The ancient stone gates of Nevermore Academy groaned open like the yawning maw of some primordial beast reluctantly awakening from centuries of slumber. Their wrought-iron bars twisted into an impossible menagerie—ravens with too many eyes that seemed to follow movement, gargoyles frozen mid-sneer with expressions of theatrical malice, and runes that flickered between meanings like a fever dream. From one angle they spelled "WELCOME" in elegant script; from another, "ABANDON HOPE" in letters that dripped with gothic melodrama. Beyond these theatrical guardians, the sprawling academy rose from the Vermont hillside like a cathedral designed by someone who believed nightmares made the finest architectural blueprints.
Principal Larissa Weems stood tall in the shadow of the archway, her platinum hair catching the dying autumn light like spun moonbeams. Her burgundy suit was cut with military precision, sharp enough to slice through lesser mortals' pretensions. She surveyed the approaching enchanted RV with the serene confidence of someone who had stared down demons, werewolves, and—most terrifyingly—school board meetings, and lived to tell the tale.
The RV hissed to a dramatic halt, steam rising from its enchanted engine like incense from a cursed altar. Lurch, funeral solemnity intact and towering like a monument to perpetual melancholy, unfolded from the driver's seat with the deliberate grace of a pallbearer. He opened the door with the reverence typically reserved for coffin lids, his expression suggesting that transportation was merely another form of funeral service.
Thing—that marvel of disembodied determination—leapt onto the dashboard with the flair of a conductor taking his podium. His fingers danced across the surface in a complex ballet of gestures, pointing toward the gothic spires, then at the assembled group, his finger-drumming clearly spelling out in precise semaphore: *Try not to embarrass yourselves. First impressions matter. Also, the gargoyles are watching.*
The first to emerge from the RV's shadowed interior was Hercules Black, and his entrance was nothing short of cinematic. Standing six-foot-three with shoulders that could have been carved by Michelangelo during a particularly inspired mood, he carried Hedwig's cage with the dignity of a man presenting crown jewels to royalty. His sunglasses—bespoke Italian perfection—hid serpentine eyes that could turn stone to envy, while his casual attire was tailored with such precision it made haute couture look shabby. His presence seemed to bend the very air around him, making the expansive courtyard feel suddenly intimate.
"Principal Weems," he said, his voice rolling out in sonorous tones that could make tax legislation sound like Shakespearean sonnets. The words carried the weight of centuries of aristocratic breeding, polished to mirror brightness by Eton-educated confidence. "I trust Nevermore can withstand the collective weight of our... *eccentricities*. I'd hate to think we traveled all this considerable distance only to discover your venerable institution might collapse under the atmospheric pressure of our mere presence."
Weems inclined her head with a half-smile that could have launched a thousand diplomatic incidents. "Nevermore prides itself on structural and psychological resilience, Mr. Black. Though I confess myself curious—" her pale eyes flicked toward Hedwig, who was glaring at the gargoyles with royal disdain "—whether your particular definition of 'eccentric' aligns with our own rather... expansive parameters."
Hercules's lips curved into that devastating half-smirk that had probably caused international incidents in several European courts. "Madam," he replied, adjusting his sunglasses with theatrical precision, "my definition of eccentric is quite simply... *British*. You may consider yourselves formally warned. We come bearing tea, sarcasm, and an unshakeable belief in our own superiority. The combination has historically proven lethal to lesser institutions."
Thing immediately launched into enthusiastic applause, his tiny hand clapping with the fervor of a one-man standing ovation.
From the RV's shadows emerged Wednesday Addams, descending like a prophecy of beautiful doom. Her black dress was so perfectly pressed it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, while her dark eyes—unblinking and ancient as Egyptian tombs—surveyed the gothic towers with the clinical assessment of a coroner examining particularly interesting remains.
"The architecture conveys an admirable dedication to atmospheric gloom," she observed, her voice carrying all the warmth of a mortuary in January. "The angular asymmetry suggests psychological instability in the original designers, which I find professionally encouraging. However," she paused, those dark eyes scanning the gargoyles with scientific precision, "I am experiencing mild disappointment. I counted precisely six gargoyles during our approach, and not one has attempted to bite, maim, or otherwise assault me upon entry."
