The next morning's weather was exactly the kind of day that made you seriously question your life choices—especially the ones that involved flying around on a broom in the middle of a torrential downpour. The rain outside the Great Hall was coming down in sheets—and a couple of hailstones for good measure, just to add drama to the already epic scene. If it had been a movie, the soundtrack would've been something dark and ominous—maybe a little Hans Zimmer thrown in for intensity.
Inside the Great Hall, however, the mood was as light as ever. The Gryffindor Quidditch team was assembling around their usual spot at the long table, which meant that breakfast was in full swing. And if there was anything that could get a bunch of wet, soggy wizards through the morning before facing the storm outside, it was definitely food.
Oliver Wood, the Captain and Keeper, was sitting at the head of the table, looking at the window with the intense, unblinking stare of someone who'd just realized they were about to face down a monsoon in a game of Quidditch. He was a man who had always taken Quidditch a bit too seriously, and this weather wasn't about to ruin his day—no way.
"Right, listen up," Oliver growled, voice serious despite the fact that it was just breakfast. "We've trained for worse conditions. If we can survive this storm, we'll survive anything. Just—no one gets distracted by the rain. It's a distraction, not an excuse." He gave his broomstick a pointed look like it was somehow going to understand what he was saying.
Harry, who was sitting beside him with a slice of toast halfway to his mouth, grinned. "You know, Ollie, I love how you act like we're all going to melt if we get a little wet. It's called rain, not acid from another dimension."
Fred Weasley leaned back, the usual cocky grin on his face, and said, "Yeah, rain is basically a Slytherin's natural habitat, right? If they start whinging about getting wet, I'll just remind them about how they always make excuses. Slicked-back hair? More like slippery-slicked hair."
George snickered from across the table. "Slytherins and rain just don't mix, mate. Their hair's too fancy to survive anything remotely weather-related."
Oliver looked between Harry and the twins with a dramatic sigh. "If you all start getting too cheeky about it, I'll have you doing laps around the pitch before you can say mud. The rain won't matter if we beat Slytherin, though."
"True," Katie Bell said from further down the table. She was cracking her knuckles, clearly not worried about the weather, but more focused on the incoming game. "But have you seen Malfoy's hair? It's basically a walking water-absorbing sponge. I'm gonna aim straight for him with the Quaffle—see if I can give him a new 'do."
Alicia Spinnet burst out laughing. "I'd pay to see that," she said, tossing a roll of bread in the air and catching it without looking. "Honestly, if he even tries to complain about the rain, I'll take the Quaffle and stuff it straight into his mouth."
"Oh, that would be legendary," Harry said, finishing his toast with a wink at Alicia. "Let's just hope he doesn't try to blame it all on his precious broom. You know how it goes—Slytherins and excuses. It's their brand."
Ginny Weasley, who was sitting on the other side of the table, smirked. "Yeah, blame the broom—it's always the broom's fault. Funny how it never seems to be the person riding it, huh?"
"You should've seen Ron's last match against the Slytherins," Jean Grey said from beside him, her gaze flicking over to Ron, who was sulking into his plate, clearly not enjoying his soggy toast. She raised an eyebrow. "It was like watching a cow trying to fly in the rain."
Ron looked up, scowling, as he wiped his nose with a napkin. "Oi, I was doing fine until you started making me do those impossible dives! I'll have you know, I'm a professional, thank you very much." He shot Jean a glare, but Jean wasn't fazed.
"Professional? Mate," Jean shot back, her voice like velvet-coated sarcasm, "I think you're confusing the word 'professional' with 'someone who accidentally flies straight into a tree.'"
Ron growled. "That was one time!"
"Twice," Jean replied, barely a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "Twice. And that was just last week."
Lee Jordan, who was sitting across from Harry and flipping through his notes, piped up. "I think we need a new challenge here: let's see who can stay on their broom the longest without slipping off and crashing into something. I vote we start with Ron, of course."
Ron, looking a little more annoyed, mumbled, "Yeah, sure, that's fun—let me just go grab a wet suit for the match."
"We're flying, not swimming, Ron," Ginny said flatly, her arms crossed as she gave him a pointed look.
"That's what you think," Ron retorted. "If the rain gets any worse, it'll turn the pitch into a swimming pool!"
