The halls of Hogwarts echoed with the rhythmic thunder of shoes on ancient stone as students burst from the Great Hall like tiny, panicked wildebeests fleeing an unseen predator. In their case, the predator was lateness. And possibly Professor McGonagall's withering glare.
Harry, Neville, Tonks, and Hermione wove through the chaos, four misfits on a mission. Hermione led the charge, timetable clenched like a sacred scroll. Her hair bounced behind her in frizzed indignation.
"We have to hurry," she called back over her shoulder. "Transfiguration is our first class, and if we're late—"
"She'll transfigure us into stools and make the rest of the class sit on us?" Harry offered.
Hermione gave him a look. "That's not funny."
Tonks snorted. "A little funny."
"Thank you," Harry said, nodding solemnly. "At least someone appreciates high-brow humor."
"'Stool' jokes are high-brow now?" Hermione muttered.
Tonks grinned, skipping ahead with all the grace of a caffeinated squirrel in moon boots. "They are when you deliver them like a poet of chaos."
"I aspire to be a bard of banter," Harry said dramatically, clutching his chest. "My tongue, sharp as a Snape insult. My wit, deadly as an errant wand flick."
Behind him, Neville made a noise like he'd just stepped on a LEGO. "You don't think Professor McGonagall actually turns people into animals, do you? I heard a rumor she once turned a Hufflepuff into a ferret for sneezing too loud."
"That was probably Malfoy, and he probably deserved it," said Harry cheerfully.
Tonks leaned over to Neville and whispered loudly, "She once turned a fourth-year's entire spleen into jelly for forgetting their homework."
Neville nearly tripped over his own feet. "Their—what?!"
"She's kidding, Nev," Harry said, catching his elbow. "Mostly. I think. Probably?"
"I—I don't even know where my spleen is," Neville whimpered.
"Just keep it close. And maybe apologize to it. Just in case," Tonks advised sagely.
They rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a rotating staircase mid-spin. It slowly creaked into a new alignment like it had all the time in the world and none of the concern.
Tonks barely paused before stepping onto it with reckless confidence. And immediately tripped.
"WHOA—!"
She flailed, windmilled, and somehow managed to land seated on the bottom stair with her wand still in hand and her dignity somewhere down in the dungeons.
Harry peered down at her. "I think the staircase just rejected you. Like a Tinder swipe left."
Tonks gave him the finger. "I meant to do that. It's a… tactical tumble."
"Sure. Next time try landing with a little more tactical grace and a little less ass-to-stone," Harry smirked.
Hermione sighed. "This is what I'm surrounded by. Chaos. Clumsiness. And a deeply concerning obsession with your own sarcasm."
"I'm not obsessed. I'm gifted," Harry said.
Neville, valiantly avoiding the spinning staircase of doom, clutched his bag to his chest. "Are we sure these stairs are safe?"
"They're safer than Peeves with a slingshot and a bad attitude, so yes," Tonks said, hopping to her feet and dusting herself off.
By some miracle—or maybe just Hermione's sheer willpower—they reached the Fat Lady's portrait mostly intact.
"Caput Draconis," Hermione said primly.
The Fat Lady looked them over. "Hmm. Bit late to be heading up, aren't you?"
"We're just grabbing books," Hermione explained.
"Make it snappy. I've got vocal warm-ups with the Argyllshire Ghosts in ten."
The portrait swung open, revealing the cozy embrace of the Gryffindor common room.
Tonks flopped dramatically onto a couch, arms spread wide. "Home, chaotic home."
"You're not even staying," Hermione snapped. "Books. Bags. Let's move."
Harry and Neville made a break for the boys' dorms. Upstairs, Harry flung open his trunk, grabbed his wand, and did the classic behind-the-ear tuck with theatrical flair.
Neville wrestled with his own bag, which appeared to have doubled in weight since breakfast.
"I think my Gran cursed it," he muttered. "As some kind of anti-laziness charm."
