Harry was not awakened by an alarm clock.
He was awakened by the soft, yet deeply illegal sensation of his pillow tightening around his face like a sentient boa constrictor.
"MRRGHH—"
He flailed. His elbow knocked over a mug of ink. His knee connected with Ron's bedframe. His foot possibly kicked a small ghost. (The ghost yelled something about "workers' rights" and floated out the wall.)
In a flurry of panic, Harry threw the pillow across the room, where it hit the wall with a soft fwump, bounced once, and then sullenly slithered under Neville's bed.
"Third time this week," Ron muttered from under his blanket, voice muffled. "You should name it."
"I'm naming it Deathtrap."
"Catchy."
Winston the ferret — Harry's self-appointed legal counsel, magical manager, and apparent alarm system — was perched on the windowsill like a tiny dictator in repose. He wore a new sign around his neck, which read:
"NOT MY JURISDICTION BEFORE TEA."
"Traitor," Harry mumbled.
Winston flicked his tail at him and resumed licking jam off an unauthorized crumpet.
With a groan, Harry dragged himself out of bed, untangled his leg from his dressing gown (which had developed a vendetta), and tried to gather his school supplies from the corner where they'd all somehow migrated in the night.
7:34 a.m. – Still the Dorm Room
Harry stood in front of the mirror, hair askew, robes lopsided, tie wrapped around his arm like a bandage.
He looked like the ghost of "student loans yet to come."
He sighed.
The mirror offered no comfort.
It did, however, say: "You're awake. That's something. I've seen worse."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "You said that yesterday."
"I stand by it."
"Yesterday I tripped over my own shoes and fell down the stairs."
"You landed well."
Neville walked past behind him, holding a cactus. "Don't mind the mirror, Harry. It called me 'inspirational' once for putting on pants."
7:52 a.m. – The Staircase Gauntlet
The staircase to the common room was already halfway through its morning betrayal cycle.
The trick step near the middle had now evolved to whisper your childhood fears as you stepped on it. Ron got "wasps." Harry got "abandonment, failure, and accidentally becoming a dark lord."
Comforting.
As the two of them passed the portrait hole, the Fat Lady gave Harry a look.
Not a look. The look. The kind that said "You will cause problems today. I can feel it in my oil paint."
"Sleep well, dear?" she asked sweetly.
Harry raised a brow. "Did I dream of being eaten by my bedding? Yes. Yes, I did."
"Prophetic," she replied, and swung open.
8:03 a.m. – Great Hall, a.k.a. Culinary Russian Roulette
Breakfast at Hogwarts is a sacred, if slightly suspicious, affair.
There are rules.
Rule #1: Never eat anything purple before 9 a.m.Rule #2: The toast is safe. The marmalade is… mood-dependent.Rule #3: If a food item blinks at you, it's not food anymore.
Harry, clinging to his instincts as a man recently attacked by his own pillow, avoided the blinking porridge and the brooding croissants.
He settled on toast and an apple.
The apple looked smug. But edible.
The pumpkin juice eyed him warily, likely remembering the pudding ghost incident.
Ron arrived, yawning, robes backward, one shoe untied, and his tie somehow stuck to the back of his head.
"You look like you lost a fight with a cupboard."
"Multiple cupboards," Ron mumbled. "Also, the shampoo at Hogwarts is aggressive."
Hermione appeared beside them like an academic vulture circling a pop quiz.
"I hope you've all memorized the supply list," she said cheerfully. "Snape is known for being particular."
"Snape's known for glaring at people until their kneecaps dissolve," Ron muttered.
"I heard he once failed a student for existing too confidently," Harry added.
Winston popped up from Harry's satchel and added a new sign:
"Snape: 87% Cheekbone, 13% Liquid Disdain."
8:58 a.m. – The March to Doom
The walk to the dungeons was somehow colder than usual. Not because of the climate. Just vibes.
Harry had the distinct sensation that the walls were narrowing the closer they got. Like the castle knew they were heading to Potions and wanted to trap them in a dark, damp anxiety funnel.
By the time they reached the door, even Hermione was fidgeting.
Harry sighed.
"If I don't make it out," he said, "tell my pillow I don't forgive it."
"You know," Ron replied, "I think this is the start of a very unhealthy Hogwarts experience."
"Unhealthy," Harry said solemnly, "is the Hogwarts motto."
And then the door creaked open, the room fell silent, and Snape entered like a man whose only hobby was grudges.
9:00 a.m. – Dungeon of Despair and Questionable Safety Standards
The classroom was cold. Not just regular-dungeon cold. This was emotional cold. The kind that sank into your bones and whispered, you will not be appreciated here.
Snape glided in like a bat with tenure, robes flaring behind him in silent accusation. He didn't look at anyone. He didn't need to. His disdain radiated off him like a cologne.
The class hushed instantly.
"Today," he said, voice smoother than spilled oil and twice as dangerous, "we begin our journey into the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. There will be no foolish wand-waving here—"
Harry's quill lit on fire.
