Harry didn't want to be tested like a particularly sketchy potion ingredient.
But Hermione was already laying out parchment like she was preparing a ritual.
Ron watched from a safe distance, munching toast. "So this is it then. Harry's being studied. Like a magical cockroach."
"I am right here," Harry said, deadpan.
Hermione sniffed. "You're not a cockroach. You're an anomaly. A walking, wand-waving contradiction of natural law. That coin thing yesterday? Twelve heads in a row? That's not normal."
"Maybe I'm just really good at flipping," Harry offered.
Hermione held up the Galleon and dropped it.
Heads.
She dropped it again.
Heads.
She narrowed her eyes. "Coin's fine. Gravity's fine. You're the problem."
Harry leaned back in the squashy armchair, looking mildly offended. "I didn't ask to be a problem."
"Well," Ron said between bites, "you did accidentally win that essay contest you never entered, and then get excused from detention because Peeves set fire to the sign-in sheet. Honestly mate, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were bribing the castle."
"I don't even know how to bribe a building."
"You don't have to. It likes you. You could sneeze and the Room of Requirement'd probably hand you a hot towel and a foot massage."
"Can we not talk about Harry's magical feet," Hermione said, rubbing her temples. "Look, I just want to run some simple tests. Nothing dangerous."
"That's what Lockhart said before turning Ron's wand into a slug dispenser."
"First test is just a coin toss. Simple. Controlled. Basic math."
Harry sighed and held out his hand.
Hermione placed the Galleon in his palm. "Call it."
"Heads."
He flipped.
It landed heads.
He flipped again.
Heads.
They kept going. Ten, eleven, twelve times. All heads.
Ron whistled. "Okay, now it's creepy."
Hermione was muttering. Not in a dark-magic kind of way, more in a "writing equations in her head" kind of way. "We'll need a bigger sample size."
"No," Harry said. "No sample sizes. No graphs. No more cursed beans."
Hermione frowned. "What?"
"You gave me that Butterbeer-flavored bean yesterday. It was chicken."
Ron burst out laughing and almost dropped his toast. "That explains why you kept making that face."
Harry ignored him. "The luck thing—it's not helping. It's... weird. Like the universe keeps throwing pillows at my head."
"Better than knives," Ron said.
"That's not the point. I didn't do anything. And now staircases are moving out of my way before I trip, and a book gave me a high five. Literally. It had a tiny animated hand drawn on the inside cover and it waved."
Hermione had already pulled out her second scroll.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes," she said, scribbling something that looked suspiciously like a bar graph. "You're a case study, Harry. Possibly the most interesting magical case in centuries."
"Can I opt out?"
"No," she said cheerfully. "You're too lucky."
Ron leaned over, reading the top of her chart. "'Observed Probability Deviations in a Subject of Inexplicable Fortune.' That's a title, Hermione."
"It's going to be a paper one day," she said. "Maybe published."
Harry rubbed his face. "Great. Can I be unconscious for the interview portion?"
They didn't hear the faint, metallic clink behind them.
Or the low whisper of something shifting under the portrait hole. Something light. Something sneaky.
Prank war wasn't over yet.
And someone had just rolled in phase two.
It started with the chicken.
Not the bean. An actual chicken.
At breakfast the next morning, right in the middle of Ron complaining about the toast being too toasty, there was a cluck and a soft thump.
A live, very confused-looking chicken had appeared on Harry's lap.
Just—poof. Feathers, legs, blank stare. No warning.
Harry froze. So did the chicken.
Ron blinked. "You summoning familiars now, mate?"
Harry looked down. "I… I don't know where it came from."
The chicken flapped once and deposited something on Harry's plate that was definitely not food.
Hermione, already mid-sip of pumpkin juice, sputtered. "Okay. Okay, that's not you. That's someone pranking you."
"Are we sure?" said Dean from two seats down. "I mean, could be the luck again. Could be a sign. Maybe chickens are sacred in—"
"Shut up, Dean," Seamus muttered, watching the bird like it might explode.
It didn't. But it did hop off the table, wander across the floor, and disappear into the Slytherin end like it had a mission.
Malfoy shrieked five seconds later. Something about talons and "unacceptable poultry-based harassment."
After that, things escalated.
Someone—probably Fred or George, but they swore innocence with suspiciously synchronized grins—put Ever-Expanding Powder in Harry's bag. The moment he opened it, it grew.
And grew.
And grew.
It didn't stop until it was the size of a coffin and a first-year fell into it trying to see what was inside.
Then there was the hallway ink trap. Someone rigged the fourth floor corridor to spray ink at anyone who stepped on a very specific floor tile.
Harry stepped on it.
The tile clicked.
A gallon of ink exploded—everywhere.
Except… not on him.
The outline of Harry's body was clean. Not a drop. But everything around him was splattered like a crime scene involving a squid and a malfunctioning quill factory.
Peeves floated past five minutes later and declared it "Modern Art."
Then came the books.
At first, just one or two. Innocent-looking, nothing flashy. But the titles were weird.
"How to Survive Unreasonable Miracles."
"Are You the Chosen One, or Just Unkillable?"
"When Probability Bends: Anxieties of the Extremely Lucky."
Hermione opened one and gasped. "This is faked. This one has a chapter about a wizard falling off a cliff and getting caught by a passing dragon!"
Harry groaned. "I'm being mocked by literature."
Even Quirrell seemed to notice. He eyed Harry with something halfway between suspicion and the haunted look of a man who knew too much and wanted to go back to knowing less.
During class, he had Harry demonstrate the Disarming Charm.
Harry barely whispered "Expelliarmus" and the dummy's wand flew out of its hand, hit the ceiling, ricocheted off the chandelier, and landed point-down in the middle of Quirrell's desk.
Right into an apple.
Perfectly skewered.
There was a long pause.
Quirrell cleared his throat and scribbled something into his notes without looking up.
Harry didn't know if that was a good sign.
After class, Hermione cornered him.
"Something's off," she said, voice low. "It's not just luck anymore. I think it's adjusting to you. Getting smarter."
Harry looked at her. "The luck is getting smarter?"
"I mean…" She hesitated. "That's not how I'd phrase it in a paper, but yes. You're not just lucky, Harry. The universe is... favouring you. On purpose."
"That's not terrifying at all."
Hermione nodded, completely serious. "We need to run more tests."
"I'm not flipping another coin."
She smiled. "No. This time, I want to test how it reacts to intentional sabotage."
Harry paused. "You're going to try to prank me?"
"No," she said, and then, slightly too late, "...yes."
Harry squinted at her. "This is gonna be terrible, isn't it."
"You might end up in a broom cupboard with a rabid kneazle."
Ron walked past with a chicken feather stuck to his sleeve. "You say that like it hasn't already happened."
...
No more chapters this week, have to focus on exams.