Dealing with Howlers

For the most part, nothing was out of the ordinary at the Ravenclaw table. Most of the students were exchanging riddles and logic puzzles, studying, or eating as quickly as possible so they could go to the library. A spirited debate had broken out over whether fire could be put in a barrel to make it lighter--the argument involved magnetic fields, fireproofing spells, and the density of smoke--and a few Muggle-borns were eating a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans and keeping careful records of the color and flavor of each one, sorting them into “edible,” “technically,” and “not even food.” One row on the table, marked “medium green,” contained “lime,” “overcooked broccoli,” and “grass.”

Ravenclaws deserve their reputation for dottiness.

William Hanley, a mousey-haired boy with wide eyes and singed eyebrows that lent themselves as much to an “I’VE GOT IT oh, no, why is it ticking?!” expression as to a mischievous grin, was the clearest outlier. He was sitting at the end of the table nearest the windows, fairly close to a third year who had just unintentionally claimed that burning objects made them heavier and was making a surprisingly good argument. William twirled his wand like a baton with his right hand while his left hand tapped out a complicated rhythm with a quill. Every few seconds, he glanced toward the holes in the roof.

Three...two...one...now.

The first few owls soared in, followed quickly by an entire flock. They swooped down over the tables, dropping letters and packages into students’ laps. William’s quill accelerated. Had that featherhead gotten lost?

A large sooty gray owl landed on his head, dropped a red envelope onto his plate, and nibbled his ear.

“TOPPER!” William fell backwards off the bench. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the envelope and running for the windows.

He nearly skittered to a halt, but ended up running straight into the glass. He didn’t seem to care. He stumbled back, holding up the envelope, which was smoking at the edges.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” The Howler flew out the window. A quick wand flick, and it went zooming down into the lake. William waited apprehensively for a moment, then turned back toward the table with a grin.

“And that, my friends, is how to deal with a Howler!” He bowed.

The letter, now folded into a paper airplane, streaked back through the window and hit him in the back of the head.

“I AM SICK AND TIRED OF YOUR CONSTANT TRICKS--”

William had to endure nearly a week of weird looks before his hair even began to grow back. Practical jokes were his specialty, not hair-regrowing spells.