Chapter 12: The Treacherous Bench and The Soup Tureen Catastrophe part-1
The rest of the train ride passed with a delightful tension. Every time Hermione moved, Harry flinched. Every time Harry looked at her, he quickly looked away, his ears turning pink. It was the perfect atmosphere for a romantic comedy.
I leaned back, closing my eyes to check my stats.
Current Status:Name: Ron WeasleyIntelligence: High (Enhanced)System Points: 260Skills: Photographic Memory, Magical Theory Comprehension (Master), Advanced Occlumency, Telekinesis (Intermediate), Structure Analysis.Next Goal: Trigger an incident during the Sorting Feast.
(The Sorting Feast,) I thought with a smile. (Hundreds of students. Professors. Ghosts. And lots and lots of food. This is going to be good.)
"Anything from the trolley, dears?" the Trolley Witch asked, sliding the door open a crack.
"We are fine!" Hermione shouted, jumping a foot in the air and clutching her chest.
"Just some Cauldron Cakes," Harry said, his voice unusually high.
I took a bite of my liquorice wand. Being Ron Weasley was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
The horseless carriages rattled and bumped along the winding path up to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Through the window, the castle loomed against the night sky, a majestic silhouette of turrets and towers. Rain lashed against the glass, matching the gloomy mood of Hermione Granger, who sat huddled in the corner of the carriage, clutching her arms across her chest as if expecting the upholstery to attack her at any moment.
"Are you sure this carriage is safe?" Hermione asked, eyeing the velvet cushions suspiciously. "I feel like the springs are plotting something."
"It is just a carriage, Hermione," Harry Potter said soothingly, though he was sitting as far away from her as the small space allowed, his hands resting protectively on his own knees. "Nothing is going to happen. We are almost at the castle."
I sat opposite them, looking out at the rain with a serene smile. The "Flash Your Wife System" was humming contentedly in the back of my mind.
(She is developing paranoia,) I noted with clinical interest. (This is good. Heightened awareness often leads to overcorrection, which leads to clumsiness. It is a beautiful cycle.)
"We are here," I announced as the carriage jerked to a halt.
We stepped out into the mud and joined the throng of students making their way up the stone steps. The Great Hall was as magnificent as ever. Thousands of floating candles cast a warm, golden light over the four long house tables. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the stormy sky outside, with grey clouds swirling ominously.
"Let us find seats," Harry said, leading the way to the Gryffindor table.
We sat down near the middle of the table. Harry took a seat on the bench facing the High Table. Hermione sat next to him. I sat directly across from them, giving me a perfect vantage point.
(System, activate Structure Analysis,) I commanded silently.
"Structure Analysis active," the system replied. "Scanning environment."
A grid of blue lines overlaid my vision. I scanned the ancient wooden bench Harry and Hermione were sitting on. It was centuries old, held together by magic and rusty iron bolts.
(Target acquired,) I thought. (The third leg from the left. It has a stress fracture in the wood grain. If I apply just a little bit of pressure...)
"Welcome!" Professor McGonagall's voice rang out, silencing the hall. "To another year at Hogwarts!"
The speeches were standard fare. Warnings about the Forbidden Forest, reminders about magic in the corridors and a stern look directed specifically at the Gryffindor table. Finally, the golden plates filled with food. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, peas, gravy and—crucially—large, steaming tureens of tomato soup.
"I am starving," I declared, piling my plate high.
Hermione relaxed slightly. The presence of food seemed to calm her. She reached for a bread roll.
"So," Harry said, trying to make conversation. "What subjects are you taking this year, Hermione?"
"Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Charms, Transfiguration..." she began listing them off on her fingers.
As she spoke, she shifted her weight on the bench.
(Now,) I decided.
I focused my gaze on the weak leg of the bench.
(Telekinesis: Apply torque to the fracture point.)
Crack.
The sound was sharp, like a gunshot, but it was masked by the clattering of forks and knives in the loud hall.
The leg of the bench gave way instantly.
Gravity, my new best friend, took over. The bench did not just collapse flat; it tilted violently to the right because the other legs were still intact.
"Whoa!" Harry yelled.
"Harry!" Hermione shrieked.
Because the bench tilted to the right, Hermione slid helplessly into Harry. Harry, losing his balance, slid off the end of the collapsing bench.
They went down in a tangle of limbs.
But that was just the setup. The punchline was the table.
As Hermione fell, her hand instinctively shot out to grab the nearest solid object. That object was the edge of the heavy oak table. She grabbed the tablecloth instead.
"No, no, no!" she cried.
Her weight dragged the tablecloth with her.
Directly in front of her was a massive silver tureen filled with hot, red tomato soup.
The tureen tipped.
Time seemed to slow down. I watched with the appreciation of a connoisseur as a wave of red liquid launched itself into the air.
Harry had landed on his back on the stone floor. Hermione landed on top of him, straddling his waist—a position that was becoming hilariously habitual for them.
The wave of tomato soup crashed down.
Splash.
It hit Hermione squarely in the back. The sheer volume of the liquid soaked her instantly. Her white school shirt, which had been crisp and opaque a moment ago, was now drenched in red liquid.
Wet white cotton has a very specific property: transparency.
(...cough...)
"My eyes!" Seamus Finnigan shouted from three seats away, shielding his face from the splash zone.
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