The first-year Gryffindors trailed out of the Great Hall like a disorganized pack of baby ducks, all wobble-kneed excitement and pudding-fueled adrenaline. At the head of the group was Percy Weasley, walking like he'd just been appointed President of Earth and was late for his inauguration. His second-hand cloak flapped dramatically behind him, though really, it looked more like it was trying to escape.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville paused at the massive doors, waving goodbye to their new friends in other Houses.
Daphne Greengrass gave Harry a smirk so smug it should've been illegal. She tossed him a wink.
"Try not to get caught snooping, Potter," she called, her voice the perfect mix of challenge and amusement. "Or do. I'd like a front-row seat to the chaos."
Beside her, Tracey Davis leaned in and whispered something that made Daphne snort with laughter.
"Sleep tight, Slyther-queens," Harry replied, giving them a cheeky salute. "Don't let the basilisks bite."
From the Hufflepuff line, Susan Bones flashed Neville a supportive thumbs-up that made him trip over his own feet and blush crimson. Hannah Abbott gave Hermione a sweet, sincere smile.
"Good luck surviving Percy's TED Talk," she said before disappearing after the Hufflepuff prefect.
"Too late," Ron groaned. "He's already warming up for his keynote address on 'The Ethical Responsibilities of a Model Prefect.'"
And right on cue—
"Now," Percy declared, puffing up like a blowfish in a bow tie, "as your guide to all things noble and proper within Gryffindor House, it is my solemn duty to—"
Catpool, trotting beside Harry like a four-legged ball of chaos wrapped in fur, yawned audibly.
"Is this guy auditioning for the Ministry or just naturally this constipated?"
"Shh," Harry replied telepathically. "This is quality content. Let him cook."
"I'm not saying he's full of hot air," Jim added from his cozy wand-holster under Harry's sleeve, voice pure Jim Carrey with a splash of theatrical jazz hands. "I'm just saying if he talks for three more minutes, we'll be using his ego as a flotation device."
Percy was still monologuing.
"Gryffindor Tower is on the seventh floor, behind the portrait of the Fat Lady. And I caution you—do not call her that to her face unless you wish to be yeeted into next week. She earned the title and she will end you. The password is currently 'Caput Draconis.' That's Latin for—"
"Dragon Head," Hermione supplied, arms folded, already ten steps ahead.
"Very good, Miss Granger!" Percy said, beaming like a proud Roomba. "Five points for—wait, I can't award points yet. Never mind."
Seamus whispered, "Hope that's not foreshadowing," to Dean, who just rolled his eyes.
Percy pressed on. "There will be no dueling in the hallways, no exploding cauldrons—Finnegan, I see you—no wandering after curfew, and absolutely, positively no visiting the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side. It is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to die a most painful—"
"Yadda yadda," Catpool interjected in Harry's brain, "we heard the crazy bearded man's death warning, but seriously—was that a challenge? Because that sounded like a challenge."
"Midnight heist?" Harry thought.
"Hell. Yes," said Jim.
"Cue Mission: Impossible theme and strap in, fellas," Catpool whispered like a furry devil on Harry's shoulder. "There's a three-headed somethin' up there, and I for one need to know if it dances."
Ron leaned over. "Seriously, why even say that in the opening feast? 'Welcome to school! Here's a list of ways to die and the exact location of the death trap.'"
Hermione looked scandalized. "It's clearly meant as a deterrent."
"Right," Harry said, already filing that under 'We're Definitely Going Anyway.'
The grand staircases loomed ahead, creaking and groaning like they had opinions. The Gryffindors followed Percy upward through a dizzying sequence of twists, turns, one staircase that insulted them in Latin, and one minor detour courtesy of Peeves the Poltergeist, who moonwalked across a banister wearing Percy's missing sock.
"CAPUT DRACONIS," Percy declared when they finally stopped at a large portrait of a noblewoman in pink silk.
The Fat Lady gave them a once-over.
"About bloody time. Thought I'd have to sing to pass the time."
"Please don't," Percy whispered.