Harry had to laugh, his grin widening as he caught sight of Jean's raised eyebrow and the mischievous glint in her eyes. He could tell she was just waiting for the right moment to get Ron good, and it was honestly just a matter of time.
"Okay, okay," Fred said, raising his hands like he was the peacekeeper in this whole situation. "We'll all just have to deal with it—Ron's gonna get wet, the Slytherins will cry, and we'll score some goals, alright?"
"Right," George added. "Let's make sure we give Malfoy the most embarrassing Quidditch defeat of his life, alright?"
"That's the spirit!" Fred grinned.
"Just don't forget, no matter how bad it gets," Harry said, raising his cup of pumpkin juice in a mock-toast. "We've survived worse weather, worse conditions, and worse teams. And now we're about to put Slytherin to shame in a downpour. It's practically a Gryffindor tradition."
"Alright, Harry, let's leave the pep talks to Oliver," Ginny said with a roll of her eyes, though a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "We've got this. Rain's just water."
"Spoken like a true Gryffindor," Harry said, winking.
They all laughed, the banter flowing easily around the table. The mood had shifted from soggy despair to the kind of light-hearted confidence that only a team of Gryffindors could muster before facing down a thunderstorm. They were ready for anything, and despite the bad weather outside, they knew the game ahead would be just another reason to show Slytherin exactly why they were the best.
"Alright, let's get out there and win this thing," Oliver said, clapping his hands once for emphasis. He was still the Captain, after all.
And just as the conversation started winding down, the rain outside let out an even louder roar, reminding everyone that they were definitely going to be drenched before this match was over.
But, really? They didn't care. They were Gryffindors. Wet or dry, they were going to crush it.
—
Harry was trying his best to ignore the howling wind outside, still grumbling under his breath about the weather. Honestly, it was like Hogwarts had decided to host an indoor Quidditch match with the wind blowing like a possessed broomstick. It didn't help that Snape was looming nearby, looking like he was one step away from brewing something that would ruin everyone's breakfast.
But the real disaster was McGonagall—McGonagall on a mission was like a hurricane in a tartan cloak. She marched toward the Gryffindor table, her tartan robes rustling like a stern warning. Snape followed her with the grace of a wet cat, his robes practically snarling behind him. They made their way to the team, and Harry felt a chill run down his spine. It was too early for bad news. He could already feel the trouble in the air, like a prelude to a thunderstorm.
McGonagall didn't even bother with the pleasantries. "Gryffindor," she said, cutting through the breakfast chatter like a sword through butter. "I have an update about the Quidditch match today."
Fred and George simultaneously tensed up, their trademark grins fading to an alert, suspicious expression. When McGonagall started with the "update," you knew things weren't going to go well.
"Due to unforeseen circumstances," she continued, her eyes narrowing slightly, "today's match against Slytherin has been postponed. You'll be facing Hufflepuff instead."
There was a collective groan from the team. Ron, who'd already resigned himself to flying in what could only be described as hurricane conditions, muttered something about "badgers with brooms" and "you might as well send in a swarm of angry bees."
But Harry wasn't having it. Not for a second.
Jean, who'd been eyeing McGonagall with the sort of suspicion you reserved for suspiciously glowing potions, raised an eyebrow. "Why, exactly, are we playing Hufflepuff?" she asked, her voice cool but carrying that edge that could cut through Snape's greasy attitude like a butter knife through warm treacle.
"Oh, you see," Snape interjected smoothly, his voice like honey laced with venom, "Draco Malfoy, Slytherin's Seeker, was injured during practice yesterday. A very unfortunate accident."
Harry's eyes flicked toward the Slytherin table, where Draco was sitting, his arm in a sling and his face as theatrically sorrowful as someone auditioning for the role of "most tragic character" in a soap opera. Pansy Parkinson, true to form, was hovering around him like a personal nurse, fussing over him in a way that made Harry's stomach turn.
"I don't buy it," Harry muttered under his breath, leaning toward Jean. "Malfoy's faking it. Probably trying to pull some stunt to get us off our game."
Jean's eyes flicked toward Draco with the sharpness of a hawk. "Let's see if we can't prove that," she said, her voice low but dangerous.
Without a moment's hesitation, Harry grabbed an apple from the table, weighing it in his hand like a Quidditch Quaffle. With a sly grin, he tossed it across the room.