Thing scuttled up her arm to perch on her shoulder, snapping his fingers in theatrical indignation while gesturing toward the stone creatures as if to say, *Give them time, mistress. The evening is young.*
Weems arched one elegant brow, her amusement genuine. "Some are merely decorative, Miss Addams. Others, however, maintain more... *interactive* tendencies. I suspect you'll discover which category is which when you inevitably wander too close during your nocturnal explorations."
Wednesday's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those dark depths—the faintest spark of anticipation. "Excellent. Unprovoked violence encourages character development. I look forward to cataloging their attack patterns and documenting the resulting injuries. For academic purposes, naturally."
"Naturally," Weems agreed with practiced diplomatic neutrality.
Pugsley tumbled out next, vibrating with the contained energy of unstable explosives. In his arms, he clutched a metal box that bore suspicious dents and scorch marks, holding it with the reverence other children reserved for beloved pets.
"Principal Weems!" he called with breathless excitement. "Do your chemistry laboratories feature explosion-proof walls? Because I've developed several experiments that my previous school's administration described as 'morally questionable,' 'scientifically reckless,' and—my personal favorite—'a clear and present danger to continental stability.'"
Weems, displaying the unflappable composure that had seen her through decades of supernatural adolescent chaos, replied with practiced patience, "Our laboratories are exceptionally well-fortified, Mr. Addams. However, we do request that students file appropriate paperwork before initiating any seismic events. Liability insurance, you understand."
"Paperwork!" Pugsley's face lit up as if she'd offered him Christmas morning. "You mean you actually *expect* seismic events? This is already infinitely superior to my last school!"
Ron Weasley emerged next, his freckled face a masterpiece of bewildered disbelief as he gawked at the academy's imposing facade. "Bloody hell," he breathed, his voice cracking slightly. "This place makes Hogwarts look positively... *cozy*. And I never thought I'd live to say that about a school famous for its homicidal staircases and portraits that give unwanted life advice."
Ginny Weasley stepped out behind him, chin lifted in defiant assessment, her red hair catching the light like burnished copper. "Cozy's completely overrated, Ronald. This looks like the sort of school where they actually teach you how to curse someone *properly*, instead of forcing you to write seventeen-inch essays about cauldron thickness regulations."
Her voice carried the sharp edge of someone who had spent entirely too much time being underestimated by older brothers.
Fred and George materialized next, moving in that unsettling synchronization that had terrorized Hogwarts faculty for years. They approached Weems like seasoned salesmen who had just spotted a particularly lucrative opportunity.
"Principal Weems," Fred began, his smile radiating enough charm to power the entire academy.
"We understand that American educational institutions actively encourage entrepreneurial initiative," George continued smoothly, his twin's expression perfectly mirrored.
"Which naturally suggests—"
"—a previously untapped market for—"
"—innovative educational enhancements—"
"—of the delightfully experimental variety."
Their voices wove together like a practiced duet, each word calculated for maximum persuasive impact.
Weems narrowed her pale eyes with the expression of someone who had dealt with supernatural teenagers long enough to recognize a sales pitch wrapped in innocent enthusiasm. "Educational enhancements, you say. How... *broadly* are we defining 'educational'?"
"In the most expansive sense imaginable," the twins chorused in perfect unison, both grinning with expressions that would have made Mephistopheles take notes.
Thing scrambled down Hercules's arm to give both twins simultaneous thumbs-up, clearly recognizing kindred spirits in creative chaos.
Hermione stepped forward before Weems could pursue this potentially catastrophic line of inquiry, her bushy hair practically crackling with intellectual energy. "Principal Weems, I've conducted extensive research into Nevermore's curriculum structure. The individualized educational development protocols, interdisciplinary academic focus, and practical application methodologies are absolutely revolutionary. I've already compiled a preliminary list of seventeen collaborative research projects that would benefit enormously from direct faculty partnership."
Her eyes shone with the fervor of someone who had found her intellectual promised land.
Weems's expression softened into genuine approval, the look of an educator recognizing a kindred spirit. "Your enthusiasm will serve you extraordinarily well here, Miss Granger. However, I should warn you—at Nevermore, we significantly prefer practical demonstrations over theoretical dissertations. We believe in learning by *doing*."
Hermione's face brightened like a sunrise, while Ron audibly groaned.
"Demonstrations over dissertations?" Hermione breathed. "You mean actual *practical* application of theoretical principles? Oh, this is going to be absolutely *wonderful*!"
Susan Bones approached with the measured grace of someone trained in diplomatic protocol from birth. Her strawberry-blonde hair was perfectly arranged, her posture conveying quiet confidence mixed with strategic assessment.
