The classroom was suspiciously quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, like a library or a snowy morning. This was ominous quiet. The kind that screamed, You're about to make a life-altering mistake involving explosives and/or public humiliation.
Everything was too neat. Desks were arranged with military precision, chairs tucked in like soldiers at parade rest. The blackboard gleamed. The air had the sterile tension of a dentist's office—or a very well-organized crime scene.
And sitting dead center on the teacher's desk like it paid rent was a tabby cat.
It was the kind of cat that judged your soul before your shoes. Piercing green eyes. Tail twitching just enough to communicate, "I know what you did last summer, and frankly, I'm unimpressed."
Ron Weasley leaned closer to Harry and whispered, loudly, "Mate, are we early? Is this the wrong class? Is this—dare I say it—Cat Studies?"
"Please let it be Cat Studies," Neville muttered, clutching his bag like it might shield him from reality. "Cats don't explode."
Tracey Davis, who'd perfected deadpan like it was a martial art, squinted at the feline. "That's either the most majestic cat I've ever seen, or the reincarnation of Queen Victoria."
"Oh, definitely judgy," Daphne agreed, flipping her blonde braid over her shoulder. "She's silently composing a scathing editorial about our collective fashion choices."
Aether, Harry's semi-sentient flying cloud, drifted lazily above their heads like a sleepy golden retriever on cruise control. It let out a soft puff of air, wagging its tail-cloud.
Hermione Granger frowned at the empty desk beside the cat. "There's no professor. That's strange. Maybe she's late?"
"She is the professor," Harry said, casually leaning on his desk like this was all perfectly normal.
Everyone stared.
"She's an Animagus," he explained, gesturing to the cat. "Same eyes. Same soul. Plus, no normal cat sits that still unless it's plotting either murder or metaphysics."
Jim, his magical staff and eternal sidekick, slithered up Harry's sleeve and whispered dramatically into his brain: "Oh, she's not just plotting murder, mon frère. She's planning your funeral music. Probably something classy. Like bagpipes. Or 'Highway to Hell.'"
"Jim," Harry muttered under his breath. "You're not helping."
"I am the help!" Jim wailed like a one-man Broadway show. "I carry this ensemble like Hermes carries Amazon Prime!"
"Seriously," Ron hissed, side-eyeing Harry, "how do you know what a transformed human soul looks like through a cat's face?"
"I spent my childhood shapeshifting throughl jungles and hunting monsters with my mom and her Huntresses."
There was a brief pause.
"Oh," Ron said finally. "Right. I keep forgetting you're, like, magically feral."
"I prefer 'wilderness-enhanced.'"
"You would."
Suddenly, the cat leapt off the desk. Mid-air, the transformation happened—silken magic spun around her like a magician's cape, revealing tartan robes, a severe bun, and the kind of spectacles that could cut glass.
She landed on sensible shoes like a gymnast sticking the dismount at the Highland Olympics.
Professor Minerva McGonagall had arrived.
Her gaze swept over them like a weather front. The temperature dropped. Aether whimpered and hid behind Harry's shoulder. Even Jim went still.
"She's scanning our souls like a checkout scanner at Diagon Target," Jim whispered. "I am... aroused and terrified."
"Mr. Potter is correct," she said crisply, her voice slicing through the room like a Scottish broadsword. "Five points to Gryffindor for recognizing an Animagus."
Ron blinked. "You got us points before class even started?! That's legal?!"
Hermione lit up like she'd just been handed the entire Hogwarts library on a flash drive.
Professor McGonagall's expression didn't change, but her vibe absolutely said: I know your browser history. I am unimpressed.
"Welcome to Transfiguration," she said, striding to the blackboard. She tapped it with her wand, and the chalk sprang to life, scribbling neat, swirly script as though it feared disappointing her.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of changing the form and appearance of objects."
Her tone made "exact art" sound like "if you screw this up, someone's getting turned into a coffee table."
"This is not a subject for the lazy, the unfocused, or the terminally foolish."
Neville made a quiet whimper, like a dying kazoo. Ron slumped low enough to be mistaken for a desk ornament.
