Gryffindor Tower – That Night
Location: The cozy, chaos-stained corner by the fireplace
Mood: One part snugglefest, two parts political bombshell, and a dash of romantic tension so thick you could bottle it
The flames in the Gryffindor common room were crackling like they'd taken a shot of espresso. Which, honestly, made sense. Harry Potter—certified savior, magical heir, and apparently the subject of several long-lost engagement contracts—was casually setting fire to the political fabric of the wizarding world.
Jean Grey, radiant in oversized Hogwarts knitwear (his, obviously), was lounging across Harry's lap like she'd paid rent. Her fingers were tangled in his hair, her head rested comfortably against his shoulder, and her legs were tucked under her like a smug phoenix on a particularly plush perch.
She was also glowing faintly. Side effects of residual cosmic power? Sure. Or maybe it was just that she had recently strong-armed a goblin into a legally binding magical pact using nothing but logic, sarcasm, and a very patient wand.
Across from them, the Gryffindor members of MageX were crammed on couches and beanbags, their collective expressions somewhere between awe, confusion, and a growing thirst for popcorn.
Fred and George looked like someone had just announced a prank war with a trophy involved.
Ginny's eyebrows were competing with her hair for Most On Fire.
Hermione was writing notes at light speed in a floating notebook, lips pressed tight.
Ron had the kind of betrayed expression generally reserved for someone who just found out their best mate had inherited a small kingdom.
Neville was sipping his tea like it might turn into a calming draught if he held it long enough.
Angelina, Alicia, and Katie were sharing stolen biscuits and giggling like this was better than anything the WWN could possibly air.
"So," Fred said, leaning forward with the intensity of a man who'd smelled chaos and wanted seconds. "You're telling us your aunt is the Black Widow?"
Harry grinned, emerald eyes dancing. "Former Red Room assassin. Current knife-collecting badass. Probably keeps a list titled 'People I'll Kill for Harry' on her fridge. Unlike the Dursleys, she didn't try to throw me under a staircase, so, y'know. Upgrade."
George let out a low whistle. "Mate. That's—disturbingly cool."
Ron blinked. "Are we sure she's not a lost Weasley? Because we could use that kind of street cred."
Ginny kicked him.
Harry smirked. "Nope. Definitely Lily's twin. Kidnapped at birth, raised in a Soviet murder school, reemerged as a world-class assassin, and now awkwardly trying to parent me like she didn't spend decades ending world leaders."
Hermione's quill nearly combusted mid-sentence. "That explains the blood resonance spell. It also explains why she keeps casually referencing the best ways to poison someone with a butter knife."
Jean smiled sweetly and threaded her fingers through Harry's hair. "She likes me. She said I reminded her of herself, but more subtle."
Harry snorted. "Which is both a compliment and a threat."
Fred leaned in again. "Okay, cool aunt aside—what's with the whole 'Heir to Three Houses' thing? You dropped that like it's a common cold."
Harry lifted a brow. "House Potter, House Black, and House Peverell. Apparently, when the universe decides you're the Chosen One, it doesn't do subtle."
"House Potter I get," Ron said, clearly trying to be reasonable. "That's your family name. Fine. But Black? And Peverell?"
"Sirius can't have kids," Harry said, voice softer. "And my grandmother was a Black. So that line came to me."
Percy blinked like someone had replaced his tea with firewhisky. "So you're the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?"
"And all the fun vaults that come with it," Harry confirmed. "Including one that tried to eat me."
"Standard wizarding inheritance," Fred muttered. "Nothing says love like cursed gold."
"And Peverell?" Neville asked.
Harry casually drew a glowy, very stabby-looking sword from thin air. It shimmered like moonlight and cosmic fire had a baby.
"This chose me," he said. "It also nearly killed me, but we've worked through that."
Jean tilted her head fondly. "He named it Aetherion. Because of course he did."
"Wait." Ginny was frowning. "So you're rich, titled, armed with a mythic sword, and your aunt could kill Voldemort with a spoon?"
"Don't forget three magical engagement contracts," Jean added cheerfully.
There was a pause.
Fred's eyes widened. "You're building a royal harem?"
Harry lifted a hand. "Not building. It's more like… the contracts built themselves and forgot to ask us."