"Principal Weems," she said, her voice carrying the cultured tones of old magical families, "I understand Nevermore has considerable experience managing students from... *complicated* international family situations? Particularly those involving complex political dynamics and potential security concerns?"
Weems's smile warmed with genuine reassurance. "Extensive experience, Miss Bones. We pride ourselves on absolute discretion and have developed comprehensive protocols for protecting students whose family circumstances might attract unwanted attention. Your privacy and security are guaranteed."
From the rear of the group, Luna Lovegood drifted forward like a ethereal spirit, her silvery hair floating as if she carried her own private atmosphere. Her dreamy expression suggested she was listening to conversations the rest of them couldn't hear.
"The Nargles here are remarkably well-mannered," she announced serenely. "They've informed me that your anti-bullying policies actually function as intended, which they assure me is extraordinarily rare in magical educational institutions. They seem quite impressed with your administrative competence."
Weems smiled with the indulgent warmth reserved for students whose unusual perspectives often proved surprisingly insightful. "At Nevermore, Miss Lovegood, we consider both physical and emotional safety non-negotiable priorities. Creating an environment where every student can flourish is our primary mission."
Sirius Black lounged against the RV with the casual confidence of someone who had stared down Death Eaters and lived to swagger about it. His dark hair fell roguishly across his forehead while his leather jacket creaked with every movement, somehow managing to look both dangerous and devastatingly charming.
"Well, that's reassuring," he drawled, clapping Hercules on the shoulder with paternal pride. "Though you'll forgive me if I don't completely relax until I've personally conducted a thorough inspection of your wine cellar. Quality control, you understand. Purely professional."
Remus Lupin, standing beside him like a portrait of scholarly elegance, sighed with the long-suffering patience of someone who had spent decades managing Sirius's more dramatic impulses. "Please ignore him, Principal Weems. He means that in the least destructive way possible. *Hopefully*."
His voice carried the cultured tones of Oxford education mixed with the weary wisdom of someone who had learned to expect chaos while hoping for civilization.
Morticia glided forward like liquid shadow given form, her black gown flowing with supernatural grace while Gomez practically radiated enthusiasm beside her. Together, they looked like Gothic royalty holding court among mere mortals.
"Principal Weems," Morticia purred, her voice smooth as silk drawn across a blade, "Nevermore appears absolutely... *deliciously* dreary this afternoon. The architectural melancholy, the pervasive atmosphere of elegant doom—we thoroughly approve. It speaks to our souls."
Gomez swept his hat from his head in an elaborate bow that belonged in a Shakespearean tragedy. "And should your gargoyles ever require instruction in the noble art of fencing, madame, I remain your most devoted servant! I have personally trained with the finest masters across three continents!"
Arthur Weasley had apparently discovered the gates' magical mechanisms and was practically vibrating with excitement. "Absolutely fascinating craftsmanship! Molly, look at this—self-sharpening hinges with embedded rune work! The magical engineering principles alone must be extraordinary!"
His voice carried the wonder of a child discovering their first kaleidoscope.
Molly swatted his arm with practiced efficiency. "Arthur Weasley, don't you dare touch those murder gates! We're here for the children's education, not to rebuild our house with cursed architectural elements!"
From the edges of the group, Xenophilius Lovegood's dreamy voice announced, "Remarkable ley-line convergence! The harmonic resonance patterns are absolutely extraordinary. No wonder the resident spirits are humming Gregorian chants. They seem quite content with the acoustic properties."
Amelia Bones folded her arms, her sharp gaze studying the imposing spires with professional assessment. "If this academy can successfully prevent this particular collection of individuals from accidentally setting Vermont ablaze, I'll consider it nothing short of miraculous. The combined chaos potential is... concerning."
Thing leapt onto Hercules's shoulder, tapped his sunglasses twice in what appeared to be morse code, then flashed an enthusiastic thumbs-up at Weems. The translation was clear: *The British Sass-Master is officially in command. May whatever deity watches over educational institutions have mercy on all our souls.*
Weems merely smiled with the serene confidence of someone who had faced down supernatural crises that would have sent lesser administrators fleeing into early retirement. "Welcome to Nevermore Academy," she said, her voice carrying across the courtyard like a benediction. "Do try not to break anything irreplaceable."