Snape paused. He looked at the flaming quill. Then at Harry.
"I suppose," he drawled, "that was... interpretive commentary?"
Harry smacked it against the desk until it stopped burning. The desk caught fire instead. Winston helpfully rolled over it with a stolen butter dish, extinguishing the flame and possibly gaining tenure himself.
Snape's expression twitched. "Five points from Gryffindor for premature combustion."
Ron leaned over. "You've got a real talent, mate."
"I think the universe is trying to gaslight me into thinking this is normal," Harry muttered.
Snape continued as if reality hadn't just bent slightly sideways. "As I was saying: potions is not a subject for the lazy. You will follow instructions exactly. Or you will fail. Spectacularly."
He let that hang in the air like a death threat marinated in vinegar.
9:12 a.m. – Partner Chaos
"Pair up," Snape snapped. "Try not to choose someone who'll drag you down like a cauldron full of troll mucus."
Hermione immediately sat beside Harry with the speed and precision of someone who didn't trust other people to count to three without supervision.
"Excellent," she said, pulling out three color-coded sets of notes, a feather-light cauldron, and something labeled 'emergency lavender calming oil'.
Ron and Neville ended up together. The look on Ron's face suggested he'd already written his will.
Draco Malfoy, smirking like a purebred peacock, partnered with Blaise Zabini and loudly pronounced that Gryffindors probably thought potions came in "fun flavors."
Snape handed out recipes. "You will be brewing a Simple Soothing Solution. If it's done correctly, it will gently shimmer blue. If it's done incorrectly... well. We'll know."
He looked directly at Seamus, who instinctively flinched.
9:30 a.m. – Recipe? What Recipe?
Harry read the instructions. He really tried. They were written in elegant, calligraphic script that somehow felt condescending. Like the parchment was judging his literacy.
Step 1: Add three drops of lilac extract.Step 2: Stir clockwise seven times.Step 3: Add powdered burdock root. Do not stir. Let it rest.
Easy, right?
Unfortunately, Harry's lilac extract had a bubble in the stopper. So instead of three drops, it gave four and a half — the half landed on his sleeve and sizzled.
"Er, Hermione?"
She didn't look up. "Did it hiss?"
"Yes."
"Did it hiss in English?"
"I think it said 'oops.'"
"That's... probably fine."
Harry squinted into the cauldron. The surface was glowing slightly. Not blue — more like emotional lavender. Then it burbled and said, quietly, "No escape."
9:36 a.m. – Potion Mutiny
Across the room, Seamus's cauldron detonated like a miniature volcano, launching a blob of yellow sludge that hit Dean square in the forehead.
"My eyes!" Dean shouted. "They're moisturized!"
"Mr. Finnigan!" Snape barked. "Explain."
"I followed the instructions! I stirred it six times—"
"The page clearly says seven, you simpering spark plug. Six stirs is the universally known activation count for a skin-softening balm with hallucinogenic properties."
Dean stared into space, eyes wide. "I can hear colors."
Meanwhile, Malfoy's potion turned silver and started foaming dramatically. Draco announced that it was "clearly a sign of superior magical heritage." Then the potion hissed, leapt from the cauldron, and slithered under his desk.
Blaise gave him a thumbs-up. "Looks pure-blooded to me."
Snape walked past Harry's group. He stopped. Looked into their cauldron.
It was… humming.
A soft, melodic tune. Familiar.
"Is that… Bohemian Rhapsody?" Snape asked, utterly deadpan.
Harry, completely deadpan in return, said, "Yes, sir. It seems to be the remix."
The potion chose that moment to sing: "Is this the real life…"
Snape stared into the cauldron like it owed him money.
"I will allow it," he said grimly, and walked away.
End of Class – 9:57 a.m.
By the time Snape dismissed them:
Hermione's potion was flawless and made a faint, relaxing chime when you waved your hand over it.
Ron's potion had solidified into a rubbery substance and now functioned as a chew toy.
Neville's potion… was missing. It had fled the premises entirely. There was a damp trail leading toward the Slytherin common room.
Seamus was vibrating and talking about "the secrets in toast."
Harry's potion had gained a small face, started reciting Shakespeare, and asked Winston to manage its finances.
Snape said nothing as they left. Just silently marked his ledger with the grim satisfaction of a man adding names to a list he would read during thunderstorms.
10:05 a.m. – Hallway Debrief
Ron slumped against the wall. "How is it that your potion sang, had a face, and got a passing grade?"
Harry shrugged. "Maybe it's all that one-in-a-million luck."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "It wasn't luck. It was barely functional chaos."
"I'll take it," Harry replied.
Winston climbed onto his shoulder and held up a new sign:
"PASSING IS PASSING. SUFFER NO EXAMS."
Somewhere behind them, the door slammed shut. A dull thud echoed, followed by the potion softly singing:
"I'm just a poor cauldron, nobody loves me…"
...
I might pause for a few weeks as exams.
ALL POWER STONES