"What a Treat" © Roké Alva

In the morning, Harry fully realized the meaning of the phrase "too much of a good thing is a bad thing". Having slept well for the first time since the end of May, Harry felt wrecked. It felt as if he had been run over by a steamroller, and his eyes were filled not with sand, but coarse gravel.

Outside, in contrast to the previous day, the sun was shining brightly, and sparrows were chirping somewhere under the eaves of the roof. The birds clearly had no problems with a lack or, on the contrary, an excess of sleep.

The boy struggled to drag himself out of bed, somehow managed to put on his clothes, exchanging looks with an equally exhausted Ron, and the boys descended into the living room.

Hermione Granger, naturally, was already there and, sitting in an armchair, was reading a thick book.

Having greeted and scrutinized her friends with a stern look, the girl grabbed her wand and made some clever flick. Ron's tie instantly tightened, and the corner of Harry's shirt ended up tucked in.

"Convenient," Ron appreciated. "Will you show me later?"

"Of course," the enthusiastic friend replied. "Here, watch."

She began to slowly repeat the movement. Ron threw up his hands in fear.

"I meant later. Maybe in the evening. I can't figure anything out right now."

Hermione sighed disappointedly and got up from her chair.

"I know your 'in the evening'. Let's go, we're already late."

And the friends, joining the crowd of sleepy Gryffindors, crawled off to breakfast. In the hall, they ran into a procession of Slytherins, just as lethargically emerging from the dungeons. A conflict did not occur, the opponents studied each other's battered faces and decided to postpone the quarrel until better times.

Harry landed at the table, took a spoon, and reluctantly poked it into the oatmeal. He lifted, turned it over, and looked with disgust at how the amorphous substance made a "plop". He pushed the plate aside and took a glass of juice. He should learn to make coffee like Professor Dumbledore.

Chris Bird walked past, handing out schedules. Ron took the paper and stared at it with a blank look.

"What do we have today?" Harry asked.

"Transfiguration. One. Then Arithmancy. Two. Herbology. Also two. And potions."

"Just one?" Harry asked, just in case, barely believing that such good fortune was possible.

"No," Ron dashed his hopes.

"And every Friday like that?"

"Yes."

Harry groaned and fell face-first into the table. Seven lessons on Friday. What a horror. And such tough ones. They could at least have slotted History in there, then he could have had a nap.

"Harry, don't clown around," Hermione poked him in the side.

"Hermione, can you conjure up coffee?" The boy asked without lifting his face.

"No. I can pour water over you."

He even slightly turned his head, letting the proposal pass him by. Is there anything that a friend can't do?

"I can cast a bat-bogey hex," Ginny enlightened him enthusiastically from behind Ron's shoulder. "Need it?"

"Girls are cruel," Harry noted, still lying on the table.

"That's because," Ron lifted a finger, "they have no imagination! Ouch, Ginny, why?!"

"I'll show you my imagination right now!"

Dean, sitting opposite, choked and spilled tea on the table.

"There's no creature more dangerous than a younger sister," Harry complained to Ron a little later, standing in front of the transfiguration class, trying to return his bright pink hair to its original color. Dean was sporting an acid green hue. So far, no significant progress had been made. Hermione refused to help out of solidarity, and Harry, taking into account yesterday's experience, decided not to stand out. After all, theory is theory, but he didn't want to accidentally turn Ron into a teapot, or something like that. It's good that the lesson was with Hufflepuff, otherwise they would have a hard time washing off the ridicule.

"It's your own fault," Harry noted, "you shouldn't have teased her."

"Who would have known she was so wild," grumbled his friend.

"Well, who else but Ginny Weasley would know," Hermione sarcastically noted. "Clearly not her older brother."

Ron muttered something and waved his wand over his head again. His hair grew about a hand's length and curled.

"Hey, Harry," came a voice from behind.

Harry struggled to tear his gaze away from the pink curls and turned his head. There was a girl of somewhat eastern appearance standing next to him. Straight black hair, even darker than Harry's own, the outer corners of her eyes slightly upturned, her face would have been round if not for the unhealthy thin hollow cheeks. He definitely didn't know her well, maybe he had seen her a couple of times in the corridors.