"Classic magic," Katie muttered. "Always assuming everyone's cool with arranged marriage."
"So who?" Alicia asked. "Besides Jean."
Jean raised her hand like she was volunteering for extra credit. "Hi. Chaos Queen. Calling dibs on the Peverell line."
Harry sighed. "Turns out, House Potter made a contract with House Greengrass. So, Daphne and I are magically engaged. And House Black? That one's tied to Susan Bones. Signed and sealed. No getting out of it unless I want my vaults locked and my title revoked."
George frowned. "Possibly turned into a ferret?"
"Highly likely," Harry agreed.
"And you're okay with this?" Hermione asked, voice deceptively calm.
Jean spoke before Harry could. "It's not about being okay. It's about stopping some ambitious pureblood from waving a fake betrothal contract in front of the goblins and stealing House Peverell. That's happened before. We checked."
Fred nodded. "Great Aunt Muriel nearly got married to a werewolf banker. Got cursed at the altar. Still can't eat toast."
"I'm protecting our legacy," Jean said, squeezing Harry's hand. "And if I get to marry the guy I was already hopelessly into? Bonus."
Harry smiled at her, a little overwhelmed and a lot in love. "Right back at you, Your Chaosness."
Ginny stood suddenly. "Well. I'm off. Some of us don't have magical soul contracts to negotiate."
Hermione followed. "Same. Early Arithmancy."
Neither looked back.
Harry exhaled, watching them go, eyes a little sad despite the firelight dancing in them.
Neville gave him a sympathetic shrug. "Women," he said.
Jean kissed Harry's jaw. "I'll protect you."
Percy, without looking up, muttered, "You'll need it."
Fred raised a butterbeer. "To Lord Chaos."
George echoed, "And his Chaos Court."
Jean grinned. "We're getting that on a tapestry."
As the fire crackled and the room emptied out, Harry leaned his forehead against Jean's and murmured, "Do you think seventeen will be enough time?"
Jean's fingers brushed his cheek, eyes glowing faintly in the firelight.
"For you?" she said. "It better be. You've got three weddings and a war to win."
—
Hufflepuff Common Room – That Night
Location: The warmest nook near the enchanted barrel entrance
Mood: Cozy with a side of accidental dynastic entanglement
The Hufflepuff common room was quiet, wrapped in the sort of sleepy comfort you only get from too many cushions, enchanted warm blankets, and a fireplace that smelled like cinnamon had unionized with nostalgia.
Somewhere, a badger-shaped biscuit tin judged them silently from the mantle. No one was brave enough to try for a second cookie.
Susan Bones sat cross-legged in front of the fire, cocoa mug in hand, red hair haloed by firelight and mischief. She looked entirely at home, except for the faint air of someone who was currently engaged to the most dramatic boy at Hogwarts—and was somehow still the least stressed person in the room.
"So let me get this straight," said Hannah Abbott, flopped across a beanbag like a fainting Victorian heroine with a textbook concussion. "You're engaged to Harry Potter?"
"Magically," said Susan, raising one eyebrow like it owed her rent. "Legally. Not romantically. Yet. Emphasis on the 'yet,' because Jean Grey may be terrifying, but she ships it harder than the Hogwarts Express."
Cedric Diggory—looking like he'd just walked out of a broom polish commercial and directly into a soap opera—stood leaning against the stone hearth. Arms crossed. Brow furrowed. Brain short-circuiting.
"Hold up," he said. "He's dating Jean Grey. You're magically engaged. And everyone's... cool with that?"
Susan blew gently on her cocoa. "Jean called herself the Prime Consort. With a straight face. And a spreadsheet."
Hannah sat up, curls bouncing. "Wait. You're letting her be Prime?"
"She was dating him first. Carved up a goblin's logic matrix with a wand and sheer personality. Plus, I've seen her war face. That girl could scare a Boggart back into therapy."
Cedric made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. "And the third part of this magical disaster triangle is... Daphne Greengrass?"
"Also magically contracted," Susan said, sipping with the resigned air of someone who'd already had this conversation five times and was now charging emotional rent. "She got hit with the Greengrass clause. Not optional. Not her fault. Jean sent her a care package with firewhisky, mood stabilizers, and a note that said, 'Welcome to the Apocalypse. Matching cloaks arrive Tuesday.'"
