Chapter 22: The Dream Weaver and the Hippogriff's Buckle part-1
I reduced the friction between the chair legs and the stone floor to absolute zero.
As Malfoy leaned back to sneer at Crabbe, his chair shot backward as if launched from a cannon.
"Whoaaaa!" Malfoy yelled.
He flew backward, crashing into a shelf of glass jars filled with pickled toad eyes. The shelf collapsed, burying him in slime and eyeballs.
"Mr. Malfoy!" McGonagall shouted.
The class erupted in laughter.
I sat back, twirling my wand. The "Aura of Unraveling" had worn off, but the chaos it left behind was delicious.
Hermione was going to run out of clothes at this rate. And Harry... Harry was going to run out of sanity.
Tonight, I decided, I would use the Dream Weaver potion. It was time to invade their subconscious and plant some suggestions. Perhaps a dream where their clothes were made of water? Or a dream where gravity worked sideways?
The game was evolving. And I was the Game Master.
The dormitory was filled with the rhythmic sounds of teenage snoring. Neville Longbottom let out a soft whistle with every exhale, while Seamus Finnigan mumbled something about banshees. Harry Potter, however, was tossing and turning, his brow furrowed in distress.
I sat on the edge of my bed, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the tower window. In my hand, I held a small vial of shimmering, pearlescent liquid.
(System, purchase the Dream Weaver Potion,) I commanded silently.
"Affirmative," the system replied. "Two hundred points deducted. Current balance: Two hundred and ten points. Item 'Dream Weaver Potion' added to inventory."
The vial materialized in my hand. It was cool to the touch.
(Excellent. Now, let us see what is haunting the Boy Who Lived.)
I uncorked the vial and drank it in one gulp. It tasted like mist and peppermint.
I lay back on my pillow and closed my eyes.
The sensation was instantaneous. The physical world dissolved, replaced by a swirling vortex of colors. I focused my intent on the bed next to mine.
Target: Harry Potter.
The mist cleared. I was standing in a distorted version of the Gryffindor Common Room. The furniture was made of marshmallows and the portraits were all staring silently.
Harry was standing in the center of the room. He was wearing a suit of armor, holding a sword.
"Stay back!" Harry shouted at a giant, floating pair of white panties that were chasing him. "I do not want to see the Snitch! I do not!"
I stepped forward. In the dream world, I was omnipotent.
(Change the narrative,) I thought.
I waved my hand. The giant panties dissolved into a cloud of pink rose petals. The marshmallow furniture transformed into a romantic, candlelit dinner setting.
"Harry," I spoke, my voice echoing like a god. "Why do you fight it?"
Harry dropped his sword. The armor melted away, leaving him in his dress robes. "Ron? Is that you?"
"It is your subconscious, Harry," I lied smoothly. "You are not afraid of the accidents. You are afraid of how much you enjoy them."
"I... I shouldn't," Harry stammered.
I conjured a dream-version of Hermione. She walked out of the fireplace, unharmed by the flames. She was wearing a beautiful gown made of water.
"Harry," the dream-Hermione whispered. "Gravity is just a suggestion."
As she walked toward him, the water-gown began to evaporate.
Harry stared. He didn't run away this time. He watched, mesmerized, as the dress turned to mist, revealing...
(...cough...)
"It is destiny, Harry," I whispered into his ear. "Accept the awkwardness. Embrace the chaos."
The dream began to fade. I felt myself being pulled back.
I woke up in my own bed with a gasp. Sunlight was hitting my face.
Harry sat up a second later. He was drenched in sweat, breathing hard. He looked over at me, his eyes wide and panicked, yet strangely glazed.
"You alright, mate?" I asked, feigning drowsiness.
"I had a dream," Harry whispered hoarsely. "It was... intense."
"About Quidditch?"
"Sort of," Harry muttered, throwing off his covers. "If Quidditch involved water nymphs and... never mind."
We dressed for the day. Harry was noticeably quieter than usual and he kept touching his own face as if checking he was real.
We met Hermione in the Common Room.
To my surprise—and slight disappointment—Hermione had escalated her defenses. She was not wearing a skirt. She was wearing a pair of sturdy, muggle denim jeans.
"Jeans," she announced before we could even say hello. "Try getting these to fly up, universe. They are tight, they are belted and the fabric is reinforced."
"Smart," Harry said, avoiding eye contact. "Very smart."
(Jeans,) I analyzed. (Tough fabric. High friction. Hard to remove accidentally. However, jeans have a fatal flaw: they are restrictive.)
We headed down the sloping lawns toward Hagrid's hut for Care of Magical Creatures. The air was crisp and a light breeze was blowing—perfect for my purposes.
"Gather round, gather round!" Hagrid boomed, beaming at us. "Got a real treat for yeh today! Hippogriffs!"
He gestured to the paddock. A dozen magnificent creatures stood there—half horse, half eagle. They were terrifying and beautiful.
"Now, who wants to go first?" Hagrid asked.
The class stepped back in unison.
"I will do it," Harry said, stepping forward. He seemed eager to distract himself from his dream.
"Good man, Harry!" Hagrid cheered. "And you will need a partner. Hippogriffs like company. Hermione?"
"Me?" Hermione squeaked. "I... I suppose."
She stepped forward cautiously.
After the bowing ceremony—which went surprisingly well—Hagrid clapped his enormous hands.
"Right then! Up you get! You can ride Buckbeak together. Harry in front, Hermione behind. Hold on tight!"
Harry scrambled up onto the creature's feathery back. Hermione followed.
Here was the problem with tight, restrictive jeans. Hippogriffs are wide animals. To straddle one, you have to spread your legs significantly.
Hermione struggled. The denim was stiff.
"I cannot... stretch," she grunted, trying to swing her leg over.
(Structure Analysis,) I commanded.
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