The sun was still warm on their robes as Harry and his gang—Tonks, Hermione, Neville, Daphne, Tracey, and Blaise—made their way toward Greenhouse One, the final stop of their chaotic first day at Hogwarts. The path was lined with enchanted hedges and chatty students, and every few steps brought another snippet of whispered gossip floating through the air.
"...Snape cancelled the first Potions class for Gryffindors and Slytherins."
"No way. First-years? That's supposed to be his big show-off moment."
"He showed off, alright. Walked in looking like a cursed extra from a Bat-burlesque show."
"Full body suit. Glittery black latex. And—get this—batnipples."
"Traumatized a dozen kids and gave another dozen weird kinks."
Tonks let out a loud snort that nearly had her tripping over her own boots. "Bat-nipples? Please tell me someone drew that."
Harry, hood pulled low over his face and the very picture of calculated innocence, cleared his throat. "So, hypothetically… if one were to enchant a threshold to trigger a transformation upon contact, could that be pinned on Peeves?"
"Peeves wishes he had that kind of comedic nuance," Daphne muttered, arms crossed and brow arched like she was already planning world domination in glitter and vengeance.
"Layers, Potter," Tracey said with a smirk. "That prank had layers. Narrative. Symbolism. Art direction."
Blaise added, "Seriously. That glitter shimmered like it was brewed by Veela under moonlight. Even I was impressed."
"I didn't do it," Harry said, hands raised in mock defense. "Technically."
Hermione, walking just beside him, shot him a look over her book. "You set a magical tripwire that transformed Professor Snape's robes into a Bat-suit when he entered the classroom. That's not 'technical.' That's premeditated magical assault with a fashion crime."
"But no spell was cast," Harry pointed out, grinning. "I said that. You said that. Repeatedly. Loudly. Under Veritaserum threat."
Tonks beamed. "And then Aunt Dorea marched into Dumbledore's office like a queen descending her throne and annihilated Snape's argument with one raised eyebrow and a quote from the International Statute of Pranking Rights."
"Sirius looked delighted," Daphne added. "He was already drafting a lawsuit for 'emotional distress via tragic costuming.'"
Neville, ever the cinnamon roll with a soul of a lion, glanced nervously between them. "We, uh… we did kind of lie to a professor. And the Headmaster. On Day One."
"Correction," Blaise said smoothly, flashing a grin that could've sold Firewhisky to a Hufflepuff prefect. "We testified. Truth is subjective. Ask any politician."
"We saved Harry's arse," Daphne said, flipping her blonde curls. "That's Marauder-level friendship. That's loyalty. That's legacy."
Harry clutched his chest. "I swear, I'm naming a chocolate frog after each of you."
"Better be pudding for me," Neville muttered. "Preferably treacle."
"Done," Harry said, slinging an arm around Neville's shoulder.
"I honestly thought Snape would just growl, take points, and make a dramatic exit. Not cancel the entire lesson."
"Did you see the suit?" Tonks asked, almost breathless with laughter. "The man's latex was squeaking. Squeaking, Hermione. Every step sounded like a balloon's final cry for help."
"And the cape?" Hermione added, hiding a smirk. "Got caught in the gargoyle hinge. Twice."
"Bet that gargoyle's having nightmares," Blaise said.
"And the enchantment," Daphne whispered, almost proudly, "reflected all attempts at aesthetic correction."
Everyone paused mid-step.
"…You wrote that enchantment, didn't you?" Blaise asked slowly.
Daphne just smirked, not answering.
"Note to self," Tonks mumbled. "Do not prank the Slytherin Princess. Ever."
As they reached Greenhouse One, Professor Sprout beamed at them from the entrance, her muddy gloves already up to her elbows. "Come in, come in, my dears! Today we'll learn the basics of plant care—how to water, fertilize, and love your magical greenery!"
Neville instantly lit up like a Lumos charm. "Finally!" he whispered to himself. "Something I can actually do."
Hermione nudged him with a smile. "Excited?"
"This is my favourite subject!" Neville beamed. "Snapdragons, Puffapods, Flutterfruits—they all have personalities! You just have to listen."
Tonks leaned over to Harry. "He talks about plants like they're family."
"Well," Harry muttered, "given some of our families, that's probably an upgrade."
Sprout clapped her hands. "Today, you'll be partnered up to tend to a few young Puffapods and learn how to safely apply powdered Mooncalf dung without accidentally causing explosive growth spurts!"
