Later that day, deep in the dungeon-y underbelly of Hogwarts—which smelled like wet stone, regret, and expired frog spawn—five first-years gathered around a shared table, trying to survive their final class of their first day: Potions.
Ron Weasley looked like he was auditioning for a role as "Traumatized Sidekick #3."
"This room gives me anxiety," he whispered, leaning in like the walls had ears. "Too cold. Too dark. Too... damp. And I swear something just blinked at me from that shelf."
"That's a jar of pickled murtlap tentacles," Daphne Greengrass replied, not glancing up from her pristine notes. "They're always judging. It's their thing."
Ron scooted three inches farther away, muttering, "I need an exorcist. Or at least hand sanitizer."
Harry Potter, meanwhile, was attempting to spin his wand between his fingers like a bored action hero. Unfortunately, said wand had the personality of a caffeinated drama major with a flair for the absurd.
With a sound like a magic trick gone rogue, Jim transformed mid-spin into a pair of bedazzled sunglasses and dropped onto Harry's face.
"Behold!" Jim proclaimed in his usual volume—somewhere between "circus ringmaster" and "deranged motivational speaker." "I am your new persona: mysterious, misunderstood, effortlessly sexy. Think James Dean, but with better eyebrows."
Harry pushed the sunglasses up with a deadpan sigh. "Jim, you're a stick. You're not allowed to have cheekbones."
Jim morphed back into wand-form with an offended fwoomp, vibrating in Harry's grip like a passive-aggressive hairbrush. "Art is pain, my boy. You're stifling my genius. Also, I think I pulled something transforming back into a wand. Someone fetch me an ice pack and emotional support chocolate."
Aether, Harry's cloud-shaped spirit companion, was zipping in excited little loop-de-loops above their table. He had morphed into the shape of a miniature thundercloud with an actual lightning bolt for a tail, wagging it like a puppy.
He let out a tiny crackle of electricity and puffed into the shape of a duck. Then a broom. Then a duck on a broom.
Ron flinched. "Okay. No. I'm done pretending that's normal."
He jabbed a finger at Aether, who was now spinning like a furry, airborne fidget spinner. "Why hasn't anyone said anything about that?! He's been following us all day like an overcaffeinated mascot. And McGonagall gave it a biscuit. A biscuit."
"She always keeps biscuits in her robes. For emergencies," Harry said, casually tossing a treat into the air. Aether caught it mid-flip and morphed into a halo with wings. Good boy.
Daphne leaned in. "But seriously, Harry. No one's questioned any of this? Not even Flitwick?"
"He winked," Tracey added. "And then offered Aether extra credit."
Harry smirked, his voice dry and just a little bit smug. "Simple. I use the Mist."
Ron blinked. "You mean, like... fog?"
Hermione sat up straighter in her seat like someone had just handed her a pop quiz. "The Mist is a magical phenomenon that distorts perception, especially for mortals. But even witches and wizards can be affected if they're not trained to see through it. It basically shows you what you expect to see. Or want to see. It's what keeps mortals from noticing monsters or explains away the fact that Mount Olympus is currently floating over the Empire State Building.'"
Ron frowned. "So Aether looks normal to everyone else?"
"Normal-ish," Harry said. "Sometimes he looks like a helpful breeze. Sometimes a confused balloon animal. Depends on the viewer."
"I once disguised myself as a fountain pen," Jim piped in telepathically to the group. "Spent three hours in the pocket of a Ministry official. Terrible poetry. Fantastic cologne."
"And Jim?" Daphne asked, arching a brow.
Harry grinned. "To everyone else, he's just your average wand. Not a chaotic shapeshifting sentient staff with impulse control issues."
"Impulse control is for mortals and IRS agents," Jim sniffed.
Neville tilted his head. "So… why can they see through the Mist?"
"Because I trust you guys," Harry said simply.
Tracey blinked. "Wait. That's all it takes?"
"Well, that, or being the demigod offspring of literal Greek gods probably helps."
"And having fabulous hair. Hair is important. Never trust a wizard with a limp fringe," Jim offered.
"So where's Catpool?" Neville asked. "He's the only one I haven't seen all day. Which is kind of terrifying."
Harry opened his mouth to answer—
SLAM.
