Hagrid spotted the students right away and bellowed at the top of his lungs, his voice so loud it made the nearby leaves rustle. "Can you all hear me? Gather 'round here, form a circle—don't get too close to the cage!"
He waved his hands to guide everyone into position while keeping a wary eye on the chickens inside the cage, hoping they wouldn't kick up a fuss.
Hagrid bent down and pointed at the iron cage by his feet, his gravelly voice tinged with pride. "What we're learning about today are these Pearl Chickens in here. They're a real rare magical creature in the wizarding world—you won't find 'em just anywhere!"
As soon as he said it, every student's eyes snapped to the creatures in the cage.
If Hagrid hadn't called them chickens, no one would've guessed it—they looked more like some kind of deformed bird.
These Pearl Chickens were about the size of regular barnyard hens, but their appearance was downright weird. Their feathers were mostly black, covering most of their bodies, with just two thick white stripes starting from their tails, looping around the base of their wings, down their chests, and stopping at their thighs. From a distance, it was like they were wearing two white shoulder straps—super eye-catching.
What really stood out, though, was their combs. Whether roosters or hens, they all had black combs that split naturally halfway up their heads into two little floppy lobes dangling on either side like tiny black pom-poms. Totally different from the bright red, upright combs on ordinary chickens.
Hagrid crouched down and patted the cage with his rough palm, continuing his rundown. "The magic of Pearl Chickens mostly comes from their calls."
"They crow in a way that fills you with this intense feeling of joy—way better than a standard Cheering Charm from a wizard."
"Most witches and wizards who hear it can't help but laugh till their sides hurt, leaving them weak in the knees and barely able to hold their wands."
He paused and tapped the cage's iron bars. "Plus, they've got some serious jumping skills. A full-grown, healthy Pearl Chicken can leap over a person's height easy. If they weren't caged up, they'd be gone in a flash, so I had these made special with thick iron bars."
His tone got a bit more serious. "But there's a catch with their calls—they've gotta be at least two and a half years old for the magic to kick in, and the older they get, the stronger the joy effect."
"Before that age, they're just odd-looking regular chickens with no special powers."
"That's why, for a long time, a lot of folks in the wizarding world treated 'em like everyday meat birds. Tons ended up on dinner plates, and their numbers dropped so low they nearly went extinct."
Hagrid's voice carried a hint of regret. "Luckily, four years back, Mr. Newt Scamander himself lobbied for 'em, filing a protection request with the Ministry. The British Ministry of Magic finally passed a law adding a ban on hunting Pearl Chickens to the Magical Creatures Protection Act, and that's what's helped their population bounce back."
As he spoke, Hagrid absentmindedly nudged the base of the cage with his foot.
The Pearl Chickens inside got spooked and started flapping their wings wildly.
A few that had been lounging on the cage floor jumped up, revealing their chicken feet covered in black scales.
The talons were sharp and pointy, even more so than a regular chicken's, and they looked pretty powerful.
Startled by the kick, the Pearl Chickens went into a frenzy. They flapped their dark purple wings, scratching at the straw on the cage floor with a sandy "scritch-scratch." The more hot-headed ones leaped up hard, their heads "thunking" against the thick iron bars—some even wobbled from the impact before tumbling back down.
The pain made them cluck: "Cluck—cluck-cluck-cluck, cluck—cluck-cluck-cluck…"
It wasn't loud, but there was this weird rhythm to it. As soon as the sound hit the students' ears, the magic took hold.
At first, one kid let out a "pfft" of laughter. Then it spread like wildfire—even the usually composed Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking.
Dylan wasn't immune either. His mouth twitched upward against his will, that bubbling joy in his chest way more potent than any basic Cheering Charm, making him want to burst out laughing.
"Alright, alright! Quit laughing for a sec!" Hagrid clapped his hands, his booming voice cutting through the giggles and clucks. "Settle down, everyone—I've got tasks for you next!"
Once the students calmed a bit, Hagrid went on. "For the next few classes, our main job'll be feeding these Pearl Chickens."
"Don't think it's a walk in the park, though—these little guys are picky eaters. They only go for fresh purple clover leaves and finely ground magical oats. If the leaves aren't moist enough or the oats aren't ground fine, they won't touch 'em."
He paused on purpose, scanning the group with a teasing glint. "And if you slack off and let 'em get skinny from hunger, don't come crying when they lay their magic eggs—you won't get a taste! Fried up, those eggs keep you sharp and energized all day. Miss out, and that's on you!"
That got a bunch of eager looks from the students, who all nodded, promising to nail the feeding.
Even the ones who'd thought the chickens looked freaky started eyeing the cage seriously, plotting how to keep 'em well-fed.
"Alright, I've got the feed all prepped for ya."