He pulled out his Charms book, followed by Transfiguration… and then the bag tipped, and with a slop thud, a potted Mimbulus mimbletonia rolled out and promptly squirted a stream of stinksap across the rug.
Harry gagged. "Neville, why?"
"I didn't want to leave him alone! He gets separation anxiety!"
Harry gave the plant a look. "You need a therapist, not a Herbology degree."
Meanwhile downstairs, Hermione was repacking her bag for the third time with the precision of a bomb squad engineer.
Tonks had managed to fit her wand, a half-melted chocolate frog, and a bright pink sock into her satchel. That was it.
"You've forgotten your books," Hermione said.
"I prefer to wing it," Tonks replied.
"You're going to fail."
"I'll fail with style," Tonks declared. "Also, I might borrow Harry's notes. Or yours. Or maybe just learn via osmosis."
Hermione's eye twitched. "That's not how osmosis works—"
"Guys ready?" Harry called, bounding down with Neville in tow—who was still scrubbing stinksap off his robes.
Hermione shot him a look. "Is he okay?"
"He's traumatized, sticky, and questioning his life choices. So… perfectly normal," Harry said.
Neville gave a faint thumbs-up. "I'm fine. Just… stinky."
"Add that to the aesthetic," Tonks grinned. "We're all rocking one. Hermione's is 'Library Warrior.' Mine is 'Mad Hatter with Explosives.' Harry's is 'Insufferably Cool with a Sprinkle of Emotional Damage.'"
"And Neville's is 'Sweaty Plant Dad in Panic Mode,'" Harry added helpfully.
Neville sighed. "It's not a phase."
"It's never a phase, Neville," Harry said solemnly. "It's a lifestyle."
With books now stuffed, bags shouldered, and dignity mostly recovered, they stepped back into the corridor. The castle hummed around them—alive, unpredictable, and filled with the kind of energy that warned you not to get too comfortable.
And yet, as they headed toward their first class, four kids full of nerves, jokes, fear, and fried eggs, they looked—
Not like first-years.
But like a team.
A very uncoordinated, occasionally flammable team.
But a team nonetheless.
And in a castle full of secrets and transfigured spleens, sometimes that was more than enough.
—
The four of them made it to the Transfiguration classroom with a whole ten minutes to spare—a near-historic accomplishment, considering Tonks's impromptu detour chasing a stairwell that "definitely winked at her," Neville's battle with a backpack that seemed to be actively resisting transport, and Hermione's dramatic five-minute crisis over discovering that her quills were organized in reverse rainbow order. A crime, apparently, against academia.
Harry strolled in first, pushing open the heavy oak door like he owned the castle and it owed him rent. His satchel swung low on one shoulder, dramatically, like it was the final accessory in a superhero transformation sequence.
"And that," he said grandly, "is how legends arrive early."
"We're ten minutes early," Hermione said, brushing past him like he wasn't glowing with smug satisfaction. "Not exactly legendary, unless you count chronically punctual people."
Harry put a hand to his heart as if she'd just drop-kicked him emotionally. "Hermione, you wound me. What's next? You gonna tell me Merlin was just an old guy with fireworks and good PR?"
Tonks twirled into the room like she'd been shot from a cannon, her robes flaring behind her. "BEHOLD!" she cried dramatically, dropping her bag with a thud that echoed like the opening chord of a heavy metal concert. "The sacred chamber of shapeshifting sorcery and surprise quizzes!"
Neville trailed in behind them, clutching his rebellious backpack like it might lunge at someone if he let go. "Er, d'you think the chairs are charmed?" he asked nervously, eyeing the front row like it might explode. "I read about this one stool in Romania that bit someone's robes clean off."
"I need that to happen," Tonks muttered, eyes glinting with mischief. "To Malfoy. Preferably mid-sentence."
Hermione gasped. "You can't wish bodily harm on a classmate!"
