Chapter Text
The Hogwarts Express was, as usual, running fifteen minutes behind schedule, which is exactly how the universe likes it. If something at Hogwarts ever arrived on time, the Ministry would probably declare a magical anomaly and quarantine the entire platform.
Oscar Piastri leaned against the wall of the Prefects’ compartment, reading the same sentence in - Magical Hierarchies and How to Ignore Them - for the fourth time.
It still made no sense.
“Is that the world’s driest book, or are you just pretending to study so I don’t ask you about my Potions homework?” came Lando Norris’ voice from the doorway.
Oscar didn’t look up. “Can’t it be both?”
Lando flopped onto the seat opposite him, sprawling like a starfish in a school robe. Paul Aron followed, looking like he regretted every choice that led to befriending these two. He sat beside Oscar, who nodded in solidarity.
Arthur Leclerc arrived last, his Gryffindor tie already loosened, Prefect badge barely hanging on.
“Did you lot know they’ve got Max Verstappen as a guest lecturer this year?”
Oscar blinked. “Who told you that?”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “The actual timetable pinned to the actual corridor?”
Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, the Max Verstappen? The one who yelled at the Wizengamot for twenty-three minutes straight about wand legislation?”
“The very one,” Paul added, looking vaguely concerned. “Also the one who cursed a Romanian journalist into temporary illiteracy.”
“He called it an educational intervention,” Oscar muttered, flipping a page.
Lando looked far too excited.
“This is going to be great. I bet he doesn’t even do lesson plans. Just walks in, growls something about theory, and launches into a monologue about why curses should be taught to first-years.”
Arthur smirked. “You say that like you don’t want that to happen.”
Oscar looked up for the first time. “Just… don’t provoke him, alright?”
Lando narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Why do you sound like you know him?”
Oscar paused. “He’s... just kind of famous. You read the Prophet, right?”
Lando gave him a look that said: I use the Prophet to line owl cages.
Paul rolled his eyes.
“Anyway,” Arthur said, changing the subject before things got too weird, “we’ve also got Nico Rosberg for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
There was a collective groan.
“Didn’t he once duel his own reflection?” Paul asked.
“And lose,” Oscar confirmed.
The conversation derailed beautifully into a spirited debate about whether Rosberg had actually survived a banshee attack or if he’d just been screamed at by a ghost with opinions. Arthur bet a Chocolate Frog on the latter.
The train rattled on.
***
The feast was the usual magical chaos - candles floating, ghosts drifting through the mashed potatoes, Headmaster Lewis Hamilton giving a speech that was half poetry and half motivational poster. Something about “harmony in diversity” and “trusting the broom beneath you.”
“Did he just quote his autobiography?” Lando whispered. “Again?”
“He’s consistent,” Oscar said.
Lewis, ever stylish in deep purple robes embroidered with a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle doing the Macarena, waved his hands to introduce the staff. Familiar faces stood and nodded politely - Professor Vowles from Charms, Professor Vasseur from Transfiguration…
“And this year, we are honored to welcome two guest lecturers in the area of magical warfare and magical history,” Lewis said, beaming. “From the International Institute of Magical Research, Max Verstappen.”
Max stood, nodding once. The hall went silent.
He looked precisely like someone who hadn’t planned on being introduced at dinner, in sleek dark robes and a jawline sharp enough to cut through dragonhide. He surveyed the room like he was calculating which table would annoy him the least.
He sat back down. The Hufflepuff table exhaled collectively.
Oscar kept chewing his roast chicken like nothing happened.
Arthur, next to him, whispered, “Still not going to mention it?”
Oscar shrugged. “They never asked.”