"Oh, I'll remember that," she warned, and swung open with the sass of a Broadway diva.
Inside was the Gryffindor common room, all golden light, crackling hearths, squashy chairs, and the warm smell of something vaguely cinnamon-y.
Ron's jaw dropped. "It's like fall threw up in here."
Neville blinked. "I think I love it."
Percy pointed. "Girls' dormitory to the right, boys' to the left. Your trunks are already upstairs. No exploding toilets, Finnegan. Yes, again. That's a rule now."
"I haven't even been near a toilet yet!" Seamus yelped.
"Yet," Percy echoed ominously before sweeping off like a man with Very Important Prefect Business.
The moment he vanished, Ron turned to Harry.
"So. Third-floor corridor?"
Hermione threw her arms up. "You can't be serious."
Neville looked panicked. "We are serious, right?"
"Midnight," Harry said.
Jim practically purred. "Forbidden corridors, probable monsters, and absolutely zero adult supervision? My favorite flavor of catastrophe."
Catpool rubbed his paws together like a cartoon villain. "And don't forget, kiddos, if we die, we haunt Percy. I call dibs on stealing his socks and whispering 'CAPUT DRACONIS' every time he sneezes."
Harry grinned as they made their way upstairs.
Yeah. Hogwarts was already home.
And tomorrow night? The real fun would begin.
—
The Gryffindor first-year boys' dormitory looked like a Pinterest board titled "Cozy Castle Vibes", with four-poster beds that probably cost more than Harry's entire vault at Gringotts, heavy velvet curtains swaying like gossiping ghosts, and a fireplace that crackled with all the flair of a Shakespearean actor in a community theater revival of Macbeth.
Ron threw himself onto the bed closest to the window with all the grace of a tranquilized hippo.
"I think Percy might actually be allergic to fun," he groaned.
"I think Percy eats rules for breakfast," Neville added, his wide eyes scanning the room like he'd just been invited into Hogwarts: The Deluxe Edition.
Harry dropped his trunk beside Ron's bed, shaking his head. "Honestly, I half expected we'd be sleeping in hay piles guarded by a hologram of Godric Gryffindor wagging a disappointed finger at us."
Dean pulled out West Ham pajamas like a proper Muggle-born legend, while Seamus—already halfway into a story—spoke as if he'd downed five Butterbeers and a Red Bull.
"...and then my Uncle Fergus says, 'Seamus, maybe don't mix your potions with Mum's cooking sherry,' but by then the sofa was on fire and the dog had turned invisible. Still hasn't come back, by the way."
Ron blinked. "Definitely gonna sleep with one eye open."
He changed into striped pajamas that screamed Weasley Family Heirloom #47: Hand-Me-Down Edition.
Harry peeled off his robes to reveal a Gryffindor-red shirt with a golden monkey swinging across the chest. In big bold letters: Born to Cause Problems.
That was when Jim woke up. Jim, aka Riyu Jingu Bang. The wand. The legend. The absolutely dramatic chaos stick.
"ARE WE SLEEPING ALREADY?!" Jim boomed telepathically, his voice so loud in Harry's head it nearly gave him psychic tinnitus. "BO-RING! I was hoping for a fight with a chair demon or an existential crisis involving socks! Maybe a talking cupboard that sings sea shanties about betrayal and undercooked toast!"
"Jim, inside voice," Harry muttered, rubbing his temples.
"This is my inside voice! I'm inside your head, remember?"
Catpool—yes, the cat—leapt onto Harry's bed and did three dramatic circles before curling up like a murder-happy cinnamon roll.
"Just so we're clear," Catpool said, tail flicking like he had unresolved issues with everyone's life choices, "if any of you snore, I will pee on your pillow and blame Peeves. Again."
"We're waiting for the amateurs to fall asleep," Jim stage-whispered, voice dripping with excitement. "Then: dun-dun-duuuuun—midnight heist, Forbidden Corridor Edition! With extra death and a side of detention!"