Harry raised a brow. "She's not wishing it. She's manifesting it. Big difference."
They found seats—Tonks draping herself across two like a very casual, mildly unhinged queen; Harry leaning back with his arms crossed, the living embodiment of 'effortlessly cool'; Neville sitting stiff as a board, looking like he expected the chair to bite; and Hermione perched precisely, already laying out her quills like soldiers in a tactical formation.
That's when they noticed her.
A tabby cat—elegant, alert, and judging them with the weariness of someone who'd seen far too many first-years try to turn hedgehogs into pincushions—sat perfectly still atop the professor's desk. The faint outline of square spectacles marked the fur around its sharp green eyes, which tracked them like a predator evaluating prey with potential.
"Hello, Professor McGonagall," Harry said pleasantly, giving a little wave.
The cat blinked once. Slowly. Disapprovingly.
Hermione gave him the look she usually reserved for people who claimed Earth was flat. "Harry. That's a cat."
Harry tilted his head, eyes locked on the feline. "Yeah. Exactly."
Tonks leaned forward, eyes wide with mock reverence. "She sees into your soul, y'know. I heard she once expelled a seventh-year by meowing disapprovingly."
Neville nodded, deadly serious. "I read she turned a whole Quidditch team into ferrets. On accident."
Hermione's face twisted with skeptical dismay. "That's—completely impossible."
Harry turned to her slowly, his expression deadpan. "Hermione. This is a school where our ceiling is enchanted and our stairs play mind games. Is a cat professor really where you're drawing the line?"
The door creaked open again.
Enter: Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. Daphne walked like the hallway had rolled out a red carpet for her and just forgot to tell anyone else. Tracey walked like she was already over it.
Daphne took one look at the scene—Harry smirking, Hermione flustered, a very superior-looking tabby cat surveying the classroom—and arched a perfectly manicured brow. "Are we early? Or did we accidentally walk into a meeting of 'First-Years Who've Officially Lost the Plot'?"
Harry didn't miss a beat. "Welcome to Animagus Anonymous. Step one: admit the cat is judging you harder than your mum during report card season."
Tracey blinked once, spotted the feline on the desk, and plopped into a seat beside Tonks. "Still McGonagall?"
"Obviously," Tonks whispered, with the kind of faux-reverence people usually reserved for religious relics or expensive broomsticks.
Hermione practically choked. "Wait—you're all seriously suggesting that's Professor McGonagall?"
Harry gave her a wide-eyed smile. "Suggesting? Hermione. We're practically writing it in the sky with enchanted fireworks."
"She does this every year," Daphne said, brushing imaginary dust from her robes. "Apparently, it's a tradition. Some poor sap always tries to pet her."
"I heard one did," Tracey added. "He woke up the next day transfigured into a walking textbook on Magical Law. Poor bloke couldn't sneeze without citing sub-clauses."
Hermione, bless her exasperated heart, turned sharply to Neville. "This can't be real. Neville, back me up. Cats don't—can't—transfigure. People do."
Neville, wide-eyed and sweating slightly, whispered, "Don't look her directly in the eyes. I did once. I still dream in standardized test format."
The cat—McGonagall, if you believed the mob—stretched with languid menace, tail twitching like a metronome of doom.
Harry leaned forward on his elbows, eyes dancing. "So, hypothetically... if I left a saucer of milk on her desk, would that count as bribery or extra credit?"
"You wouldn't dare," Hermione whispered.
"I absolutely would," he said. "For science. And comedic value."
Tracey shrugged. "I'd say you've got a solid fifteen percent chance of survival."
More students filed in—Gryffindors and Slytherins both—drifting to their seats with varying levels of fear, awe, and caffeine withdrawal. The front row stayed empty, like the shadowy corner of a forbidden forest.
"Still no Ron, Seamus, or Dean," Harry noted, glancing at the clock. "Place your bets, ladies and Neville. Who bursts in late and flailing first?"
