At nine in the morning, the Transfiguration classroom smells of polished mahogany and singed whiskers. Professor McGonagall taps her wand, and a teapot shudders into a tortoise. “You,” she says, eyes like flint, “will do better by Friday.”

Astronomy at midnight: cold stone, colder wind. The telescope shows Jupiter’s moons like scattered seeds. Sinistra points her wand at Orion’s belt. “Remember,” she says, “the stars saw magic before we named it.”

Potions, though — Potions is a cold dungeon and a hotter temper. Snape’s voice curls like steam: “There will be no foolish wand-waving.” The cauldron bubbles with asphodel and wormwood. A Gryffindor’s brew turns violet, then orange, then wrong. “Zero,” Snape says, and the word drips slower than Draught of Living Death.

Herbology in Greenhouse Three steams with dragon dung and danger. The Venomous Tentacula lunges at Neville; Sprout just laughs, patting its leaves. Mandrakes shriek in their pots — baby ones, mewling. Students stuff wax in their ears, but the vibration still rattles their ribs.

Care of Magical Creatures happens in the Forbidden Forest’s shadow. Hagrid beams as a hippogriff bows to a trembling student. “See? He likes yeh.” The bow is slow, formal, terrifying. Then the leap — wind screaming past — and for one breath, you fly without a broom.