Hagrid clapped again and led Fang back into his hut, emerging moments later with three hefty wooden crates.
The second he cracked them open, a faint metallic tang of blood wafted out.
Inside were chopped frog livers, wriggling black beetles, and rat hearts wrapped in preserving film. The gross ingredients made a few students grimace and step back.
Hagrid set the crates down, unfazed by the disgust. "Pearl Chickens have quirky tastes—not like regular chickens scarfing down grains. But their magic eggs? Fried up with a subtle aroma, way tastier than plain old chicken eggs."
That clicked for everyone: Pearl Chickens leaned carnivorous.
Sure, most chickens were omnivores, but these magical ones had a real hankering for meat—maybe that's what gave their clucks that extra kick.
Hagrid portioned the feed into small iron trays and handed them out to the crowding students, doling out warnings as he went.
"Keep 'em locked in the cages for feeding today—just to help 'em settle in, so they don't go bounding off everywhere if we let 'em loose."
"After a few more classes, once they're used to your scents, we'll open the cages for some exercise."
His face sobered up. "One more thing to watch: Pearl Chickens are super sensitive to bad vibes from strangers."
"There was this wizard once who tried grabbing one without warning to butcher it—next thing you know, a bunch swarmed him and pecked his eye out."
"Magic can fix it quick, sure, but that kinda pain? You don't wanna go there."
The students' faces fell a bit, realizing these joy-bringers had a fierce side. Any cockiness vanished.
With their trays, the kids carefully slid them toward the cages.
After a few tries, they figured out Pearl Chickens loved the black beetles best.
The bugs vanished in a frenzy of pecks, while half the frog livers and rat hearts sat untouched.
Stuffed on a full tray of beetles, the chickens lounged lazily on the straw, patting their plump bellies with ebony wings and letting out satisfied "cluck—cluck-cluck-clucks."
That magical sound set off another round of laughter, washing away the ick from the bloody smells.
Once feeding wrapped, Hagrid started divvying up groups.
"We'll split the care into four teams—two Gryffindor, two Slytherin. You'll rotate daily to top off feed and clean cages. Memorize your group, and don't be late."
He pulled out a list and read off the names.
Dylan ended up with Harry and Ron in the same Gryffindor group. They exchanged glances and nodded—no issues there.
Over by another cage, Draco Malfoy huddled with Crabbe and Goyle, all three pulling faces of pure revulsion.
Crabbe lugged a wooden bucket sloshing with chopped frog livers, green goo dripping through the slats and staining the grass.
"These things are ugly as sin, and their food's even grosser."
Draco wrinkled his nose, prodding the livers with his wand tip, his voice dripping scorn. "When I get back, I'm writing Dad to chew out Hagrid for making us feed these filthy beasts."
Reluctantly, he plunged his hand into the bucket.
His fingers hit the slimy mess, and his face twisted like he'd touched something nightmarish. He barely fished out a handful, fingertips smeared green.
"Here, chow down!" Draco strutted to the cage and barked at the Pearl Chicken inside, all arrogance and disdain.
He shoved his arm between two bars, palm out, dangling the livers like a taunt, eyes challenging.
One chicken inside sensed the hostility—its floppy comb lobes shot up, eyes sharpening, feathers puffing out in clear threat.
But Draco missed every warning sign, smugly waggling the livers.
Crabbe and Goyle just stood there like lumps, chuckling dumbly at his show.
"Here, chow down!" Draco yelled louder.
That did it—the chicken snapped.
It flared its tail feathers, talons ripping through the straw with a "scritch-scratch," then charged, slamming its beak—not super sharp, but hard—right into Draco's palm.
Draco yelped in surprise, dropping the livers and yanking his hand back on instinct.
Too slow—the beak nailed him, stinging like fire.
His hand jerked harder, but the gap between bars was just a hair wider than his wrist. His palm jammed, wrist banging the iron and bruising fast.
The chicken, overcommitted, shoved its head clean through the bars, pinning Draco's arm.
Then its head bobbed furiously—flash of black—and a shallow gash opened on Draco's forearm, blood welling up.
Draco howled, teeth gritted, about to scream bloody murder when another flash sliced a second cut, pain doubling.
"What're you idiots waiting for? Help me!" Draco roared at Crabbe and Goyle, furious and frantic.
In that moment, he flashed on what his dad had said about these two: Crabbe and Goyle are like their fathers—if they've got half a brain, it ain't much. Loyalty's one thing, but don't count on 'em for brains.
Spot on, he thought bitterly.
Crabbe and Goyle finally snapped to, dropping their bucket and lunging over.
But they botched it bad.
Crabbe latched onto Draco's arm and yanked hard—forgetting it was still stuck.
"Argh—!" Draco's scream echoed across the clearing, drawing every eye.
