Likely Normal

While Hogwarts churns out Chosen Ones and professional Quidditch players, the real wizarding workforce trains at institutions like Frogwarts School of Janitorial Wizardry, where students don’t chase glory—they chase the enchanted equivalent of gum wads off the undersides of desks. Here, the sorting hat assigns you to one of four noble houses: Scrubbers, Dustbusters, Sanitizers, or That One Group That Always Forgets to Refill the Paper Towels. The curriculum is rigorous: first-years spend weeks mastering the difference between Scourgify (basic cleaning) and Scourgify Maxima (for when a Hufflepuff attempts “baking” in the dormitories), while advanced students train to handle biohazards like improperly stored potion ingredients or whatever unspeakable thing the Forbidden Forest tracked into the lavatories.

Quidditch? Please. Frogwarts’ premier sport is Bucketball, a brutal tournament where teams duel with mops, defend goals with trash can lids, and inevitably slip on their own suds halfway through the match. The school motto—”Neither Dust Nor Defeat”—hangs proudly over the supply closet, which is, incidentally, the most heavily warded room on campus after some joker from a rival school enchanted all the sponges to scream when wet. Graduates don’t receive wands at commencement; they get industrial-strength rubber gloves and a lifetime subscription to Potion Spill Monthly.

Meanwhile, other vocational magic schools grind away at society’s less glamorous necessities. Over at Hogwash Academy of Magical Plumbing, students learn to unclog Vanishing Cabinets and negotiate with merfolk about “appropriate hair-in-the-drain etiquette.” Bludger State Technical College specializes in Quidditch field maintenance, a program that’s 50% charmwork and 50% learning to dodge rogue Bludgers while muttering, “I told them to reinforce the goalposts.” And let’s not forget the S.P.E.W. Institute for House Elf HR Management, where idealistic graduates quickly realize their degree mostly prepares them to mediate sock-related grievances and explain to wizards that, no, “free labor” isn’t a sustainable business model just because you call it “tradition.”

At the end of the day, these schools keep the wizarding world running while the Aurors take all the credit. So next time you stride across a spotless moving staircase or enjoy a public floo network that doesn’t smell like old fireplace and poor decisions, remember: a janitorial wizard probably made it happen. And if you listen closely, you can almost hear them sighing, “You’re welcome,” as they vanish another pile of Bertie Bott’s wrappers from the corridors.