Quirks in Wizarding World

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- Hogwarts Castle -

- September 7, 1991 – Morning -

Arthav and the twins moved like clockwork, each step of their plan executed with precision. What had started as an accidental creation in Arthav's experiments—prank items with unexpected side effects—had now been repurposed into a masterpiece of mayhem. Fred and George's natural talent for mischief blended seamlessly with Arthav's ingenuity, ensuring that Malfoy and his cronies were in for a day they wouldn't forget.

The setup was simple but effective. The first phase involved enchanted sweets—seemingly harmless chocolates and tarts Arthav had originally created as voice-enhancing treats but had instead turned the eater's voice into a mix of parrot-like squawks and goat-like bleats for an hour. The house-elves, always happy to assist in 'culinary innovation,' had conveniently mixed them into the Slytherin breakfast platters.

Next, Arthav's accidental 'itching spores'—an attempt at self-cleaning powder gone wrong—were discreetly spread under the Slytherin table. Activated by body heat, the spores would ensure that every affected Slytherin would experience an insatiable, full-body itch throughout breakfast.

Additionally, Arthav's experimental failure potions had been repurposed into candies. One caused the eater to breathe fire in short bursts, another turned the consumer's skin bright yellow and made it glow for several minutes, and the last one produced an unbearable foul smell that clung to the victim like an invisible cloud. These were cleverly mixed into pastries and drinks, ready to create havoc.

For the grand finale, Arthav repurposed his failed 'night vision potion'—which, instead of enhancing sight in the dark, caused unpredictable blackouts. A carefully diluted dose found its way into Malfoy's pumpkin juice, ensuring that his vision would flicker on and off at the worst possible moments.

Everything was set. All that was left was to wait.

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- Hogwarts Great Hall – Lunchtime -

The hall buzzed with conversation as students settled in for the midday meal. Arthav sat at the Ravenclaw table with Padma, Parvati, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, keeping a casual air of indifference. Fred and George, at the Gryffindor table, exchanged smirks. It was time.

The first to fall victim was Pansy Parkinson. She bit into a tart and let out an earsplitting parrot-like squawk. Several heads turned as she clamped her hands over her mouth in horror. Blaise Zabini followed, his words shifting into an absurd goat bleat mid-sentence.

Confusion spread. One by one, Slytherins tried to speak, only to hear their voices replaced by farmyard chaos. Malfoy, oblivious, sneered at Pansy. "What's wrong with—" His own voice cut off into a ridiculous mixture of a parrot's trill and a goat's bleat. The Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables erupted in laughter.

Then the itching spores activated. Half the Slytherin table lurched in unison, frantically scratching at their robes. Crabbe and Goyle, already slow to react, only realized something was wrong when their attempts to eat were interrupted by violent fidgeting. Malfoy, mid-sneer, was suddenly clawing at his arms and neck, his dignity evaporating by the second.

And then, the candies took effect. Theodore Nott, having unknowingly popped one of Arthav's fiery sweets into his mouth, suddenly let out a startled yelp before a small burst of flame erupted from his lips. The students around him jumped back in shock as he tried to douse the harmless but terrifying flame. Next, Millicent Bulstrode took a bite of a pastry and gasped as her skin turned bright yellow, glowing like a human lantern. Panic set in as she waved her hands in front of her face, realizing she was illuminating like a living torch. And then, the worst of them all—Goyle, having devoured an entire tart, found himself surrounded by an invisible but utterly revolting stink cloud that made even the nearby Gryffindors recoil in disgust.

Finally, the last act. Malfoy, furious and itching, grabbed his goblet and took a deep swig of pumpkin juice. His eyes widened as the room flickered into sudden darkness. He staggered, arms flailing, knocking over a bowl of mashed potatoes onto Goyle's lap. "WHO TURNED OUT THE LIGHTS?!" he shrieked in his distorted, animal-like voice.

The Great Hall exploded into laughter. Even Professor Flitwick struggled to suppress a chuckle behind his goblet. Snape, however, was on his feet in an instant, his gaze scanning the hall for the culprits.

