The staff room in Hogwarts was a peculiar blend of cozy and chaotic. A fire crackled in the hearth, several mismatched chairs circled the center, and the air smelled faintly of ink, parchment, and tea leaves.
Professor McGonagall sat with her customary poise, though her brow was drawn tighter than usual. Flitwick perched on a stack of cushions, swinging his legs thoughtfully. Sprout was sipping from a teacup shaped like a toadstool. Snape leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Dumbledore, as always, sat calmly with an amused twinkle in his eye, sipping lemon water.
Professor Merriman paced with theatrical flair, gesturing with a rolled-up parchment.
"—and then it rewrote a student's thesis introduction into haunted ballad form! I ask you, who rhymes 'Goblin Uprising' with 'dire surprising'?!"
Flitwick chuckled. "Rather clever, actually. I read one essay that rhymed its entire bibliography."
McGonagall cleared her throat. "Let us not encourage it, Filius."
Sprout looked thoughtful. "My Hufflepuffs reported that quills were correcting their grammar mid-sentence."
Snape muttered, "And some Slytherins claimed their scrolls began listing study tips and chanting motivational phrases. One threatened to hex a student unless they 'reviewed their Arithmancy formulae.'" He narrowed his eyes. "It used a particularly sarcastic tone."
"I must admit," Flitwick said, stroking his beard, "I was quite impressed. The charmwork required to animate and enchant that many writing implements is advanced. It was subtle. Coordinated. Brilliantly executed."
McGonagall glanced sharply around the room. "And no one has claimed responsibility?"
"No one even knows who's behind it," Merriman sighed. "Which is strange. Usually the guilty parties look smug or tired—"
"Or traumatized," Snape added.
"—but nothing." Merriman waved the parchment. "They're either brilliant actors… or don't remember doing it at all."
At that, Dumbledore hummed lightly. "Memory magic, perhaps?" he offered, eyes twinkling.
McGonagall frowned. "That would be impossible for the first two years and dangerous for a thrid year." She unconsciously believed that the memory magic used was of the widely known permanent kind.
Snape folded his arms tighter. "Unless they had help."
"Help from whom?" Sprout asked mildly, her tone neutral—but her glance flicked briefly to McGonagall, then Dumbledore.
Dumbledore gave a genial shrug. "Sometimes, the castle itself teaches. Hogwarts has a mind of its own."
That earned him a series of skeptical looks.
Still, no further accusations were raised.
Sprout sipped her tea again. "Well. Whoever they are, they're good. But my badgers know the value of balance. I trust none of them would be reckless enough to risk points this close to the House Cup."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't be so sure, Pomona. Some students might consider it worth the risk."
McGonagall folded her hands. "I'll be watching the usual suspects—Gryffindor or not."
Flitwick smirked. "And I'll be watching with curiosity. Because frankly, I want to see what they do next."
"Agreed," Merriman muttered, sitting down. "But whoever they are, they've clearly read my works. The Ghost of Footnote Past is a name I myself proposed two years ago in a publication in jest. I'm flattered and horrified all at once."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Ah, what a joy it is to teach the minds of tomorrow."