"Um... Hi?" the boy greeted uncertainly.

"Hi," the girl smiled. "How was your summer?"

"Well... not bad," Harry answered and fell silent. After a couple of seconds, the pause began to drag on. Asking "who are you?" was rude, and other words somehow did not come to him. "And how was your vacation?" he finally asked.

"The first half was great. I went to Cornwall with my dad to visit my uncle. And then - she smiled, not happily - you know, the championship and all that."

"Were you at the championship?"

"Yes, my dad finally got tickets. I even liked it - well, if you only take the game into account. Okay, I have to run now, I have Charms with Professor Lyons. We'll talk later."

"A... alright," Harry responded and followed her with his gaze, wondering when someone had cast an Obliviate on him and who it could have been. "Run."

He waited until the girl disappeared around the bend and turned back to his friends. They looked as if nothing special had happened. Ron was still poking at his hair with his wand, while Hermione was skeptically observing his attempts.

"Ron, I have a stupid question for you."

"What is it?"

Harry pointed over his shoulder in the direction where the Asian girl had disappeared.

"Who was that?"

Weasley raised his eyebrows.

"Well, you're a piece of work, mate. That was Chang."

Harry looked blankly at Ron and asked again.

"Who?"

"Cho Chang," Ron explained, sighing. "Ravenclaw, fifth year."

Harry scratched the back of his head.

"And... do I know her?"

Ron gave him a strange look and said, "Well, it seemed to me that you do."

"Oh, stop it!" Hermione interrupted the search for truth. "She's just trying to get to know him."

Harry was silent for a while, digesting, and then remarked,

"I thought it's usually the other way around, isn't it?"

Ron made a silly giggle and shook his curls.

"Well, you're an unusual boy."

"I'll cast a spell on you right now," the unusual boy threatened grimly.

"Not in my class, Mr. Potter," came Professor McGonagall's voice right over his ear. "Although, it seems you're not in a hurry to attend it."

"Ouch. I'm sorry, Professor," Hermione jumped up and darted into the office as if she was being chased by Hagrid's three-headed dog.

Ron giggled once again, and Harry subtly showed him his fist, amusing him even more.

Closing the door behind them and waiting for the trio to settle, Professor McGonagall sternly surveyed the class.

First, she fixed her gaze on Ron, then on Dean, and with a wave of her wand, she straightened their hair.

"I would have deducted points from you, young men, but there are none yet. The fact that you forgot how to cancel the simplest color correction, gives me serious concerns about your ability to pass the OWL level successfully."

"But OWL is next year, Professor."

"And we covered these transformations in the first year, Miss Abbott," Professor McGonagall retorted. "I don't think they will suddenly resurface in your memory in a year, rather they will sink even deeper. Please submit your homework."

Harry pulled out his scroll and levitated it onto the professor's desk. It seemed that he had written everything correctly. Comparative tables of action time - done, Arithmantic analysis of general forms - done…

"How much did you get?" Ron whispered.

"Twenty feet," Harry responded with a vengeful, albeit slightly foolish grin. "I'm an unusual boy, after all."

Ron snorted.

"Oh, come on."

"Two and a half, as much as they asked."

Ron clicked his tongue.

"I'm three inches short."

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley."

"Sorry, Professor," the boys responded in unison and fell silent.

McGonagall gave them a squinted look and waved her wand, causing the chalk to run across the blackboard.

"So, as you may have noticed, the summer assignment was about one-step transfiguration. We have not covered this topic yet, however, it is quite important. In their pure form, single-step transfigurations are rarely used due to their instability, but they are necessary links in more complex chains, such as working with composite material, human or animal transfiguration, and many others…"

The lesson was given in the form of a lecture, and after about five minutes Harry found himself starting to doze off. His quill was uncontrollably running across the parchment. As a result, his notes took on a rather funny look. At the beginning of the line everything was fine, but as it went on, the letters became smaller and smaller, ending in a straight line.

He shook his head and found no better solution than to give himself a slight electric shock in the thigh. He miscalculated, his leg twitched, and he hit his knee hard against the desk.

"Mr. Potter!" the professor turned at the noise.

