Chapter Text
The chilly night in the dim corridors of Hogwarts, where Atsushi Nakajima, slightly nervous and entirely lost, tries to navigate his way back to the Gryffindor common room. He clutches a book on magical creatures to his chest, the faint glow of his wand casting dancing shadows along the stone walls. Hogwarts at night is eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of floorboards or the distant hoot of an owl.
As Atsushi rounds a corner, his foot catches on something small and solid. He stumbles forward, barely catching himself before he falls flat on his face. Heart racing, he turns around to see what had tripped him. There, lying on the cold stone floor, is a potato.
It isn’t just any potato, though. Atsushi blinks in confusion as he notices that the potato has a face. A very irritated, aristocratic face that glares up at him with a mix of indignation and disdain. For a moment, Atsushi wonders if he’s hallucinating. Surely, potatoes don’t usually have faces, let alone expressions this vivid.
He kneels down for a closer look, the soft glow of his wand illuminating the sharp, pointed features etched into the potato’s surface. There’s a certain air of familiarity about it—something about the way its tiny, carved mouth is twisted into a sneer and its equally small eyes seem to look down on him, despite being an inanimate object on the floor.
Before Atsushi can make sense of what he’s seeing, the potato shifts. It doesn’t just roll; it moves purposefully, almost like it’s alive. Atsushi jumps back with a startled yelp, the book slipping from his grasp and thudding to the ground.
The potato lets out a sound. Atsushi’s ears don’t deceive him—it speaks. The words are clipped and haughty, dripping with annoyance, and Atsushi can only stare in bewilderment as he realizes that this isn’t just a potato. It’s a very angry potato.
Atsushi doesn’t know it yet, but he has just stumbled upon Draco Malfoy, cursed and transformed into his current tuberous state. And Draco, being who he is, isn’t about to let this chance encounter pass without some dramatic complaints about his predicament.
Atsushi concludes he must be seen things due to the hunger he was feeling. Maybe he should make some french fries out of this spud. While monologuing this thought he subconsciously picked up the spud only to make his ears bleed with the screeching voice coming out of the inanimate yet still alive potato.
"Oh, brilliant. As if being a potato wasn't bad enough, now I got you staring at me like this. Do you think this is funny? You imbecile!"
Atsushi stared at the talking potato in his hands, utterly bewildered. The fact that it had a face was unsettling enough, but the sharp, aristocratic tone in its voice was what truly left him at a loss. He hadn’t said a word since picking it up, unsure if he was supposed to talk back to a vegetable.
The potato, however, had no such hesitation. It wasted no time launching into a tirade, scolding Atsushi for “handling him so clumsily” and lamenting his current state as if the young wizard was personally responsible for it.
"And what's with you grabbing me from my forehead like this huh?! Do you have any idea who I am?” the potato demanded, its tiny, carved mouth curling into a sneer. “I am Draco Malfoy. Not that you’d understand the significance of that, given your clear lack of decorum.”
Atsushi blinked, his brain struggling to process the information. Draco Malfoy? That name sounded vaguely familiar. One of the Slytherin students, right? But—why was he a potato? Atsushi’s confusion must have been obvious because the potato heaved an exaggerated sigh, its expression shifting to one of theatrical exasperation.
“You’re not very bright, are you?” Draco continued. “I’ve been cursed! Turned into this… this thing! And now I’m at the mercy of someone like you. Merlin, the indignity of it all!”
Atsushi’s instincts told him to apologize, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, cradling the potato more carefully. “I didn’t mean to trip over you. I just—uh, I’ve never seen a talking potato before.”
Draco rolled his eyes—an impressive feat for a potato—and muttered something about “ignorant Gryffindors” under his breath. Atsushi decided not to speak.
“Well?” Draco snapped after a moment of silence. “Don’t just stand there gawking! Do something! Take me to someone who can reverse this spell. Surely even someone of your… limited abilities can manage that.”
Atsushi frowned, feeling a pang of irritation at the insult, but he pushed it aside. This was a magical school, after all. Weird things happened all the time, didn’t they? Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was going to be far more complicated than Draco was making it sound.
“I’ll—um—I’ll try to help,” Atsushi said hesitantly. “But I don’t even know where to start. Maybe Professor Dumbledore—”
“Dumbledore?” Draco cut him off with a horrified gasp. “Absolutely not! The last thing I need is that meddling old man knowing about this. My reputation is bad enough without adding ‘potato incident’ to the list.”
Atsushi opened his mouth to argue but decided against it. He was already holding a talking potato; arguing with it felt like a step too far. Instead, he nodded meekly and began to walk, still cradling Draco like some bizarre treasure. As he moved, the potato continued to mutter indignantly, criticizing Atsushi’s slow pace and lack of decisiveness.
For Atsushi, this was shaping up to be one of the strangest nights he’d ever had at Hogwarts. And knowing his luck, it was only going to get stranger.
Atsushi is about to learn that life at Hogwarts is far stranger than anything he’s encountered before.