Hannah cracked up. "Okay, that's kind of iconic. I want to be scared of her but also maybe bake her a cake?"
"You and half the Hogwarts female population," Susan muttered.
Cedric looked over at her, voice quieter now. "And you're actually okay with all this?"
Susan leaned her head against the cushion behind her. Her cocoa mug rested on one knee, steam curling like it was eavesdropping.
"Surprisingly... yeah. I mean, no one asked for this. Harry didn't even know about the contracts until, like, this morning. And when he found out? No dramatics. No pity party. Jean and Harry just went full strategist—started researching legal loopholes, asked the goblins for precedent, even cross-referenced House legacy rituals. They're treating it like politics, not a romance novel."
She smiled a little, eyes softening.
"And then Harry made Jean laugh so hard she choked on her pumpkin juice and nearly set the curtains on fire with her eyeballs. So, you know. That helped."
Hannah bumped her shoulder. "Just make sure he doesn't name the kids after swords or magical relics."
"He already tried," Susan said, deadpan. "Wanted to name our firstborn Aetherion Junior. Jean hit him with a pillow so hard it got stuck in the rafters."
Cedric nearly choked. "That's... kind of amazing."
"Chaos Court, huh?" Hannah asked, eyes wide and sparkly.
Susan lifted her mug like she was toasting to the most ridiculous monarchy in history. "Apparently we all get titles. I'm thinking Duchess of Sarcasm. Or Minister of Mild Threats."
"I vote Duchess," Cedric said, grinning. "But only if you get to wear a tiara that doubles as a throwing weapon."
"Oh, it will," Susan said sweetly. "Jean's already designing the crest. It has fire, a phoenix, and three swords. Probably glows in the dark."
Hannah stretched her legs and sighed. "Honestly? I'd read the book version of your life."
Susan snorted. "You're in it, Abbot. Chapter Seven: How I Accidentally Became Royalty Without Leaving the Couch."
Cedric's smile faded just a touch. "Still. Joking aside... war's coming, isn't it?"
Susan looked at the enchanted window above them, which currently displayed a perfect, moonlit Hogwarts lawn. A calm lie painted in starlight.
"Yeah," she said. "And if I've gotta be on the front lines, I'd rather stand beside Harry Potter, Jean Grey, and a Slytherin girl who brews poisons for breakfast—than face it alone."
The fire cracked softly. The badger biscuit tin finally gave up its judgment.
Somewhere in Gryffindor Tower, Jean probably just felt smug for no reason at all.
—
Slytherin Dungeon – That Night
Location: The obsidian lounge tucked behind the seventh column — warded for gossip, hexes, and very sharp truth
Mood: A silk-gloved conspiracy, with basilisk venom in the teacups and slow-burn friendship underneath the sarcasm
The Slytherin common room didn't do warmth. It did refinement. It did dark elegance. It did "if you spill that tea, the rug will hex your ancestry."
The green-glassed torches cast a faint shimmer across the stone walls, and the lake outside gave everything the eerie calm of being watched by creatures that didn't blink.
Daphne Greengrass sat curled in a high-backed armchair like she owned the dungeon, the heir to a Pureblood legacy and a temperament designed for courtrooms, duels, or both simultaneously. Her silvery-blonde hair was in a braid sharp enough to be a weapon. She wasn't wearing pajamas—she was wearing intent.
Across from her, Tracey Davis was half-buried in a blanket that looked like it had been stolen from the Astronomy Tower and was actively trying to nap through a life-altering conversation. She had a spoonful of ice cream hovering mid-air and an expression that screamed what did I just walk into.
"So," Tracey said, deadpan. "Engaged to the Boy Who Lived. Casual Tuesday?"
Daphne sipped her tea, unbothered. "Magically binding contract. Not my idea. House clause written into the Potter charter from 1827."
"And you didn't—what? Burn it? Hire a legal basilisk?"
"I read the fine print," Daphne said, setting her teacup down with the gentleness of a predator. "The clause activates if certain bloodlines are threatened. Apparently, Voldemort counts. The goblins confirmed the legitimacy. Jean Grey negotiated the rest."