"Sorry, Professor McGonagall," Harry apologized again, caught Hermione's disapproving look, and grimaced - his leg hurt.

But he immediately stopped feeling sleepy, so in a way, he achieved his goal.

Limping out of the office, Harry critically reviewed his notes - reading the resulting cardiogram was absolutely impossible.

"Herm, can I borrow yours?"

"Harry, just tell me you didn't write in your very first class!" Hermione was indignant.

"I did write," the boy shrugged, turning his notebook upside down. It didn't become any more legible. "Look, see for yourself."

Harry handed the lecture notes to Hermione. She, furrowing her brow, studied the provided material, handed her notebook to her friend, and looked at him seriously.

"You need to sleep more."

"Now, I think, quite the opposite," Harry noticed. "What's next, Arithmancy?"

Professor Vector was much more lenient than McGonagall in terms of discipline, and like their dean, she decided not to burden the students with practice on the very first day. After scribbling for about twenty minutes and reassuring himself that he was well acquainted with this topic, Harry hid behind Thomas, who was sitting in front of him, and blissfully dozed off for the remaining hour and ten minutes. Hermione's infuriated look and Ron's envious one did not bother him at all.

So, he went to lunch looking much more human than in the morning and attacked the food with appetite. Friday is not as scary as it's painted. Although, now he would have to rewrite two lectures. And the second one - clearly not from Hermione - the girl demonstratively moved further away, so there's no point in stuttering.

The twins plopped down in front of him and let out a tired sigh in unison. Harry stared at them expectantly.

"I never thought I'd say this, but I miss Snape," Fred shared and explained. "We just came from Potions."

"Is it really that bad?" Harry inquired, trying not to draw attention to the name of the deceased professor.

"Well, how can I put this, Harry," George pondered. "He's a strange type."

"To put it mildly," Fred added.

"Can you be more specific? Like Lockhart?"

"Better and..."

"Much worse."

"It can't be worse," Harry doubted.

"Believe us, Harry - it can."

"I don't believe it."

"Well... I'll give you a hint - imagine if Lupin behaved like Lockhart."

Harry imagined it.

Ha-ha, my friends, this is a Dementor. Were you scared? Of course, you were scared, ha-ha. But - there is one cunning spell. I came up with it myself, ha-ha. Expecto Patronum! See what a cute peacock? Of course, it's a very complex spell, but I'm a great wizard. Great and humble, ha-ha.

"Merlin, no!" Harry brought his hand to his throat, barely suppressing a wave of nausea.

"That's it," George nodded. "This Coldwell - he's terribly self-loving."

"It was immediately noticeable," Fred chimed in.

"But the problem is that he's really good. To sit quietly at his classes - you have to be his fan."

"We have him in the evening," Harry remembered.

"Well, you'll see for yourself. Although, to give him credit - the Slytherins got it just as bad."

"By the way, on the subject of Slytherins - we still haven't figured out what this Lyons teaches."

"Spells," the boy automatically responded, morally preparing for a competent version of Lockhart. "Ask the fifth year Ravenclaw."

"Got it, dear twin," Fred snapped his fingers.

"We're good, dear twin," George seriously nodded to his brother. "So, Ronnie didn't lie to us, tell me, Harry, since when have you been dating Chang?"

"Since when... what?" Harry was taken aback and scorched Ron with a look. When did he manage?

He just shrugged, with no less surprise on his face. It seems that whatever he told the twins, it wasn't what they had imagined.

"Listen, guys, I'm not dating Chang," Harry stated firmly. "And it would be really cool if you keep your guesses to yourselves, okay?"

"What a madhouse," he thought, it's the second time in two days that they're trying to set me up with a girl. Maybe Ron made a bet with someone and got the twins involved?

Fred carefully studied his face and then nodded for the both of them.

"No problem, Harry. Though it's a shame, she's cute. If you need, we can give a few lessons on..."

"Fred," the boy growled, hearing a snarling tone in his voice and attempted to normalize it. Hermione, glancing from her seat, gave him another strange look.

"Alright, alright!" exclaimed Fred. "I'm as silent as the grave!"

"Let's talk about business instead," George suggested seriously. "Have you figured out how to trick this 'impartial judge' yet?"