Neville practically vibrated with joy. "Mooncalf compost is the best. I even brought a pouch of dried chamomile to keep the Puffapods calm!"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You brought your own plant calming tea?"
Neville blinked. "You didn't?"
Tonks leaned over and whispered, "I like this kid."
As they each found their stations, Hermione adjusted her gloves like a general preparing for war, Daphne rolled her eyes but handled the Puffapod with practiced grace, and Blaise somehow managed to look stylish even while holding a trowel.
Tracey dropped fertilizer on her boots and muttered a string of unladylike curses that earned her a thumbs-up from Tonks.
"Ten Galleons says Snape shows up tomorrow with trauma-induced PTSD and a backup robe sewn by Lucius Malfoy," Harry muttered as he sprinkled water on his plant.
"Only if he doesn't drown in his own dramatic monologue first," Daphne added.
"'I am vengeance…'" Tracey intoned in her deepest voice.
"'I am the night…'" Tonks added, arms spread like wings.
"'I am…'" Harry paused for effect, "'Professor Snape in latex.'"
The Puffapod shivered.
Their laughter rang out like bells, echoing even over the distant shriek of a Flutterfruit being pruned improperly by a Ravenclaw.
And in that warm, earthy greenhouse filled with enchanted soil, glittering sunlight, and new friendships, the legend of Hogwarts' most chaotic first-years continued to bloom—bright, bold, and already impossible to ignore.
—
The scent hit them first—thick with damp soil, crushed leaves, and the heady sweetness of blooming pollen. It was like stepping into Mother Nature's potpourri closet… if that closet also had a mild compost problem.
"Merlin's muddy trousers," Tracey Davis gagged, yanking her collar over her nose. "Did something die in here?"
Professor Sprout, all wild curls and earth-caked boots, beamed like a benevolent forest troll. "That, Miss Davis, is the scent of life!"
"It's the scent of something's last breath," Daphne Greengrass muttered, stepping delicately between two squelchy patches of moss with the grace of a girl who considered mud a personal insult.
Tonks—hair a bouncing pink today and eyes twinkling with mischief—elbowed her playfully. "You know, there's a rumour that Puffapod pollen works like a love potion. So if you start feelin' something warm and fuzzy, it's probably not indigestion."
"Or it's the spores attacking my sinuses," Daphne said, already side-eying her plant like it owed her money.
At the front, Neville Longbottom knelt beside his Puffapod like it was the Holy Grail, voice soft, hands gentle. "Hey there, little mate… you slept alright? Got your chamomile... yeah, that's it. Good morning, sunshine."
Harry Potter paused mid-step. "Nev, are you… are you full-on whispering sweet nothings to a plant?"
Neville glanced up, completely unbothered. "It's called care, Harry. You might try it sometime—preferably before your Puffapod launches into orbit."
Harry gave him a deadpan look. "That was one time. And technically, it launched at Ron."
"Because you were trying to 'tickle it awake,'" Hermione pointed out, not looking up from her scroll, which was now on Plant Empathy: A Comparative Analysis, Vol. 3.
"I was testing a theory," Harry said, already aiming his watering can with surgical precision. "And for the record, Ron did scream like a banshee. Which was worth it."
"Still not as loud as the time you set your potion on fire and tried to convince Snape it was 'experimental flame-based brewing,'" Blaise said, smirking from behind his Puffapod, which looked oddly docile—probably hypnotized by his cheekbones.
Harry didn't miss a beat. "Still not as fake as your hairline, Zabini."
"Oof," Tonks winced. "That one had smoke trails."
Blaise grinned, unfazed. "Please. If I had a sickle for every time someone roasted me, I'd own the Slytherin common room."
"Wouldn't even cover half of Daphne's skincare routine," Tracey deadpanned, struggling to untangle her Puffapod's vine from her braid.
Daphne sniffed. "That's because it's effective. Unlike your gloves, which I'm pretty sure were once part of a Thestral's digestive tract."
"Don't hate me 'cause I'm authentic."
"Authentic biohazard," Hermione muttered.
"Alright, dears!" Professor Sprout's voice cut through the banter like a pruning charm. "Let's begin! Puffapods are highly sensitive today—bit hormonal, bless 'em—so be gentle. Compliment them. Talk to them. Do not yell, threaten, or insult their ancestry."