"Five galleons says Seamus smells like gunpowder and questionable life choices," Tonks said, holding up coins like they were weapons.
"Three says Ron shows up with toast in his mouth, anime-style," Tracey added, deadpan.
"Dean probably stopped to argue with a portrait about footie again," Daphne said, inspecting her nails.
Hermione kept glancing at the cat, her mouth twitching. "This is absurd. McGonagall would never just be… a cat… silently waiting…"
"She's dramatic like that," Harry said casually. "Honestly, if she could conjure thunder and lightning just for her entrance, she would."
"You're all messing with me," Hermione said, clearly two seconds away from marching up to the cat and demanding credentials.
Neville leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. "This is your initiation, Hermione. It's like hazing. But with Animagi."
Hermione groaned. "You're all ridiculous. Cats don't teach classes!"
The cat narrowed its eyes.
The clock ticked ominously.
Still no Ron, Seamus, or Dean.
Still no "Professor McGonagall."
And that square-spectacled cat?
Still reigning supreme.
—
The doors slammed open like the dramatic entrance of a soap opera villain who'd just discovered their twin sibling was also their evil step-cousin.
Ron Weasley, Dean Thomas, and Seamus Finnigan barrelled through like the world's least-coordinated parade, complete with flying satchels, toast crumbs, and a distinct air of "we totally meant to do this."
"WE MADE IT!" Ron gasped, dragging in breaths like he'd just wrestled the Hogwarts Express up a hill. His face was red enough to rival his hair. "Thank Merlin she's not—"
Dean was trying (and failing) to smooth his tie, which featured a mysterious glob of strawberry jam that looked more aggressive than edible. "Seven staircases. Two moved while we were on them. One tried to talk to us. I think we've seen more architecture today than an entire season of 'Magical Makeovers: Castle Edition.'"
"I kicked the talking one," Seamus offered with a grin, like it was a noble act of defiance. "Portrait bit me back. I might be bleeding… toast?"
He paused and looked down.
Yup. Pocket full of jam. Pocket toast. Classic Seamus.
From their desk, Tonks (looking like chaos incarnate in bubblegum-pink braids) leaned over to Tracey, her voice full of gleeful judgment. "And behold, the heroes of Gryffindor, arriving late with all the grace of a drunk Niffler."
Tracey—stoic, stylish, and already writing mental obituaries—sighed dramatically like she was the long-suffering protagonist in a teen noir series. "Ten sickles says they trigger a legendary magical punishment within the next thirty seconds."
Ron, oblivious, grinned wide. "At least Professor McGonagall isn't he—"
Thump.
The tabby cat on the desk gracefully leapt down, landing like it owned the room.
Then shimmered.
Then shifted.
In a ripple of magic and majestic tartan robes, Professor Minerva McGonagall emerged, her spectacles glinting with the righteous fury of a thousand sarcastic ancestors.
"—re," Ron squeaked.
Seamus made a sound that can only be described as fear hiccup.
Dean instinctively shielded his toast wound like it might protect him from judgment.
"Mr. Weasley. Mr. Thomas. Mr. Finnigan," McGonagall said with the kind of calm that was far, far worse than yelling. "So delighted you could join us. I do hope your scenic detour through the castle helped you... reacquaint yourselves with time?"
She turned her head slightly, just enough to glare without effort.
"Perhaps next time," she added, "I should Transfigure one of you into a watch—or perhaps a map—so you might actually know where and when you're supposed to be."
Ron's ears turned crimson. "It's not my fault Hogwarts keeps moving," he muttered.
"Yeah," Seamus chimed in. "One of the staircases spun mid-step! Like some kind of magical prankster with a stair-fetish!"
Hermione, still slack-jawed from the Animagus transformation, whispered, "That was incredible…"
Harry leaned over, grinning like the smug little know-it-all he proudly was. "Told you she was the cat."
