I returned to Hogwarts with only minutes to spare, the familiar towers rising out of the mist just as the afterglow of lunch, and an unexpectedly pleasant one at that, finally faded. By the time I reached the grounds classroom reserved for my seventh-years, I was fully back in professor mode, wand tucked neatly away, staff in hand, expression composed into something reassuringly competent.
My seventh-year class was, by necessity, my smallest.
Seven students. Seven survivors of six years of magical education, bad decisions, and questionable Ministry-approved curriculum. They stood in a loose semicircle, eyes flicking not to me, but to the massive, heavily warded enclosure dominating the clearing behind me.
Inside it paced a Manticore.
And I had to admit: it was an impressive specimen. A lion's powerful body rippled beneath coarse, tawny fur; its scorpion tail arched overhead like a loaded crossbow, venomous stinger twitching irritably. And its face…
Human. Disturbingly so.
It sneered at us, lips curling back to reveal far too many teeth.
"Good afternoon, class," I said brightly, clapping my hands together once. "Do try not to scream. It encourages them."
No one laughed.
Percy Weasley stood ramrod straight near the front, his posture immaculate, parchment already in hand as though he planned to minute the lesson. Penelope Clearwater stood beside him, eyes sharp, studying the creature with academic fascination thinly veiled by caution. Marcus Flint lingered toward the back, arms crossed, jaw set, pretending he wasn't calculating exactly how fast he'd need to run if something went wrong.
Hagrid beamed beside the enclosure, hands clasped proudly behind his back.
"Beautiful, innit?" he said. "Real sweetheart, this one."
The Manticore slammed a claw against the warded barrier and hissed something that sounded suspiciously like a curse word.
I raised an eyebrow. "It did threaten to eat my liver when you brought it in, Hagrid."
Hagrid waved that off cheerfully. "Ah, tha's just talk. They all say that."
"Yes," I said dryly. "How reassuring."
I turned back to the class. "As you can see, today's topic is the Manticore. Classified XXXXX on the Ministry's danger scale. Extremely violent. Highly intelligent. Capable of human speech, though I advise against engaging in small talk."
The Manticore leaned forward, pressing its unsettling face close to the barrier.
"I can still hear you," it snarled.
Several students flinched.
"Marvelous demonstration," I said smoothly. "Thank you."
I paced slowly in front of them. "Now then. Mr. Weasley. Since you look like you've already written the answer, do tell us: primary defining characteristics?"
Percy adjusted his glasses, eager. "A Manticore possesses the body of a lion, the tail of a scorpion, and a human head. Its skin is resistant to most spells, particularly Stunning and Cutting Charms, and it is known for its exceptional speed and predatory instincts."
"Excellent," I said. "Five points to Gryffindor for accuracy and diction."
Percy looked faintly pleased.
"Miss Clearwater," I continued, turning slightly. "Why, precisely, are Manticores considered such a severe threat to wizardkind?"
Penelope didn't hesitate. "They're natural wizard killers. Their resistance to magic renders most spells ineffective, and their venom is fast-acting and often fatal. Historically, they were used in executions and gladiatorial arenas before being outlawed."
"Correct, take five points for Ravenclaw," I said approvingly. "Efficient, ruthless, and deeply unpleasant in confined spaces."
The Manticore bared its teeth again. "I preferred the arenas," it growled. "At least the food fought back."
Marcus Flint snorted despite himself, then caught my look and straightened.
"Mr. Flint," I said pleasantly. "Since you're so relaxed, tell me. What is the recommended response if one encounters a Manticore in the wild?"
Flint shrugged. "Run."
"Succinct," I allowed. "But incomplete."
"Run zigzag," he added. "They're fast, but not great at turning sharp angles at full speed."
I blinked once, then nodded. "Surprisingly practical. Five points to Slytherin. Try not to make a habit of being correct; it will confuse people."
Hagrid chuckled, clearly delighted.
"Now," I continued, gesturing toward the enclosure, "observe how even with reinforced wards, anti-venom charms, your incredibly handsome and competent professor, and not to mention the imposing Hagrid standing by, you are all still appropriately nervous. This is good. Fear keeps you alive."
