Harry had decided there was no point pretending things were normal anymore. Between the self-buttering toast that nearly sliced his hand off, the broom that refused to turn left unless he whistled the first two notes of "God Save the Queen," and the way Filch's cat had started following him around like a tax collector, the universe was clearly up to something.
Ron was his designated accomplice for the day. Technically, Ron had been "volunteered" by virtue of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and still holding a plate of bacon when Harry asked. Bacon was powerful leverage.
They picked the courtyard because it was quiet, open, and—most importantly—close enough to the kitchens for mid-experiment snacks. Harry dumped a pile of random objects onto a lopsided table. The collection looked like it had been assembled by someone who'd lost a bet: a chipped teacup, a tangled length of rope, one gobstone, a sugar jar, a quill missing most of its feather, an old sock that might have been sentient, and something that, after close inspection, Harry decided was probably part of a broom bristle and not a dead insect.
Ron raised an eyebrow. "Planning to kill someone or summon a demon?"
Harry grinned. "Neither. Science."
The first test was the teacup. Harry tapped it lightly with his wand. In less than a second, it filled itself to the brim with hot cocoa—rich, chocolatey, topped with an immaculate swirl of whipped cream and a little sprinkle of cinnamon.
Ron's eyes went wide. "Mate… you're a genius." He grabbed the cup without asking and took a huge gulp, then immediately coughed, fanning his tongue like it was on fire. "Ow! Blimey—could've warned me it was molten lava!"
Harry scribbled something on a scrap of parchment. It wasn't actually notes—just a crude drawing of Filch riding a broom—but it made him look official.
The parchment was next. He tapped it once. It shivered, folded itself into an origami swan, and took off toward the lake with a dignified little flap.
"That's not too bad," Ron said. "Could deliver messages and all."
They watched as the swan reached the lake, landed gracefully on the water, and was immediately eaten by the giant squid.
"…Maybe not," Ron added.
The rope was stranger. It slithered into shape like a snake, then began knitting itself into what could generously be called a scarf, although it looked like it had been made by someone who hated scarves. The sugar jar didn't even wait for Harry's wand—it exploded into a sticky white cloud, coating them both so thoroughly Ron had to spit to breathe.
The sock hissed.
Harry stared at it. "That's not normal."
Ron nudged it with the end of his wand. The sock hissed louder and flopped away in a disturbingly lifelike manner.
"Right. That's going in the 'nope' pile," Harry decided.
The gobstone was last. It vibrated in Harry's hand, then shot across the courtyard at ridiculous speed and disappeared under a door that hadn't been opened in decades.
Ron chased after it, came back looking winded. "It's gone. Pretty sure it's hiding from you."
"Good," Harry said. "Didn't like it anyway."
It was about then that Seamus appeared, out of breath and clearly excited. "You've gotta see what's in the entrance hall."
Harry had a bad feeling.
Harry followed Seamus into the entrance hall with Ron trailing behind, still spitting out bits of sugar from earlier. The moment they stepped inside, Harry's first thought was that someone had gone completely mad with school spirit.
A giant banner hung from the ceiling, fluttering dramatically despite there being no wind. In gold paint that looked like it had been applied with a paintbrush the size of a broom, it read:
"Slytherin Stinks (and so does Malfoy)"
There was a crude but impressively detailed doodle of Draco's face underneath, complete with a large green boil on his nose and the faint suggestion of a unibrow.
Ron doubled over laughing. "Oh, that's beautiful. Please tell me you did this."
Harry raised his hands. "I wish I could take credit. My handwriting's not that bad."
Before they could speculate further, Draco himself marched into view with Crabbe and Goyle at his heels. His pale face turned a shade of red that clashed horribly with his hair. "Who did this?!" he demanded, glaring at the nearest group of bystanders, which unfortunately included Harry.
Harry shrugged. "Looks like public opinion to me."
The corner of Draco's eye twitched. "You think this is funny?"
Ron, still wheezing with laughter, piped up, "Yeah. Bit of an understatement, mate."
Before Draco could launch into one of his long-winded insults, Filch arrived, muttering darkly about "vandalism" and "severe punishments" while trying to pull the banner down. It didn't cooperate. Every time he yanked on it, the fabric just elongated like it was made of chewing gum, stretching higher toward the rafters. At one point it slapped him across the face.
This was when Harry realized a crowd had formed. People were chanting "Banner! Banner! Banner!" and someone in the back had started beatboxing for reasons no one could explain.
The chaos only grew when the Slytherins retaliated. A loud pop echoed through the hall and suddenly green smoke flooded the air, stinking faintly of cabbage and burnt toast. Students coughed and waved their arms, and when the haze cleared, the words on the banner had changed to:
"Slytherin Rules, Potter Drools"
Ron's jaw dropped. "Did they… did they just rhym—"
He didn't get to finish because at that exact moment, the banner burst into glitter. And not the nice, subtle kind—this was glitter with malicious intent. It coated every person in the hall, clung to robes, hair, skin. Harry suspected it would still be in his bed by Christmas.
Filch howled in frustration and stormed off, muttering about banning all "decorative substances."
Draco gave Harry a smug little smirk, clearly thinking he'd won. But then, as if on cue, one of the enchanted suits of armor started loudly singing the Hogwarts school song in an exaggerated Slytherin drawl, pointing directly at Draco the whole time.
Harry leaned over to Ron. "I swear, I didn't do that."
Ron grinned. "I know. That's what makes it better."
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry wondered if maybe, just maybe, this so-called luck thing had a taste for drama.