Harry's eyes twinkled. "That rules out Draco, then."
Neville, carefully brushing pollen from a leaf, nodded solemnly. "They really don't like snobs. Or garlic. Don't ask."
Tracey pointed to her Puffapod, which was puffing aggressively like an over-caffeinated marshmallow. "Mine's growling."
"Sounds like it's flirting," Blaise said with a smirk. "That's how Tracey talks to people too."
"It's about to get a shovel to the face."
Tonks, now using her wand like a conductor's baton, directed a cool mist over her station. "So what happens if they do get angry?"
As if summoned, Tracey's Puffapod puffed up like a balloon and detonated with a glittery pink explosion, showering her in pollen, petals, and what looked suspiciously like biodegradable confetti.
Professor Sprout clapped with delight. "Textbook overfeeding! Bravo!"
Tracey spat out a petal. "I smell like a Valentine's Day massacre."
"You look like Cupid sneezed on you," Harry added, biting back laughter.
"You're laughing now," she said darkly. "But I'm gonna hug you with all this glitter on."
Harry immediately summoned a protective shield charm.
Hermione, unbothered, kept writing. "It's interesting. According to Sprout's thesis in Botanical Sentience and Emotional Transfer, Puffapods react more strongly to individuals with high emotional projection—"
"Translation: If you're a hot mess, your plant's a hot mess," Tonks said.
"I'm not a hot mess!" Tracey snapped, glitter stuck to her eyebrows like war paint.
"Girl, you just got into a screaming match with a flower," Daphne pointed out.
Neville, eyes closed, hummed a lullaby as his Puffapod unfurled in peaceful contentment. "See? Easy does it. Warm thoughts. Gentle voice. Lots of praise."
Harry leaned closer. "You got a future as a plant whisperer, Nev."
Neville blushed. "They just… make sense. More than people do, most days."
"Oi," Tonks said. "I'm people."
"You're Tonks," Blaise said. "That's different."
She grinned. "Fair."
Sprout strolled past, inspecting stations. "Neville, your Puffapod's practically glowing! Five points to Gryffindor. Mr. Potter—good restraint. You didn't light anything on fire. That's a personal best!"
"I aim to underwhelm," Harry said, bowing.
"Miss Greengrass, maybe less glaring, more caring."
Daphne sighed like the idea of affection made her ill. "Can't I just Venmo it emotional stability?"
"It doesn't have an account, dear."
Tracey, now resigned to her fate, waved a glitter-coated glove. "Can we get this compost thing over with?"
"Compost infusion is a delicate process," Sprout warned. "Too much, and your Puffapod will—"
Hermione nodded. "—explode. Yes. Noted."
Another plant promptly went pop! across the room, sending a third-year flying.
"Like that," Sprout finished cheerfully.
By the time class ended, the greenhouse looked like a battlefield between a florist and a rave. Glitter dusted the tables, compost was in places it definitely shouldn't be, and Tracey had declared herself a war veteran.
"I smell like a funeral inside a bakery," she groaned.
Harry wiped his hands on a towel. "Could be worse. You could smell like a Slytherin's ego."
"Savage," Blaise said, mock-wounded.
Neville, arms full of gardening tools, just smiled. "It was a good day."
Tonks clapped him on the back. "You're a wizard, Neville. A dirt-covered, plant-taming, Puffapod-whispering wizard."
"And proud of it," he said, voice warm.
As they filed out of the greenhouse, the laughter still echoing, the air felt lighter—more alive. Because in that wild, chaotic patch of earth, amidst the pollen bombs and plant drama, something had rooted deep.
Friendship. Mischief. Magic.
And maybe, just maybe… a little glitter in the soul.
—
The corridor still smelled like someone had murdered a bouquet in a confetti cannon.
Tracey Davis walked with the defeated dignity of a war widow, glitter cascading from her hair like stardust off a fallen pixie. She glared at her sleeve as another stubborn petal fluttered to the floor.
"If one more person calls me 'ethereal,' I'm going to hex their kneecaps into begonias," she muttered.
Tonks, skipping backward ahead of the group with a lopsided grin and absolutely zero survival instincts, twirled her wand like a baton. "Aw, come on, Trace! You look like the fairy godmother of a rave. Gorgeous with a side of chaos."
"Shut it, Tonks. I'm one sneeze away from weaponized pollen warfare."