The door burst open like it had been personally offended. The temperature dropped ten degrees. Shadows backed away. Somewhere in the castle, a violin let out a single, mournful screech.
Severus Snape had arrived.
He swept into the room like a grudge with legs. His robes billowed dramatically, defying both gravity and joy. The dungeon lights flickered in fear.
He stared down the class like a disappointed crypt keeper.
"Ah," he intoned, his voice a silky blade. "The future of wizarding mediocrity. How… droll."
Ron whimpered.
Neville Longbottom, who had just arrived and sat one seat over, looked like he was about to faint into a cauldron.
Harry leaned toward Hermione and whispered, "If sarcasm were a potion, Snape'd be a walking apothecary."
Jim added, "No, no, no. He's a cauldron of pure shade. With a dash of unresolved childhood trauma and a teaspoon of 'I peaked in school.'"
Snape's gaze swept across the room, lingering briefly on Harry. His eyes narrowed. It wasn't suspicion exactly. More like… awareness. As if he could smell the chaos radiating off Harry like heat from a dragon's breath.
Aether instantly morphed into a highly disciplined inkwell with glasses and a tie. Jim froze into wand mode so rigidly, he might've developed rigor mortis.
Snape sneered. "Mr. Potter. Let's hope your potion-making skills exceed your flair for… accessories."
Harry gave a lazy smirk. "Only if the potion calls for style, sir."
Tracey choked back a laugh. Hermione kicked her under the table.
Jim whispered gleefully, *"Ooooh, burn! Somebody get me a goblet, we're serving sass tonight!"
As Snape turned to the blackboard, robes swishing behind him like a bat with issues, Harry sat back with the faintest smirk.
Let the chaos begin.
—
Potions class at Hogwarts had all the charm of a haunted crypt—and all the warmth too.
Snape glided into the dungeon like he'd been summoned from a dramatic void. His robes billowed behind him like they were auditioning for a shampoo commercial. He reached the front of the classroom and turned with all the pomp of someone about to deliver his villain monologue.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving in this class," he said, in that silky, sneering voice that somehow managed to be both quiet and condescending enough to make your ancestors feel judged.
Jim—currently masquerading as Harry's wand—snorted in his head. "What a shame. I was planning to wave like a backup dancer in Beyoncé's world tour."
Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.
"We are not here to flail sticks and shout Latin," Snape continued, his eyes like two greasy obsidian marbles glaring from beneath a permanent sneer. "I do not expect you to understand the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making—"
Ron leaned over and muttered, "Why does this feel like he's trying to seduce the cauldron?"
Daphne, ever unbothered and already doodling Snape with hearts and bats in her notebook, whispered, "Honestly, I'd watch that movie."
Jim was now doing exaggerated moans inside Harry's head. "Oh baby, stir me slower. Whisper sweet alchemical nothings to me while I curdle…"
Harry coughed violently into his elbow to cover a laugh.
Snape stalked across the room, pausing like a Shakespearean ghost—tragic and possibly cursed. "For those select few who possess the predisposition… I can teach you how to bewitch the mind… ensnare the senses…"
"Can he hear himself?" Harry whispered to Tracey. "Because I swear we just wandered into a Gothic fanfic."
Tracey, not even blinking, scribbled Snape x Cauldron AU in the margins of her parchment.
"I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory…" Snape's gaze slid to Neville, who shrank like a self-aware soufflé, "…even put a stopper in death."
"DUN DUN DUUUUUN." That was Jim again, mimicking dramatic organ music. "Sorry, couldn't help it. He set me up."
As if on cue, Aether, currently lounging in the corner in the shape of a smug, fog-drenched cloud, gave an ominous rumble. Possibly just for dramatic flair. Possibly because he wanted snacks.
Snape spun, robes swishing like insulted curtains, and locked eyes on Harry. It was the look you gave someone who just cut you in line at the DMV.
"Potter."
Harry straightened, his expression calm. Inside, Jim was doing cartwheels and muttering, "Incoming! Snape has you in his sights. It's about to go down faster than a troll on buttered stairs."
"What," Snape purred, the way a python might purr if it were planning to strangle your soul, "would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry blinked once, then delivered the answer in a tone so cheerful it bordered on illegal.
"A sleeping potion so powerful it's called the Draught of Living Death, sir. Also great for Mondays. Or parent-teacher conferences."
