Thick of it : reboot

James sat beside the Black Lake, the water lapping gently at the shore, a spellbook propped open beside him. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the grounds, and in the distance, the sounds of students laughing and chatting carried through the air.

But James wasn't paying attention to any of that. His mind was elsewhere.

That fight with the troll… I barely did anything to it. My spells weren't strong enough. I need more firepower. Proper firepower.

He took a deep breath, gripping his wand firmly. "Right, then. Let's start small."

Pointing his wand at a patch of damp grass, he muttered, "Incendio." A controlled burst of flame shot from the tip, flickering for a few moments before fizzling out.

James frowned. "Alright, good. But this? This wouldn't even warm up a particularly stubborn teapot, let alone deal with a troll. If this was a game, that would've been a measly -1 HP."

He shook his head. "I need more."

He tightened his grip, focusing harder this time, pushing more intent into the spell. "Incendio!"

This time, the flame that erupted was hotter, brighter—it lasted longer before fading into the air.

James grinned. "Ohhh, now we're getting somewhere. Let's push this a bit further."

He adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders. Alright, let's think… If I were an arsonist, how would I do this?

A slightly manic grin crept onto his face. He imagined a torrent of flames spewing from his wand, consuming everything in his path. The thrill of destruction. The sheer power of it.

And then—

FWOOOOSH!

The fire roared to life, much larger than before. It surged from his wand like a living creature, twisting and dancing wildly in the air. The heat licked at his robes, and James felt an intoxicating rush.

"Yes… Art…"

Then, very quickly, he realised something was wrong.

The fire wasn't stopping.

His wand trembled in his grip, flames still pouring from the tip. His robes began to smoulder. The sudden heat made his vision swim, and a lightheaded feeling washed over him.

"Bloody hell—Finite Incantatem!"

Nothing happened.

He tried again. Still nothing.

The fire was not stopping.

"Ah. That's… less than ideal."

Panic set in as the flames licked at his sleeve. Oh, brilliant. I've gone and set myself on fire. That's a new one.

With no other option, James turned on his heel and hurled himself straight into the lake.

With a loud splash, the flames were instantly extinguished, and a wave of cool relief washed over him. He surfaced a moment later, coughing and spluttering, his robes now soaked but mercifully not on fire.

Meanwhile, on the shore, Ron and Harry had been watching the entire spectacle unfold. They had started shouting the moment James' flames went wild, but he had been too caught up in his spell to hear them.

Now, as James waded out of the water, dripping wet and looking thoroughly miserable, Ron was the first to speak.

"Merlin's beard, mate! You were this close to getting yourself roasted like a Christmas goose!"

Harry gave him a once-over. "Are you alright?"

James coughed, shaking water from his sleeves before inspecting his wand hand. His fingers felt a bit raw, slightly pink from the heat, but nothing looked too damaged. "Just my hand. Nothing Pomfrey can't sort out."

From a little way off, Neville and Seamus came running up, both looking alarmed.

"We saw fire!" Neville blurted out, eyes wide.

"And then we saw you on fire," Seamus added helpfully. "That was wicked!"

"Not the word I'd use," James muttered, wringing out his sleeve.

Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you to Madam Pomfrey before you end up with your first set of wizard burns."

Harry . "I really wish Hermione was here right now."

James groaned. "Don't mention her right now."

Ron smirked. "Missed your chance, mate. For once, it's not me getting my ear chewed off for nearly dying in a dumb way."

James gave him a deadpan look. "Ron. I was on fire. Pretty sure I already suffered enough."

Ron snorted. 

With that, the group began making their way back up to the castle .

The warm glow of candlelight flickered across the enchanted ceiling as the professors of Hogwarts sat gathered around the long staffroom table, the faint crackling of the fireplace filling the space between their conversations. Outside, the castle grounds were dusted with snow, the windows fogged up from the chill of winter creeping in.

Professor McGonagall sat stiffly, her lips pursed as she sipped her tea. Across from her, Snape leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his expression as unreadable as ever. Flitwick sat perched on a stack of cushions to be level with the table, occasionally nodding along, while Madam Pomfrey looked thoroughly unimpressed with whatever discussion had just taken place.

Dumbledore, of course, sat at the head of the table, his ever-present twinkle in his eye as he listened to the back-and-forth of his staff.