---
The courtyard seemed to lean inward with anticipation, as though the very architecture of Nevermore wanted to eavesdrop on this historic gathering. Ancient spires craned their necks like curious giants, gargoyles shifted with subtle movements that might have been tricks of the dying light, and shadows lengthened with theatrical timing that would have made Tim Burton weep with artistic joy.
Principal Weems gestured toward the main doors with a sweeping motion that managed to be simultaneously welcoming and ominous—a combination that required decades of supernatural administrative experience to perfect.
"Before we proceed with room assignments and campus orientation," she began, her voice carrying the velvet-wrapped authority of someone accustomed to managing beautiful chaos, "we must address certain... *administrative* matters that require immediate attention."
Her pale gaze found Wednesday Addams with laser precision. "Miss Addams, as previously arranged through extensive correspondence with your parents, you will begin weekly therapeutic consultations with Dr. Valerie Kinbott in Jericho township."
Wednesday's face remained a masterpiece of stoic composure, but her dark eyes glinted with the cold light of freshly sharpened scalpels. "Therapy," she said, her voice carrying all the emotional warmth of a morgue in January. "An institutionalized attempt to pathologize intellectual superiority and creative expression. How delightfully... *quaint*."
Weems, displaying the diplomatic immunity that came from years of dealing with supernatural students, smiled with elegant persistence. "Dr. Kinbott specializes in working with individuals whose intellectual gifts and unique perspectives significantly exceed mundane parameters. She finds that approaching therapeutic consultation as an intellectual exercise and philosophical exploration often yields remarkably... *fruitful* outcomes."
Wednesday blinked once, slowly, like a cat contemplating whether its prey was worth the energy expenditure. "So I am to be studied like a rare pathological specimen? Catalogued, dissected, and examined for psychological irregularities that lesser minds might mistake for dysfunction?"
"Not dissected," Weems replied lightly, her smile carrying just enough edge to suggest she understood exactly whom she was addressing. "At least, not in the literal sense. Dr. Kinbott prefers her patients to remain... *functionally* intact."
Thing scrambled up Weems's burgundy sleeve with the agility of a practiced acrobat, performing an elaborate finger-ballet before landing on her shoulder to wag a reproachful finger at Wednesday. His gestures clearly spelled: *Behave yourself, or at least maintain the illusion of cooperation.*
Wednesday arched one dark brow at the disembodied hand, her expression suggesting mild amusement. "I harbor no opposition to dissection, Thing. I simply prefer operating from the side holding the scalpel rather than lying upon the table. It's a matter of professional preference."
Thing clutched his palm to his chest in mock horror, then performed an elaborate silent-film death scene across Weems's shoulder, complete with melodramatic writhing and a final, tragic finger-flutter.
"Acceptable," Wednesday declared, ignoring his theatrical display with practiced ease. "Though I feel compelled to remind you that my previous educational expulsion had absolutely nothing to do with psychological dysfunction and everything to do with pedagogical incompetence. The carnivorous fish incident was, from any objective scientific standpoint, a resounding academic success."
Weems tilted her head with genuine curiosity, like a scholar encountering an unexpectedly fascinating research subject. "Carnivorous fish? How... *innovative*."
Wednesday's expression remained perfectly deadpan. "The water polo team required comprehensive re-education concerning empathy and the consequences of systematic bullying. Piranhas proved to be the most efficient educational medium. The behavioral modification results were both spectacular and permanent."
Thing burst into enthusiastic applause, his tiny hand creating surprisingly loud clapping sounds.
Weems's lips curved with what might have been admiration. "How remarkably... *creative*."
Her attention shifted to Hercules, who stood like a monument to aristocratic perfection, Hedwig's cage balanced in one arm as if it contained the Crown Jewels rather than an irritated owl.
"Mr. Black," Weems continued smoothly, "given your recent... *metamorphoses*—identity reconstruction, Dracolycan enhancement integration, complex familial dynamics—I strongly recommend that you, too, consult with Dr. Kinbott. Supernatural transformations can create unique psychological challenges."
Hercules adjusted his sunglasses with deliberate precision, his posture suggesting he could remain perfectly comfortable while the world crumbled around him. When he spoke, his voice rolled out in those impossibly cultured tones that could make grocery lists sound like epic poetry.
"Professional therapeutic intervention for identity integration," he mused, as if savoring particularly fine wine. "How frightfully *modern* of you, Principal. I confess, thus far I've relied primarily on my own psychological analysis, Aunt Andromeda's clinical insights, therapeutic quantities of butterbeer, and the questionable wisdom dispensed by my recently-exonerated father. While this approach has proven... *adequate*... professional guidance might indeed save me the considerable inconvenience of developing a publicly visible split personality disorder."