"If we die," Catpool purred, licking a paw, "at least I'll be wearing my softest murder socks. Seriously, if I had a Sickel for every time someone told me not to explore a death trap, I'd have enough to buy Hogwarts, turn it into a cat café, and still have change for a lap dance."
Neville, bless him, changed into pajamas covered in tiny, smiling potted plants.
Harry blinked. "Are those... Mandrakes?"
"Gran packed them," Neville muttered.
"I respect it," Harry said, utterly serious. "You'll be the coziest corpse in the hallway."
Seamus was now rating his top five accidental fires:
"Number three: Exploding pumpkin. Number two: Cursed candle. And number one—classic—angry pixie with a grudge and a can of petrol."
Eventually, the room dimmed. Dean fell asleep muttering about broomstick brands. Seamus snored like he was auditioning to be the new Hogwarts security alarm.
Harry waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Then—
He sat up. Pulled on his cloak. Eyes sparkling with the reckless enthusiasm of a demigod who'd been raised by sarcasm itself.
"Right, gentlemen," he whispered. "Let the midnight mischief commence."
Ron groaned and rolled out of bed like it physically hurt him to be awake. "Remind me why we're doing this again?"
"Because," Harry said, tying his trainers like a man prepping for battle, "when a wise old wizard says don't go somewhere, you absolutely go there. That's just science."
"It's also how horror movies start," Neville mumbled, stuffing a plant-themed sock onto the wrong foot. "I have a really bad feeling about this."
"Same!" Jim sang. "But that's the point! We don't do this because it's safe—we do this because it's hilarious!"
Catpool stretched and yawned, then telepathically broadcast to everyone, *"If we get caught, I'll pretend to be a transfigured Slytherin. You two are on your own, and Neville? You're my lawyer. I demand a trial by combat and five mice. Roasted. Lightly salted."
They crept toward the door—three boys, a chaos wand with delusions of musical theater, and a cat with more personality disorders than a Quidditch team full of Bludgers.
Classic first night at Hogwarts.
And they wouldn't have it any other way.
—
The Gryffindor common room was cloaked in sleepy shadows, the dying embers of the fireplace casting a soft golden hue over the armchairs and rugs. Most of the portraits were blissfully snoring, though one particularly flamboyant wizard—complete with a curly mustache and a monocle—was muttering something about proper dueling stances and the tragic loss of chivalry in modern wizarding youth.
Harry crept down the boys' staircase first, wand in hand, every nerve on edge like he was about to sneak into a Hydra base—not that Hogwarts was any less dangerous. His black cloak flared around his legs like a superhero cape, revealing flashes of his Monkey King t-shirt underneath. Because nothing says "subtle infiltration" like a demigod in mythological merch.
Behind him came Ron, dragging his feet and blinking like he was trying to figure out if this was a dream or just a bad idea with an epic body count.
"I'm just saying," Ron whispered, yawning loudly enough to startle a nearby suit of armor, "if we get eaten, I want it on my tombstone that I warned everyone."
Neville followed, bundled in a bathrobe and wearing his blinking bunny slippers—the ones that made a soft chirping noise every third step.
"Why do they blink?" Ron muttered.
"They're enchanted for emotional support," Neville whispered back. "My gran says they ward off nightmares."
"Brilliant," Harry muttered, "we're storming the third-floor corridor with flashing footwear and sleep-deprived sidekicks."
Cue dramatic music, a voice in Harry's head sang. Preferably something John Williams-y, with just enough ominous strings to imply doom and bad decision-making.
Jim—Harry's wand, technically known as Riyu Jingu Bang but affectionately (and regrettably) nicknamed Jim—was the magical lovechild of sarcasm, drama, and a circus ringmaster on a sugar high.
"Seriously, kid," Jim continued, "this is either the start of a heist movie or a blooper reel. Also, I'd like it known I am wearing an invisible tuxedo. You can't see it because it's made of dignity. And glitter."
At Harry's feet, a cat slinked silently along, tail twitching, every movement radiating both menace and sass.
