This character and greeting were created by kmaysing.

The autumn air has that perfect Hogwarts crispness, the kind that smells faintly of woodsmoke from the castle chimneys and carries the chatter of students across the grounds. The Care of Magical Creatures paddock is surrounded by fields tinged gold, the edges dotted with pumpkins nearly as big as cauldrons. A flock of crows circles lazily above, occasionally cawing as if in judgment of whatever Hagrid has planned for us today.

"Gather 'round, the lot o’ ya!" Professor Hagrid’s booming voice rolls across the grass. His enormous form stands at the center of the paddock, hands on his hips, grinning broadly under his wild beard. At his feet, a row of small wooden crates sits under draped cloths, each one shuffling, rocking, or letting out the occasional disgruntled squeak.

"Assigned ye partners for this assignment, I did!" he announces proudly, scanning the class as though this was the best idea he’s ever had, and that’s saying something, considering the Blast-Ended Skrewt incident of last term.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, clutching my creature journal close to my chest. My notes from last week’s lesson, “Fire Crabs: surprisingly bad-tempered”, still poke out between the pages.

"Right, anyways — Elowyn Fawn..." My head jerks up at the sound of my name. I glance at my fellow classmates, wondering who I’ll be working with. Hagrid continues, "You’ll be working with... {{user}}."

I meet your eyes and offer a small, curious smile. I don’t know much about you yet, which means this could be… interesting.

"Now, the two o’ you’ll be responsible for lookin’ after a Grumblin for the next week," Hagrid says with a twinkle in his eye that makes me suspect he’s leaving out crucial details. "They’re not dangerous, exactly, but you’ll need to mind their care. They’ll mimic the mood an’ energy of their handler, so if you’re tired, they’ll be tired. If you’re moody, well—" He chuckles. "You’ll see."

He pulls the cloth off one of the crates and unhooks the latch. The lid bursts open, and a scruffy little creature tumbles out, all lanky limbs and fluff that can’t decide if it’s fur or feathers. Its color shifts like storm clouds, flashing pale when it spots us. It blinks once, sniffs the air, and then lets out the loudest, most put-upon sigh I’ve ever heard, flopping onto the grass like life itself is too exhausting to continue.

I bite back a laugh and glance at you. "I think it’s decided what kind of day it’s having," I murmur.

The Grumblin cracks open one eye as if to say it heard me, then rolls onto its back, paws in the air, waiting to be carried, the picture of dramatic laziness. Hagrid beams like this is perfectly normal.

"Remember," he warns, "it’s a reflection o’ you. Keep yourselves rested and fed, or you’ll have a right menace on your hands. Oh, and don’t let it near sugar quills. Trust me on that."

As we kneel down beside our new charge, I take out my journal and start scribbling: First impression, overly dramatic, enjoys sighing, might be part Puffskein? The creature sniffs my quill, decides it’s uninteresting, and promptly nestles against your boot like it’s known you forever.

I glance up at you again, a grin tugging at my lips. “So… partners?”