Several students snorted. Even Ron let out a low whistle. Hermione's quill paused mid-scratch, eyes flicking over like she was trying to decide whether to be impressed or offended.
Snape's eyebrow twitched. Just slightly. Like a single raindrop falling into a volcano.
"And tell me, Potter," he said, voice dropping an octave, "where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
Harry leaned his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand.
"In the stomach of a goat. Handy for neutralizing most poisons. Also the reason goats are so paranoid."
Jim was cackling. "BAAAAHAHA GET IT? BAA? BEZOAR? I'll see myself out."
Even Aether gave a soft whoosh of appreciation.
Snape's eye twitched this time. It wasn't a big twitch. More like the eye equivalent of muttering death threats under your breath.
"Final question. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"They're the same plant, sir," Harry replied sweetly. "Also known as aconite. Fun for brewing, deadly to consume, and the leading cause of 'oops-I-thought-it-was-tea' incidents in wizarding history. But I guess you already knew that, huh?"
Tracey made a strangled noise like a cat inhaling yarn. Neville dropped his quill. Ron choked on air. Hermione was now two seconds from spontaneous combustion.
Jim was screaming. "HE WENT THERE. HE DID THE THING. OUR BOY IS UNHINGED, UNDEFEATED, AND UNSUPERVISED."
Snape stared at Harry like he was considering launching him into the sun.
"Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter."
Harry nodded solemnly. "Fair. Still worth it."
Snape's mouth pressed into a line so thin it may have entered another dimension. He turned back to the class.
"Well?" he snapped. "Why are none of you writing this down?"
Everyone leapt into action. Quills flew. Inkpots tipped. Hermione was already on paragraph six with color-coded underlines. Ron scribbled "Goat stomach = good" and then gave up. Daphne sighed dreamily and added sparkles to her Snape doodle. Neville was too busy trying to breathe again.
At the Gryffindor-Slytherin table, Aether puffed into a mini thundercloud and hovered smugly above Harry's shoulder like a magical drone. Jim whispered, "This is it. This is how it begins. This is our villain origin story."
Ron leaned over. "Mate. Seriously. Do you want to live to see lunch?"
Harry grinned. "Ron. I have a talking stick, a sentient cloud, and the divine blood of two chaotic immortals. I am lunch."
Jim struck a triumphant pose in Harry's mind. "AND DINNER. AND SEASONAL DESSERTS."
Thus began Potions—Day One—with Harry Potter, Son of Loki and Artemis, Master of Sass and Sassier Comebacks, serving pure chaos on a silver cauldron platter.
And somewhere, very deep in his soul, Snape was regretting everything.
—
Snape stood at the front of the dungeon like a storm cloud about to ruin everyone's day—which, honestly, was just Tuesday for him. He cleared his throat, an ominous sound like a witch trying to summon a dignified sneeze but failing spectacularly.
"Today," he announced, voice thick with frosty disdain and the kind of patience usually reserved for toddlers or Dark Lords with bad Yelp reviews, "we will be brewing the Boil-Cure Potion. Also known, for those with delicate constitutions, as the Cure for Boils."
At the word boils, the entire class collectively groaned like a dementor clearing its throat—which, by the way, is a horrifying sound if you've never heard it.
Snape flicked his wand with surgical precision, and like magic—because, duh—it conjured up a list of ingredients and instructions on the blackboard in all caps and possibly written in blood:
DRIED NETTLES
Handle with care, or expect spontaneous itching
SNAKE FANGS
Freshly harvested preferred, unless you enjoy surprise snake bites
STEWED HORNED SLUGS
Because nothing says "gourmet" like slug stew
Underneath, the instructions shimmered, terrifyingly precise and absolutely non-negotiable.
Snape's voice dropped to a venomous whisper, "Each step must be followed meticulously. Deviate, and you will discover firsthand why potions are the wizarding world's version of Russian roulette."
Inside Harry's head, Jim—the wand who clearly missed his calling as a stand-up comic—burst out in a high-energy infomercial announcer voice:
"Call now! Avoid spontaneous combustion! Side effects include sudden bursts of competence, lethal sass, and an uncontrollable urge to roll your eyes so hard they might just detach. Batteries not included. Satisfaction definitely not guaranteed."