Tracey blinked. "Jean Grey. As in 'terrifying Gryffindor goddess of sarcasm, cheekbones, and psionic fire'?"
Daphne's lips twitched. "She sent me a welcome package. Tea. Firewhisky. A handwritten note that said, 'Welcome to the Chaos Court. Matching cloaks arrive Friday.'"
Tracey made a strangled noise. "And you're okay with her calling dibs?"
"She was here first. Saved his life. Rescued him from the Ministry's custody. Threatened a goblin into rewriting magical law. And she's oddly polite about the whole harem thing."
Tracey leaned forward. "Wait, this is actually happening? Like, plural wives? Magical polyamory? Hogwarts meets The Crown meets Bachelor: Bloodline Edition?"
"Yes," Daphne said, with an audible sigh of someone whose life was now a tabloid headline. "Susan Bones is the third. Her contract is tied to House Black. Also not her fault. Also terrifying."
"Wait." Tracey pointed at her. "You, Susan Bones, and Jean Grey? You're the Three Wives of Wizarding Doom?"
Daphne gave her a look that could have frozen lava. "We prefer Chaos Court."
Tracey flopped back. "I'm sorry, I need a minute. My brain is trying to reassemble itself. We went to Charms class together. You used to make sarcastic commentary about wand motions. Now you're what—Lady Greengrass-Potter, Crown Consort of Snark?"
Daphne raised one brow. "I'll probably keep Greengrass. For branding purposes."
Tracey giggled. "Merlin, we're going to own the society pages."
Daphne swirled her tea. "We don't need society. We need strategy. Jean gets that. Susan too. This isn't about romance. Not entirely. This is about legacy. Magic. Power. And surviving what's coming."
"You mean Voldemort," Tracey said, suddenly more sober.
Daphne's eyes gleamed in the green torchlight. "I mean everything. The Ministry's rot. The bloodline politics. The war that no one's calling a war yet."
Tracey was quiet for a long beat.
Then, softly: "You trust them?"
Daphne looked down at her tea. Thought of Jean's grin. Of Susan's tired humor. Of Harry's eyes—the way they looked when he wasn't playing savior, just boy.
"Yes," she said simply. "I trust them more than I trust anyone else in this castle."
Tracey let out a breath and nodded. "Then I guess I do too."
Daphne glanced sideways. "You don't have to get involved."
"Oh, I'm already involved," Tracey muttered. "MageX has a group chat, remember? Fred Weasley named it 'Potter's Polyamorous Protection Pact.' I'm not getting out of this even if I tried."
Daphne groaned. "I hate that I laughed at that."
"You didn't laugh," Tracey said with a grin. "You smirked. That's like a full-body guffaw for you."
Daphne rolled her eyes, but her expression softened.
Outside the window, something enormous drifted past in the lake. The torches flickered. The green light pulsed.
"Do you think we'll make it?" Tracey asked, almost a whisper.
Daphne set her cup down and stared into the fire.
"I think," she said, "we have a better chance now than we ever did before."
Across the castle, a badger-shaped biscuit tin quietly agreed.
And somewhere high above, in a tower bathed in firelight and fate, Harry Potter sneezed and blamed the tapestry.
—
Great Hall – Next Morning
Location: Gryffindor Table, east end (a.k.a. MageX HQ)
Mood: Light chaos, escalating charm, and tactical matchmaking with a side of sass
The Great Hall was a riot of sound, clattering silverware, enchanted ceiling drama, and enough sugar-fueled adolescent energy to power the Knight Bus on a cross-country tour. Overhead, the ceiling decided to cosplay as a soap opera—golden sunrise streaks tangled with brooding thunderclouds like the sky couldn't decide whether to smite or sparkle.
The Gryffindor table's east end—officially a breakfast zone, unofficially MageX Headquarters—was already half a disaster. Toast crumbs mingled with parchment maps, one of Fred's joke products buzzed ominously under a teacup, and someone had spelled the butter to moo when approached too aggressively.
Jean Grey—all high cheekbones, telepathic danger, and phoenix fire—sat like a queen surveying her domain. She wore her school robes open over one of Harry's hoodies like a silent claim, sipping tea with one perfectly arched brow raised in judgment at a Ravenclaw's mismatched socks across the hall.
