Harry knew something was off when Neville started tiptoeing around him like he was a glass ornament balanced on a ledge. Not the "Harry might cry" kind of delicate, but the "touch him and he'll explode" type.
"You alright, Neville?" Harry asked, slowing down so Neville could stop hovering behind him like a weird shadow.
Neville jumped like someone had thrown a spider at him. "Yeah. Totally fine. Just… don't sneeze near me, please."
Harry blinked. "What."
"I heard about the bookshelf thing. And the jellybean thing. And the chicken. It's spreading, mate."
"…The chicken?"
Neville shifted. "You don't want to know."
Harry turned to Ron, who was walking beside him looking much too smug for someone claiming innocence. "You didn't start this rumour, did you?"
Ron put both hands up like he was innocent in a courtroom drama. "Swear on my mum's gravy, I didn't tell anyone about the broomsticks."
"There were broomsticks?"
"Well, technically three. But they were… you know… aggressive."
Harry sighed and collapsed into an armchair by the common room fire. "Right. That's it. No more touching anything. No books, no food, no objects that even look like traps. I'll just sit here and wait for my seventeenth birthday in peace."
Which was when Fred and George appeared on either side of him like some sort of magical debt collectors.
"No can do, Potter," Fred said.
"War waits for no wizard," George added.
Harry narrowed his eyes. "What did you do."
Fred grinned. "We've decided to embrace your… condition."
"Your gift," George corrected, smirking.
"That's not making me feel better."
Fred leaned closer. "You're still in the prank war."
"We've just… expanded our methods," George said, his tone like he'd just admitted to robbing a bank.
Before Harry could interrogate them further, they walked off without another word. Which meant he should start worrying.
Things kicked off in Transfiguration that afternoon. The moment Harry sat down, a low rumble echoed above him. He glanced out the window. Blue skies. Not a single cloud.
Except one. A tiny, dark little puffball of a cloud. Hovering directly above him.
"Is that… is that your own raincloud?" Dean whispered.
Before Harry could answer, it started drizzling right onto his head.
McGonagall stopped mid-sentence and gave him a look halfway between suspicion and resignation. "Mr Potter. Why is it raining indoors?"
"I… don't know?"
The cloud rumbled again and zapped his quill into a smoking twig.
"Oh for—seriously?"
The cloud then gave one last sprinkle and disappeared like it was proud of itself.
Somewhere in the back, George muttered, "Told you it had manners."
Harry knew that quiet moments like this were dangerous. If nothing happened for a while, something much worse was about to hit.
After dinner that evening, Quirrell of all people stopped him in the corridor. Which was strange, because Quirrell usually acted like Harry was made of contagious disease.
"Mr Potter," Quirrell said, voice a little shaky as usual, "a word… if you don't mind."
Harry followed him into a narrow side hall that smelled like old wood and polish.
"I understand," Quirrell said, fiddling with his sleeve, "you've been having… unusual luck lately?"
Harry hesitated. "Yeah. Kind of."
Quirrell's eyes darted over him, like he was looking for some hidden mark. "Has anything happened recently? Anything that might explain… why?"
"You mean, like I caught luck? Is that a thing?"
"Ah, no. No, certainly not. Ridiculous idea," Quirrell said quickly, but he didn't sound convinced.
"Any side effects?" he went on. "Tiredness? Visions? Voices?"
"No. Should I be?"
Quirrell forced a smile. "No. Just… routine questions."
He turned and walked away before Harry could say another word. No goodbye, no explanation, just gone.
Harry stood there wondering if he'd just been interrogated or warned about something big.
A low rumble sounded overhead.
The raincloud was back. It drizzled politely on his shoes, then floated away like it had done its job.