Chapter 4
Three's Company, Four's a Fainting Spell

Ever wonder why padded cells are all white with bright lights? They say it's to calm the patients, to keep them from going off the deep end. But it's also a form of torture, you know? Imagine your entire world reduced to blinding white—no shadows, no depth, just an endless assault on your senses. The lights are so bright they mess with your sense of smell and taste, and the constant hum drills into your skull. That's what the sun feels like right now, a relentless, sadistic force beating down on me.

Running through Hogwarts like a headless chicken led me here, to the courtyard, where the sun is trying to kill me. It's loud, so damn loud, a scream in my brain that won't shut up. "I just need somewhere dark, somewhere calm, somewhere quiet—how the fuck did I end up here?" The thought claws its way through my mind as I stumble around, desperate for shade. The sunlight wasn't just bright; it was a white-hot brand searing into my retinas. The warmth on my skin felt like a thousand needles pricking every inch of my body. The ground beneath my feet seemed to shift, pulsing with a heartbeat that wasn't mine. Even the air was thick, cloying, sticking to the back of my throat like honey laced with ash.

Suddenly, voices slam into my ears, sharp and grating. I squint at a group of students, their argument a jumbled mess in my head. "Too much, too much, too much," my mind chants, a red-hot anger flaring up inside me. Before I can stop myself, I'm screaming, "Could y'all just shut the fuck up!" The words echo around the courtyard, and the students freeze, staring at me like I've grown a second head. Then, one of them smiles, of all things. "Oh my God, Fleamont!"

"What the fuck, what the fuck, why the fuck are they walking over here?" Fleamont groaned to himself, his thoughts spiraling like a whirlwind. They're coming for me, of course they are, because why wouldn't they? Looking closer through those squinting eyes—or are they slits now? Like a snake? No, focus!—it became painfully obvious who was heading his way.

"Red hair... and a hand-me-down robe. You must be a Weasley," the thought echoed in his mind, unbidden and unfiltered. Probably Ron. Of course, it's Ron. Or is it? He blinked, trying to clear the fog in his mind. The figure was older, a bit more worn around the edges, just like Harry and…him? How much older, Fleamont couldn't tell.

Next was just as obvious—bushy brown hair, reminiscent of a ghillie suit, and those buck teeth that seemed to have a life of their own. Hermione. Who else? But what if it's not? What if she's something else? Something with fangs… He shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the unwanted thoughts.

And then there was the third member. Draco Malfoy, because who the fuck else would have that sneer? A sneer that could curdle milk and ruin perfectly good soup. But something was off, something different. Focus, Monty, focus! But the more he tried to focus, the more his mind slipped, his thoughts unraveling like a thread pulled too tight.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here? You look like shit, Potter," Draco's voice slithered through the air, smooth as ever, but with an edge that made Fleamont's skin crawl.

"Shut up, Malfoy, why don't you go somewhere else," Hermione snapped. Wait, Hermione? Or something pretending to be Hermione? Fleamont squinted harder, as if he could pierce through the layers of reality just by sheer will.

"Huh, this version of Hermione is a lot more direct, I guess," Fleamont thought, the words bouncing around his skull like rogue bludgers. I was half expecting Ron to say something…

"Yeah, bugger off, you blonde tart," Ron shot back, his voice filled with irritation that was almost comical.

"There it is," Fleamont thought with a manic grin, Ron the Defender. Or is it the Pretender?

"Are you okay, Fleamont? You look a little off," Hermione's voice cut through the noise in his head, but it felt distant, like it was coming from the bottom of a well.

"Of course he is, Hermione, after all that mess in the Chamber." Ron suddenly looked a little embarrassed, his cheeks coloring like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Thanks, Monty. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to my sister."

"Make sure to thank Harry too," Hermione chimed in, her tone carrying the weight of a command.

"Oh, so now you want me to thank Harry?" Ron snapped, turning to her with a frown. "You weren't saying that when he left us out of the Chamber mess in the first place!"

"That's not fair, Ron! You know it was too dangerous for anyone else to go down there," Hermione retorted, her voice rising.

"Dangerous? Since when did we start worrying about danger? We've faced worse things together!" Ron shot back, his frustration bubbling over.

What's up with Ron and Harry's relationship? Fleamont's thoughts started racing again, trying to piece together the fragments of this world. Shouldn't they be friends? Did 'Fleamont's' existence change the story? Why the fuck wasn't Ron in the Chamber with us? Was it just me and Harry? Where the hell was Lockhart?

Lockhart was supposed to be there, wasn't he? Or am I making that up? Fleamont's thoughts whirled faster, spiraling out of control. The broken wand, the memory charm, the chaos that should have been but wasn't… Nothing is right. Nothing is how it should be. His mind buzzed with confusion, the world around him blurring as reality slipped further from his grasp. The damn near screaming match between Hermione and Ron didn't help. Their voices were like nails scraping against the inside of his skull, digging deeper, tearing at the edges of his sanity.

Just as he was about to tell them to shut the fuck up—because, honestly, who the hell argues this much—a very feminine voice cut in, sharp and cold as a winter's night.

"If you two idiots could quiet down, thank you very much," the voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight, the kind that made people listen whether they wanted to or not.

Fleamont finally got a good look at Draco—or what he thought was Draco—and realized that things must be very different here. Instead of a kind of effeminate teenager, he was looking at what could only be a younger version of Helen McCrory, with a few key differences. Pale like her father, with the same eyes and "luscious" locks. But there was something else, something that made Fleamont's mind snap like a brittle twig. The pieces didn't fit. They wouldn't fit. No matter how hard he tried to force them together, they kept slipping through his fingers, fracturing into a thousand tiny shards.

He couldn't take it anymore—too much pain, too much confusion, too much of everything. The thoughts, the sensations, the chaos—it all broke loose. He started laughing, a wild, hysterical sound that echoed off the stone walls of the courtyard. It was laughter with an edge of insanity, raw and unfiltered. Each peal of laughter was a nail in the coffin of his sanity, driving deeper, splitting him apart at the seams.

"Holy fuckin' shit, Malfoy, when the fuck did you grow tits?" Fleamont cackled, the words spilling out before he could stop them, tears streaming down his face as he collapsed to the ground, unable to contain the madness any longer. His body shook with the force of his laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls, a twisted symphony of despair.

Hermione and Ron, who had finally broken away from their argument, wore expressions that shifted from mortified (Hermione) and barely restrained glee (Ron) to deep concern as they watched Fleamont unravel. Meanwhile, Malfoy turned redder than a tomato, her rage palpable, her hands clenched into fists so tight they trembled.

But Fleamont didn't care. He was done. Tired. Spent. It was finally time to rest, and as his energy quickly drained, the sounds of worry, rage, and his own maniacal laughter faded into blessed silence. The world around him blurred, the edges growing softer, dimmer, until all that was left was darkness, a void that he welcomed with open arms.