The Manticore slammed its tail against the barrier again, stinger scraping sparks from the wards.
"Let me out," it hissed. "I'll show you fear."
I smiled thinly. "And that concludes today's practical demonstration of why Manticores are not suitable pets, and that also goes to you Hagrid."
Hagrid looked slightly guilty for a second.
A few students laughed, nervously, but still.
…
"Professor?"
The question drifted across the clearing like a daydream given sound.
I turned, half-expecting it to have been carried on the breeze, and found Luna Lovegood standing near the back of the class as though she had always been there.
"They're such interesting creatures," she went on serenely, pale eyes fixed on the enclosure. "Do you think we could teach it how to sing, Professor?"
Before I could even begin to formulate a response, pedagogical or otherwise, the Manticore lifted its human-shaped head.
Its lips curled.
And then it sang.
"Avery Vane, Avery Vane,
Wicked, twisted, and insane.
Killed his wife and ate her brain,
Then killed his son and did the same~."
The rhyme ended on a lilting, almost cheerful note that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Several students went rigid. Penelope Clearwater made a small, strangled sound. Marcus Flint stared at the creature as though reconsidering every life choice that had led him here. Percy Weasley's quill snapped cleanly in half.
Luna, meanwhile, beamed.
"Oh, such a lovely voice," she said, and began to applaud.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Of course," I muttered. "Of course it would know a murder rhyme."
The Manticore preened visibly, scorpion tail twitching with smug delight.
Lowering my hand, I looked back at Luna properly. "Miss Lovegood," I said carefully, "what are you doing here?"
She blinked. "Attending class."
"And when," I added, scanning the group again as though she might have Apparated in mid-sentence, "did you arrive? I didn't notice you."
"I've been here the whole time."
She must have a notice-me-not charm incorporated, because I really didn't notice her at all.
"Oh," she added, reaching into the pocket of her robes, "and I came to give you this. But I didn't want to interrupt the lesson."
She handed me a folded newspaper.
I glanced at the masthead and immediately felt a familiar mixture of confusion and dread.
The Quibbler.
"This is…" I began, then stopped as I noticed the small printed card tucked neatly into the fold. I pulled it free, skimmed it, and felt my eyebrows climb. "Miss Lovegood, this is far too much. A lifetime subscription…"
She waved a hand dismissively. "It's a thank-you. From Daddy."
I paused. "For…?"
"For helping him find the Crumple-Horned Snorkack," she said, as though announcing the weather.
Several heads snapped in our direction.
My mouth opened, closed, then tried again. "He… found it?"
She nodded enthusiastically. "Thanks to your advice. You were absolutely right about it being attracted to drunk people."
I stared at her.
"That said," she continued, unbothered, "it was rather inconvenient while I was in Australia with him over the holidays. Daddy wouldn't let me drink even a drop of alcohol, and he refused to drink himself while I was present. Very unfair, really."
"I… yes, quite," I said faintly.
"But once I returned to Hogwarts," Luna finished, smiling, "he tried again. And this time, it worked."
She tapped the front page meaningfully.
Against my better judgment, I unfolded the paper.
The photograph took up nearly the entire front page.
Xenophilius Lovegood, unmistakably drunk, was grinning wildly at the camera with one arm slung around the neck of a large, purple, camel-like creature. Its eyes were unfocused, its legs splayed slightly as though the ground were doing something unreasonable beneath it.
From the center of its forehead spiraled a very real, very solid horn.
The caption read: "PROOF AT LAST: CRUMPLE-HORNED SNORKACK CONFIRMED (SLIGHTLY TIPSY)."
I blinked once.
Then again.
"…Merlin help me," I murmured.
"Oh yes," Luna said serenely, peering over my shoulder. "Daddy was absolutely plastered. He says the Snorkack only reveals itself to those who are sufficiently 'open-minded,' which apparently translates to 'three bottles of firewhisky in.'"
Behind us, the Manticore let out a low, rumbling chuckle.