Susan Bones, red-haired menace in a cardigan, buttered toast like she was preparing it for combat. Daphne Greengrass—flawless, frosty, and very drop dead gorgeous—was writing something in a journal with the same focus most people reserved for war declarations.
Harry Potter strolled in like he owned the world. Which, to be fair, he sort of did now. The emerald-eyed boy-who-lived looked like he'd fought off at least three sentient shampoo bottles just to be there. His damp hair was rebelling in every direction, his tie was strangling his collar like it had personal beef, and Aetherion, the possibly-cursed sword at his hip, hummed faintly like it was judging everyone.
Jean was up before he'd even made it halfway down the table.
"Sleep okay, Your Lordship?" she asked, sliding her fingers into his like she was anchoring him to reality.
Harry leaned in, brushing his lips against her temple. "Like a cursed goblin vault. Which, in Potter-speak, means barely."
Jean smirked. "As long as the sword didn't whisper to you again about reclaiming your birthright in Parseltongue, we'll call it progress."
Susan offered him a casual fist bump. "You owe me a scone," she said. "Some sixth-year called me your 'Royal Harem General.' I didn't hex him. Yet."
Harry grinned. "Do we get jackets now?"
"Jean's designing them," Susan deadpanned. "Black phoenix embroidery, crossed swords, and the Latin phrase for 'We Didn't Ask For This.'"
"Sounds about right."
Daphne slid into the seat beside him with a practiced toss of her hair and an expression that said she'd already handled five political scrolls before breakfast. "I've redirected all new marriage contracts to the Hogwarts trash compactor," she said. "Also, someone tried to owl me lingerie. I assume that's your fault."
Harry blinked. "That… sounds like something Fred would do."
"Already hexed," she said coolly. "He squeaked."
Cue Fred and George three seats down, pretending to read Witch Weekly upside down.
"Good morning, Lord Trouble," Fred said cheerily. "We love what you're doing with international wizarding scandal this year."
"Very bold, very subversive," George added. "Has Rita Skeeter in an existential spiral."
"I'd hex her," Daphne said, "but I'm trying this new thing called 'emotional growth.'"
At that exact moment, Luna Lovegood drifted over in a cloud of unbothered charm, looking like a Botticelli painting had stumbled into the wrong magical universe. Her radish earrings glowed faintly. Her smile said I've seen the end of time, and it's got great tea.
"Good morning, betrothed-by-magic and glowing-with-existential-chaos friends," she said cheerfully, placing a teapot with extreme ceremony. "This one's been cleansed of Wrackspurts. Probably."
"Luna," Jean said fondly, "you're the only Ravenclaw I trust in a room with Susan and a battle plan."
"That's because I respect muffins and violence equally."
Susan glared at her fork. It stopped vibrating.
Enter Cedric Diggory—tall, golden-haired, built like a knight and carrying the emotional tension of a man about to propose marriage, or at least, war strategy.
"Hey," he said, slipping into a spot beside Harry. "Morning. Quick thing. About Cho."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "As in, Chang?"
Cedric nodded. "I know we talked about her before. But… I still think we should bring her into MageX."
Jean raised her teacup slowly. "Because she's magically talented, emotionally mature, and would balance out the raging testosterone wave happening at this table?"
Cedric flushed. "Also that. She's incredible at defensive charms. Beats me at Shield Duels half the time."
Susan narrowed her eyes. "And this has nothing to do with the fact that she smiled at you last week and you walked into a suit of armor?"
"That armor was aggressive," Cedric muttered.
Daphne sighed. "If she breaks your heart, I reserve the right to avenge you with a hair hex."
Cedric, heroic and mortified, powered through. "She's MageX material. She's already helping first-years. She asks smart questions. She's neutral politically. And she talks to ghosts. Like… holds conversations."
Everyone paused.
Jean whistled. "Damn. That's kind of hot."
"Right?" Cedric said, half in awe.
Harry looked around. "Alright. If Luna's okay with it, and no one objects, let's invite her. Politely. With muffins."
"I'll talk to her," Cedric offered quickly.
"Obviously," Jean said, smirking.
Luna poured more tea. "The ghosts approve. Especially Nearly Headless Nick. He says she's kind."
Susan lifted her mug. "To Cho Chang. New recruit. New chaos. And hopefully not a new romantic disaster."