Hermione didn't even blink.
"Just waiting for the part where you admit I'm always right," Harry added casually, "or at least eighty-seven percent right, ninety on a good hair day."
She muttered something about statistical anomalies and denial.
McGonagall swept to the front like she was gliding on a tide of centuries-old authority. "Take your seats."
The trio fled to the back row like their robes were on fire and dignity was a distant memory.
McGonagall, to the room: "Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave, and not return. You have been warned."
Seamus, whispering: "Why does that feel like a bedtime story told by a banshee?"
Dean: "Because it is. One that ends with your wand in a bin and your eyebrows singed."
Harry raised a hand.
McGonagall sighed internally. "Yes, Mr. Potter?"
"Do we get gold stars if we don't blow anyone up? Or like… paw-stamps? Because I'd love an official Cat of Approval."
The corner of McGonagall's mouth twitched. Just the faintest movement. Possibly a glitch in the matrix.
"No, Mr. Potter," she said dryly. "But if you complete today's assignment without combusting anything, I shall consider allowing Miss Norris to mark your parchment."
"Victory," Harry whispered under his breath, fist-pumping like a smug little phoenix.
She conjured a small matchstick with a wave of her wand. "Today, you'll attempt to Transfigure this—" she held it up, "—into a needle."
A box of matchsticks floated through the air, distributing its contents with more grace than most first-years.
Tracey, inspecting hers: "And here I thought today would be boring."
Daphne, voice pure deadpan: "Foolish mortal. Never taunt the lesson plan."
Neville, wide-eyed and already sweating, poked his wand nervously. "W-what if it turns into something else?"
Tonks, perky and perilous: "That's the spirit, Longbottom!"
Seamus was already flicking his wand like it owed him money. "Transfiguro! Transfigurate? Transi-fiddle? Whatever, spark, you bugger—"
Poof!
His matchstick exploded.
In glitter.
The room fell into stunned silence.
Even McGonagall blinked, brushing sparkles off her robes. "That's… new."
Seamus looked sheepish. "I might've accidentally added a celebration charm. Mum used it for birthdays."
McGonagall gave him a look so sharp it could slice a cauldron in half. "Do not combine charms with Transfiguration, Mr. Finnigan. Unless your goal is to knit an exploding scarf."
"Noted, Professor."
"Ten points from Gryffindor."
"Still worth it."
Ron, flicking his wand at his matchstick, muttered, "Please don't be a hedgehog, please don't be a hedgehog—"
It smoked ominously.
Ron immediately hid it behind a book. "It's fine. Totally under control. Just a little... steamy."
Harry smirked. "You've got the emotional range of a teaspoon and the magical finesse of a sneeze."
Ron glared. "At least I didn't try to flirt with a Beauxbatons portrait yesterday."
"That painting was winking at me, mate," Harry said, dead serious. "I'm just polite."
Across the room, Neville's matchstick trembled, glowed… and became a toothpick.
He squeaked, beamed, and nearly passed out from joy.
Tonks gave him a thumbs-up. "Nice, Toothpick Master General!"
Daphne's became a crochet hook. Tracey's matchstick bent itself into a paperclip. Dean's halfway-transfigured into a literal tooth.
Hermione, of course, had a perfect needle in under ten minutes and kept checking everyone else's with judgment so loud it was practically in bold font.
By the end of class, McGonagall was both impressed and preparing headache tea. Half the classroom sparkled. The other half smoldered.
Harry leaned back, arms behind his head, and said to Tonks, "First class of the year. Glitter explosions. Magical shame. Fashionably late boys getting roasted alive. I think we've peaked."
Tonks sighed. "Just wait till Potions."
"Why?" Harry asked.
She grinned, wicked. "Because I already put a Drooble's Best Bubblegum charm on Snape's chair."
Harry howled.
Hermione finally blinked, still stunned from the Animagus reveal, and muttered, "...I need new friends."