"I expect brilliance. I will accept effort. And if neither is available, I will settle for obedience."
"She reminds me of Artemis," Jim whispered. "If Artemis were Scottish. And carried steel knitting needles."
"She probably does," Harry whispered back.
Aether purred, pressing its cloud-body against Harry's leg like a security blanket with attitude.
McGonagall turned, eyes laser-focused on Harry. "Mr. Potter. Since you're already holding your wand like it's an extension of your spine, perhaps you'd demonstrate the proper wand grip."
Harry stood, chair scraping like a battle cry. He lifted Jim, who stretched lazily like a diva on a red carpet.
"Grip it firmly," Harry said, twirling the staff once, "but don't strangle it. Like holding a tiny, very opinionated bird that will sue you if mishandled."
McGonagall blinked. "Surprisingly accurate. Five more points to Gryffindor."
Ron turned to Neville. "Harry's our MVP."
Neville nodded. "I'm already planning the shrine. It's going to involve snacks and glitter."
"Textbooks out," McGonagall said briskly, "page three. Today, we begin with transforming matchsticks into needles."
She turned slightly. "Mr. Longbottom?"
Neville flinched. "Y-yes, Professor?"
"Try not to light the furniture on fire."
"Yes, Professor."
"Or yourself."
"…Also yes."
Harry patted Aether's head, who responded by puffing happily and circling his chair like a loyal, levitating sheepdog.
Jim spun in Harry's hand, voice silky and overly theatrical. "Ah, school! The sweet smell of ink, fear, and the occasional accidental transfiguration of internal organs. What could possibly go wrong?"
Everything, of course.
But that was half the fun.
—
Professor McGonagall's wand flicked with the kind of snap that said, Don't mess this up, and, like clockwork, a neat stack of matchsticks appeared on each desk. They landed with a whisper—no thuds, no clatters—like tiny magical soldiers lined up and ready for battle, or at least for the most polite execution in wizardry history.
"Wand grips up," McGonagall barked, scanning the room like a hawk with tenure and an attitude problem. "Matchsticks in front of you. This is foundational work. Focus. Intent. Precision. Anything less and I will consider redecorating the room—with your eyebrows."
Ron gave his matchstick a suspicious prod. "How unfortunate are we talking here?"
"Oh, the usual," Daphne said without missing a beat, flipping her braid like she was casting Styleus Supreme. "Last year, I saw someone turn theirs into a screaming hedgehog. It sounded like a banshee with a caffeine addiction."
Ron went pale. "Why is that even a thing?!"
Tracey deadpanned from the back, narrowing her eyes at her matchstick like it just insulted her GPA. "Because magic is chaotic, and wands have a twisted sense of humor. Also, maybe they binge-watch reality shows when no one's looking."
McGonagall lifted her wand with a flourish that was pure, unfiltered I mean business. "Observe."
With a flick smoother than butter on toast and a word that cut through the air like a ruler to knuckles—Transfigura Acuta!—her matchstick shimmered, popped, and transformed into a sleek silver needle that practically winked with smug magical satisfaction.
"Your turn," she said, arms crossed, face unreadable but vibes I expect miracles, or I'll settle for competent.
Hermione, of course, was already whispering the incantation like she was reciting a love poem to the spell. "Transfigura Acuta." Her matchstick wobbled ever so slightly, pinged like a pro gamer's notification, and became a perfect needle—no glitter, no drama, just textbook precision. Hermione was the human version of Ctrl+Z when you mess up.
Harry stepped up next, leaning on his desk like the master of ceremonies he unofficially was. Jim—his magical staff and eternal sidekick, who looked like a glittering dragon-stick but with a personality ten times bigger—slithered up Harry's sleeve and whispered telepathically, Prepare for theatrical overload, bub!
"Transfigura Acuta," Harry said, waving Jim like a conductor of the most sarcastic orchestra ever assembled.
Jim sang back telepathically, Voila! Behold the platinum needle of doom! and the matchstick spun like it was auditioning for "Dancing with the Wands." It sparkled, pirouetted, and magically had a tiny emerald-green thread looped through it.