Fred and George saluted with spoons.
From the staff table, McGonagall narrowed her eyes.
"Oh no," Ron muttered. "She's doing the Thing."
Neville shuddered. "The 'someone's going to make Hogwarts explode' face."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "To be fair, she's usually right."
As the sun poured golden light through enchanted windows and laughter echoed between House tables, one thing was clear:
MageX was growing. And Hogwarts had no idea what it was in for.
—
Slytherin Table – Breakfast of Bitterness
Location: South End, unofficially rebranded as The Brooding Brocade Bench
Mood: 99% Malfoy Meltdown, 1% Toast
Draco Malfoy was having a morning.
Not just any morning. A catastrophic, reputation-shattering, someone-better-accidentally-slip-Harry-Potter-a-bludger-to-the-teeth kind of morning.
He sat stiffly at the Slytherin table, posture so perfect it practically declared war on slouching. He stabbed at his eggs like they owed him money.
"You know, mate," Blaise drawled, examining his reflection in a spoon, "those eggs didn't snog your fiancée. Potter did. You might wanna redirect the rage."
Draco didn't blink. "Don't be ridiculous. Potter couldn't snog properly if someone gave him a how-to pamphlet and a metronome."
"Mm," Blaise said. "You're shaking. That's new."
Across the Hall, the Gryffindor table sparkled with chaos. Harry Bloody Potter was in the middle of it, like some sleep-deprived, tragically rumpled war hero-slash-centerfold.
One hand casually looped around Daphne Greengrass' waist. The Daphne Greengrass. As in: Pureblood royalty, literal Ice Queen, and the girl Draco had fully expected to marry ever since they were in nappies and their parents discussed dowries like Quidditch trades.
Next to her sat Susan Bones, laughing at something Harry said, with her long red hair pulled into a ponytail that somehow made her look like she could hex you and file a prefect's report at the same time. Next to her was Jean Grey—the Mudblood with cheekbones sharp enough to deflect spells and a stare that made legacies wilt.
Draco's jaw clenched like it was auditioning for a Grindelwald biopic.
"Unbelievable," he muttered. "Potter. Again."
"You're going to grind your molars to dust," Pansy said, swirling her tea. She had the smile of someone who knew too much and planned to weaponize all of it. "That can't be good for your bone structure."
"Don't pretend this is normal," Draco hissed. "He's a Halfblood menace who got lucky with a scar and a prophecy. And now he's got my vaults, my betrothed, and two other girls with legs for days and absolutely no sense of bloodline etiquette."
"Is that what we're calling jealousy now?" Blaise asked. "Bloodline etiquette?"
Theo Nott, all slouched elegance and bored genius, finally looked up from his book. "You know, statistically speaking, you've spent more time talking about Harry Potter this week than you've spent on your homework."
"Potter stole my future!" Draco snapped. "Sirius Black's vaults used to be tied to my mother's dowry. You know what that means? Half our family wealth is now under the control of a Gryffindor who thinks ironing is a form of dark magic."
Crabbe blinked. "Wait, Potter's rich?"
Goyle elbowed him. "Focus, Vince. Malfoy's monologuing."
Draco inhaled dramatically, like someone preparing to deliver a Shakespearean curse in hexagonal iambic pentameter.
"He's gallivanting across the Great Hall like some unwashed Chosen One Casanova with no regard for decorum or—Merlin forbid—proper courtship. And Daphne—my Daphne—is letting him get away with it!"
"Newsflash," Pansy said sweetly, "you've never even held her hand."
Draco ignored that. He had a noble bloodline to defend. He had cheekbones to uphold. He had legacy.
And also... some very confusing dreams.
Dreams that involved Jean Grey pinning him against a bookshelf and whispering, "Say it again, Malfoy," while he recited the Periodic Table in Parseltongue.
He coughed. Loudly.
"What?" Nott asked.
"Nothing." Draco shoved a piece of toast in his mouth to silence the mental image. "She's a Mudblood. It's obviously the result of manipulation."
"Uh-huh," Blaise said. "Did she manipulate you into staring at her arse for ten minutes during class last week?"
Draco threw a sausage at him. Blaise caught it midair and took a bite.