McGonagall sighed as she brushed glitter from her robes.
And class had only just begun.
—
Professor McGonagall's eyes, sharp enough to shear through steel, narrowed over the rim of her glasses as she surveyed the aftermath of her lesson. One desk was still smoldering faintly, someone's quill had grown legs and was currently trying to escape out the window, and a distinct aroma of burnt toast clung to the air like a vengeful poltergeist.
"Your homework," she began, voice clipped and cool as an iceberg in January, "is an eight-inch essay on the principles of elemental change and its ethical boundaries." Her gaze settled directly on Seamus. "Due next class. I will not, and I repeat—not—be accepting any parchments that smell like charred scones, glitter bombs, or exploded optimism."
Seamus gave an exaggerated wince. "That was one time."
"One day," McGonagall corrected. "Twice."
"As for you, Mr. Finnigan," she continued, steel threading her words, "see me after class. I do not require your mother's baking tips or a demonstration of what happens when you mix Transfiguration with unverified folklore."
Seamus slumped like a deflated balloon.
Ron, meanwhile, looked personally victimized by sparkles. He was still half-heartedly brushing at his red hair, which now had the unfortunate sheen of a unicorn's birthday party gone rogue. Dean sighed as if life had personally betrayed him, and Neville clutched a still-smoking matchstick like it might transform into a sentient being and file a complaint.
"Class dismissed," McGonagall announced. She didn't storm back to her desk so much as glide like a very offended iceberg, robes swishing with crisp authority.
Chairs screeched. Quills fled. Ink bottles wept. Tonks somehow managed to knock over an entire shelf of inkwells with her elbow.
"Oops," she muttered, blinking down at the inky river now flowing across the floor. She examined the ink smeared up her arm with mild interest. "Cool. I've achieved 'murdered by squid' chic."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," said Tracey, her tone deadpan, her eyebrows perfectly arched.
"You'd wear that to the Ministry," Daphne added, flipping her hair over her shoulder like a shampoo commercial filmed in the Slytherin dungeons. Her robe was spotless, naturally.
"I have worn worse," Tracey admitted, tossing a grin over her shoulder.
Harry shouldered his bag, wand tucked into his holster like a duelist ready for a showdown. He gave Tonks a once-over and smirked. "Honestly? You look like an angry octopus went through a divorce and took it out on your robe."
Tonks beamed. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all day."
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it echoed. "Could we please focus? We're going to be late for Charms, and some of us take education seriously."
Neville, who was hugging three too many books to his chest, looked panicked. "Did my matchstick just wink at me?"
"It's sentient now," Harry said solemnly. "You're its dad. Congrats."
"I—I'm not ready to be a father!"
Tonks patted him. "Don't worry, Neville. It's already showing signs of having your anxiety."
As they began funneling toward the exit, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil flounced up like glittery hurricanes.
"Are you all walking to Charms?" Lavender asked brightly, practically bouncing.
"Can we come?" Parvati added, linking arms with her like they were about to break into a musical number.
"Sure," Daphne drawled, not missing a beat. "Just try to keep up. We operate on chaos-speed now."
"You'll love it," Tonks said cheerfully. "There's tripping hazards, unexpected explosions, and sass. So much sass."
"Sounds like my kind of parade," Lavender grinned.
The group was just starting to shuffle out the door in a ragged but enthusiastic mob when Harry, now leaning casually against the doorframe like he owned the hallway, turned back.
"Oi," he called.
Three heads popped up: Ron, Dean, and Seamus, still glitter-dusted and vaguely traumatized.
Harry jerked his chin toward the corridor. "You lot coming, or are you planning a surprise musical number entrance again? 'Cause if so, I need warning. I left my kazoo in my other robe."
Ron blinked. "You… want us to come?"
"I mean, I'm offering. Might as well herd the chaos into one parade. McGonagall already aged five years today. Let's not risk her turning to stone out of sheer disappointment."