Jim's voice dropped to a sultry whisper only Harry could hear: I am the artiste of transfiguration, the Beyoncé of bending reality!
"Jim," Harry muttered, "tone it down before you turn us all into a Broadway disaster."
McGonagall's eyebrow shot up. "Show-off. Five points to Gryffindor. And do try to keep the theatrics to a minimum."
Ron tried next, looking like a man entering a dragon's den armed with a butter knife. His wand sputtered and sparked, and the matchstick turned into what could generously be described as a toothpick with delusions of grandeur.
"It's… kind of sharp?" Ron offered, like that was supposed to make up for the total lack of needle.
"Sharp enough to poke a hole in your ego," Harry whispered, smirking.
Daphne rolled her eyes but then summoned a glowing noodle from her matchstick. "Well, that's new," she said, clearly not impressed with her magical spaghetti.
Neville, clutching his wand like it was a lifeline, muttered the spell so quietly it sounded like an apology. His matchstick twitched, pulsed purple, then burst into soft flames.
Aether, Harry's semi-sentient flying cloud and resident good boy, yipped softly and puffed up, circling Harry's legs like a loyal, fluffy guardian with serious 'don't mess with us' vibes.
McGonagall sighed, flicked her wand, and extinguished the flames with the kind of disappointed sigh that could wither plants.
"No harm done," she said icily. "Yet."
Neville's face was a mixture of "I am going to die" and "Please, no one mention this on my Hogwarts app profile."
"Mr. Longbottom," McGonagall continued, voice deadpan enough to freeze lava, "I admire your enthusiasm for... innovation, but the goal here is needle, not miniature Viking funeral."
Tracey's needle looked sharp enough to register on the magical weapons list. "That one's patent-worthy," she quipped.
Daphne squared her shoulders, determined not to be outdone by her own noodle fiasco.
Harry leaned back, letting Aether curl around his shoulders like a living scarf that could absolutely turn into a thundercloud if anyone tried anything.
Jim, ever the drama king, spun in Harry's hand and whispered telepathically, Ah, school! The sweet scent of ink, impending doom, and the occasional spontaneous combustion of your dignity!
Harry grinned. "Jim, if you keep that up, we'll get detention before we've even finished turning sticks into sewing supplies."
Jim replied with mock outrage, Detention? Darling, I am the detention!
Ron shot Harry a look like, Mate, can you tone down the weirdness?
Harry just smirked. "Where's the fun in that?"
And with McGonagall's piercing gaze still burning holes through the classroom, the lesson was only just getting started.
Because if there's one thing Harry knew for sure? In this class, everything could go spectacularly wrong. But hey—what's magic without a little chaos?
—
The final transfiguration attempt of the day came from Theodore Nott, who held his wand like it was contagious and had personally insulted his great-aunt's tea collection.
He muttered the incantation under his breath with the enthusiasm of a sloth on sedatives. The matchstick on his desk shivered, convulsed, twisted… and then turned into a bent safety pin that looked like it had been through three divorces, a pirate attack, and an emotionally devastating ska concert.
Professor McGonagall stared at the pin like it had just offered her a bag of expired haggis.
Not disappointed. Not impressed.
Just done.
"Mr. Nott," she said, voice cool and perfectly clipped, "I am going to pretend I didn't see that. Out of respect for your family. Barely."
From his seat, Harry leaned toward Daphne and whispered, "That safety pin looks like it's three days late on rent and going through its villain origin story."
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Is that rust or a midlife crisis?"
In his head, a voice practically sang, Ten sickles says it starts whispering conspiracy theories about sentient toasters by midnight.
Jim. The overdramatic, chaos-loving, sarcasm-dripping Monkey King's staff turned-sentient-telepathic-life-companion. Picture Jim Carrey doing stand-up in your frontal lobe.
Harry didn't even blink. "Not taking that bet. It's got Big Conspiracy Energy."
Jim sounded offended. Excuse me. That pin has flair. It is a misunderstood artiste in a world of beige thumbtacks.