"Haven't even thought about it," shrugged Harry, calming down, and smiled. "I'm relying on you."

"Smart move," Fred smiled back.

"It would be good to know who it is to begin with."

Harry remembered his first year and shook his head.

"I don't even think it's going to be a person. More like a test, or something of that sort."

"An artifact," Hermione interjected.

The twins turned to her.

"Tell us more about that, miss."

Hermione looked around at the Gryffindors who had stopped talking, their eyes fixed on her with interest, and put down her fork.

"Traditionally, the champions for the Tournament are selected by an artifact called the Goblet of Fire. Students throw their names into it, and it selects the most worthy. I don't think you'll be able to trick it. I mean, the Goblet will still choose the strongest."

"Hey, are you doubting us?"

"Well," she drawled, "I can't deny that you're good at spells and some areas of Transfiguration, but generally, it's your grade level. Besides, it seems to me that Defense Against the Dark Arts will matter more in the Tournament."

"Fred, I think we've just been insulted," George noticed. "Don't get offended, Hermione, but if your nose suddenly gets longer, I mean, much longer, you'll know it's a matter of honor."

The girl shrugged and, not appearing too frightened, returned to her meal.

"But really, aren't you bothered that last time all the participants died?" Harry asked.

"Well," George drew out. "Life is dangerous in general. And we need money desperately."

"For what?"

"Look at this," Fred whispered and pulled a small yellow ball from his pocket. He looked around, caught the right moment and threw it into Ron's glass. Ron, answering Seamus's question, didn't notice anything. He turned back and took a sip.

Harry watched his friend with interest and some anxiety. It's not that Fred and George's ideas were entirely harmless. But a small payback for Ron's big mouth wouldn't hurt.

A quiet "Poof" sounded, and Ron's hair was arranged into a high Mohawk and changed color again, this time becoming lemon-yellow.

The youngest Weasley glared at his brothers.

"Hermione, give me a mirror?"

He looked into the mirror she handed him and exhaled.

"You're making fun of me!"

This time, Harry didn't play dumb and, hiding his smile, waved his wand, returning his friend's hairstyle to its original state.

"Thanks, Harry," Ron nodded and shot a furious look at the twins. "Lucky me, what a family I have."

"But what about the money?"

"Well, the cost of such a thing is four Sickles."

"That's not much," Harry didn't understand.

"For a single one, no," George agreed. "But if you want to make ten, that's forty. On the other hand, if you add one more, it's already fifty."

"Hold on," Ron interrupted him. "Are you planning to sell them?"

The twins shrugged in unison.

"Zonko sells them, why should we be any worse? We're already of age, we need to make a living somehow."

"I don't think your mother would be thrilled," Hermione pointed out.

"That's why, Hermione, we want to get into the Tournament," Fred concluded, standing up. "Okay, we still have to get to Flitwick's class. Harry, good luck in pursuing the beautiful."

Harry watched the twins go and involuntarily looked at the Ravenclaw table, naturally running into Chang. She waved at him. Harry thought for a moment and nodded back. A remarkably idiotic feeling.

Herbology, also with Hufflepuff, went as usual. Dirty. On the list of his least favorite subjects, it came right after Potions, slightly outpacing Zoology, which he only attended because Hagrid taught it. For the entire two lessons, they kneeled, catching the ear-pea, which at any careless move would roll up and hide in the ground. The whole class was smeared from head to toe. Of course, the cleaning spell worked perfectly, but the activity didn't become any more pleasant. What did Neville find in this?

Then they had Potions with the Slytherins. Harry went down to the dungeon with mixed feelings - on the one hand, he was a little tense about the characterization the twins gave the professor, but on the other - the twins could joke and, simply put - lie. Moreover, for the first time their joint lesson with Slytherin would not be led by their dean. In the second year, someone, it seemed to be Lavender Brown, voiced the thought that such practice should be stopped, and it finally happened. Although not quite the way Harry would have preferred.

The Slytherins were already at the door, and this time it was impossible to avoid a confrontation.

"Potter!" Malfoy greeted him. Harry grimaced as if in toothache.

"Malfoy, could you just shut up?"

Draco grinned broadly.