He paused, that devastating half-smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Though I imagine the tabloids would find it absolutely *riveting*."
Wednesday tilted her head toward him with something that might have been professional interest. "A pity. You would make a compelling case study in dissociative identity disorder. The aristocratic British persona contrasting with emerging supernatural instincts could provide fascinating research opportunities."
"Why, thank you, Wednesday," Hercules replied smoothly, inclining his head as though she'd complimented his tailoring. "I do so enjoy being appreciated for my psychological complexity."
Weems clasped her hands with diplomatic grace. "Dr. Kinbott has extensive experience with cases where extraordinary supernatural abilities complicate ordinary human existence. She would, I believe, prove invaluable in helping you ensure that your... *serpentine* visual enhancements don't interfere with your developing sense of integrated identity."
"On the contrary, Principal," Hercules countered, his voice dripping with British confidence. He lowered his sunglasses just enough for the faintest glimmer of those reptilian eyes to show—ancient gold with vertical pupils that seemed to hold their own inner light. "I find they considerably *enhance* my sense of self. Few things communicate 'character development' quite like possessing the ability to petrify school bullies without breaking conversational stride."
His smile was sharp enough to cut glass.
Thing immediately launched into a standing ovation, his tiny hand clapping with theatrical enthusiasm.
Weems's diplomatic composure never wavered, though her eyes sparked with what might have been amusement. "Then perhaps Dr. Kinbott can help you develop the discretionary judgment to determine precisely *when* not to break stride. Supernatural abilities require... *nuanced* application."
Her smile sharpened like a blade being drawn, then softened back into silk. "And as Dr. Kinbott maintains her practice in Jericho township, you and Miss Addams may coordinate your appointments. Supervised community integration. Observational research opportunities. Administrative efficiency."
Wednesday and Hercules regarded one another in a moment of crystalline silence, like chess masters evaluating an opening gambit.
"Joint transportation arrangements," Wednesday observed finally, her voice carrying clinical detachment. "Significantly less inefficient than separate travel protocols. Additionally, it would provide unprecedented opportunities to study small-town social organisms in their natural habitat. Behavioral anthropology in real-time."
"Precisely," Hercules agreed, his smile suggesting he had already identified several ways to weaponize the situation for maximum entertainment value. "And naturally, should Dr. Kinbott suffer an untimely professional demise during our therapeutic sessions—"
"—we could author the definitive case study ourselves," Wednesday finished without missing a beat, her tone suggesting this was merely practical planning. "Complete with detailed psychological autopsies and comprehensive behavioral analysis."
Thing pointed at them both, then at Weems, then made an elaborate explosion gesture with all his fingers, clearly suggesting that this combination represented unprecedented potential for beautiful chaos.
Weems let out a low laugh, the sound like silk being drawn across a perfectly honed blade. "Marvelous. I'll see to the scheduling arrangements immediately. Though I feel compelled to warn you both—Dr. Kinbott has thus far successfully survived every student she's treated. Her professional record is remarkably... *intact*."
Wednesday's lips curved in what constituted her version of a smile—barely perceptible, but somehow more unsettling than any dramatic grin. "There's a first time for everything, Principal Weems. Statistical probability suggests her remarkable survival streak must eventually encounter an... *exceptional* case."
Hercules inclined his head in mock solemnity, his voice rich with aristocratic sympathy. "Poor woman. She truly has no comprehension of what she's volunteering to psychoanalyze. I almost feel guilty about the professional trauma we're about to inflict. *Almost*."
Weems merely gestured toward the looming academy doors, as if the Gothic architecture itself were listening to every word and taking careful notes. "Neither, Mr. Black, do you."
---
The courtyard held its breath as Principal Weems unfurled a leather-bound folder that appeared to have been bound by someone who believed administrative documents should double as grimoires. The folder was easily the size of a family Bible, its pages rustling with the whisper of ancient parchment as her elegant fingers turned them with the solemnity of a high priestess consulting sacred prophecies.
"Now," she intoned, her burgundy suit gleaming like spilled wine in the autumn twilight, "regarding academic placement protocols and dormitory assignment procedures."