"Still prettier than the time I transfigured my own eyebrows into caterpillars. Accidentally. Mostly."
Daphne Greengrass, every inch the walking threat of a strongly worded Howler from a pureblood matriarch, stepped daintily over a puddle of spilled soil like it personally offended her. She gave them all a slow, disdainful look over her shoulder. "If any of you gets so much as a smudge on my robes, I will conjure Mandrakes in your pillowcases. Full scream."
Blaise, cool as ever in a casually untucked shirt and a grin that said he'd charm a Basilisk if it looked good in leather, chuckled. "I stand corrected. Puffapods aren't the most high-maintenance things in Herbology class."
Daphne's eyes narrowed like twin moonlit daggers. "Keep talking, Zabini. See how long your eyebrows stay on your face."
"Love the aggression. It's giving... toxic daisy energy."
Harry, hands in his pockets, strolled beside Neville with that unbothered confidence that only came from surviving an exploding Puffapod to the face and somehow still looking cool. "Daphne," he said, glancing at her, "I saw you scream when the Puffapod burped pollen at you like it was trying to marry you."
"It did propose," Daphne sniffed. "With an unsolicited cloud of floral nonsense. Consent, Potter. Ever heard of it?"
"Oh, it recognized the drama queen in you," Harry said with a mock bow. "One diva to another. It saw the tiara in your soul."
Neville, trailing behind with dirt on his nose and a proud smear of compost on his robes like a war medal, let out a wheezing laugh. "Okay, that was brutal. Even for you."
Harry raised a brow. "Nev, my guy, you serenaded your plant. With harmony. You're lucky I didn't record it for the next school talent show."
"I did not serenade it!"
"You named it Princess Petalia and whispered 'you've got this, girl' every time it sneezed!"
Neville flushed the color of an overripe tomato. "She responded!"
"Yeah," Blaise said. "Like she was trying to file for magical adoption."
"I'm emotionally in tune with flora!" Neville snapped.
"Mate," Tonks said, grinning, "you hit the falsetto so hard, you made the Puffapod grow extra petals just out of pity."
"It bloomed," Neville mumbled, defensive. "Two full buds after the chorus of Love Me Like a Mandrake."
Tonks nodded solemnly. "A classic."
"Stop encouraging him," Daphne groaned.
Behind them, Hermione marched like a commander prepping for war—scrolls clutched like weapons, ink stains on her fingers, and her quill tucked behind her ear like a wand holster. "You're all laughing now," she said tightly, "but Professor Sprout assigned a six-inch essay on Puffapod care—due tomorrow morning. If you don't take it seriously, you're going to end up with flaccid buds and a big, fat T for Troll."
"'Flaccid buds' sounds like a sad indie band," Blaise muttered. "Probably openers for The Withering Leaves."
Tonks grinned. "Their first single is 'Wilt Me Slowly.'"
Harry turned to Hermione with mock seriousness. "Six inches. Not a dissertation. Please tell me you're not planning to write fifteen."
Hermione flushed. "It's about being thorough. Knowledge isn't a burden!"
"Tell that to the owl who'll need a back brace after carrying your homework."
"Tell yourself that when your Puffapod essays end up looking like they were written by someone who thinks plants are just confused vegetables."
"Harsh, Granger," Harry said, smirking. "But fair."
"I was thinking of comparing Puffapods to Shrivelfigs, since they both respond to emotional cues—" she continued, undeterred.
"Of course you were," Blaise sighed. "Meanwhile, I'm just going to write: 'They puff. Don't poke them. You'll regret it.'"
"Tracey is the essay," Harry added. "She's still leaking glitter like a traumatized unicorn."
Tracey glanced down at her robes, sparkling like a disco ball. "If I wake up humming again tomorrow, I'm shaving Neville's head in his sleep."
"That's a you problem," Tonks sang, now skating on her toes like she was ice dancing across the corridor.
"I swear to Merlin, you are an unsupervised toddler with a wand."
"And you love me," Tonks winked.
"Not enough to ignore you poking the Puffapod and shouting, 'Do it! Puff! I believe in you!' like it was your Hogwarts House mascot."
"I stand by it," Tonks replied proudly. "That Puffapod had stage fright."
As they rounded the last corner, the scent of roast chicken and pumpkin pasties wafted out from the open doors of the Great Hall like a heavenly siren song. At the entrance stood Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott, bouncing on their heels with the kind of giddy, twitchy energy that only first years fresh off their first successful spell could manage.
