The end of March at Hogwarts usually heralded a strange, desperate energy. It was the final stretch before Easter, a ti when the Scottish highlands finally began to shed their grey, wintry skin in favor of a damp, pale green. But for the students, the change in season only ant one thing: the academic hamr was about to fall.
In the Great Hall, the midday sun struggled to pierce through the high, arched windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing over a sea of stressed teenagers. Fred Weasley let out a sound that was half-groan, half-battle cry, and slamd his quill onto the table. The tip snapped, sending a tiny spray of ink across his already blotchy essay on the properties of Moonstone.
"That's it. I'm done. My brain is officially a bowl of overcooked porridge," Fred declared, shoving his parchnt into his bag with reckless abandon. "George, tell you're coming. If I look at another sentence about potion stabilization, I'm going to start hexing the cutlery."
George didn't need a second invitation. He threw his own quill down like it was a live grenade. "Lead the way, brother. I need fresh air and a complete lack of responsibility for at least twenty minutes."
Lee Jordan, who was sitting opposite them, didn't move. He looked like he was vibrating with the effort of not joining them. "Scoundrels," he muttered, though his eyes were wistful. "Absolute traitors. I've only got three more paragraphs on the Giant Wars. Just three. If I leave now, the history will leak out of my ears and I'll have to start over."
"Focus, Lee," Angelina Johnson said, stretching her arms above her head until her joints popped. she ticked a heavy line through 'History of Magic' on a long, daunting list of tasks pinned to her textbook. "Sanna, tell you've made a dent in the Transfiguration theory. I feel like I'm climbing a mountain of parchnt and the summit is just moving further away."
Sanna looked up from her own list, her eyes slightly glazed. "I've got three essays left. Maybe four if you count the 'optional' one Flitwick suggested, which we all know isn't actually optional if you want to keep your dignity." She turned her gaze to Albert, who was calmly reading a thick volu that definitely wasn't on the curriculum. "How are you so relaxed? It's unnatural, Albert. You're making the rest of us look like we're failing at life."
Albert didn't look up from his page. "I finished the Easter load yesterday," he said simply. "The spells were mostly review, and the essays just required a bit of cross-referencing. I've moved on to so independent study on runic frequencies."
"Yesterday?" Alicia Spinnet slumped against the table. "I haven't even started the Herbology diagram. Do you even sleep, or do you just power down like one of those Muggle machines you told us about?"
"I sleep plenty," Albert replied, finally closing his book with a satisfied thud. "I just don't spend forty minutes deciding which ink to use or staring at the ceiling wondering if the giant squid is lonely. It's called efficiency."
"He's a robot, I'm telling you," George said, having looped back around after realizing he'd forgotten his cloak. He leaned over Albert's shoulder. "Truman was looking for you. He wanted to know if the Wizarding Card tournant is still a go for tomorrow, or if the 'Easter Howork Massacre' has cancelled all fun activities."
"The tournant proceeds as scheduled," Albert said firmly. "If people choose to prioritize their failing grades over glory and prizes, that's their loss. But honestly, most people will be staying at Hogwarts for Easter anyway. The Professors assign this much work specifically to keep us from burning the castle down out of boredom."
"True," Lee chid in, finally closing his history book. "Hagrid looked like he was ready to burn sothing down earlier, though. I saw him sprinting toward Dumbledore's office. He looked like he'd seen a ghost, or maybe just a really big tax bill."
Albert leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "It's probably the spiders. The Forbidden Forest is a powder keg right now. Between the poachers and the Acromantula colony's retaliation, it's not exactly a place for a morning stroll."
"We should go help," Fred whispered, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. "Think about it. Acromantula venom sells for a hundred Galleons a pint. We could buy enough Zonko's stock to last until we graduate. It's basically a gold mine with legs."
"Large, hairy, man-eating legs," Angelina reminded him, raising an eyebrow. "Aren't you the one who nearly fainted when that Boggart turned into a giant spider?"
"Tactical retreat is not the sa as fainting!" Fred protested.