Her pale eyes swept across the assembled group with the precision of a military general surveying troops before a campaign. "Hercules, Ron, Hermione, Susan, and Wednesday—you are all fourteen years of age. You will be placed within the same academic year classification, with schedules aligned for collaborative learning opportunities while maintaining individual curriculum adjustments tailored to your respective... *exceptional* talents."
Hermione practically levitated with excitement, her bushy hair seeming to crackle with intellectual energy. "Oh, this is absolutely *wonderful*! Just imagine the study groups we could form! The collaborative research projects! The cross-disciplinary academic exploration! The possibilities for peer-reviewed intellectual discourse are virtually limitless!"
Ron interrupted with the weary tone of someone who had spent years watching Hermione turn simple homework assignments into doctoral dissertations. "Hermione, you do realize you've just been placed in the same academic schedule as a Dracolycan, a potential mad scientist, and Wednesday bloody Addams, right? If this castle survives until Christmas without requiring major structural repairs, I'll personally nominate it for architectural sainthood."
Hercules's smirk could have powered the academy's lighting system. "Ronald, I must object to your characterization. Hermione is not a mad scientist." He paused with theatrical timing that would have made professional actors weep with envy. "She's merely... *dangerously curious*. There's a subtle but crucial distinction. Mad scientists rarely get their work published in peer-reviewed journals."
Thing crawled out of Hercules's breast pocket like a tiny stage performer making his grand entrance, smacked him reproachfully on the shoulder, then began miming the act of writing in an academic journal, complete with footnote gestures.
"You see?" Hercules gestured with elegant satisfaction. "Even Thing agrees. Peer-reviewed publications are the hallmark of legitimate scientific inquiry, regardless of the explosive potential of one's research methods."
Weems observed this byplay with the expression of someone who had learned to find genuine entertainment in supernatural chaos. "Ginny and Luna—both thirteen years of age—will be placed in the academic year below your cohort. Their curriculum will be comprehensively tailored to accommodate their exceptional aptitudes while maintaining..." Her voice lingered on the phrase like she was testing its structural integrity. "...*age-appropriate social development parameters*."
Ginny arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her expression suggesting she had encountered this particular educational euphemism before. "Age-appropriate social development? Have you actually *met* Luna? She converses with invisible creatures and provides weather forecasts based on the emotional states of mythological beings. I'm not entirely certain standard age-appropriateness applies."
Luna tilted her head with that dreamy expression that suggested she was receiving cosmic communications through her silvery hair. "The Nargles have informed me that chronological age is a fundamentally meaningless construct. They recommend sorting students by their tolerance for recreational danger and their willingness to embrace creative chaos. It's a much more accurate assessment method."
Weems allowed herself a flicker of genuine amusement. "Duly noted, Miss Lovegood. We'll... *consider* that for future administrative planning."
Behind them, Molly Weasley clutched Arthur's arm with the grip of someone who had just realized her family was about to be scattered across an institution that considered recreational danger a valid sorting criterion. "Recreational what?" she hissed, her voice carrying the pitch of maternal alarm.
Arthur, meanwhile, beamed with the expression of someone who had just discovered his professional calling. "Cross-dimensional educational safety standards! Molly, this represents a complete revolution in pedagogical methodology! Just imagine the practical applications!"
Weems turned another page with ceremonial precision. "Fred and George Weasley—both sixteen years of age—you will be placed two full academic years above the others, enrolled in our advanced program emphasizing practical application of theoretical principles and supervised entrepreneurial development... within strictly defined appropriate parameters."
Fred's grin could have lit up the entire Gothic courtyard. "Entrepreneurial development within appropriate parameters," he repeated, his tone suggesting he was savoring each syllable.
George nodded with the sagacious air of someone who had just received a formal challenge. "Sounds remarkably like a dare disguised as administrative policy."
Thing immediately shot both twins simultaneous double thumbs-up, clearly recognizing kindred spirits in the ancient art of creative rule interpretation.
Weems's smile carried just enough underlying menace to suggest decades of experience with teenage entrepreneurs. "Please do not mistake institutional flexibility for complete absence of regulatory boundaries, gentlemen. We maintain certain... *standards*."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Principal," the twins replied in perfect unison, their expressions suggesting they were already mentally cataloguing which standards might be most interesting to test.
"Now," Weems continued with the relentless efficiency of someone determined to complete administrative duties before chaos could fully establish itself, "dormitory assignments. Hercules and Ron, you will share quarters in Caliban Hall—our residence facility specifically designed for students with enhanced physical capabilities and supernatural requirements."
