Harry Potter and the Flaming Hedgehog.

I wrote this story in French. I wasn't just writing at the back of the class instead of concentrating, I mean I actually wrote this in the French language as a homework assignment. We were supposed to write a story or poem, in French, inspired by a picture, any picture we like. Yes, kooky school. I chose a postcard from a book of postcards with shots from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, where Harry and Seamus are staring at something burning, and Professor Flitwick is standing behind them. Anyway, it's a one-shot, so no nasty cliff-hangers, hopefully some amusement. Henjoy!

It was a Charms lesson, and the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were changing hedgehogs into tea-kettles. Well, they were trying. Harry Potter and Seamus Finnigan were trying to change their hedgehog into sweets, and now, they had a burning hedgehog, and sooty faces.

The teacher was furious. 'What stupid students! Why is this hedgehog on fire? Throw it away, now!' he shouted, and before they could say 'anticonstitutionnellement' they both had detentions that evening.

'Merlin!' said Harry. 'What a disaster! A detention! What shall we do?'

'We will run far away,' said Seamus, 'and live in a cave, and eat peanuts and horseradish.'

'That's the worst idea I've ever heard! Let's just not go, and say we did. We can play chess instead.'

But instead of this plan, they went to detention.

'Right then,' said the Professor. 'You must clean these chairs, and then these forks.'

Harry and Seamus sighed. The chairs were covered in moss and the forks were encrusted with jam.

'But, why?' Harry asked.

'Because I need a new kitchen,' Professor Flitwick replied.

'… But how will this help you?' said Seamus.

'Shut up and work!' the professor shouted, and he left the classroom.

'And the worst thing is, we have killed a poor hedgehog,' said Harry, as he scrubbed at a fork.

Gracious. How bizarre. Why were Harry and Seamus trying to turn their hedgehog into sweets instead of kettles? I don't know. I have as many questions for myself as you do. Well, let me know what you think, and perhaps I'll write more bizarre one-shots of weird classes and compile them as a lovely anthology.

For those who care, and for my own self-gratification, I got 19 out of 20 for this essay. That's the same mark I got for when I wrote a poem about breaking the wish-bone from a chicken with my brother.