"There you are!" Susan beamed, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. "We just transfigured our matches into needles!"
"Well—Susan did," Hannah added sheepishly. "Mine turned into two needles. I think I... over-Transfigured?"
"You duplicated the object?" Hermione blinked, momentarily derailed from her mental essay outline. "That's—honestly, that's kind of advanced."
Harry grinned. "Nice job, Hannah. Meanwhile, we fought Puffapods, survived glitter-based biological warfare, and Tracey may be cursed now."
Susan tilted her head. "Tracey, are you... humming?"
Tracey went rigid. "No. No. Neville, what did you sing?!"
Neville winced. "Uh… chorus of Love Me Like a Mandrake."
"You absolute goblin. It's stuck in my brain."
Tonks patted her shoulder. "Don't worry. If it gets worse, we'll stage an intervention. Or a remix."
"Can you not? I don't want to glitter and hallucinate."
Blaise smirked. "Hey, at least you don't have flaccid—"
"Stop saying that phrase!" Hermione barked, scandalized.
The group howled with laughter as the Great Hall doors creaked open. The flood of golden light, clinking cutlery, and the aroma of freshly baked pasties felt like victory.
It was only their first week at Hogwarts.
And already, they were blooming into the most delightfully chaotic disaster squad the school had ever seen.
—
The Great Hall was a chaotic opera of noise—laughter ricocheting off ancient stone, enchanted candles flickering overhead, and the occasional sound of pumpkin juice exploding like a sugary grenade. Hogwarts was alive in a way only it could be during the first week of term, each house table buzzing like a hive of overcaffeinated bees in robes.
At the Gryffindor table—although to call it just Gryffindor was a lie so bold even Peeves would blush—Harry, Daphne, Tracey, Tonks, Blaise, Hermione, Neville, Susan, and Hannah had somehow taken over one long bench like a squad of chaos gods having a tea party.
They were seated in the aftermath of what looked like a small, dessert-based battle. Crumbs littered the table. Jam tarts were under siege. A teapot looked like it had seen things.
Tonks, currently sporting hair the color of radioactive sherbet, raised her spoon like a wand. "Just to reiterate for the record, the Puffapod didn't explode because of me. It exploded because it feared me. I radiate dominance."
Hermione, already rolling her eyes like it was a daily routine, replied flatly, "You literally poked it with a stick and shouted, 'Defend thyself, floral demon!'"
"I was trying to duel it. Like a botanical Musketeer," Tonks grinned.
Tracey, sipping her tea with all the dignity of a girl who had found glitter in her toothpaste that morning, muttered, "And promptly tripped over your own bravado. And the watering can. You took Neville down like a noble sacrifice."
Tonks looked smug. "You're welcome, Nev. I saved you from certain doom."
Neville—with the eternal energy of a puppy trying to herd angry cats—lifted his arm to reveal a sleeve still smudged with compost. "I landed in the dragon dung compost pile. I smelled like rejection and photosynthesis."
"That's your natural musk," Blaise said coolly, offering a tart to Daphne. "Earthy. Intimidating. Smells like you wrestled a Mandrake and lost."
Harry, leaning back like he was holding court, bit into a scone and swallowed. "I caught him whispering to a Devil's Snare like it was prom night."
Neville turned beetroot. "It was calming magic! Plants respond to gentle voices."
"You told it, and I quote, 'You're beautiful, baby. Choke me, but only with consent.'" Harry mimicked his voice with lethal precision.
Tonks let out a snort-laugh so loud three second-years jumped. "Harry! No!"
Hermione, ever the embarrassed mom friend, had her face in her hands. "Why do I sit here? Why do I exist in this social circle?"
Before Neville could either flee or combust, Susan waved excitedly at someone behind Harry.
"Perfect timing! Guys—pay attention! I want you to meet the newest victims—uh, friends!"
Harry turned—and came face-to-face with two Ravenclaws.
The boy, Terry Boot, had a mop of storm-blown hair and an expression like he wasn't sure whether to smile or run. His robes were slightly askew, and his tie was staging a quiet rebellion against uniform protocol. His eyes sparkled with that unhinged curiosity Ravenclaws got before either inventing a potion or blowing off their eyebrows.