The chicken, victorious, clucked "cluck—cluck-cluck," its magic turning the sound torturously cheerful in Draco's ears.
Draco hissed through his teeth, arm throbbing worse than last year's hippogriff scratch.
But that enchanted clucking looped in his head—he was grimacing in agony, yet his mouth kept curling into a grin, laughter bubbling up unstoppable, like an itch you couldn't scratch.
Hagrid, spotting the chicken's comb rising for round three, went wide-eyed and hollered, "Arkun, easy there!"
He lumbered over, snagged Draco's arm gently, and eased him away from the cage without jostling the wounds.
Hagrid cradled the arm in his massive, callused hands, inspecting the cuts. "Phew, not too bad—shallow slices, just some bleeding. Madam Pomfrey'll zap it with a healing charm, no sweat."
As he steered Draco toward the hospital wing, he explained, "Arkun's the oldest one here—twenty years now. He's way more tuned in to meanness than the young'uns. Picks up on a hint of bad intent and goes full throttle."
At the clearing's edge, Hagrid turned back to the group and boomed, "You lot stay put, don't wander or poke at Arkun. I'll drop Malfoy off and be right back!"
Arkun stood at the cage's edge, watching them go, then shook his head.
He'd been too busy fighting to eat, so he clucked grumpily a few times.
The sound hit Crabbe and Goyle like a hex—they cracked up instantly.
Even with their "boss" carted off to the hospital, they couldn't stop guffawing.
"Hahaha…" Crabbe slapped his thigh, his gut jiggling.
Goyle tried for a straight face but failed, wheezing, "W-We probably sh-shouldn't—guffaw-guffaw—be laughing."
"I know… ahahaha… but I… hahaha—can't help it!"
Crabbe doubled over, plopping onto the grass, his whole frame quaking with laughs.
Their willpower was zilch against the cluck's magic—they were goners.
Dylan watched the whole mess. Huh, might snag a few to keep around sometime.
Over in the hospital wing, the air hummed with a faint herbal scent.
Madam Pomfrey tapped Draco's injured arm with her wand, a soft white glow enveloping the gashes.
The bleeding stopped in seconds, bruises fading, skin knitting back flawless—no scars.
"There you go, Mr. Malfoy—all patched up. Head back to class; don't miss more lessons."
She pocketed her wand, voice matter-of-fact.
She'd griped about Hagrid's classes before—last year, Draco got hurt by a magical creature on his watch too.
But this time? She had zero sympathy for Draco.
Pearl Chickens didn't even rate an "X" on the Ministry's danger scale.
Getting dinged up by such a docile beast—and acting like it was life-threatening? Pathetic.
"No way, Madam Pomfrey—my arm still aches, and my head's spinning."
Draco furrowed his brow, playing up the frailty, slumping dramatically on the bed while locking eyes with her. "I think I need to stay for observation—a few days, at least. What if there's complications?"
He was scheming: A hospital stint meant skipping classes and giving Dad ammo that Hagrid was a lousy teacher.
Maybe enough to get Hagrid booted!
After Hagrid dropped Draco off, a student dashed back with the news: Draco was milking it, begging to bunk in the hospital and skip class.
Dylan blinked, baffled.
Seriously? Pecked twice by a Pearl Chicken, zapped healed by Pomfrey—and he wanted to check in overnight?
He glanced at the cage nearby—Arkun was still clucking irritably.
Looked so mild and everyday; hard to picture it causing this drama.
A magical creature too harmless for a Ministry danger rating, and it had Malfoy heir throwing a fit for bed rest?
"Uh-oh, you think Draco'll tattle to his dad like last term?"
Hermione's brows knit tight with worry as she tugged Dylan's sleeve. "Remember, Buckbeak scratched him, and Lucius went nuclear on the school—nearly cost Hagrid his job. If he snitches again, Hagrid could really be in hot water."
Dylan eyed her furrowed brow and chuckled calmly. "Nah, don't sweat it. The Malfoys are all about saving face. Last term, Buckbeak was an XXX-rated danger beast—easy to spin as 'unsafe class.'"
"But this? Pearl Chickens don't even hit the lowest danger level. If Draco runs crying to Daddy over a chicken peck, word gets out, and it's 'Malfoy heir can't handle poultry.' They'd never live it down."
He paused, laying it out. "He's faking the hospital stay to dodge classes or embarrass Hagrid, probably. If Lucius hears the truth, he'd chew Draco out first—pure-bloods see whining over a scratch like this as beneath them."
Hermione absorbed it, her frown easing, eyes softening. "Yeah, when you put it that way… Pearl Chickens aren't dangerous. Snitching would just make Draco a joke."
Harry nodded from nearby. "Exactly—he's just being lazy to skip class. I saw that coming a mile away!"