"Don't be an idiot, Fred," Albert said, his voice dropping to a more serious register. "If you go in there looking for venom, the only thing you'll provide is a light snack. Acromantulas don't just 'give' venom. They wrap you in silk and wait for you to liquefy. I suspect Hagrid found sothing a lot less pleasant than a gold mine—probably a body."
The girls at the table made various sounds of disgust. Alicia actually pushed her plate of biscuits away. "Could you maybe not describe the liquefication process during lunch? So of us are trying to have a nice ti."
"Just being realistic," Albert said. "If you play in the spider's web, you end up as spider waste. It's the circle of life."
"You're a ray of sunshine, Albert. Truly," George muttered.
Suddenly, the ambient noise of the Great Hall was shattered by a high-pitched, mischievous cackle. Peeves the Poltergeist zood over the Gryffindor table, his face twisted in a grin that promised nothing but chaos.
"Birthdays and spiders! Spiders and birthdays!" Peeves shrieked. He upended a series of small, vibrating bags.
In an instant, the tables were swarming. Dozens of tarantulas—fuzzy, fast, and very much alive—scuttled across the wood, diving into bowls of soup and disappearing into the folds of students' robes. Screams erupted from the younger years, and several Hufflepuffs scrambled onto their benches.
Fred, however, didn't scream. He watched a particularly large tarantula crawl toward his hand and, with a quick flick of his wand, stunned it into a fuzzy lump. He picked it up by a leg, a wicked light dawning in his eyes.
"George... are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"The sa thing I think every year around this ti," George replied, already Stunning three more spiders. "Ron's birthday is tomorrow. And what does our dear little brother love more than anything in the world?"
"Spiders," they said in unison, their voices dripping with mock-sentintality.
"I can see it now," Fred chuckled, pulling a small wooden crate from under the bench. "He opens the lid, expecting a nice new sweater or so sweets, and—boom—eighty legs of pure brotherly love."
"You two are monsters," Sanna said, though she couldn't help but giggle. "He's going to have a heart attack. You know he's been terrified of them ever since you turned his teddy bear into one."
"It's called 'exposure therapy'," George argued righteously. "We're helping him conquer his fears. It's a gift, really."
"It's a Howler waiting to happen," Albert remarked, watching the twins enthusiastically harvest the poltergeist's prank. "Your mother isn't going to see the 'therapeutic' value in scaring her youngest son half to death."
"She won't find out if Ron's too busy running for his life to write ho," Fred reasoned.
"I'll write to her myself," a stern voice barked.
The twins froze. Percy Weasley was standing behind them, his arms crossed over his chest and his Prefect badge practically vibrating with indignation. He reached down and snatched the box of stunned spiders away from them.
"This is beneath even you two," Percy said, his face a bright, dangerous shade of pink. "Ron is your brother. Targeting his genuine phobias for a cheap laugh? It's pathetic. I'm confiscating these, and I'm reporting this to Mum tonight."
"Oh, co on, Perce! It was just a joke!"
"A joke that stops now," Percy snapped. He turned on his heel and marched toward the staff table, carrying the box of tarantulas like it was a ticking bomb.
Fred and George slumped back onto the bench, looking genuinely deflated. "Well," Fred sighed. "There goes the highlight of my weekend."
"Don't worry," Albert said, his eyes shifting toward the main doors of the Hall. "I think the entertainnt is just beginning."
The heavy oak doors swung open with a bang. A fifth-year student burst in, his face pale and his chest heaving as if he'd run the entire length of the grounds.
"Werewolf!" the boy shouted, his voice cracking and echoing off the enchanted ceiling. "There's a werewolf in the Forbidden Forest! I heard Hagrid talking to the Headmaster—they found a fresh kill! Dumbledore's already headed into the trees!"
The Great Hall fell into a stunned, terrifying silence. Albert stood up, his gaze fixing on the dark silhouette of the forest visible through the windows. A werewolf? In March? It wasn't even a full moon.
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