"I haven't even said anything yet, Potter. Nerves getting to you? Isn't it a bit early for you?"

Harry froze.

"What do you mean?"

In response, the Slytherin pursed his lips and, unseen by the others, made a circle with his palms in front of his chest.

The Slytherin mimicked a kiss with his lips in response, and discreetly from the others, made a circle with his palms in front of his chest.

Harry carefully studied the hands, looked up.

"Sorry, Malfoy, you're not my type."

The Slytherin at first did not understand, and then, realizing how his gesture looked from the side, quickly returned his lips to their natural position. He was about to retort, but the trio, taking advantage of the momentary confusion of the adversary, had already slipped into the open classroom.

"He gets on my nerves," Ron complained softly. "Would be nice to cast something on him."

"Putres digitos," Рфккн suggested.

Weasley sat down at the desk and gave him an interested look.

"What's that?"

"A dark magic spell. First..." He cut himself off and simply explained, "You'll get boils on your fingers."

"That's disgusting."

"Just the thing for him," Hermione unexpectedly supported the proposal.

"What about your 'don't engage in bickering' rule?"

"Listen to her more," Ron noticed. "Forgot who broke Malfoy's nose?"

Their friend snorted, but Harry was ready to swear that he saw a fleeting smile.

Whispering about Malfoy under their breath, they didn't even notice how the classroom filled up, only coming to their senses when the bell rang. The door immediately swung open, as if the professor was waiting behind it in an invisibility cloak, and Robert Coldwell entered the room. He strode towards the teacher's desk, adjusted his hair, tugged at the collar of his robe, and finally, looked at the students and grinned broadly.

Danger, thought Harry. And he wasn't wrong.

"Hello, everyone, my dear new friends!" the professor exclaimed cheerfully.

Harry jerked in surprise. And he wasn't the only one. Malfoy closed his eyes. Ron looked as if he was trying to swallow an apple whole. Even though there was no reaction from the students, Coldwell seemed unperturbed.

"My name is Robert Coldwell, and I am your new Potions teacher. Mr. Weasley, what is Potion-making?" he asked.

Ron hung in there for a moment, then stood up, all eyes fixed on him. Nobody had ever asked him about potions throughout his entire school career.

"Er..."

"Potion-making, Mr. Weasley," Coldwell repeated.

"It's... the science of brewing potions?" Ron replied half-questioningly.

"Hmm. Well, something like that, yes. Five points to Gryffindor!"

"For saying that you brew potions in Potion-making?" Draco blurted out, forgetting about his aristocratic gloss. "That's not fair!"

"Even the basics need to be known, Mr. Malfoy. But a passion for justice - that's wonderful. Five points to Slytherin for truly Gryffindor character."

Draco blinked and, for the first time, started to blush slightly. Meanwhile, the professor didn't stop there and pointed his wand at Pansy Parkinson.

"What are we going to brew today, Miss Parkinson?"

Harry had never heard a stranger question in this dungeon. Pansy got up and tugged at her robe uncertainly.

"I don't know, sir..."

Coldwell clicked his tongue and waved his wand in the air, scattering a bunch of colorful sparks. Many students jerked in fear.

"That's unfortunate. Minus five points from Slytherin. I didn't expect the most cunning house to have problems with imagination. Maybe you, like Mr. Malfoy, should have studied in Gryffindor?"

"Is he crazy?" Ron asked in a whisper, warily eyeing the wand in the professor's hands.

"That was very disrespectful, Mr. Weasley. Five points from Gryffindor for disrespecting the teacher."

He's just mocking us, Harry suddenly realized. He's playing the fool. A jester of some sort. And in the meantime, he's managed to throw mud at both houses.

The teacher feigned thoughtfulness, tapped himself on the head with his wand, and said, "Well, since you're not showing enthusiasm, which is a pity, I'll have to come up with the lesson's theme myself. And while I'm thinking, let's do some handwork. We'll write letters! In notebooks!"

He turned sharply towards the board, which immediately began to fill with some tables. At the top, the inscription "Robert Coldwell's Wonderful Theory" appeared.

"So! Potions. They come in three types," he said, turning to the class for a moment and pointing at Neville. "Mr. Longbottom, do you know this?"