Aether, the floating cloud of pure judgment and occasional snack-seeking, puffed up a tiny misty thumbs-up above Harry's shoulder, clearly signaling: You got this, bub.
Snape pointed at the door to the store room like he was sentencing them to a life of crawling through poison ivy and rat-infested corridors.
"Ingredients are in the store room. No excuses. Begin."
Ron was already halfway there, muttering with his classic blend of sarcasm and reluctant bravery, "Oh, great. Nothing like a morning trip to the slime and poison section to brighten my day."
Hermione, with the precision of a bomb-defusing expert, was already assembling her supplies, whispering, "Focus. No mistakes. Snape's patience is thinner than the veil between life and death."
Neville gripped his cauldron like it was a life raft, his eyes wide but determined. "I'll be brave. I swear I'll be brave."
Daphne rolled her eyes so hard it was practically a sound effect, her bored sigh nearly drowning out Snape's lingering menace.
Tracey flashed a smirk that screamed, I'm probably going to make this potion better than you all combined. She flicked her wand with casual menace, like she'd been born for moments like this.
Harry caught Jim's excited whisper buzzing like a caffeine-fueled announcer in his mind.
"This is it, Harry. The ultimate potions gauntlet. Time to stir the pot and serve some chaos with a side of burn."
Ron glanced sideways at Harry, eyebrow raised. "Mate, seriously, you want to live long enough to see lunch?"
Harry grinned, the kind of grin that said I'm basically a walking disaster and proud of it. "Ron, I have a talking stick, a floating cloud, and the divine blood of two chaotic immortals running through my veins. I am lunch."
Jim struck a ridiculous superhero pose in Harry's head. "And dinner. And seasonal desserts. All you can eat."
And with that, the Potions class officially morphed into a battlefield of wills, wits, and wildly unpredictable ingredients—all under Snape's ever-watchful, ever-suspicious glare.
—
Severus Snape looked like he wanted to hex the entire class into oblivion the moment Harry Potter casually strolled over to his workstation. The rest of the students were already knee-deep in nettle-grinding disasters and slug-goop messes that resembled something that should only exist in a wizard's worst nightmare. Seriously, if fumbling with boiling stew was an Olympic sport, they were all going for gold.
But Harry? Oh, Harry was about to flip the whole Potion Master gig on its snarky little head.
Thanks to some very special late-night tutoring—courtesy of Artemis (who, spoiler alert, used to be Lily Potter in a past life, and brewed potions so good Snape's scowl got legit jealous) and Loki, the god of mischief himself, who taught Harry every underhanded, sneaky shortcut in the magical recipe book—Harry had an unfair edge. Like, cheat-code-level unfair.
Harry glanced sideways at Jim, who was currently juggling invisible bowling pins in Harry's mental theater. "Alright, boss, it's showtime. Time to make Snape eat his own potion notes."
Jim (totally channeling Jim Carrey on a double espresso) burst into a gleeful game-show announcer voice, echoing through Harry's head: "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, wizards and muggles! Welcome to The Great Potion-Off! Where magical mayhem meets scientific sass! Watch as our contestant turns swamp slime into liquid gold and probably blows up at least two cauldrons—stay tuned for the grand finale: a boil cure so good it'll clear your skin and your ex's memory!"
Harry smirked, grabbing the dried nettles with a confidence that screamed, I got this. He crushed them carefully—not too fine, because that was nettle suicide, and no one wanted to look like they'd been scratching for a week.
Aether, Harry's trusty flying cloud (yes, a literal cloud—because why have a normal pet when you can have weather?), hovered nearby, puffing out a tiny congratulatory mist like a coach who just saw his star player nail the winning shot. You got this, champ!
Harry tossed the nettles into his cauldron with a flick of his wand. Next came the snake fangs—freshly harvested, naturally. Well, ethically sourced if you asked Harry. Because he had style.
Ron, wrestling with his own cauldron disaster two tables over, muttered, "Oi, Potter, showing off again, yeah? Can't you just let us mortals have a chance?"
Hermione gave Ron a glare that could've frozen molten lava. "Ron, focus! It's Potion class, not Potato class."
Harry just grinned. "Watch closely, everyone. Loki's first rule of potion-making: Don't be a dumbass." Then, with a cheeky wave of his wand, he charmed the venom from the fangs, letting it drip like liquid silver into the bubbling mix.
