted fog. "You know it's suspicious when things go too well," she said quietly.
I nodded, mouth full of candied apples. "Let's pretend it isn't."
It was a weekend trip to the Flamels. The moment we stepped into the French countryside and through the wards of the château, everything felt quieter—not just in volume, but in pace. The warm smell of sandalwood drifted from Flamel's study, parchment curling gently at the edges from the enchanted fireplace.
Now that Hermione knew the truth about my abilities, I took the opportunity to show her what I had built: the central Vanishing Cabinet Central Hub. Tucked inside my warehouse trunk.
Her eyes widened when she saw the hub—a circular platform etched in glowing runes, surrounded by dark wood and misty light, in a circular formation surrounded by Pine trees with an open sky backdrop and plenty of light to simulate and never setting sun.
"This is how you've been getting around..." she whispered.
"Faster than a broom and subtler than Apparition," I said.
She gave me a look that hovered between horror and admiration.
Then, after a long pause: "You built an illegal international travel network in your spare time."
"Well," I said, "I had a few evenings off." I responded as into Flamel's cabinet.
"Mr. Flamel, are you in? What are you doing?"
Flamel sat in a worn, high-backed rocking chair beside the fireplace, legs crossed, holding what looked like a centuries-old tome with gold leaf curling at the corners. He glanced up over his reading glasses, raising one bushy eyebrow. "This counts as light reading," he said, tapping the tome lightly. "Not that any of you know the meaning of patience anymore.""
"I want to become an Animagus," I said.
Flamel didn't look up. "Of course you do."
"And me," Hermione added.
"Of course she does," he echoed, eyes twinkling.
He stood, pulled down an old scroll, and sat back with a sigh. "Traditionally, it takes months. Often years. Dangerous if rushed. But—"
"But you have a shortcut," I prompted.
He nodded slowly. "Mandrake leaf. Dried. Inhaled through... a specially designed magical foci. One that channels heat and smoke directly into the lungs, but in a... highly concentrated manner."
Hermione frowned. "Like a potion vaporizer?"
"More... tubular. Often carved. Sometimes lit at one end," Nicholas said delicately.
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "so like a specialized wand used for rituals? But, wait, you said inhaled right?"
I gave her a flat look. "It's a pipe."
"Magical foci?" Hermione asked suspiciously.
"A pipe," I said, already grinning.
Flamel confirmed it. "It's effective. Why do you think Native American wizards all transform so easily? Their rites of passage include controlled psychedelic use. Mandrake is far safer and are not hallucinogenic, but similar in impact for those looking to tranform into their spirit animal's."
Hermione blanched. "You're advocating magical smoking?"
I turned to her solemnly. "By your logic, every indigenous Animagus in North America has magical lung cancer."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Flamel sipped tea with supreme disinterest.
Hermione glared at both of us like we'd collectively kicked a kitten.
A week later back in the warehouse, I'd already set it up: a sealed room with a humidifier, swirling mist, a fan, and a conveniently numbing taste-blocking charm. To convince Hermione into joining me, I conveniently called it a "focus ritual."
Hermione, blindfolded, seated cross-legged, arms raised awkwardly, mumbled, "This feels ridiculous."
"Oh ye of little faith," I said. "Let's warm up your brain with some trivia. Ten minutes of magical quickfire. No thinking. Just instinct. Go."
Hermione huffed. "Fine."
"What magical creature is illegal to own but can be disguised as a teapot?"
"A Runespoor!"
"What's the incantation for the flame-freezing charm?"
"Glacius Ignitus."
"How many drops of Gillyweed extract are needed to neutralize doxy venom?"
"Seven—no, eight if the venom's fresh."
"What's the name of the curse that makes your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth?"
"The Gummitus Curse."
"What's the most common wand core in Northern France?"
"Unicorn hair."
"What spell do you cast to make your shoes waterproof?"
"Impervius."
"What potion smells like desire and hay when stirred counterclockwise?"
"Amortentia."
"What are the three legally accepted Animagus transformation triggers?"
"Incantation, ritual focus, magical stress event."
"Name one non-lethal creature immune to stunning spells."
"A murtlap."
"What's the name of the charm used to suppress the taste and smell of magical substances?"
"Fumosensio!" she snapped.
"Final question: what's the incantation for an Animagus Tranformation?"
"Amato Animo Animato Animagus," she replied.
"Perfect. Say each word separately. Enunciate."
She did.
"Now three times fast. Say it and I'll fund your next Diagon Alley book spree."
She suddenly perked up. "Amato Animo Animato Animagus. Amato Animo Animato Animagus. Amato Animo Animato Animagus."
On the fifth repetition, her skin began to glow faintly white. It shimmered. Then faded.
She froze. "What was that?"
"Nothing! Focus!" I said, quickly doing the chant myself.
Five rounds in, I glowed too.
Hermione yanked the blindfold off and noticed the room filled up to the brim with smoke and glared at me.
"You—you tricked me into—into—"
"Yes," I said. "But efficiently."
She exploded. "You DOSSED me into magical transformation?!"
"It's technically accelerated awakening through vapor immersion—"
"YOU DRUGGED ME."
I backed up as she flung a spell at the humidifier. It exploded.
"You're going to be a very stylish otter," I tried.
"GET. OUT."
"But this is my.."
"GET. OUT!!"
I quickly ran out before another nasty looking curse flew at me.
An hour later, on the docks by the Black Lake, she was still fuming. But she came.
"You're lucky I didn't report you."
"I know," I said.
She huffed. "So how do I do this?"
"You just need to say the incantation one more time and you can start doing it at will."
She breathed. Whispered the words. The glow returned. And in a flash of white-blue light, she transformed into an adorable water before it jumped off the dock in one leap and into the black lake.
An otter spun into the water, sleek and joyous.
I watched her twist, dive, roll in sheer instinctual bliss.
When she returned, dripping and panting, her eyes sparkled.
"I'm still mad at you."
"I can live with that."
"Well?" she asked.
"…Well what?"
"You haven't gone yet."
I blinked. "Oh. Right."
"Amato Animo Animato Animagus"
Poof.
The Niffler blinked up at her. Snout twitching. Fur fluffed. Wide eyes already scanning her buttons.
She clapped a hand over her mouth. Shaking.
Then:
"This is so tragically perfect."
I darted into her robes.
"SKY. Get OUT—"
She shrieked and laughed and fell onto the dock as I attempted to tug a shiny Hogwarts Logo pin from her scarf.
She didn't stop laughing.