From Cupboard to Chaos

The Absolutely Awful Idea

I woke up the next morning to the kneazle sitting on my chest, purring like it hadn't dragged me into mortal danger less than twelve hours ago.

"Get off," I mumbled, pushing it gently. "You're heavy."

It ignored me, nudging my face with its nose until I groaned and sat up.

"Fine," I grumbled, rubbing my eyes. "What now? Another cursed book? A new magical portal to nowhere?"

The kneazle jumped off the bed and padded to the door, tail twitching expectantly.

"Brilliant," I muttered, throwing on my robes. "Lead the way, oh mighty chaos magnet."

Breakfast in the Great Hall was as chaotic as ever, though none of it involved me for once.

I shoveled eggs into my mouth while trying to ignore Ernie Macmillan, who was loudly explaining the "ethics of potion-making" to anyone unfortunate enough to be within earshot.

My peace lasted exactly five minutes before a folded piece of parchment appeared on my plate.

"What's this?" I muttered, picking it up.

The handwriting was spidery and unfamiliar, but the message was clear:

Library. Restricted Section. Midnight. Don't be late.

"You've got to be kidding me," I whispered, crumpling the note and shoving it into my pocket.

The kneazle, now sitting on the bench beside me like it was a perfectly normal Hogwarts student, tilted its head and meowed.

"Don't look at me like that," I said. "I'm not going. Midnight meetings in the Restricted Section? That's how horror stories start."

The kneazle blinked slowly, which I assumed was kneazle for Oh, you're absolutely going.

As it turned out, I did go.

Because apparently, I had no self-control and even less common sense.

By the time the clock struck midnight, I was back in the library, tiptoeing through the darkened aisles with the kneazle at my heels.

The Restricted Section was just as eerie as I remembered, with its towering shelves and books that whispered in the dark.

"Alright," I whispered, glancing around. "Whoever sent that note better show up fast, because I am not hanging out here all night."

A shadow moved in the corner of my eye, and I spun around, wand at the ready.

"Potter," a voice hissed, low and sharp.

I nearly dropped my wand.

"Snape?" I whispered, my stomach twisting. "You sent the note?"

He stepped into the faint light, his expression as sour as ever.

"Did you honestly think you could sneak around this castle without being noticed?" he sneered.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.

"Save it," he said. "I know what you've been up to. You're meddling in things far beyond your understanding."

My heart pounded as he stepped closer, his black robes billowing like some kind of overly dramatic bat.

"I wasn't meddling!" I said quickly. "I just... stumbled across some things, that's all!"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Stumbled across the Philosopher's Stone?"

I froze. "Wait—you know about the Stone?"

"Of course I do," he snapped. "Unlike you, I don't bumble through life with my head in the clouds. The Stone is in grave danger, and your bumbling has only made things worse."

I bristled at that. "Hey! I haven't made things worse! If anything, I've been helping!"

Snape looked unimpressed. "Really? And how, exactly, is getting caught in the Restricted Section or triggering magical traps helping?"

I opened my mouth to respond but quickly realized I didn't have a good answer.

Before I could dig myself into a deeper hole, a loud crash echoed through the library.

Snape whirled around, wand drawn.

"What was that?" I whispered, gripping my own wand tightly.

He didn't answer, instead striding toward the source of the noise with me and the kneazle trailing behind him.

The sound led us to a shattered glass case, its contents scattered across the floor.

A large, dusty book lay open in the center, its pages glowing faintly.

"This is bad," Snape muttered, kneeling beside the book.

"What is it?" I asked, trying to peer over his shoulder.

"A locator spell," he said grimly. "Someone is trying to find the Stone."

Panic bubbled in my chest. "Who? Who's trying to find it?"

Snape didn't answer, his eyes scanning the glowing pages.

"We don't have time for this," he said, slamming the book shut. "Potter, stay here."

"What?" I said, my voice rising. "You can't just leave me here! What if whoever did this comes back?"

"You're the least of my concerns," Snape snapped, standing up. "Stay. Here."

With that, he swept out of the room, leaving me alone with the kneazle and the ominous, shattered case.

I stared at the closed door, my heart racing.

"Well, this is just great," I muttered. "Stuck in a haunted library with no plan and no clue what's going on. What else is new?"

The kneazle meowed softly, rubbing against my leg.

"Don't look at me like that," I said. "This isn't my fault!"

It tilted its head, and I sighed.

"Okay, fine," I admitted. "Maybe it's partially my fault. But that doesn't mean I know what to do next!"

The kneazle nudged my bag, and I frowned.

"What are you—" I started, but then I remembered the book I'd taken earlier.

Pulling it out, I flipped to the page about the Philosopher's Stone.

The Stone is hidden in a place only those who seek it for pure reasons can reach.

"Pure reasons," I murmured. "What does that even mean?"

The kneazle chirped and pawed at the glowing remnants of the shattered case.

I glanced down, realization dawning.

"Oh no," I said, backing away. "Don't even think about it. We are not going after the Stone!"

The kneazle stared at me, unblinking.

I groaned. "This is a terrible idea."

And just like that, we were off again, diving headfirst into yet another mess.