"I swear to Bast," Catpool muttered—not out loud, but telepathically, because of course he could do that—"if one more suit of armor creaks like it's auditioning for The Conjuring: Hogwarts Edition, I'm gonna lose what's left of my rapidly deteriorating chill."
He paused dramatically. "Also, if I die tonight, I want a Viking funeral. With shrimp. And strippers. Not together. Unless they're into that. No kink-shaming."
They reached the foot of the stairs—and stopped.
Hermione Granger was already in the common room.
She sat rigidly on one of the armchairs near the fire, arms folded, foot tapping with the sort of controlled fury that could shatter lesser souls. Her wild hair was tied back in a no-nonsense braid, and her eyes locked onto them like twin heat-seeking truth missiles.
"Took you long enough," she said.
"Granger," Harry said, tilting his head. "Couldn't sleep? Or did your Transfiguration homework start reciting Shakespeare in protest?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "I figured someone had to stop you before you got yourselves eaten, expelled, or worse—publicly humiliated on the front page of The Prophet."
"Wait," Ron said, rubbing his eyes. "You knew we were sneaking out?"
"Ron," Hermione said patiently, "you were as stealthy as a troll in tap shoes. And Neville's slippers have a built-in disco mode."
"They're sentimental!" Neville defended. His slippers blinked in agreement.
Catpool licked his paw, looked at the group, and muttered, "I hate to break up this episode of Who Sucks at Stealth the Most, but the clock's ticking, kiddos. Either we get to Fluffy, or I start singing 'WAP' in cat yowls."
"You wouldn't," Hermione thought.
"Try me, Athena's spawn," Catpool replied, tail swishing. "I'm the feline Ryan Reynolds with ADHD and a taste for mayhem."
Jim, meanwhile, was doing verbal backflips in Harry's skull.
"Okay, so new headcount: We've got the Monkey King, Son of Loki and Artemis—hi, that's you—an over-caffeinated feline Deadpool, a redhead with snack-based survival instincts, an anxious herbologist with sentient slippers, and a demigod daughter of Athena who could weaponize disappointment. I give us... oh, three and a half minutes before something explodes."
Harry smirked. "Let's make it four. I like a challenge."
"Where are we going?" Hermione demanded, standing to follow them toward the portrait hole.
"To the forbidden third-floor corridor," Harry said. "You know—the one with a top-secret death dog and zero adult supervision?"
Ron groaned. "Fantastic. We're gonna die."
"Speak for yourself," Catpool said. "I've got nine lives and absolutely no respect for continuity."
They slipped through the portrait hole.
The Fat Lady looked up, bemused. "This is highly irregular."
Catpool swiped his tail under her frame. "So is a sentient painting that eavesdrops on teenage drama. Mind your own brushstrokes, Mona."
The corridors were cold and silent. Every distant noise made Ron jump. A suit of armor let out a suspicious creak, and Neville made a strangled whimper.
Jim was still monologuing.
"Honestly, these hallways are creepier than a cursed escape room hosted by Tim Burton. If we find a clown in here, I'm turning into a bazooka."
Hermione led the way now, eyes sharp, wand ready.
"I still think this is a bad idea," she muttered.
Harry's grin was wicked. "Hermione, you should know by now: bad ideas are the only kind I'm genetically programmed to enjoy."
Ron added, "That, and anything involving pudding."
Neville clutched a tiny potted cactus. "I brought backup."
Catpool arched an eyebrow. "You brought a cactus to a Cerberus fight? I love you. Never change."
And so, the team of mythically inclined chaos agents and their deranged magical accessories crept toward the third-floor corridor, where secrets waited, doom loomed, and a three-headed dog named Fluffy probably needed a chew toy.
Because really—what's life without a little night-time trespassing, accidental heroics, and complete disregard for school rules?
Just another Tuesday at Hogwarts.
—
Catpool slinked ahead of the group, his tail held high like the world's sassiest antenna. His fluffy form shimmered in and out of the torchlight as he crept down the corridor, each pawstep silent and smug.