Jim jumped right back in, throwing an invisible confetti cannon in Harry's mental stage. "Venom extraction! Because nothing says 'party' like a dash of deadly poison! That's right, folks, we're living on the edge!"
Next, the horned slugs. The rest of the class gagged like someone just announced detention and free broccoli for a year. But Harry? He treated those slimy little guys like they were gourmet ingredients at a five-star wizard bistro.
He crushed the slugs into a smooth, unidentifiable greenish-brown stew, then carefully added a pinch of moonlight essence—a little gift from Artemis. Moonlight essence was like the secret hot sauce of potion-making, harvested from a stag that apparently moonlighted as a drama queen.
Snape's head snapped toward Harry like a cobra ready to strike. "Moonlight essence is not part of the curriculum, Potter."
Harry shot him a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Not yet, Severus. Not yet."
The potion bubbled and shimmered, glowing with an ethereal light that made the usual sickly swamp sludge look like something out of a first-year's nightmare.
Tracey raised a single eyebrow—wizard-level impressed. Daphne, who usually had zero chill for anything remotely unglamorous, was suspiciously quiet, probably filing this whole debacle under Weird but cool.
Neville, ever the quiet hero, gave Harry a thumbs-up that might as well have been a standing ovation. Ron just looked baffled enough to be hopeful, which was progress.
"Is this supposed to work?" Ron asked, voice a mixture of disbelief and desperate optimism.
Harry gave a slow nod, the kind only the son of Artemis and Loki could pull off—equal parts swagger and don't even try me.
Snape stalked over, all the menace of a man who just smelled a rat in his potion, and sniffed the brew like a suspicious bloodhound. His eyes twitched—the closest thing Snape had to a smile.
"Potent. Effective. An... improvement," he admitted, voice so low it was basically a conspiracy whisper. Like he was worried the very walls might overhear and get jealous.
Jim exploded inside Harry's head with the mental equivalent of backflips, cartwheels, and jazz hands all at once. "BOOM! That's how you turn a potions class into a mic drop! Harry Potter: Master of Sass and Slug Stew Extraordinaire!"
Aether puffed a triumphant little mist-ring around Harry, clearly proud to be part of this legendary moment. Good boy, the cloud seemed to say, good boy indeed.
Harry leaned back, grinning so wide it looked like his face was trying to high-five the whole room. "Guess what, everyone? I'm not just the Boy Who Lived... I'm the boy who brews."
—
As Snape glided toward the next cauldron like a murder of crows had been assigned a teaching job, Harry Potter leaned back on his stool, arms crossed, chin tilted, the very image of smug satisfaction. Or, as smug as someone could look while still smelling like powdered murtlap and victory.
In his brain theater, Jim was still mid-tap-dance in full top hat and glitter tux, throwing confetti that said "GryffinBAM!" with every jazz hand flourish.
"BOOM! That's what I'm talking about, baby! That potion was sexier than Loki in leather and twice as dangerous. Ten points to you, Monkey King," Jim sang, spinning a cane.
"You think Snape noticed?" Harry asked, only semi-telepathically. It was more of a vibes-based communication system at this point.
"Oh, he noticed," Jim whispered like a dramatic narrator revealing a murder weapon. "He noticed so hard he's about to write a fan letter to your bubbling masterpiece. He's already mentally monologuing about you in Alan Rickman's voice."
Aether, the literal cloud of magic and vibes floating loyally beside Harry, gave a soft, happy puff and coiled like a sleepy ferret made of fog.
At the next station, Ron was engaged in a wizard duel with his own potion. The thing burped, hissed, and released a tentacle so gross it could've been cast in a low-budget horror film.
"Mate," Ron whispered, eyes wide. "I think it's trying to tell me its pronouns."
Hermione gagged and yanked her sleeve up to cover her face.
"RON! What did you put in there?!"
"Stuff! Potion-y stuff! The stuff in the book!"
"Did the book also suggest a decomposing toad, because that's what it smells like," Hermione shot back.
Neville, three cauldrons down, was very determinedly pretending he couldn't smell anything. His potion was safe. Boring, but safe. He'd take that as a win.
Snape glared at Ron's creation like it had personally insulted his ancestry.