The meeting had started as a simple review of student progress before the Christmas holidays. Naturally, it had devolved into a polite disagreement.

"Draco Malfoy," McGonagall said sharply, adjusting her glasses. "That boy has been nothing but an insufferable nuisance in my Transfiguration class—"

Snape immediately cut in, voice smooth and clipped. "Malfoy is simply a confident young wizard, Minerva. He has been raised to understand the importance of ambition and asserting oneself. I hardly think that qualifies as a nuisance."

McGonagall gave him a dry look. "He tried to hex a student in my classroom for breathing too loudly, Severus."

Snape merely arched a brow. "And?"

Before McGonagall could give him a piece of her mind, he smoothly changed the topic.

"If we are to discuss favouritism," Snape sneered, his dark eyes narrowing, "shall we address how you so graciously allowed Potter to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team as Seeker? In his first year, no less. A blatant disregard for first-year rules."

McGonagall sat straighter, her nostrils flaring slightly. "Potter has proven himself worthy of the position, I'll have you know. He won us our first match! Natural talent should not be squandered just because some rules are outdated."

Snape scoffed. "Oh yes, natural talent. How convenient."

Dumbledore, who had been quietly enjoying a sherbet lemon during their exchange, finally cleared his throat, effectively redirecting the conversation. "My dear colleagues, while I find your debates quite spirited, let us not forget that the Christmas holidays are upon us. Tis' the season of goodwill, is it not?"

McGonagall exhaled through her nose, clearly reigning in her irritation, while Snape gave a barely perceptible sneer but said no more.

Seeing the tension ease, McGonagall took the opportunity to shift the conversation. "Speaking of students who actually follow rules, I must say, Miss Granger has been nothing short of exemplary. Top marks in every subject, excellent discipline—"

Snape, who had barely recovered from the last topic, let out a soft huff. "A delight, I'm sure. If only her constant need to correct her peers wasn't so insufferable."

Flitwick chuckled. "I think it's rather charming. She's eager to learn! A true Ravenclaw spirit, that one."

Snape, unimpressed, simply moved on. "If you wish to discuss students who give me headaches, Weasley should be at the top of the list. The boy nearly blew up half my classroom last week."

Pomfrey took this as her cue to speak, crossing her arms. "Speaking of reckless students, we need to talk about James Dawson."

Dumbledore's interest visibly piqued at the new name.

Flitwick beamed. "Ah, young Dawson! Truly a joy to teach! The way he thinks about magic—it's not just spellwork to him, you know. He wants to understand it. A rare quality in a student so young."

Pomfrey, however, was not smiling. "And yet, I've already seen him in my hospital wing twice for injuries sustained while—surprise, surprise—recklessly practising magic. He nearly set himself on fire by the lake!"

McGonagall stiffened. "What?"

Pomfrey shot James's Head of House a pointed look. "Oh yes. Nearly cooked himself alive. If he hadn't jump in lake, we might have had a very different situation on our hands."

Dumbledore turned his gaze to Snape, who had remained silent throughout this exchange. The Potions Master tapped his fingers on the table before sighing.

"Why the Sorting Hat placed him in Gryffindor is beyond me."

A voice beside them huffed indignantly.

"I heard that, you know," the Sorting Hat grumbled from its usual spot near the fireplace. "The boy could have gone into any house, had he wanted to. He's mature beyond his years, understands the value of all houses, and—most importantly—he chose Gryffindor."

Snape gave the hat a dry look. "Clearly, a questionable decision."

Still, she sighed, rubbing her temple before speaking again. "I admit, he is… competent. But reckless. He has intelligence, but rather than acting with patience, he dives into things headfirst." 

Snape glanced briefly at McGonagall. "Remind you of anyone?"

McGonagall's lips twitched slightly, though she said nothing.

Then, to everyone's surprise, Snape continued. "Still… the boy is not entirely without sense. His upbringing has made him far more independent than most his age. I recall our first meeting—"

He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "An orphan, yet… strangely well-adjusted. And Arthur Pennyworth—his caretaker—" Snape's brow furrowed slightly. "A man I admit I hold some respect for."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at this, clearly intrigued. "Arthur must be quite the individual if you're offering him praise, Severus."

Snape merely hummed noncommittally.

Seeing an opening, Sprout took the opportunity to speak about some of her Hufflepuffs .

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well more you interact with story more consistent i would be .