Dean exchanged looks with Seamus, then shrugged. "You know what? I'd rather die in good company than be late again and face the wrath of the Scottish Sphinx."
Seamus hopped to his feet. "We ride together, we get detention together."
Ron scrambled upright. "I'm in. So long as no portraits bite me this time."
"They didn't bite you, Ron," Hermione said without looking back. "Dean told us they asked you a riddle."
Ron crossed his arms. "Same thing when you're hungry and cranky."
"You answered 'Fred after a Bludger to the knees,'" Dean pointed out.
"It made sense in context!"
"Ron," Harry deadpanned, "you tried to threaten the riddle with a chocolate frog."
"It was all I had!"
"And you ate it halfway through the standoff!"
"I was nervous!"
Parvati leaned toward Lavender. "Honestly, I could watch them argue all day."
Lavender nodded. "It's like a live-action sitcom. But with more magical trauma."
Tonks clapped Ron on the back as they finally joined the group. "At least this way, if we're late again, it's a group performance. Like a tragic choir."
"Featuring glitter," Tracey added.
"And zero coordination," Daphne said.
Harry smirked, walking backward for a few steps as the whole gang trailed behind him like a very unqualified marching band. "We're not just students anymore, lads. We're a movement. A revolution. Hogwarts isn't ready."
Hermione groaned. "They're definitely not ready."
Neville's books fell again. "Oops."
Tonks tripped over one. "Neither are we."
And with that, they charged down the corridor like a swarm of chaos gremlins, laughing, bantering, glitter trailing in their wake.
Somehow, impossibly, they were ready for Charms.
(Hopefully.)
—
They reached the Charms classroom with five minutes to spare. Which, to Hermione Granger, meant they were practically late.
"Five minutes!" she hissed, dragging Harry along by the sleeve, as though he were a reluctant broomstick handle she was trying to tame. "I needed to be in the front row! Do you know how hard it is to organize my ink while trying not to lean on Lavender's hair?!"
"I'll buy you a new seat," Harry deadpanned, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. "Gold-plated. Cushion-charmed. Reserved with a glowing 'Hermione Was Here First' sign."
Hermione shot him a look. "You're not helping."
"Or," Harry continued smoothly, "we could just hex Lavender's chair into a pogo stick. That'd be fun."
Hermione gave him a resigned, knowing look, but her mouth twitched. "Don't tempt me, Harry. Don't. Tempt. Me."
They rounded the corner to Charms, and the sight of Lavender already claiming the front seat sent Hermione's eyes into full-steam, sharp-focus mode. Her brows shot up as Lavender turned her head and smiled with a weirdly pleased look on her face.
"That's it," Hermione muttered, as they entered the room, "I'm taking her seat next class. One way or another."
"Oh, come on," Harry teased, nudging her with his elbow. "Is a seat really worth getting worked up over? You're the most brilliant witch in our year. They should be lucky to sit near you."
"Don't try to butter me up, Potter. I know how this works," Hermione quipped back, glancing pointedly at Lavender, who was now whispering to Parvati across the room.
At that exact moment, Tonks made her grand entrance into the classroom, tripping over the threshold in the most spectacular display of clumsiness anyone could have imagined. It was almost as if a troupe of hippogriffs had suddenly performed a synchronized dance in the hallway—chaotic, but undeniably entertaining. She hit the floor with a smack, immediately flipping onto her feet with a grin plastered on her face.
"I meant to do that!" she declared, raising both arms in triumph.
Daphne snorted from a nearby desk, flipping her hair out of her face with a flick of her wrist, clearly unaffected by the sheer chaos around her. "Sure you did, Tonks. Sure."
Tracey's voice chimed in from behind her book. "Ten points to Clumsydor for that performance."
Dean slid into a desk like a football player diving into the end zone, not at all fazed by Tonks' dramatic entrance. "We made it. And we didn't even break anything—mostly."