"Zero," he said coldly. "Clean this… travesty before it escapes."
Ron's jaw dropped. "Escapes?! It's got a social life now?!"
Snape, looking vaguely like he'd rather be devoured by flobberworms, stalked past Daphne's workstation. Her potion was decent. Not brilliant. Not tragic. Solid B-plus energy.
Tracey Davis, sitting beside her, tilted her head as she glanced over at Harry. Her expression said, "Cool. I've just realized I underestimated you. I need to recalculate your ranking on the Hogwarts Threat Index."
Snape, who was now orbiting Harry like a very moody moon, paused. He lingered. Snape never lingered. That was like Voldemort sending you a fruit basket.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Something wrong, Professor?"
Snape did not answer.
He did, however, reach into his robes with a motion so slow and deliberate it could have been set to suspenseful violin music. He pulled out a quill. Not the red one of doom. A fancy one. One that looked like it belonged in the restricted section next to a diary that eats souls.
And then he wrote.
Wrote.
Down.
Harry's.
Potion.
Recipe.
In his mind, Jim fell over so hard he knocked over a row of mental filing cabinets labeled "Snape's Never-Feels Column."
"Did you SEE THAT?! That's intellectual theft! That's plagiarism! That's—actually weirdly validating? Like if Snape opened a bakery and decided to sell your cupcakes."
Harry leaned forward, smile like a knife.
"Taking notes, Professor?"
Snape's quill paused mid-stroke.
He didn't look up. Didn't blink.
Just muttered, so low only a bat—or a magically enhanced chaos gremlin—could hear:
"Improvisation. Acceptable. For once."
Inside Harry's mind, Jim exploded into interpretive dance. He summoned a chalkboard titled "SNAPE LIKES YOU," drew a heart, and labeled it "Dungeon Daddy Vibes."
"He said it! He said it! That's basically a hug from him! That's like emotional PDA! Do we tell the Prophet or wait for the autobiography?"
"You're being dramatic," Harry thought.
"I am dramatic," Jim sniffed. "It's literally in my job description."
Class ended with Snape declaring homework that was basically a cruel and unusual punishment: two rolls of parchment detailing every ingredient they should've used. Due tomorrow. No excuses. Especially not from Ron.
"Do I look like someone who knows what a mimbulus mimbletonia even is?!" Ron groaned.
"No, you look like someone whose potion just asked me out to Hogsmeade," Harry said.
Hermione, nose still covered, sighed. "Honestly, if I catch potion plague from you lot, I'm not helping with your Herbology essays."
As the class filed out, everyone in various stages of trauma and existential crisis, Harry slung his bag over his shoulder. Just before he walked through the door, he glanced back.
Snape, alone in the room, thinking no one watched, folded Harry's potion notes and slipped them into his inner robe pocket.
Like a dragon hoarding treasure.
Aether let out a proud little coo and puffed into a heart shape.
Jim appeared in full judge regalia and banged a tiny mental gavel.
"We have confirmation! Dungeon Daddy Snape has officially joined the fan club. Next stop: respect, mentorship, possible awkward father-son dynamic, and eventual murder hugs."
Harry grinned.
He didn't just feel like the Boy Who Lived.
He felt like the boy who made Snape write stuff down. And in Hogwarts terms, that was basically a Nobel Prize.
Jim popped a bottle of mental butterbeer and raised a toast.
"To the Monkey King! Chaos incarnate! Potion prodigy! Snape's worst nightmare and fondest regret!"
Aether danced beside him.
Harry winked.
"Gotcha."
The end-of-class bell rang.
And the chaos had only just begun.
—
Hours later, just outside Hogsmeade, near a scruffy cave at the foot of some seriously suspicious-looking mountains...
The air smelled like pine needles, damp earth, and if you squinted your nose just right—burnt marshmallows. Somewhere between "outdoor adventure" and "someone forgot their s'mores."
Inside the cave, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin stood leaning against cold, jagged stone walls, casually sharing a flask of something that probably wasn't legal in three different countries. Sirius looked like he just rolled out of a rock band's afterparty, all leather and brooding intensity. Remus, on the other hand, looked like the voice of reason who hadn't had a real night's sleep since 1997.