Next to him stood Morag MacDougal, arms crossed, posture flawless, face set in a perfectly unimpressed scowl. Her thick honey-brown hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her eyebrow game was lethal. She looked like she could flay your soul with a sigh.
Susan gestured like a game show hostess. "Terry Boot and Morag MacDougal! They survived Charms with us today. Morag corrected Flitwick. Terry accidentally levitated his shoe into deep space."
Terry grinned sheepishly. "Still waiting for it to re-enter the atmosphere."
Hannah helpfully added, "He also hit three Ravenclaws, a window, and Sir Cadogan's portrait."
Morag's voice was dry as desert air. "Four Ravenclaws. One of them had a nose like a dagger. The impact was karmic."
"That nose still hasn't recovered," Blaise said solemnly, dabbing at an imaginary tear. "Terry's shoe is now a higher-ranking Ravenclaw than half your year."
Harry grinned like a cat who'd found a sunny patch of sarcasm. "Come, friend Boot. Sit. Join the League of Academic Delinquents and Semi-Traumatic Spell Accidents."
Daphne—poised, sharp, and quietly terrifying in the way only she could embody—shifted over with a smirk. "Just survive Tonks and the glitter curse, and you're golden."
"I am the glitter curse," Tonks announced proudly, grabbing a biscuit and immediately knocking over the sugar bowl. Again.
Hermione fixed it with a lazy flick of her wand and a sigh. "I swear you've broken more ceramic than Peeves."
Terry slid into the bench like someone approaching a magical minefield. "So… is this what Gryffindor table is always like?"
Susan winked. "Nope. This is what happens when you throw together a Slytherin queen bee, two chaos goblins, a glitter elemental, a traumatized Hufflepuff, a Ravenclaw in exile, and the Chosen One with control issues."
"Not the Chosen One," Harry said, on reflex.
"Chosen by Puffapods and sarcasm," Blaise murmured.
Morag arched an eyebrow. "He doesn't look very Chosen. He looks like he moonlights as a sarcastic gremlin."
Harry smiled sweetly. "Careful. I've weaponized my trauma and sarcasm."
"He once told a third-year their shoes were so loud, even the Basilisk filed a noise complaint," Tracey added with reverence.
"True story," Harry confirmed. "Also, Blaise, you called me 'the Chosen One' five minutes after sitting down. That's suspiciously clingy."
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "It was a branding decision. We're building a franchise."
Neville, still quietly snacking, added, "Can we franchise not being cursed with glitter this week? My socks sparkle like a disco ball."
"You're welcome," Tonks chirped.
Morag turned to Tracey. "So you and I are both sarcastic disasters. Good. I need allies."
"Sworn sisters in judgmental silence," Tracey replied solemnly, holding out a biscuit like a pact.
Terry blinked. "Did I just join a cult?"
"We prefer the term 'emotionally unstable found family,'" Harry said.
"It's either that, or sit with the other Ravenclaws who think having eight quills makes them edgy," Morag sighed.
"I sit here now," Terry declared, grabbing a tart. "I've made my peace."
And so the group grew.
As the enchanted ceiling overhead darkened to the rich indigo of a starlit sky, and more pastries vanished under the onslaught of hungry eleven-year-olds and hormonally charged sarcasm gremlins, one thing became clear:
The chaos wasn't just coming.
It had found its table.
And it was staying for dessert.
—
Susan leaned forward, elbows on the table, a mischievous gleam lighting up her eyes like she was about to drop the juiciest bit of gossip in Hogwarts history. She lowered her voice—not for secrecy, but pure dramatic flair.
"So, Harry…" she began, dragging out the pause like a true Slytherin plotting the downfall of a dynasty. "Is it true that Professor Snape was seen walking around during third period… in a Bat-suit?"
Everyone went still.
She tilted her head, smile widening with barely contained delight.
"And not just any Bat-suit. The Joel Schumacher one. You know... the one with the Bat-nipples."
The silence cracked like a dropped teacup.
Harry, who'd just taken a sip of his pumpkin juice, froze mid-swallow. His eyes, wide with mock innocence, darted to Tonks. Tonks immediately slapped both hands over her mouth, eyes tearing up as she tried and failed to smother a snort.
Hermione sat up ramrod straight, clutching her book like a lifeline. "That can't possibly be true."
"Oh, it's true," Morag said from further down the table, her tone bright with scandal. "Terry and I walked past the third-floor corridor and we saw something dark and rubbery run past. We thought it was Peeves cosplaying again."