McGonagall clapped her hands sharply, her wand held like a dueling pistol. "That will do. For now. As much as it pains me to admit, most of you survived."
Neville let out a breath like he'd been holding it since Tuesday. Ron slumped against his desk like someone had just informed him lunch was canceled for the rest of the year.
"I'm alive," Ron mumbled. "Take that, transfiguration trauma."
"Before you bolt like House Elves on Sock Day," McGonagall announced, "your homework."
She turned to the board, tapped it with her wand, and a list appeared in magically neat handwriting. The kind that screamed perfectionist with a dark side.
Transfiguration Homework – Due Friday (No Exceptions. No Excuses. No Last-Minute Dragon Attacks.)
Write a twelve-inch essay on the principles of elemental focus in minor object-to-object transfiguration.
Practice the Transfigura Acuta spell on at least ten objects that are not screaming hedgehogs, noodles, or fire hazards.
If your matchstick grew legs and is currently hiding in your sock drawer, notify me immediately.
"Oh, come on," Ron groaned. "Twelve inches? That's like three feet in normal-people numbers."
Hermione didn't even glance up from her notes. "It's one foot, Ron."
"Well, it feels like three."
"You'll thank me when I fix all your commas," she replied sweetly. "Again."
"Can I pay you in Chocolate Frogs?"
Hermione smirked. "I prefer Galleons."
Meanwhile, Tracey Davis was examining her wand like it had just backstabbed her in a game of magical poker. "Mine tried to stab me."
"Mine succeeded," Daphne said, rolling her shoulder. "Do we get extra credit if the matchstick is now in therapy?"
Jim chimed in. We should write our essay as a rap battle between the matchstick and a quill. With interpretive dance. And maybe a fog machine.
Harry blinked slowly. "We are not writing poetry."
Coward.
Aether—his loyal flying cloud, part dog—curled tighter around Harry's shoulders. He let out a soft foof of agreement, clearly done with everyone's magical nonsense. His eyes sparkled with all the ancient, fluffy wisdom of a being who'd seen a hundred matchsticks live, die, and get therapy.
McGonagall snapped her fingers. "Class dismissed."
She turned and swept toward the door with the kind of dignity only someone in tartan robes could command. It was less walking and more storming like an empress who'd just banned fun.
The classroom exploded into motion. Ron dragged his bag like it had personally betrayed him. Neville glanced nervously at his robes like he expected a fire to reignite. Hermione had already conjured a quill and was mumbling an essay outline under her breath.
Harry lingered.
Aether hummed faintly around his neck, like a security blanket with altitude. He could feel Jim's presence curling beside his own thoughts, lazy and ever-chatty.
"Y'know," Harry said to no one in particular as they stepped into the corridor, "if this is basic Transfiguration, I'm terrified of Advanced."
Oh, Monkey Prince… Jim drawled in his best theatrical voice, you haven't even begun the rollercoaster. Wait 'til someone turns a desk into a goose and flies it through the third-floor corridor while screaming about tax evasion.
Harry blinked. "That's oddly specific."
Experience, darling. Glorious, flaming, goose-shaped experience.
From behind them, Ron groaned. "Why is magic like this?"
"Because we deserve it," Tracey muttered, rubbing her wand hand.
"Because Jim exists," Daphne added.
Flattered, honestly. But also slightly offended.
Aether made a soft, content sound. Harry ruffled the top of the cloud with a fond smile.
"Good boy."
Jim huffed. I'm a good boy too.
"You're a sentient murder stick with boundary issues."
Labels are limiting. I prefer "emotionally explosive support weapon."
And with that, the hallway swallowed them up—matchstick trauma, conspiracy-theorist pins, and all.
—
The trek to the greenhouses was less "leisurely stroll through castle grounds" and more "ragtag squad escapes magical war crimes." It had all the grace of a migrating herd of caffeinated puffskeins.
Harry marched ahead, his flying cloud Aether hovering loyally overhead like a lazy, purring guardian spirit made entirely of whipped cream and smug. Occasionally, Aether released a misty puff, startling first-years like a mischievous fog machine with a sense of humor.