"Truth sings loudest through wine," it crooned, its human face splitting into a grin full of too many teeth.
"Quiet," I told it absently, still staring at the photograph.
"Well," I said at last, choosing my words with extreme care, "I'm delighted your father was successful."
Luna smiled at me, radiant. "He is too."
I cleared my throat and turned back to the class. "Right. Let's return to the lesson."
I shot the enclosure a pointed look.
"And no more singing," I added firmly.
The Manticore sniffed. "Philistine."
Honestly.
Some days at Hogwarts, I reflected, you barely needed fiction at all.
Around the enclosure, the class had gone utterly still. Seven seventh-years, all staring between Luna, the newspaper, and the singing, murderous monstrosity with expressions ranging from stunned to deeply concerned.
Percy Weasley was the first to recover.
"Professor," he said carefully, adjusting his prefect badge as if it might ground him in sanity, "is this… part of the lesson?"
Penelope Clearwater leaned closer, squinting at the image. "Is that camel… purple?"
"Yes," Marcus Flint added flatly from the back, arms crossed. "And drunk."
I exhaled slowly and folded the paper shut before any more of my authority could leak out through the seams.
"No," I said firmly. "This is not part of the lesson. This-" I gave Luna a look that was equal parts bewilderment and reluctant admiration "-is a personal matter involving journalism, intoxication, and a creature most of the magical community insists does not exist."
Luna beamed. "Not anymore."
She clapped her hands together softly, as though pleased with herself, then glanced back at the Manticore. "You really do have a lovely singing voice. Have you considered joining a choir?"
"I once devoured a tenor," the Manticore replied fondly. "He was sharp."
Several students flinched.
"Hagrid," I said without taking my eyes off Luna, "remind me again why this thing can talk?"
Hagrid scratched his beard proudly. "Brilliant, innit? Says it picked up speech eatin' wizards. Smart as anything."
"That is not reassuring," Percy muttered.
I turned back to Luna. "Miss Lovegood. While I appreciate the… subscription," I tapped the folded Quibbler with one finger "this is a seventh-year class. How exactly did you get in here?"
She tilted her head. "I walked in."
"Yes, but…"
"People don't usually notice," she added gently. "It's alright. I don't mind."
Something about the way she said it; simple, unbothered, utterly sincere, made the words land heavier than they should have.
I cleared my throat.
"Well," I said briskly, "thank you for the delivery. Please thank your father for his… generosity. And his commitment to research."
"Oh, I will," she said brightly. "He says you're always welcome to join him for drinks if you ever want to attract rare creatures."
"I'll keep that in mind," I replied, choosing not to think too hard about it.
She gave the class a little wave, applauded the Manticore once more, prompting it to bow theatrically, and then drifted back towards the castle.
"I'll let you get back to your lesson," she said. "Good luck not being eaten."
And then she turned around and skipped away.
Silence followed.
The Manticore hummed to itself.
I turned back to my students, schooling my expression into something resembling authority.
"…Right," I said. "As fascinating as singing Manticores and intoxicated cryptids are, let's refocus."
I gestured toward the enclosure. "As I was saying before we were interrupted, Manticores are classified as XXXXX due to their speed, spell-resistant hide, and tendency to view wizards as a convenient source of protein."
Marcus Flint raised a hand slowly. "Sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Flint."
"…Did it really threaten to eat your liver?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, very specifically. Claimed it would sauté it with onions."
The Manticore nodded. "You looked tender."
Penelope swallowed.
Percy straightened his notes with shaking fingers. "Professor, may I suggest we move on to defensive countermeasures?"
"An excellent idea," I said approvingly. "Ten points to Gryffindor for prioritising survival."
Percy preened slightly.
I cast one last glance at the folded Quibbler under my arm, my mind still replaying the image of a purple camel with a spiral horn and a drunken editor clinging to its neck.
Somehow, between Tonks, Manticores, and Luna Lovegood, my life had taken a sharp turn into the absurd.
And disturbingly…
I was starting to enjoy it.
…