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Viktor watched Tom draped over the back of the chair like a lovesick rug, eyes glued to Madam Rosmerta as she bustled behind the bar.
He shook his head helplessly, then turned back to the professors and dove into a discussion about night patrol tricks for rounding up wandering students.
Meanwhile, Tom—seeing Rosmerta finally catch a break—yanked off his hunting outfit in one dramatic motion and reappeared in full Western cowboy gear: hat, boots, spurs, the works.
He trotted right up to her, tipped his hat with exaggerated gallantry, and produced a bouquet of impossibly vivid, dew-kissed roses from thin air.
Rosmerta accepted them with a delighted laugh.
Tom immediately reached up, tipped back his cowboy hat… and somehow pulled a ukulele out of nowhere.
He strummed a few tender chords, gazing up at her with pure adoration.
Then—thumb flick—a cigarette appeared mid-air. Tom caught it in his mouth, inhaled deeply in one cartoonish drag, and exhaled a perfect stream of smoke.
The smoke twisted and curled in front of Rosmerta, forming first a cheerful "Howdy, ma'am!"… then morphing into a perfect, pulsing heart.
As the last note of the song faded, Tom blew out one final plume.
The smoke shaped itself into a tiny arrow—and pierced straight through the heart.
The entire pub erupted.
Rosmerta clapped enthusiastically.
Every student in the Three Broomsticks joined in—whistles, cheers, applause.
Emboldened, Tom went full showman.
He produced a cello next, drew out a long, yearning love ballad.
Under the adoring stares of the students and Rosmerta's charmed smile, he cycled through every instrument in the book: trumpet, saxophone, drums, xylophone, guitar, accordion…
The grand finale?
All at once.
Limbs blurring, he played a one-cat symphony—trumpet in one paw, violin under his chin, drums kicked by his hind legs, everything somehow in perfect harmony.
When the last triumphant note rang out, the pub exploded again.
Tom took a deep, theatrical bow—hat swept low—basking in the roar.
Viktor, clapping along with the professors, leaned over and muttered dryly, "I've never gotten this kind of performance. Not even once."
After three full personal symphonies (and endless cheers), Viktor finally dragged one utterly spent, flattened Tom away from his adoring public and back to Hogwarts with the rest of the staff.
Back at the castle, Viktor didn't head to his quarters.
Instead he carried the limp, pancake-shaped Tom straight to the library.
He found a sunny spot by a tall window, spread Tom out flat across the table like a cat-shaped rug, and left him there to recover.
Then he headed into the Restricted Section.
After a quick scan he pulled down a thick volume on human Transfiguration—specifically a casebook of failures and their causes.
The cover showed a wizard whose head kept morphing into different animal skulls in an endless, grotesque cycle.
Inside were illustrations that definitely belonged in the adult section.
Everything from partial transformations gone horribly wrong to full-body disasters.
Viktor flipped pages with professional interest—occasionally wincing, occasionally nodding in fascination.
Some stories were almost legendary.
Like the one from decades ago, during Grindelwald's rise.
A wizard publicly denounced Grindelwald's brutality.
Instead of killing him, Grindelwald used devastating human Transfiguration to turn the man's head into that of a pig.
The wizard still refused to break.
He became a frontline voice against the war—speaking not just to wizards, but urging Muggles to end the fighting too.
At one point he somehow acquired a bright red aeroplane.
He flew it over European battlefields, buzzing between fighter pilots, forcing dogfights to break off.
His legend spread through the Muggle world too—whispers of a strange red plane that appeared from nowhere to stop bloodshed.
There were also practical tips scattered among the horror stories.
Fine-tuning one's own organs, shifting viscera to protect them, using forced human Transfiguration to temporarily seal Dark Magic wounds…
Viktor rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Looked like he needed to put more work into Transfiguration.
Most of the truly powerful wizards he knew were masters of it—even Grandpa Newt had developed impressive skill thanks to his deep understanding of magical creature anatomy.
He jotted down the key techniques on a scrap of parchment.
"Professor Viktor."
He'd just set the quill down when a quiet voice called his name.
Viktor looked up.
A small witch with bushy hair and faint shadows under her eyes stood in front of him, clutching a massive tome to her chest like a shield. She looked painfully nervous.
"Hello. Can I help you?"
"Professor Viktor, my name is Hermione Granger. I… I have some questions I'd like to ask you."
Viktor's brow lifted slightly.
So this was Harry—Harley's—external brain.
The posture, the book, the anxious-but-determined expression—textbook overachiever.
"Of course. Answering student questions is part of the job."
"It's about… one of my friends. Um. She was preparing potion ingredients late at night and suddenly heard strange sounds. But the other wizard with her didn't hear anything."
Viktor immediately knew who "she" was.
Harley.
"Being able to hear sounds no one else can—if your friend isn't just hallucinating from lack of sleep—there are a few possibilities."
"First: the sound is coming from inside her own body, or even her soul. Only she can perceive it."
"Second: someone is using a targeted spell to send the sound to her alone."
"Third: she might possess a rare innate talent or sensitivity others don't have."
"Fourth—and this is quite common with potion work—the ingredients or books themselves could be reacting to her magic, producing unusual noises."
"Certain improperly processed materials, or specific enchanted texts, can make strange sounds when exposed to a witch or wizard's magic. Like this."
Under Hermione's wide, curious eyes, Viktor raised his wand and tapped the book he'd been reading.
A furry dog paw immediately thrust itself out of the pages.
It scrabbled wildly at the air, claws flexing, trying to drag something—or someone—inside.
Hermione gasped, stepping back instinctively.
Viktor gave a small, wry smile.
"See? Not everything in the Restricted Section is quiet."