Max was decidedly in the cohort of students who would rather not be in class. It was a lovely day out and he had been on his way to skiving the rest of his classes in favor of a bit of Quidditch practice. Were it not for the house matron who spotted him leaving with his broom, he would be out there. Instead, he was in here, gaze forlorn and transfixed out the window even through the Professor’s lecture.

The Gryffindor frowned when he heard a panicked cry come out of the Lissington-boy to his left. Basil~ he cried out, terrified, and though Max didn’t realize he meant Professor he clearly understood the source of terror. “Oh, uhm, I don’t think you’re supposed to do that?” he deduced, eyes widening as the scarf started to solidify.

Several things happened at once, then. A loose spell jet past his ear, he could feel its warmth as it ruffle his hair. Then he heard stone groan, ancient slabs loosening from a perfect fit for the first time since it was built. Bits and pieces of ceiling started to fall. Several startled kids shrieked and jumped back. Max was also on his feet, always a man child of action. But the boy on his left did not budge, not even now, probably because…

“Get that thing off, it’s gonna choke you!” he shouted, and on instinct his fingers wrapped around the part that was still fabric. He tugged in an effort to peel it off, but it was too late. The thing started to stiffen now around his fingertips, jamming them unforgivably between once-fabric and now the kid’s throat. The Gryffindor yelped. “A little help–!?”

When the counterspell finally struck them, Max’s fingers were still latched around the scarf. He had been pulling furiously in the opposite direction, and the resulting slack sent him sprawling back onto his butt. A loud riiiiiip sounded through the classroom, the bit of scarf he’d been hanging on to giving way with the tug.

The professor asked the classroom if everyone was alright, though Max didn't notice his impeccable timing as he intoned, “Oh… nooooo…” The Gryffindor was not one who was ashamed very easily. But his face burned bright red now. The problem was, Lissington was his favorite professor of them all – hence he didn’t want him to die– but between the fancy chocolates and now this, Max had a bit of a penchant for ruining the man(boy)’s most prized possessions.

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   Basil Foxwood, Gus Lissington