But the real star of this meet-up was perched on a jagged rock like a furry little tyrant surveying his soon-to-be-ruled kingdom.
Loki, formerly James Potter and current god of mischief, smirked with that signature "I'm about to ruin your day in the most charming way possible" grin.
And then—like a damn magic show—the air went pop.
With a snap of Loki's slender, magically glowing fingers, a swirling, smoky explosion filled the cave, revealing a very different form.
Where once was a sneaky, fluffball feline stood a tall, lean man in a red-and-black suit—Deadpool.
Deadpool stretched dramatically, arching his back like a cat waking from a nap in a laundry basket that smells suspiciously like regret.
"Meow-za, baby!" Deadpool purred, voice dripping with pure unhinged sass. "Thank God. Being a glorified furball for a whole damn month? My claws were cramping, and don't even ask about the furballs. I looked like a furry sock puppet, minus the charm."
Sirius raised a perfectly sculpted brow. "So... all this time you've been sneaking around Hogwarts as a cat? That's your genius plan?"
Deadpool grinned behind his mask, sharp teeth flashing like a mischievous shark. "Yep. Thanks, Harry. Big ups, bub. Next time someone pulls a 'turn him into a cat' curse, I'm filing a complaint with the Ministry of Magical Pranks. Preferably with some teeth."
Remus snorted, shaking his head. "You and your mouth. It's a miracle you haven't been cursed into something worse."
Deadpool shrugged, fishing something out of the bottomless pit of his suit pocket. "Whatever, I'm still the best freakin' mercenary-cat you've ever seen. Now—check it."
He dangled the Diadem of Ravenclaw between two fingers, letting it catch the dim cave light, sparkling with ancient, probably malevolent wisdom.
"Your shiny little treasure, Loki. One ancient, probably cursed, definitely bedazzled tiara, fresh from the Hogwarts vaults. Handle it gently—or don't. I'm not your mom, and I've got better things to do than babysit."
Loki took the Diadem with a sly smile, the god's eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of amusement and something resembling genuine approval.
"Catpool, or should I say Deadpool, you never cease to entertain," Loki said smoothly, voice like silk dipped in poison. "And you didn't break Hogwarts. Well, not yet."
Deadpool gave a casual shrug. "Eh, minor collateral damage is just another Tuesday for me."
Then, from seemingly nowhere, Deadpool produced a glowing, pulsating red orb.
The Philosopher's Stone.
Remus's eyes went wide enough to see the back of his head. "Wait—where the hell did you hide that? And how?"
Deadpool's grin turned wickedly amused. "Oh, trust me, Sirius, you do not want to know where it was hidden. Seriously, it's probably best if you wash your hands after handling it, too. Like, a lot."
Sirius groaned but pocketed the Stone with the careful reverence of a bomb disposal expert. "Good to know. Not exactly a hygiene master, but I'll try not to melt my fingers."
Deadpool then turned toward Loki, lowering his voice to a faux-serious growl.
"Alright, Daddy Loki, here's the deal: Harry's orders were crystal clear. This fiery little gem right here goes straight to Camp Half-Blood. Specifically into the hands of Charles Beckendorf. Because, unlike us, that guy can handle the flaming-hot chaos without turning into a crispy critter."
Loki raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "And you, merc with a mouth, need to get home, don't you?"
Deadpool nodded like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Hell yes! Haven't seen Vanessa in a month. And lemme tell you—at this stage of cat-horniness—don't ask—Mrs. Norris and McGonagall's Animagus form are suddenly looking like the hottest things this side of Hogwarts."
He shuddered dramatically, voice dropping to a mock whisper. "When your standards get that low, it's time to exit cat form, STAT."
Loki chuckled, the sound echoing like a secret about to blow up the universe.
With a snap of his fingers, a shimmering portal bloomed behind him, swirling with cosmic energy and the faint scent of freshly baked trouble.
"Go on, then. Go get your… catnip fix," Loki teased with a wicked grin.
Deadpool saluted like a captain going into battle.
"Thanks, Daddy Loki. This time, I solemnly swear I'll keep the fur on my side of the bed."
With a dramatic bow that probably deserved a standing ovation, Deadpool stepped through the portal and vanished—leaving Sirius, Remus, and Loki shaking their heads in a mix of disbelief, amusement, and a hint of fond exasperation.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
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