"You're spiraling, Draco," Pansy said, eyes gleaming. "And not in the stylish, Byronic way you usually do. This is more... farcical."
Draco glared at her. "Just wait. I'll take back what's mine. I'll reclaim my vaults, my bride, and my dignity."
"Can't reclaim what you never had, darling," Pansy cooed.
He slammed his goblet down. Across the Hall, Potter laughed at something Jean said, and Draco felt it in his bones.
The sound grated like cursed violin strings.
Susan flicked a pumpkin pasty at Harry's face. Daphne caught it in midair with her wand and casually transfigured it into a rose. Jean leaned in and whispered something. All three girls smiled.
Draco wanted to scream.
Instead, he sat there, stewing in purebred rage and plans so petty even Peeves might raise an eyebrow.
It should have been him.
And if the Malfoy name meant anything anymore, it still might be.
Eventually.
Probably.
Maybe after he finished his eggs.
—
Hogwarts Courtyard – Late Morning
Near the sundial where first-years pretend they're studying, and older students pretend they're not counting down to lunch.
Cedric Diggory was sweating like he'd just run a hundred-meter dash in full Hufflepuff robes — and that was before the nervousness set in.
It was October, sweater weather, crisp leaves, and the kind of day that screamed, Look casual, you're just a regular prefect, not a mutant with a secret to spill to the hottest girl in Hogwarts.
But nope. Here he was, palms clammy enough to slip his wand, tie askew, pacing near the sundial like a lion pacing its cage.
Cho Chang was coming down the path.
Cho.
The kind of girl who could cast a silencing charm with a smile and have the entire Ravenclaw table eating out of her hand. The kind of girl Cedric had admired from a distance for years. Today, her ponytail bounced with every step, and she carried a battered copy of A History of Magic like it was a shield against the chaos of Hogwarts—and maybe against overly nervous prefects.
She spotted him and called out, voice like sunshine on a cloudy day.
"Cedric! You look like you've seen a Boggart in your future. Everything okay?"
He grinned, trying to act casual, but the knot in his stomach tied itself tighter. "Yeah. Just... practicing my 'I totally know what I'm doing' face. Thoughts?"
She laughed, tilting her head. "Needs work. What's up? You look like you're about to confess to accidentally turning the Sorting Hat into a snake."
He sighed and motioned to the bench by the sundial. "Can we talk? I swear I'm not about to reveal I'm secretly a Parselmouth."
She raised an eyebrow but followed him anyway. "Okay, spill. What's the secret?"
Cedric sat down, fingers nervously drumming the stone. "Have you heard of MageX?"
She blinked, a flicker of recognition. "The club Harry Potter, Jean Grey and Susan Bones started? Thought it was a study group or something."
He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nope. It's... more than that. It's an alliance for magical students... and mutants."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity piqued. "Mutants? You mean like Muggle mutants?"
"Yeah, but—no radioactive spiders or Hulk smashing. Think magic with a biological twist. Abilities not from spells but genes. Like... superpowers but wizard-style."
Cho's lips curled into a slow smile. "So you're saying there's a secret Hogwarts X-Men team. Cool."
Cedric swallowed. "And I want you to join."
She laughed, a little surprised. "Oh? And why me?"
"Because you're smart, brave, and the best damn Seeker this side of the Forbidden Forest. MageX needs you. I need you."
Cho's smile softened. "Cedric... are you saying what I think you're saying?"
He took a deep breath, all at once terrified and hopeful. "Yeah. I'm a mutant. Sort of. Logan—the guy who helped me train my powers—says my mutation's like some guy called Sabretooth. Claws, enhanced senses, reflexes... instincts. But, uh, less homicidal."
She tilted her head, teasing. "Less homicidal? So you don't claw people in the hallways?"
"Only on bad days," he joked, relieved she was taking it well.
A pause.
Then, that smile again—slow, thoughtful, mischievous.
"So let me get this straight. You're an enhanced magical werewolf-lite, inviting me to join a covert mutant-wizard alliance, and you're nervous because it's also kind of a date?"
Cedric blinked. "Um. Yes?"
She stood, mock-saluted him, ponytail swinging. "Lead the way, Claws."
And suddenly Cedric Diggory felt like the luckiest mutant-prefect at Hogwarts.
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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!
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