Invisible String | TVD x WIZARDING WORLD

IN WHICH HELL HAS THREE HEADS AND THEY ALL DROOL

Dear Diary,
Let's make one thing clear.
I did not sign up to be part of a secret underground mission involving monsters, mystery objects, and professors who have never heard of shampoo. I came to Hogwarts to learn a bit of magic, maybe stir some potions, dramatically slam books shut in the library like I'm in a cinematic trailer. You know—normal wizard school stuff. But instead, I ended up as a full-time member of the "Why Are We Like This?" Squad.
Because apparently, being best friends with Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley is less "study group" and more "oops, we uncovered a deadly secret again and no adult believes us."
To be honest, I should've seen it coming. The four of us had already done some highly suspicious bonding: late-night sneaking, mildly illegal spellwork, helping Hagrid hide things that probably should not be alive, and getting in trouble so frequently that Filch probably had a whole filing cabinet labeled "Potter, Weasley, Granger, and Salvatore: Perpetual Headaches."
And tonight? Tonight was a new low. Or high. Depends if you measure adventure by how close you come to being eaten alive by magical monstrosities.
"Why are we doing this again?" I asked, teetering dramatically on the edge of a moving staircase, heart in my throat, sarcasm set to maximum.
"Because Snape's up to something," Harry whispered, like that explained literally everything.
"Right," I replied. "Naturally. When in doubt, stalk a teacher who looks like he bathes in expired potion ingredients. That always ends well."
"We're not stalking," Hermione said, doing that face where she looks like she's about to quote twelve books at once. "We're investigating."
"Oh yes," I muttered. "And next we'll be opening a detective agency. Should we get matching hats? Trench coats? An owl assistant?"
Ron snorted. "Only if mine says 'Brilliant But Scared.'"
Harry grinned. "Yours would say 'Snack Thief Extraordinaire.'"
We all laughed. Because that's what you do when you're heading straight toward a door that probably violates seventeen safety regulations and should've had warning signs in six languages, a chain lock, and a magical voice screaming, "TURN BACK NOW, YOU ABSOLUTE MORONS."
Spoiler alert: it didn't.
Harry pushed the door open.
And I... I would like to publicly announce that I screamed internally. Maybe externally. Jury's still out. Probably both.
Inside, looming over the trapdoor like it owned the real estate and collected rent in nightmares, was a creature that absolutely did not belong in a school filled with eleven-year-olds still learning how to use wands without poking their eyes out.
A dog.
A giant, three-headed, drooling dog.
Each head was the size of a troll's behind, all snarling and snoring in terrifying harmony. And the smell? Imagine moldy socks, rotting meat, a wet dragon, and despair had a lovechild. That was Fluffy.
"Oh my God," I whispered. "It's Cerberus's inbred cousin."
"It's a Cerberus," Hermione whispered. Because of course she knew. "A three-headed dog from Greek mythology."
"Cool cool cool," I said, backing up very slowly. "Do you think it's friendly? Like... enjoys belly rubs? Fetch? Gets along with cats?"
Ron stared. "What is it guarding?"
"Well," Harry said, because being brave and reckless is apparently a full-time personality, "I think it's guarding... that."
He pointed.
Beneath it's dinner-plate-sized paws was a massive wooden trapdoor.
"Brilliant," I said. "So not only does our school have murder vines and ghosts with emotional baggage, but now it has a three-headed hellbeast guarding a secret hole in the floor."
"Shh!" Hermione hissed. "We need to leave before it wakes—"
It stirred. One head snorted. Another growled. The third opened one terrifying yellow eye.
"RUN!" I screeched, and we bolted like someone had cast a 'butts-on-fire' charm.
Back in the corridor, panting and wheezing and trying to recover our dignity, we collapsed behind a suit of armor. I clutched my chest like a Victorian heroine about to faint dramatically.
"Great," I said. "I almost died. Again. You know, I was promised charm lessons, not mortal peril and surprise Cerberuses."
"That was Fluffy," Harry said between gasps. "Hagrid told me about him. He said... he said Fluffy's harmless if you know how to calm him down."
"Let me guess," I said. "A lullaby? A cup of tea? Maybe a warm blanket and a bedtime story?"
"He said something about music," Harry replied.
"Oh. Of course. Because nothing tames a bloodthirsty monster like a bit of Bach."
Hermione looked thoughtful. "It's guarding something. And judging by the effort, it must be important. Which means—"
"—someone wants it," Harry finished.
"Snape," Ron said, frowning like he was auditioning for a murder mystery.
I threw my hands up. "Here we go again. Look, I dislike the man's entire aesthetic and vibe, but do we really think he's trying to steal something from under a literal monster? That's... ambitious, even for him."
"Did you see him limping last week?" Ron said. "He was definitely injured."
"And he's been acting weird since the Gringotts break-in," Harry added.
"Apparently," Hermione said. "And it explains why Dumbledore's being so secretive."
I groaned. "So what do we do? Tell a teacher? Oh wait, that worked so well last time."
"We figure it out ourselves," Harry said.
"Because that's gone well," I said, throwing my arms in the air like a conductor of doom. "Let's just keep hurtling toward catastrophe with the power of friendship and poorly thought-out plans!"
Ron grinned. "Best first year ever."
"Oh absolutely," I deadpanned. "We're thriving. Mentally stable. Not traumatized at all."
We shuffled back to the common room, whispering theories like overcaffeinated conspiracy theorists. I caught Hermione giving Harry one of her "serious thoughts brewing" looks, and I knew she was thinking what I was thinking: this wasn't just some secret school shenanigan. This was big. Possibly historical. Definitely dangerous.
And somehow, we'd just signed up to be the smallest, least qualified task force in Hogwarts history.
I collapsed onto the common room sofa like it owed me an apology. Ron flopped into a chair, limbs everywhere, and Harry paced like a stressed-out professor. Hermione had already pulled out a quill. Classic.
"Okay," I announced. "If we're doing this, we're doing this my way."
"Oh no," Ron muttered. "Here she goes."
"First," I said, ticking points off on my fingers, "we need intel. Library raid. Hermione's in charge of all things involving books and logic. Second, we tail Snape. Harry's got stealth mode. Third, we interrogate Hagrid. Someone has to find out why he named a monster Fluffy of all things."
"And what are you doing?" Hermione asked, raising a brow.
"Supervising. Sarcastically. Maybe saving your lives. Again."
They laughed, and just like that, the fear took a backseat to excitement.
We were four kids in pajamas, plotting against dark forces, possibly the end of the world—and doing it like it was just another after-dinner project.
Because that's what best friends do. We ride or die. We scream and scheme. We fight killer dogs and suspect our teachers of villainy. You know. Casual Hogwarts things.
And I had a feeling that this ridiculous, terrifying, amazing story was only just getting started.