Neville pulled his head into his shoulders and quietly replied,

"No, sir."

"Hmm. Then four," the professor turned back to the board, rearranged the tables with a flick of his wand in a completely different way, and started pacing back and forth. "This thought came to me about ten years ago. I was still quite young then (not that I've grown old now, you understand) and stupid (I'm much smarter now, of course) and I had just hit a dead end with one of my works..."

He narrated throughout the entire first lesson and the entire break, leaving no chance to clear their minds. The lecture was almost an autobiography with detached reflections like, "And then I thought - if I were Japanese, would I ask myself this question or not?" or "This idea was valid, but Thomas was quite the scoundrel, once he took my umbrella and never returned it - why does a wizard need an umbrella? Although, on the other hand, he had mine... Never mind!" And only a very small part of this incessant stream required taking notes.

When this torture ended, Harry thought that another five minutes, and he would have just killed the professor, smashing his head with a cauldron. But it turned out that this was not the end.

"I want to please you," Coldwell smiled. "I've come up with the lesson's theme. Now we'll brew the simplest cold remedy. To be more precise - I will brew it, and you - won't. Because, my dear friends, this potion needs to be brewed for an hour and a half, and we only have half an hour. So, let's get started! As the great say - fail faster."

With a flick of the wand, the cauldrons scattered around the tables, ending up in front of their owners. Harry dumbly stared at his, knowing that he is now not capable of brewing a cold remedy, even if given twice as much time as needed.

"The recipe is on page twenty-two of the textbook. Go ahead."

Harry picked up the book, got up, and headed for the ingredient cabinet.

Half an hour later, his cauldron was filled with a thick white mass resembling mayonnaise. Hermione's cauldron had a swamp. Ron was doing best - he just didn't do anything.

"Great!" the professor exclaimed joyfully. "Simply wonderful! Pour this muck somewhere. And this, take it to the infirmary."

He pointed to a neat row of flasks that had appeared on the table. Harry honestly tried to get the potion to some stage, so he didn't keep track of what the professor himself was doing. A second later, it turned out to be a big mistake. Coldwell suddenly took on a serious look, becoming perfectly normal, surveyed the class with a look more characteristic of Professor McGonagall, and brought down a rock on them.

"Home assignment. Explain how I did it. All the necessary material is in today's lecture. The answer 'You're just great, Professor Coldwell' is accepted but makes me sad. The fact that I'm great is well known to me."

When the students tumbled out of the classroom, Harry had a distinct feeling that he had been hit on the head with a hammer the whole lesson. Now he understood the twins well. At the door, he ran into Malfoy, but the foes didn't even dignify each other with a glance. The Slytherin's appearance was no better.

The trio leaned tiredly against the wall and exchanged glances. Ron shrugged.

"Let's get out of here."

"Farther away," Harry agreed.

Before the portrait of the Fat Lady, Potter lingered – even the password had slipped his mind.

"Animos infirma," Hermione uttered from behind, and they finally found themselves in the common room, immediately falling into their favorite chairs.

"He's just sick," Ron voiced a thought that probably had been on his mind since the beginning of the lesson. "A complete idiot. For what Mordred's sake did Dumbledore take him?"

Harry rubbed his face and reluctantly disagreed.

"I wouldn't say he's an idiot. He probably doesn't give a shit about teaching. Just like about all of us. "

"That's a controversial statement," Hermione observed, flipping through what she'd managed to note. "Do you remember Professor Snape ever giving us a lecture? Moreover, look, there really is…" she suddenly fell silent.

"Hermione?" Ron softly called about half a minute later. "Are you still with us?"

There was no reaction; the girl continued to flip through the lecture back and forth, making some pencil notes and murmuring to herself.

"Apparently not." Weasley turned to Harry and asked a little ironically, "Well, shall we go to Hagrid's?"

Harry, who had just dumped the contents of his bag on the table, looked at the two lectures that needed to be rewritten (and Transfiguration – by tomorrow), estimated how much time Coldwell's work would take, for which it was unclear where to start, shook his buzzing head, and sighed heavily.

"I, for one, will save my teeth."

Ron gave a somber smile and also pulled out a textbook from his bag.