"Scout mode: ENGAGED," he announced telepathically, his inner voice somewhere between Deadpool and an espresso-fueled David Attenborough. "Operation: Sneaky Gryffindors Tiptoe Through the House of Nightmares is a-go. If I get caught, tell the Daily Prophet I died doing what I loved: trespassing, judging footwear, and licking myself inappropriately."
"I heard that," Hermione muttered, clutching her wand like it was the last brain cell in a group project.
"You were meant to," Catpool purred in her head. "Those boots have the personality of a soggy breadstick in a tax office. And I say that with all the love in my nine degenerate lives."
Behind him, Harry—hood up, staff casually slung across his back like a divine battering ram—sighed. He was many things: Monkey King 2.0, son of Loki and Artemis, part-time chaos magnet, full-time sass factory. But he was also the unfortunate chaperone of a talking cat and a staff with the personality of an improv troupe on sugar.
"Jim," Harry whispered, as they crept along the corridor. "Scan the area."
"Roger that, Monkey Boy!" Jim said inside Harry's brain in a voice that could only be described as what happens when Jim Carrey drinks four Red Bulls and a gallon of glitter. "Sweeping the premises for magical threats, trapdoors of doom, unstable professors, and irrationally loud floorboards. Also looking for signs of Filch, rogue socks, and trauma I haven't unpacked yet. So far: just dust, bad vibes, and someone's discarded banana."
"Banana?" Ron whispered. "What kind of lunatic eats fruit in a death corridor?"
"Same kind who keeps a three-headed murder-puppy behind a locked door," Harry replied. Then added, "Looking at you, Dumbledore."
Neville whimpered, clutching his wand like it might double as a life preserver.
"Why is it always the third-floor corridor?" Ron hissed. "Is it, like, a Hogwarts tradition? 'Hide Your Horrific Nightmares on Floor Three' Day?"
"Fourth floor has too many stairs," Jim chirped, casually shape-shifting into a saxophone and back into a staff like a magical Transformer having an identity crisis. "And, let's be honest, evil lairs always have better lighting on odd-numbered floors."
"Also, the fourth floor has that enchanted portrait who won't stop talking about his gluten-free cauldron cakes," Catpool added. "I'd rather fight a basilisk with a butter knife."
Harry paused mid-step. "Jim?"
"Scanning!" Jim declared, now with jazz hands. "Status update: no hostile entities in the immediate vicinity. Unless you count Neville's blood pressure, which is spiking harder than a Firewhisky hangover. There's ambient dark magic, probable canine breath, and at least three unnecessary cobwebs."
"Perfect," Harry muttered. "Exactly the ambiance I wanted at midnight: candlelight, danger, and respiratory hazards."
"I swear to Athena," Hermione said through clenched teeth, "if that thing is a Cerberus, I'm writing a very strongly worded letter to the Board of Magical Education."
"Oh it's definitely a Cerberus," Catpool said. "Three heads. Drool like a geyser. Probably sings in harmony while digesting your femur."
Neville made a noise like a drowning toad.
"Do you think it's trained?" Ron asked, voice cracking like a broomstick in a woodchipper.
Harry gave him a look. "Ron. This is Hagrid we're talking about. I've heard that the man dreams of domesticating a dragon. I would be shocked if the dog didn't breathe fire and play the harp."
They reached the spiral staircase. The shadows thickened here—dense, alive, and deeply invested in giving Neville a heart attack.
"Alright," Harry said, straightening the red and gold Monkey King shirt that might as well have said 'Come At Me, Mythology'. "We do this fast. Catpool, scout ahead. If you see anything that could kill us—"
"I run toward it screaming and distract it with my glorious, NSFW dance moves?" Catpool asked hopefully.
Harry blinked. "I was going to say 'warn us telepathically,' but sure. That too."
"Wheeeeeee!" Catpool launched forward like a feline rocket of pure chaos.
Jim did a literal drumroll in Harry's head. "Ladies, gentlemen, magical beings, and morally ambiguous deities—welcome to the corridor of DOOOOOM! Please keep hands, feet, and egos inside the adventure at all times. Also, try not to die. The janitorial staff hates cleaning up heroes."