"I don't think clouds are supposed to be alive," Neville muttered, sidestepping another lazy puff of vapor like it might trigger his seasonal allergies.
"They're also not supposed to perform interpretive dance to the Star Wars cantina song," Harry said, not even looking up. "But here we are."
Jim, Harry's semi-possessed staff and full-time chaos goblin, exploded into his head like a glitter cannon on a caffeine bender.
"We should call him Sir Puffs-a-Lot. No—Cloudy with a Chance of Sass. Wait! Fluff Daddy. Final offer."
"Focus, Jim," Harry muttered under his breath. "We're about to walk into the house of strangling salad."
"Branding is eternal, Monkey Prince. Plants fade. Sass is forever."
Ron grunted, dragging his bag behind him like a defeated gladiator. "You reckon Herbology's where they teach you to talk to vegetables?"
Daphne didn't even look up from her mirror. "That's Politics. Or maybe Divination."
"I like plants," Neville said, almost apologetically. "They usually make sense."
"Except when they scream," Hermione added.
"Or explode," Tracey chimed in, tying her hair back like she was preparing for the Hunger Games: Greenhouse Edition.
"Or flirt with you," Harry muttered. "Long story. Vines. Trauma."
Tracey arched a brow. "That sounds like a fanfic waiting to happen."
"Oh, it happened," Jim said. "And it was steamy. Emphasis on steam. Aether filmed the whole thing."
Aether released a delighted swirl of mist, clearly remembering.
They finally arrived at Greenhouse One, which looked like a giant glass marshmallow full of death. Inside, mist clung to everything like a needy ex. Something rustled. Something else blinked. Harry swore a fern flipped him off.
And in the middle of it all stood Professor Pomona Sprout, dirt-streaked, grinning like she'd just dared reality to fight her and won.
"Ah! First-years!" she bellowed, voice booming like a kindly war general. "Lovely day for a bit of life-threatening botany!"
Daphne narrowed her eyes and began removing her rings like a sniper prepping her gear. "If a single plant tries to eat my accessories, I'm invoking ancient fire magic and calling it self-defense."
Aether swirled protectively closer to Harry, forming a mini umbrella over his head.
"Aether says her vibe is ten out of ten but her odds of surviving this class are three—maybe four, if her boots are dragonhide."
"Ten Galleons says someone gets grabbed by the roots before class ends," Tracey whispered.
Neville perked up. "Do we get to feed them?"
Jim gasped like a Victorian aunt seeing ankles. "Neville Longbottom: Soft boy. Secret warlord. King of chlorophyll."
Sprout clapped her hands, which kicked up a fine cloud of what might've been dirt—or powdered fear.
"Today's subject: Devil's Snare!"
Ron squinted. "Oh no... Tell me she didn't say Devil's Snare."
"She did," Hermione said grimly.
"And it gets worse," Harry added.
Sprout waved her wand and summoned a writhing mass of vines that landed on the table with a wet thwump. It hissed. It slithered. It absolutely did not come in peace.
Ron backed up so fast he knocked Neville into a rack of Fanged Geraniums, which immediately started chewing on Neville's shoelace with the determination of a toddler and the mouth of a piranha.
Neville blinked calmly. "It's fine. I've got a chart."
Harry turned. "You have what now?"
Neville pulled out a laminated, multi-color-coded flowchart titled 'Floral Emergencies: What To Do When Nature Hates You.'
"I love him," Jim whispered reverently. "He's the Slytherin Hogwarts deserves."
Hermione stepped forward like the queen she was. "Devil's Snare hates light. Lumos!"
Her wand flared to life. The plant hissed and curled back like a vampire seeing a tax form.
Sprout beamed. "Ten points to Gryffindor!"
Ron looked betrayed by reality. "We're going to die."
Daphne adjusted her sleeves. "Only emotionally."
Aether lowered gently between Harry and the snare, puffing out a fog that made the vines recoil like it had just been insulted by a cloud with a British accent.
Harry patted the little cloud. "MVP. Most Vaporous Protector."