Ron, always Ron, threw himself into the nearest available seat with the kind of enthusiasm that could only be described as totally not caring and ripped out a squashed sandwich from his bag. He shoved it in his mouth like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"You know, you're not supposed to eat in class, right?" Hermione muttered.
Ron swallowed half of the sandwich and shrugged, wiping crumbs from his mouth. "Yeah, well, if Flitwick asks, it's 'food for spell energy.' I'm doing science, Hermione. You should try it sometime."
"That's not how science works, Ron," Hermione grumbled.
Neville, in his usual flustered state, was desperately trying to organize his books. He stacked them by color, size, height, and the way they looked under the sun, and still somehow managed to knock over a quill, which bounced off the edge of his desk and rolled directly into his shoe. For the third time.
"Bloody hell," Neville muttered, reaching down awkwardly, trying to grab it from underneath his foot. "It's stuck. In my shoe. I think."
Tonks, who had managed to get herself into a tangle of desks in the process of helping him, waved one hand vaguely. "It's under there somewhere—wait, no. That's a beetle. Or is it a really ancient Bertie Bott's? I can't tell."
Dean shook his head in sympathy, but a smirk tugged at his lips. "Just leave it, Neville. You're already late for the 'I'm a walking disaster' club anyway."
"You're cruel," Neville muttered, finally managing to free his wand from the desk.
Parvati and Lavender were now deep in whispered conversation, clearly plotting who was going to sit where during their next lesson. It sounded a lot like a political debate about whose hair looked more perfect that day, but no one had the heart to interrupt them.
Harry, meanwhile, was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, gazing across the room as though he was planning his next move in a war strategy game. He shot a smirk at Ron. "You know, Ron, this is basically your first day, and you've already eaten like, four sandwiches in two minutes. You sure you're not auditioning for The World's Most Confused Goblin role?"
"Shut up, Harry," Ron muttered, half-embarrassed but unwilling to admit it.
The class went quiet for a moment, and that was when the door creaked open.
Not the dramatic slam of a villain entering the room, but the quiet, polite creak of a door opening at just the right angle.
All heads turned.
Then, came the unmistakable sound—click-clack, click-clack, thunk-thunk—the precise rhythm of someone scaling an impossibly high stack of textbooks with unholy elegance. And there he was, standing proudly at the top of his very own Hogwarts Tower.
Professor Filius Flitwick.
With robes flying around his ankles and his wand neatly tucked into his sleeve, Flitwick looked every bit the World Champion Duellist. But instead of an intimidating figure, he radiated a warmth that made even the most hardened students soften just a bit.
"Good morning, First Years!" he chirped, his voice high-pitched and musical in the way only Flitwick's could be. "Lovely to see so many eager faces today. And you've all managed to stay mostly upright!" His eyes twinkled, mischievous.
Tonks, still caught halfway between Neville's desk and the floor, waved sheepishly. "Hello, Professor! I swear, I was just practicing my dramatic entrances!"
Flitwick beamed at her. "Ten points to Miss Tonks for enthusiasm—and grace," he added with a wink.
Hermione beamed too, almost bursting with pride as she imagined how the others were feeling right now. "See? Enthusiasm. Grace. All about balance."
Flitwick adjusted his spectacles with a practiced flick, his voice rising. "Now then, before we begin today's lesson, I'll take attendance."
The class held its breath, leaning forward in unison as Flitwick pulled out the enormous, heavily charmed attendance register. He fwump-ed it open with a flourish, a sound that promised magical chaos and bureaucratic order in equal parts.
"I think we're all in for a treat," Harry muttered, flashing a grin at Ron, who was now looking half-stuffed with sandwiches and half-ready for nap time.
Flitwick gave an amused look and dipped a quill into the ink, clearing his throat before starting. "Crabbe, Vincent—?"
(And that, as expected, was when the chaos truly began.)
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!