Arthav leaned back, casually sipping his pumpkin juice. Fred and George gave him approving nods, while Ron was practically crying from laughter. Even Hermione, trying to appear disapproving, couldn't completely hide her amusement.

Snape's cold voice cut through the chaos. "Who is responsible for this?"

The laughter hushed slightly, though a few lingering chuckles persisted. Malfoy, still blinded and itching furiously, pointed a shaky finger in Arthav's general direction. "It—it was him!" he managed to bleat.

Arthav raised an innocent brow. "Me? I've been sitting here the entire time, Professor. How could I possibly have done anything?"

Snape narrowed his eyes. He knew. Oh, he knew. But without proof, there was nothing he could do.

McGonagall, barely restraining her own amusement, turned to Snape. "Severus, unless you have evidence, I suggest we focus on reversing the effects rather than making baseless accusations."

Snape's glare could have burned through steel, but he knew he was beaten. With a dramatic swish of his cloak, he stalked off, undoubtedly to find a cure.

Arthav smirked. Fred and George grinned. The mission had been a success.

As the laughter slowly died down, Fred leaned in. "Mate, that was bloody brilliant."

George nodded. "We're definitely doing this again."

Arthav simply shrugged. "Next time, we go bigger."

The twins exchanged a look. Oh, this was the start of something wonderful.

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- Staff Room, Hogwarts Castle -

- September 8, 1991 – Sunday Afternoon -

In the quiet of the Hogwarts staff room, the professors gathered for their weekly review. Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, his twinkling eyes scanning the room. The usual faces were present—McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, Sprout, and the others. Only Quirrell was missing, having excused himself with a vague claim of illness. Dumbledore noted this with a quiet sigh. He could sense the dark magic clinging to the man, something that hadn't been there when he first recruited him. He suspected Voldemort's influence but kept those thoughts to himself. For now.

"Shall we begin?" Dumbledore said lightly. "I believe a review of our first-years' progress is in order."

McGonagall nodded, adjusting her spectacles. "As always, Miss Granger has shown remarkable dedication. She is already excelling in Transfiguration."

Flitwick beamed. "Indeed! She has quite the knack for Charms as well. A bright mind, that one."

Snape leaned back, his expression unreadable. "Potter has potential," he admitted begrudgingly. "Though he lacks discipline."

"And what about Mr. Nair?" Dumbledore prompted, eyes twinkling.

A moment of silence. Then, McGonagall spoke. "He is… extraordinary. His grasp of magic is far beyond his years."

"Arthav Nair" Flitwick beamed. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I daresay he is one of the finest students Hogwarts has seen."

McGonagall nodded. "His background is quite unique. His mother, Emily Nair—Emily Carter before marriage—was an exceptional student, much like him. I remember teaching her. She had the same sharp mind and discipline."

Snape, who had remained silent, finally spoke, his voice neutral. "Ah yes, I remember her. She was in my year. A Ravenclaw. I can see why her son would follow in her footsteps."

"Though I would like to say that Mr. Nair clearly needs to choose carefully with whom he spends his time with." He said as he remembered yesterday's chaos at the Great Hall.

Dumbledore chuckled a bit in amusement as he hummed in thought. The Sorting Hat had hesitated with Arthav, noting his compatibility with all houses. He now wondered how his upbringing, as the child of an Indian Muggle father and a highly regarded witch, played into his abilities.

"His sensitivity to Prana is remarkable," Flitwick continued. "He uses wandless magic with an ease I have rarely seen in Western wizards. It's as if magic flows through him effortlessly."

Dumbledore stroked his beard. "It is rare, indeed. Let us hope his path remains steady." His gaze turned distant, remembering another brilliant young wizard—Tom Riddle.

Dumbledore leaned back, thoughtful. Arthav was no doubt special, but talent alone wasn't what concerned him. It was what one did with it. He hoped the boy wouldn't lose his way. The memory of Tom Riddle was never far from his mind.

For now, he would watch. And wait.

Talent was a gift, but without guidance, it could lead to darkness.

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