Gryffindor Common Room – After Curfew
Something was off.
Not bad off. Just… twitchy. Like reality had forgotten how to behave around Harry and was improvising with jazz hands.
Harry sat cross-legged on the rug near the fireplace, trying to finish his Transfiguration homework. Or at least start it. Or maybe just think about starting it. Instead, he was watching his quill bounce in slow, rhythmic hops across the floor like it was doing interpretive dance.
He'd tried using it five times. Every single attempt ended with it springing out of his grip and diving into something nearby: a tea cup, a sugar bowl, once straight into Neville's sock. Neville had not been wearing said sock. No one had answers.
Harry poked the quill again.
It flipped once, landed upright, and very calmly began writing something on the rug. Backwards. With perfect penmanship.
Ron leaned over the arm of the couch, squinting.
"Did that just write 'YOLO'?"
Harry blinked. "I didn't even think that."
"Well someone did," said Ron. "Or your quill's developed a soul."
Hermione, curled up with a Charms textbook on the other armchair, didn't even look up.
"Maybe it's reacting to residual enchantments from the prank war."
Ron gave her a look. "Residual enchantments? Hermione, it just quoted a Muggle acronym from 2012."
"Well, maybe it's possessed."
Harry snorted. "Great. I've got a haunted quill. That's new."
The quill did a little hop in agreement.
More concerning: that wasn't even the weirdest thing that had happened this week.
On Monday, Harry had knocked over an entire bottle of ink—only for it to land upright on Seamus's shoe without spilling a drop.
On Tuesday, he sneezed during a broom flying drill, lost control of his broom mid-air, spun twice, and somehow landed directly on the goalpost. Madame Hooch gave him five points for "improvisational spirit."
And yesterday, during Herbology, one of the venomous tentacula vines had reared up to slap him across the face… only to whack Draco Malfoy in the knee instead.
Unprovoked.
Even Harry felt kind of bad about that one.
Sort of.
"Okay," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Weird question. Have either of you noticed… I dunno, stuff happening around me?"
Ron immediately nodded. "Oh, absolutely. You're cursed."
Hermione looked up sharply. "He's not cursed. Don't say that."
"Well, what is it, then?" Ron gestured at Harry like he was an exhibit in a museum. "Last week he tripped down the stairs and somehow ended up tackling a goblet mid-air before it hit the ground. It's like he's glitching."
Hermione frowned. "You're exaggerating. It's probably just...a cluster of minor enchantments reacting in strange ways. Or maybe a delayed magical surge."
"Or," Ron said, pointing dramatically, "it's fate."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah. Fate made my pumpkin juice refill itself six times."
"I'm just saying!" Ron said, grinning. "You could be the chosen one."
Hermione coughed into her book, definitely covering a laugh.
Harry groaned and leaned back against the couch. "Great. Chosen by who? The Society of Self-Refilling Beverageware?"
The fire cracked. The quill drew a tiny smiley face on the corner of his parchment and then very calmly rolled off the table again.
Harry didn't bother picking it up this time.
Next Morning – Corridor Outside the Great Hall
Harry wasn't thinking about being chosen, cursed, or even glitching.
He was thinking about toast.
He'd just grabbed two slices—one buttered, one unreasonably charred—and was mid-bite when he nearly collided with a fifth-year stomping past. The older student looked furious, eyes puffy like they'd been hexed or dumped, or possibly both.
"Someone's having a morning," Ron mumbled behind him.
Then Harry noticed a smaller figure standing frozen near the base of the stairs—first-year, robes still too big, pale as Nearly Headless Nick on laundry day. A heavy Transfiguration book had fallen out of their arms and landed about three steps down the massive marble staircase. Too far to grab, too scary to chase.
They were trying not to cry. Failing, a bit.
Harry moved without thinking.
He stepped forward—fast—and immediately slipped.
The floor was clean. Too clean. Either Filch was having a productive week, or the castle had conspired to ice-rink the corridor.
Harry's foot shot forward.
Then his other foot joined in.
Arms flailing, toast flying, he careened toward the stairs—except instead of falling down them and shattering every bone in his legs like logic demanded, his momentum carried him into a low slide.
Not a crash. A slide.
Like someone had slapped a physics cheat code on him.
He spun once, somehow avoiding all the sharp stone edges, snatched the dropped book mid-slide like it owed him money, and came to a gentle stop right in front of the terrified first-year.
He stood up, brushed himself off, and handed the book back.
"Careful," he said. "Books bite."
The kid stared at him like he was a demigod sent from some weird book-related dimension. "Th-thanks, sir."
Sir?
Okay, that felt illegal.
"Just Harry," he mumbled, then turned to walk away. Behind him, he heard the first-year whisper, "I didn't know Gryffindors could do that."
Harry didn't know either.
Later – Defense Against the Dark Arts
Professor Quirrell stood at the front, nervously twitching his turban. "Today, we shall be practicing the Protego shield charm," he said in a voice that cracked slightly like a rusty wand.
Harry wasn't paying much attention. He was still reeling from the stair-slide rescue earlier. His wand felt oddly warm in his hand—like it had a secret it wasn't sharing.
Quirrell's eyes suddenly flicked to him. "Mr. Potter! Would you care to demonstrate the spell for the class?"
Harry blinked. "Uh, sure?"
He barely remembered the incantation, and his wand movement was more hopeful shrug than practiced flick. But when he muttered "Protego," a blast of white-blue light shot out.
The practice dummy didn't just get deflected—it rocketed across the room and slammed into the blackboard with an echoing thud.
A few students gasped.
Quirrell's turban seemed to twitch, and he blinked twice, probably trying to pretend he didn't just witness that.
Neville whispered, "Wow… that was way stronger than usual."
Harry slid back into his seat, face blank. "I don't even know what just happened."
Ron leaned over. "You're broken, mate. Totally broken."
Quirrell cleared his throat and muttered, "Excellent demonstration, Mr. Potter. Perhaps you should try not to demolish the classroom next time."
...
This is not good for my health, but here you go, the rest of the chapters I owe you