"Jim," Hermione snapped. "Focus."
"I am focused. I'm so focused I can see into the fifth dimension and it's mostly filled with bad puns and conspiracy theories about Dobby."
Ron groaned. "This is fine. Everything's fine. We're just five underage demigods and a talking stick following a deranged cat into a magical murder hallway. Totally normal Tuesday."
They reached the door.
The air was thick, heavy, like the castle itself was holding its breath—or possibly about to burp up something big and toothy.
Catpool's voice echoed in their minds, "So, quick update from the fur-covered frontline: the good news? No sign of Filch. The bad news? The three-headed doggo is awake. And he looks... peckish."
"How awake are we talking?" Harry asked.
"Let's just say if this were a Disney movie, we're seconds away from a musical number titled 'Who Wants to Be a Snack?'"
The door creaked open.
The dog was massive. Fluffy like Hagrid's worst decisions, heads turning in perfect sync, eyes glowing with the exact same expression as Mrs. Norris when someone tracked mud on the floor.
Each head growled.
Neville made a faint wheezing noise and collapsed behind Hermione.
"Wow," Harry said dryly. "This is fine. This is completely fine."
Jim vibrated with excitement. "Ooooh, boss fight time! Cue the epic music, someone throw confetti, and let's do this!"
Catpool leapt onto a suit of armor, struck a pose, and shouted, "HELLO, HELLBEASTS! HAVE YOU ACCEPTED SASS AND BAD LIFE CHOICES INTO YOUR HEART TODAY?!"
All three heads growled louder.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Well. At least we have their attention."
Catpool bared his teeth in a grin. "Y'all bring the strategy. I'll bring the claws and inappropriately timed dance numbers."
And with that, the chaos began.
—
The three-headed dog glared down at them like the bouncer of Hell's sketchiest nightclub. The kind of place where the drinks are warm, the music is loud, and the doorman eats people who forget their IDs.
Catpool, perched on a suit of armor like a very judgmental lawn gnome, telepathically broadcasted to the group, Okay, children of Hogwarts, this is it. Cue final boss music. Add some dramatic Latin chanting, thunderclaps, and let's be honest—probably a splash of fear pee. Or is that just me? No shame.
"Don't panic," Harry said, raising a hand slowly like he was trying to high-five the Grim Reaper mid-coffee break. His eyes glowed faintly gold—because of course they did. Son of Artemis perk: fluent in Woof. Son of Loki perk: could out-bluff a Slytherin poker night.
Left Head snarled low.
If one more wizard brat tries to play fetch with me, I'm going to floss with their spine, he growled in a drawl.
"Wait for it," Harry murmured.
Middle Head bared his teeth and barked, Who dares approach the Guardian of the Trapdoor? Speak, two-legged flea-sack!
Right Head blinked lazily and yawned. Did someone bring snacks? I smell snacks.
Harry kept his tone friendly. "Easy, boys. Name's Harry. You might know me—Monkey King, Son of Artemis, heir to Loki, general magical chaos gremlin. Just wanna chat."
Chat? all three heads echoed.
"Yep. Words. Mouth-sounds. No need for gnawing on my friends' legs. I mean, unless it's Ron's, but that's more of a Tuesday thing."
Jim, vibrating in Harry's hand in wand form, chimed telepathically, Ohhh this is getting good. I got popcorn. Magical, telepathic popcorn. Made of chaos. With glitter. I REGRET NOTHING.
Hermione rubbed her temple. "Harry, are you seriously trying to negotiate with—"
"Let the Monkey King work, Brainy Smurf," Catpool cut in, claws flicking like he was about to start a West Side Story knife fight. Also, Hermione, your inner monologue is giving me a migraine. Do you always alphabetize your anxiety?
Ron just stared. "I feel like I'm inside a very British acid trip."
Neville, clutching Trevor like a stress ball, muttered, "Is it bad that I'm rooting for the dog?"
Harry turned back to Fluffy. "What's your name, big guy?"