"I mean, it could have been Peeves," Terry offered. "But then it said 'Out of my way, dunderheads!' and I thought… wait, no, that's definitely Snape."
Daphne made a choked sound and ducked behind her goblet of pumpkin juice like it held the secrets of the universe.
Tracey was already trembling, biting her knuckle with the force of someone trying not to burst into flames from laughter. Neville, poor boy, dropped his fork. Clang. "Oh no…" he whispered, looking skyward like a prayer might save them.
Blaise, lounging like he belonged on the cover of Wizard Vogue, gave the kind of smirk that could curdle milk. "Well. He's always been a… dark knight."
Tonks elbowed him, wheezing. "I cannot believe I missed that. I would've given three of Remus's best records to see Snape running in nipple armor."
Hermione, voice high and tight: "Why would anyone— how would anyone—"
"Some sort of hallucination, maybe?" Daphne offered weakly. "Could've been a boggart. Or… or a potion accident. A prank. Or a dream. A group hallucination?"
"A mass hysteria," Hermione jumped on, nodding too quickly. "Like that one time in fourth century Rome where everyone thought they were chickens—"
"Snape doesn't dream," Harry interrupted mildly, finally setting down his drink. "He broods. There's a difference."
All heads turned to him.
He blinked innocently. "What?"
Susan narrowed her eyes. "So you deny any involvement?"
Harry leaned back in his chair with the confidence of someone who knew he had three alibis, a time-turner, and plausible deniability.
"Susan," he said smoothly. "What kind of person would dress a grown man in a Bat-suit with anatomically questionable design choices?"
Tonks muttered, "You."
"Shh," Harry said, wagging a finger without looking at her. "You're supposed to be my alibi."
"Oops," Tonks replied cheerfully, snorting.
That's when the Great Hall's massive oak doors groaned open like they were announcing a boss battle.
Heads swiveled.
Severus Snape stalked in.
Gone was the rubber Bat-suit. Back were his black, flowing robes—but his aura was... off. His eyes twitched side to side like he was preparing to hex the furniture. His shoulders were so tight he looked like he'd sprain something just by breathing wrong. He moved like a man trying to walk off a personal humiliation of legendary proportions.
He didn't glare. He didn't sneer. He didn't even toss out a "Potter."
He just sat down at the teachers' table, picked up a fork, stared at it with visible suspicion, and dropped it like it had insulted his mother.
Everyone stared.
Five full seconds passed before Blaise leaned forward, cupped his hand to his mouth, and whispered:
"…Do you think he heard about the nipples?"
That did it.
Daphne and Hermione both launched out of their seats like rockets.
"Okay!" Hermione said, voice way too cheerful. "Everyone go get changed. Library. Homework. In one hour."
"Yes, homework," Daphne echoed, breathless. "Homework is safe. Snape is not."
"I thought we were avoiding Snape," Tonks whispered.
Neville stood, clutching his bag to his chest. "We're Gryffindors. Sometimes we make brave and responsible decisions. This is one of those times."
Tracey grabbed her things with efficiency born of panic. "If I look at Blaise for one more second I'm going to laugh so hard I'll get hexed through a wall."
Blaise adjusted his collar with effortless swagger. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Davis. Not everyone can pull off Bat-nipples."
"I'm going to punch you," Tracey said sweetly.
"Get in line."
Harry got up last. He brushed imaginary lint off his robes, stretched, and strolled past Susan like a man without a care in the world.
"Really, Bones," he said over his shoulder, voice smooth as honey. "What kind of absolute lunatic would dress a professor in a nipple-enhanced Bat-suit and send them wandering the halls during class hours?"
Susan turned to Hannah.
"He so did it."
Hannah nodded with all the gravity of a Hufflepuff who'd seen some things.
"And honestly? I respect him more now."
Morag propped her chin in her hands and grinned at Terry. "I think we picked the right table."
Terry looked mildly dazed. "I thought I was signing up for study groups. Not… nipple-based psychological warfare."
Tonks linked arms with Hermione and Tracey. "Welcome to the new normal."
Neville gave Snape one last glance and murmured, "May the Force be with us all."
And then, laughing, scheming, and maybe a little terrified, the group made their way out of the Great Hall—because no one wanted to find out what happened when a bat-themed Snape snapped.
---
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