Jim sniffled in their heads. "He's protecting your shoes. You don't even deserve him."
Sprout clapped again. "Now then! Pair up. You'll each take turns calming the Devil's Snare without being strangled. Bonus points if you don't scream."
Harry groaned. "I should've stayed home and pursued my dream of becoming a backup dancer for Weird Sisters tribute bands."
"Too late," Jim said gleefully. "You're in too deep. Welcome to Plantageddon, baby!"
Aether swirled dramatically. The Devil's Snare twitched ominously. Ron whimpered. Tracey cracked her knuckles. Daphne slipped her earrings into her pouch like she was preparing for magical war.
And Neville? Neville just smiled like Christmas had come early and brought him a carnivorous shrub.
Herbology had officially begun.
—
The Devil's Snare looked like a cross between a sentient dreadlock and a vegetarian serial killer. Which, considering this was Hogwarts, wasn't even the weirdest thing in the greenhouse that day.
The first-years paired up the way traumatized children tend to do: by instantly clinging to the person least likely to sob in a fetal position when wrapped in sentient vines. Which, let's be real, was a very real possibility.
Harry ended up with Tracey Davis, who had the resting expression of a Slytherin girlboss who'd stabbed someone with a high heel and gotten away with it. She cracked her knuckles with a smirk that could curdle milk.
"Alright, Potter," she said. "You distract it. I'll be awesome."
Harry deadpanned. "I feel so safe."
"Marry her," Jim announced in Harry's brain, "before she replaces you with a plant minion and takes over the world. Which I'd be totally cool with, by the way."
Across the greenhouse, Daphne and Hermione had teamed up, which meant their Devil's Snare had already thrown up a white flag and was trying to pot itself while softly sobbing in chlorophyll.
Ron and Neville, meanwhile, had the energy of two puppies trying to operate a blender.
"I don't like this," Ron whispered, wand trembling like it was caffeinated.
Neville, clutching a laminated chart like a sacred scroll, whispered back, "We just need calm voices and steady movement. The chart says so."
Ron blinked at him. "Should I sing to it?"
"Only if you want it to strangle you first."
Professor Sprout, channeling her inner gardening-themed Dumbledore, moved between groups like a war medic armed with compost.
"Good, Daphne! Hermione, excellent use of light magic! Mr. Weasley—oh heavens, sarcasm enrages Devil's Snare."
Ron flailed as a vine lunged at his ankle. "WELL THAT'S JUST BLOODY LOVELY, ISN'T IT?!"
The plant struck like it had been personally insulted.
Neville spritzed it with peppermint spray while muttering, "Zone Red, Zone Red, back to neutral alignment…"
Meanwhile, Harry and Tracey stepped up to their plant nemesis like it was a UFC match.
The Devil's Snare rose like it had just gotten out of bed and chosen violence.
"Aether," Harry muttered, "good boy mode. Let's go."
"YES, MY FLUFFY LIEGE!" Jim bellowed in his head. "UNLEASH THE DRAMATIC SWIRL!"
Aether, Harry's personal flying cloud and certified chaos muffin, zipped above the plant like a caffeinated cotton ball, swirling mistily and humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like the Jaws theme.
The Devil's Snare lunged.
"Lumos Maxima!" Harry shouted, blasting white-hot light in its viney face like a paparazzo with a grudge.
The plant recoiled like a Slytherin at a Gryffindor dance party.
Tracey didn't hesitate. She grabbed a thick vine, grunted, and yeeted it back into its pot like a world champion in the Plant Wrestling Federation.
The entire greenhouse froze.
Even the Fanged Geraniums looked scandalized.
Professor Sprout blinked at the now-cowering plant. "Well. That's… certainly one approach."
Harry turned to Tracey, eyes wide. "You just suplexed a plant."
"Wasn't personal," she said, smoothing her robes. "It tried to touch my hair."
"I'm putting that on a T-shirt," Jim whispered reverently. "With a matching tattoo."
Ron screamed from the corner as another vine yanked at his leg. "NEVILLE. CHART. NOW."