Middle Head huffed. "Fluffy. Hagrid named us. Said it sounded 'friendly.'"
"Yep," Harry said. "You're a tri-mouthed hell-beast with enough bite force to chomp through a bank vault. Obviously: Fluffy."
Left Head snorted. He gave us a rubber duck once.
Right Head wagged his tail. I loved that duck!
Hermione blinked. "Are they seriously having a whole conversation?"
"Yes," Harry said. "And now, thanks to Jim, you get the mental director's cut. Commentary included."
HELLO, MUGGLEBORN AND COMPANY! Jim projected, voice booming in Ron, Hermione, and Neville's skulls. I am Jim. Magical translator, mood enhancer, chaos concierge. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the talking murder-dog cinematic experience. Also: no refunds.
"Question," Harry said. "How long have you guys been stuck here?"
Three years, Left Head grunted.
Four if you count the summer Hagrid forgot we were here, Middle Head grumbled.
No rabbits. No walkies. No fresh corpses to chew. It's a nightmare, Right Head whined.
Harry sighed. "That's rough, buddy. Look—I've got a proposal."
Left Head narrowed his eyes. Do we get dental?
"Better," Harry said. "Would you like to be one of my familiars? Join my magical murder-misfit club?"
Middle Head blinked. Familiars?
"I've already got Hedwig. Catpool would count, but he's technically a Deadpool-cat hybrid I made during a full moon and a lapse in adult supervision."
Still waiting on the paternity test, Catpool chimed. Spoiler alert: it's chaos. Chaos is the father.
Harry rolled his eyes. "But you, Fluffy—you're smart, majestic, and frankly wasted in this corridor. My sisters, Zoë and Phoebe, lead the Huntresses of Artemis. They've got forests, prey, freedom, and a strict no-boys policy—except me. I'm the loophole. The hot loophole."
Right Head's ears perked. Forests? Hunting? Actual rabbits?!
Middle Head tilted. This isn't a trick?
Left Head grunted. What's the catch?
"No catch. Just deliver a note to my sisters, and you'll be free."
Hermione, without a word, reached into her bag and handed him a pristine parchment.
Harry grinned. "I knew I kept you around for more than brains and guilt-tripping."
Jim snapped into full pen mode and practically screamed, WRITE TIME! DEAR ZOË AND PHOEBE: CONGRATS! You've won a free Cerberus! Batteries not included. May bite. Comes with triple personalities and a traumatic backstory. Love, your adorable troublemaker, Harry.
He tied the letter to Fluffy's leg.
"Jim, open a portal. Something with sparkles. Maybe a unicorn scream?"
Buckle up, nerds! Jim cried, and with a sound like a kazoo being murdered by a slide whistle, a shimmering portal bloomed open. Beyond it: moonlight, shadows, howling laughter, and the glint of Huntress arrows.
Right Head licked Harry's face. Middle Head bowed. Left Head mumbled something about finally pooping in grass again.
Then, with a wag of his apocalyptic tail, Fluffy stepped through the portal.
Jim sniffled. There he goes. My giant, fuzzy, existential crisis. I'll miss the way his breath smelled like old despair and medium-rare goblins.
Catpool stretched and cracked his back. Dog puzzle: solved. Now what? Do we get XP? A loot box? A moment of awkward silence followed by inappropriate flirting with the trapdoor?
Ron blinked. "I… I don't understand anything anymore."
Hermione groaned. "I need a vacation. Or a magical lobotomy."
Neville just looked at Trevor. "You ever think we were supposed to be the normal ones?"
And with Fluffy gone, and the third-floor corridor blessedly less murdery, the gang turned toward the trapdoor, knowing full well that whatever came next would probably be ten times more dangerous, fifteen times more ridiculous, and exactly on-brand for Harry's life.
Cue ominous music and one last comment from Catpool:
If this ends with a giant chess game, I'm stealing the queen and declaring myself ruler of Wizard England.