Ron blinked with the expression of someone who had just realized his roommate situation came with architectural considerations. "Enhanced physical capabilities? Oh. Right. That would explain why standard dormitory furniture might not survive a nightmare involving involuntary shapeshifting."
"Precisely," Weems confirmed with professional satisfaction. "Caliban Hall features comprehensive structural reinforcement, emergency containment protocols, and furniture designed to withstand supernatural stress events."
Hercules's smirk suggested he found this both amusing and mildly insulting. "How thoughtful. And here I was concerned they might assign me to the delicate flower wing of the academy. How utterly *disappointing* that would have been."
Thing flexed his fingers like a tiny bodybuilder showing off his muscles, then pointed dramatically at the imposing Caliban Hall towers.
"Hermione and Susan," Weems continued with smooth efficiency, "you will share quarters in Ophelia Hall—our residence for academically driven students. The facility features private research libraries, dedicated study carrels, twenty-four-hour laboratory access, and soundproofed walls for late-night intellectual discourse."
Susan nodded with the satisfaction of someone whose housing requirements had been perfectly understood. "That sounds ideally suited to our academic needs."
Hermione made a sound that was part squeak, part gasp, and entirely undignified. "Private research libraries? With unrestricted access? Oh, this is better than Christmas morning!"
Hercules leaned in just enough to murmur in those devastatingly cultured tones, "Granger, do try to contain your scholarly enthusiasm. We wouldn't want innocent bystanders to mistake intellectual excitement for something unseemly."
Hermione flushed scarlet to the roots of her bushy hair, glaring at him with an expression that could have curdled milk, which only served to widen his insufferably charming smirk.
"Ginny and Luna will also reside in Ophelia Hall," Weems continued, apparently immune to the romantic tension crackling between two of her future students, "with specialized environmental protections tailored to accommodate unusual magical talents and... *unique* sensory requirements."
"Protections against what, exactly?" Ginny demanded with the sharp edge of someone who had learned to be suspicious of euphemistic administrative language.
Luna answered before Weems could respond, her dreamy voice carrying absolute certainty. "Against narrow-minded authority figures misunderstanding the difference between exceptional brilliance and dangerous instability. The Nargles have explained the distinction extensively."
Thing immediately mimed a glowing halo over Luna's head, clearly endorsing this interpretation.
"Fred and George," Weems announced with the tone of someone bracing herself for administrative chaos, "you will be assigned to Caliban Hall as well. The facility offers blast-resistant construction, enhanced ventilation systems for chemical experiments, and immediate proximity to emergency response protocols."
"Emergency response protocols!" Fred crowed with genuine delight.
"Finally, an educational institution that expects success rather than merely hoping for survival," George added with matching enthusiasm.
Both twins looked like children who had just been told Christmas would occur twice this year.
Weems's folder snapped shut with the finality of a coffin lid closing. "And Wednesday..." Her tone softened into that peculiar combination of velvet and steel that suggested years of supernatural student management. "You will share quarters with Miss Enid Sinclair—a werewolf student of considerable social intelligence and proven resilience."
Wednesday's dark eyes sharpened with something that might have been professional interest. "Qualifications?"
"Unshakeable optimism, supernatural resilience, and a demonstrated ability to balance authentic self-expression with constructive community engagement. She has successfully roomed with three previous... *challenging* students without requiring psychological counseling."
Wednesday repeated the word "optimism" like she was examining a particularly exotic poison. "How revoltingly... *novel*. I suppose exposure to pathological positivity could prove educationally valuable. Like developing immunity through controlled exposure to disease."
Hercules murmured approvingly, "A werewolf roommate does suggest underlying predatory instincts beneath the social pleasantries. That should provide adequate intellectual stimulation."
Wednesday's lips curved into the barest shadow of what might generously be called a smile. "Acceptable. Predatory supernatural instincts make for significantly more interesting roommates than mundane humans. At minimum, she won't bore me to death with discussions of celebrity gossip and fashion trends."
Thing pointed at both Wednesday and Hercules, then drew an elaborate heart shape in the air with his fingers.
Wednesday and Hercules turned in perfect unison, their flat stares could have frozen hell itself.
Thing shrugged with the philosophical acceptance of someone who had learned to appreciate beautiful disasters, his gesture clearly communicating: *I ship it anyway. Sue me.*
---
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