Neville pulled the laminated sheet out like it was a lightsaber. "You're in Zone Orange! You need peppermint and a gentle lullaby!"
Ron, panicking, sang the first thing that came to mind. "♪ My cauldron's on fire, but my heart's still warm! ♪"
The vine recoiled in offended horror. Even the cactus flinched.
Hermione looked scandalized. "That's not even the right key!"
Daphne shrugged. "Still better than the Weird Sisters' last single."
Professor Sprout clapped as if no one had almost been eaten alive. "Bravo, Mr. Weasley! Creative execution!"
Harry leaned toward Tracey. "Is it just me or does every class here feel like a death trap wrapped in extra credit?"
"Hogwarts," Tracey said, "where your homework might try to kill you."
Aether swirled triumphantly above Harry's head and puffed into the shape of a sparkly badge that read: DIDN'T DIE – LEVEL 1
"I'm so proud of you," Jim whispered dramatically. "You've grown up so fast. Just yesterday you were screaming at sentient toast."
"That toast tried to stab me, Jim."
"All toast is dangerous if you believe hard enough."
As the class wrapped up, Neville sat cross-legged in front of a particularly bitter cactus and whispered to it like it was a misunderstood lover.
"See?" Harry muttered. "Neville Longbottom is either going to be the next great Herbologist or a botanical supervillain."
Jim paused. "Plot twist: Both. Imagine him yelling 'NO ONE EXPECTS THE PRICKLY INQUISITION!' while hurling sentient turnips at the Ministry."
Ron limped past, covered in leaves and humiliation. "I swear, if another plant touches me today, I'm moving to Durmstrang."
Hermione arched a brow. "You'd last one week at Durmstrang."
Daphne added with a smirk, "Two days, tops. The breakfast buffet alone would break him."
Ron looked betrayed. "Is nothing sacred?!"
Sprout beamed, hands on her hips like a proud battlefield general surveying her chaotic troops. "Wonderful progress today, children! No fatalities. Well done!"
"That's our bar now?" Harry whispered.
Jim answered, "At Hogwarts, survival is the actual grading curve."
Aether puffed a gold star onto Harry's shoulder.
It immediately exploded in glitter.
—
The class was dismissed with the gentle, dulcet tones of Professor Sprout shouting, "PLEASE COLLECT YOUR LEAVES AND EXIT BEFORE THE FANGED GERANIUMS REGAIN CONSCIOUSNESS."
Harry stuffed his half-scorched parchment into his bag with the grace of a man who knew he was going to fail Herbology but live gloriously while doing it.
Tracey flounced beside him, still looking like a queen who'd just conquered a jungle with sheer spite. "Do you think Sprout will mark us down for war crimes against plants?"
"I hope she gives us extra credit," Harry muttered. "That suplex deserved at least an O. Maybe a medal. Or a restraining order from the Devil's Snare."
Aether swooped overhead, forming a vine-shaped silhouette mid-air that then exploded into sparkly confetti. A nearby Hufflepuff ducked and screamed.
"Don't mind him," Harry called. "He's just very enthusiastic about botany-based violence."
Daphne and Hermione caught up to them, both looking suspiciously un-scorched and stress-free.
Hermione was already halfway through a foot of notes. "So, I was thinking we cross-reference our Devil's Snare reactions with the textbook's descriptions and map behavioral differences. For science."
Harry blinked. "I reacted by blasting it in the face and insulting its mother. Is that helpful data?"
"Only if we want to write a thesis on aggressive photosynthesis," Daphne offered dryly, flipping her braid like an annoyed Valkyrie.
Ron dragged himself into the hallway with the energy of a man who had seen too much and been touched by too many plants.
"Why," he groaned, "does homework exist after attempted murder?"
"Because Hogwarts doesn't believe in trauma recovery," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "Just homework and vague encouragement."
Neville, still speaking gently to his pocket-sized cactus—now named "Spikealot"—nodded. "It's true. The greenhouse ghosts still haunt me in my dreams. One of them tried to offer me tea last night."
"Ghosts of plants?" Harry asked. "Please tell me that's not a thing."