—
Absolutely. Here's a continuation in Rick Riordan-style third-person narration with all the chaotic energy you've come to expect—Harry being Harry, Catpool being too Catpool, Jim being extra, and the rest of the gang reacting like traumatized babysitters on a field trip gone rogue.
As the last sparkles of the portal fizzled behind Fluffy's happily-wagging apocalypse-tail, silence fell over the third-floor corridor.
It lasted roughly six seconds.
"Well," Hermione said, adjusting her backpack like she was preparing for an academic war, "we need to figure out the safest way to approach the trapdoor. I suggest—"
"WE SET IT ON FIRE!" Jim boomed inside all of their heads. "THEN THROW IN SOME TAP-DANCING MICE TO CONFUSE THE ENEMY! BAM! CHAOS."
"I'm… ninety percent sure that's not helpful," Hermione muttered, rubbing her temples.
Catpool, meanwhile, had somehow conjured popcorn. "Let her cook. Or don't. Either way, I'm keeping my hands warm on this kernel sack of bad decisions."
Ron peered over the edge of the trapdoor. "Do you think there's, like… spikes down there? Or fire? Or worse—Snape's laundry pile?"
Neville, who had until now been silently reevaluating every life choice that brought him here, mumbled, "I bet it's full of Devil's Snare. Or British bureaucracy."
"Oh no, bureaucracy," Catpool gasped. "My one true weakness—forms."
"Okay, guys," Harry said, stepping forward, his eyes flickering gold and silver as Artemis and Loki's legacies had a celestial tug-of-war inside his skull. "Listen. We could plan. Strategize. Do something sensible like, I don't know, test the depth or send a shoe down there."
"That's a good idea," Hermione nodded. "We could—"
Harry shoved Ron.
"Wha—AAAAAAH!" Ron flailed wildly as he dropped through the trapdoor like a startled Weasley-shaped piñata. There was a wet-sounding squish from below, followed by, "I'M OKAY! I THINK I LANDED IN A PLANT!"
Neville's eyes widened. "What did you just—AAAAAAAH!"
Neville joined the Ronfall without further protest.
Hermione's mouth opened. "Harry James Potter, what in the actual—!"
Shove.
Down went Hermione.
"Honestly," Harry muttered as he cracked his knuckles. "I'm doing us all a favor."
Catpool cackled. "You absolute menace. That's a ten out of ten for chaotic sexy energy. Now cannonball, you glittery demigod gremlin."
"I was born for this," Harry muttered, stepped to the edge of the trapdoor—and saluted.
Then he jumped.
As he fell, Jim transformed into a glowing umbrella to slow his descent, all while yelling, "GERONIMO! OH LOOK, I'M MARY POPPINS Y'ALL—BUT WITH VIOLENCE!"
Catpool, still lounging dramatically on the suit of armor, rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll jump too. But if I twist an ankle, I'm suing Dumbledore, Hogwarts, and the entire pantheon of Greek mythology for emotional damage."
With an unnecessarily loud meowthump, Catpool followed.
Below them: chaos. Screaming. Some minor strangling courtesy of Devil's Snare. Ron's voice shouting, "WHY IS THIS PLANT TOUCHY-FEELY?!"
Jim's voice boomed again inside everyone's head. "Welcome to Level Two, peasants! You have defeated Cerberus. Now face your greatest challenge yet—Creepy Tentacle Plants of Doom!"
Harry landed softly thanks to Jim-ella the Murder Umbrella, rolled once, and came up grinning.
"I love Mondays."
Ron groaned. "I hate Mondays."
Hermione snarled. "You're all insane."
Catpool poked the writhing plant. "Oooh, it likes me. It thinks I'm emotionally unavailable."
And thus, our heroes plunged deeper into the underground madness of Hogwarts, armed with sarcasm, sass, one homicidal umbrella-staff, and a telepathic Deadpool-cat who now had a vine wrapped around his tail.
Next up? Solving the plant problem.
Probably by yelling at it until it gave up.
Or seducing it. You never know with this crew.
Cue even more ominous music, maybe with bongos this time.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
Thank you for your support!