"Oh it is," Jim said solemnly in his head. "Also, one of them ships you with Tracey. Just FYI."
Harry made a mental note to schedule an exorcism and a background check on his own brain.
As they walked the winding corridor toward the Great Hall, the mood was a chaotic blend of hunger, magical PTSD, and wildly varying definitions of 'normal.'
"I still think we should name our group," Tracey said casually.
"You mean like a gang?" Ron asked. "Like the Marauders?"
"No," she said, "like something iconic. With less fur and more violence."
Hermione hummed. "What about The Herbivores of Doom?"
"I vote no," Daphne said. "We sound like vegan terrorists."
"Team No Fatalities?" Harry offered.
"Murder Plant Survivors Club," Neville suggested brightly.
Aether floated into a sparkle-shape that read: PLANTAGEDDON SURVIVORS – CHAOS SQUAD ALPHA before dissolving into a tiny dramatic thundercloud that zapped a tapestry of trolls into revealing their underpants.
Professor McGonagall swept past at that moment. She paused, frowned at the now half-nude trolls, and said, "Five points from… whoever allowed that," and continued without breaking stride.
"You think she knows it was us?" Harry asked.
Ron looked up. "Mate. It's always us."
"You'd think they'd learn," Tracey said, smug. "Or put us in separate classes."
"Don't give them ideas," Jim said in Harry's brain. "Our brand of chaos is strongest when combined. Like mischief Voltron."
Hermione stopped them at the foot of the staircase. "Wait. Homework."
Collective groans erupted from the group like a Greek chorus of teenage despair.
"Three feet on Devil's Snare reactions," she recited, pulling out a clipboard like an overachieving war general. "Including magical, botanical, and ethical considerations."
"Ethical?" Ron asked, horrified. "Are we supposed to apologize to the vines now?"
"No," Harry said. "But if mine writes back, I'm moving into the Forbidden Forest."
Tracey whipped out a pink glitter quill like she was about to destroy a soul with a monologue. "Let's knock it out before lunch. I work better on an empty stomach and mild fury."
"I work better under duress," Harry said. "Also known as 'standard Hogwarts conditions.'"
Neville summoned a notebook from his bag with a flick. It hit him in the face and then politely opened to a page covered in botanical doodles and a rough sketch of Spikealot wearing a crown.
"You made your cactus royalty?" Hermione blinked.
"Of course," Neville said seriously. "All plants are royalty in their own right. Especially after surviving us."
They slumped against the corridor wall like post-battle warriors. Aether, now shaped like a miniature professor, mimed grading imaginary scrolls and tutting with a smug cloud-face.
"Jim," Harry whispered internally, "if I die from too much homework, delete my browser history."
"Done," Jim said solemnly. "And I'll make sure Aether eats your unfinished essays in protest. It will be a glorious academic funeral."
"Can we eat lunch now?" Ron asked, clutching his stomach like it had filed a formal complaint.
"Almost," Hermione said. "One last thing. Who's writing the conclusion paragraph?"
Everyone turned and pointed at Harry.
Harry stared. "This is a hate crime."
"Think of it as a compliment," Tracey said sweetly. "We believe in your ability to bullshit beautifully."
"Fine," Harry muttered, scrawling, 'Devil's Snare is a metaphor for Hogwarts: beautiful, ancient, and constantly trying to strangle you. Also, it's allergic to sarcasm. Which is why I'm still alive.'
Aether nodded solemnly and puffed into a tiny floating trophy that read: MOST LIKELY TO WIN AN ARGUMENT WITH A SHRUB.
"Lunch now?" Ron tried again, practically drooling.
Daphne looked him up and down. "Try not to fight your mashed potatoes. They bite back."
"Only if they look at me funny."
As they finally turned toward the stairs, Harry muttered, "Do you ever wonder if Hogwarts is trying to kill us on purpose?"
"It's not," Jim said. "It just really enjoys the show."
Aether, not to be outdone, conjured a floating banner that read: WELCOME TO HOGWARTS – NOW WITH 25% MORE MURDER PLANTS.
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