The apple sailed through the air, a perfect arc that could've earned him a spot on the Chudley Cannons as their Seeker. Everyone watched, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Then, in what was probably the most unconvincing "accident" Harry had ever seen, Draco caught the apple. With his supposedly injured arm. The arm that, just moments ago, was "too hurt" to even hold a broom.
The room froze. Absolute silence. Harry didn't even wait for Draco to open his mouth with some pathetic excuse.
"Well, well, well, Malfoy," Harry called, his voice ringing across the hall with that trademark smugness he'd perfected over years of dealing with Draco's nonsense. "You're looking pretty fine for someone with a supposedly broken arm."
The whole room erupted in murmurs. Malfoy, now scarlet in the face, stood up and flailed his good arm around, trying to salvage some dignity. "I—I—I can explain!" he stammered. "My arm's not that bad! Just, uh, really talented!"
"Right," Jean chimed in, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "Because magical talent includes catching apples with a broken arm, doesn't it?"
McGonagall was already striding over to the Slytherin table, her heels clicking with the precision of someone who had lived through one too many nonsense excuses. Snape, who'd been silently fuming from the sidelines, opened his mouth to make some excuse for Draco, but McGonagall cut him off with a look that would've made a basilisk second-guess its life choices.
"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said, her voice a perfect blend of icy authority and barely contained fury. "It seems you've been pretending to be injured for your team's benefit. Care to explain yourself?"
Draco opened his mouth, but all that came out was a squeak of "But I—I wasn't—"
"No, you weren't injured, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall interrupted, her gaze sharpening even further. "In fact, you've been caught in a lie. I'm not finished. You'll serve detention with me for the next week and lose fifty points for Slytherin. As for your little game with the match schedule—" she didn't even let him finish, "The match against Slytherin is back on. You'll be cleaning every broom in the Quidditch locker rooms for your trouble. And I'll make sure your dear teammates get their own special treatment."
Draco's face was the color of a very embarrassed beetroot, and Harry couldn't help but smirk. Jean looked like she was trying her best to keep her cool, but the glint in her eyes gave away the fact that she was enjoying every second of it.
Snape, in classic fashion, stepped forward, his voice like venom dripping from a snake's fangs. "Professor McGonagall, surely we can—"
"No," McGonagall snapped, turning to him with a steely glare that could freeze lava. "You've made your point, Severus. And now you'll excuse me while I finish handling your precious student."
With that, McGonagall turned on her heel, her cloak billowing behind her in the most dramatic exit Harry had ever seen.
As the Slytherins sat in stunned silence, Harry leaned back in his seat, taking another bite of toast. "Well, that was fun," he muttered. "Honestly, Draco should've just stuck with the old 'my arm hurts too much' excuse. At least it would've been more believable."
Jean smirked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Next time, we should just throw a pumpkin at him. Maybe that'll be enough to break his act."
Fred and George, who'd been quietly observing the whole ordeal, high-fived each other. "Best. Breakfast. Ever," Fred said with a grin.
"Agreed," George added. "You guys are the best at making Slytherins squirm."
Ron, who had been too busy digging into his breakfast to pay much attention, finally looked up. "Wait, we're still facing Slytherin, right? Because I was really hoping to see Malfoy try to fly with that 'injury' of his."
"Oh, we're facing Slytherin," Harry confirmed with a wicked grin. "And trust me, the real fun starts now."
The whole team settled back into their breakfast, the tension lifting as McGonagall walked off, her heels echoing behind her like the sound of justice served cold. Harry couldn't help but chuckle. Yeah, today was shaping up to be a great day.
"Alright, Gryffindor," McGonagall's voice cut through the chatter again, this time with a little less edge. "Focus on the game. And for Merlin's sake, don't break anything on your way to the pitch."
"Got it," Harry said, raising his glass of pumpkin juice in a mock salute.
And as the wind outside seemed to calm for a moment, Harry knew one thing for sure: the match against Slytherin was going to be legendary.
—
Back at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy was doing his best impression of someone who hadn't just been completely humiliated in front of the entire school. His arm, snugly tucked in a sling like some sort of sad, limp badge of honor, flopped awkwardly beside him. He was trying, and failing, to look dignified. The only thing dignified about him at this point was the way his face was slowly transforming into a shade of red that made even the Gryffindors feel a little bad for him. But then again, he had it coming, didn't he?
Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis, who could both give Slytherin snakes a run for their money in terms of savage, locked eyes across the table and shared the kind of look that said, "Oh, this is about to be gold." They leaned in toward Draco, and Daphne's voice purred like a cat who'd just caught a particularly juicy mouse.
"You know, Draco," she began, her tone dripping with sweetness, "I almost bought it. You really had us going there with the whole 'tragic Quidditch accident' routine. Almost had me in tears." She fluttered her lashes, clearly enjoying every second of this. "But then, just like that, you're out of the infirmary and back to... what's the word... competing?" Daphne made air quotes around the word, like she was presenting him as some sort of tragic hero.
Tracey Davis, who could make even the most serious moment feel like an episode of a sitcom, added with a mock sigh, "I mean, Draco, I always thought I had bad luck, but you've got it down to an art form. First, you get yourself 'injured,' then miraculously heal up, and now you're impressing us all with your ability to catch apples with an arm that's, what, half-frozen?" She glanced down at his sling. "And here I thought I was the one who needed more practice."
Pansy Parkinson, who had been hovering over Draco like a bulldog guarding its territory, straightened up at this, her nostrils flaring like an angry bull. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, puffing out her chest so far that if she weren't careful, she might start floating away like a hot air balloon.
Tracey leaned back in her seat, totally unbothered. "Oh, nothing, Pansy. Just pointing out how completely unconvincing Draco's whole act was. I mean, come on, we all saw it. Did he fall off the broom or did he just lose control of his arm? Because I'm pretty sure I've seen better performances from a first-year trying to pass off a petrified rat as a 'distracted owl.'"
Daphne gave Pansy a look that was nothing short of lethal. "You know, Pansy," she said, her voice soft and dangerous, "maybe next time you should work on your boyfriend's acting skills before you come running to his rescue. Because if this is how he's going to perform under pressure, well... let's just say I won't be placing any bets on him in the next match."
Draco opened his mouth to retort, but all that came out was a strangled cough as he realized that every single Slytherin within earshot was either outright laughing or trying to suppress it. His face turned an even deeper shade of red, the humiliation settling in like a lead weight.
"Oh, look," Daphne said, her voice sickly sweet, "Malfoy's speechless. Maybe he's just so overcome with emotion that he can't form words." She cast a long, exaggerated glance at his arm, then met his eyes with the kind of look that made him wish he could bury his face in his dinner. "How impressive. I can't wait to hear the story of how you 'bravely' caught that apple with a broken arm. And next time, Draco," she continued, leaning in like she was sharing a secret, "you might want to work on that 'injured' look. It's giving more desperate than *noble.'"
"I don't know, Trace," Daphne said, turning to her friend, "he looks pretty good at playing the injured martyr. But you'd think someone who's spent so much time in the spotlight would know how to handle a little bit of mockery, wouldn't you?"
Tracey smirked. "I'm not sure he's built for that, Daphne. Maybe he needs some more time in the drama club before we see a truly Oscar-worthy performance."
The other Slytherins were fully enjoying the spectacle now, and Pansy was sputtering, her face going through a color gradient that no one could have predicted. It was like watching someone try to keep a balloon in the air without it popping. It was almost tragic.
"You two are so out of line!" Pansy snapped, her voice shaking with the kind of rage that only came from people who didn't know when to back down. "Draco didn't do anything wrong! And just because you two can't take a little bit of—"
"—Reality?" Tracey interjected, cutting her off with a raised eyebrow. "Oh, no. We can handle the truth just fine, Pansy. It's Draco here who seems to have misplaced his understanding of it. Maybe he needs a refresher on what 'injury' actually means." She flicked a glance toward Draco, whose arm was still awkwardly dangling by his side. "Or is it a new fashion statement?"
Pansy opened her mouth to say something, but the words died in her throat when Daphne added, "You know, Pansy, I don't know if I should feel sorry for you or just laugh. Honestly, it's like watching someone defend a sinking ship and pretending it's still floating."
Draco gritted his teeth, his pride now on the verge of snapping. "You two won't get away with this," he muttered, though it was clear he didn't believe it. His voice had the kind of squeak to it that made it sound like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "I'll have the last laugh. You'll see."
Daphne gave him a pitying look, her smile all sharp edges. "Oh, Draco," she said in a tone that could have been an affectionate head pat if it weren't for the mockery dripping from her words, "if you really want to impress us, maybe you should work on your timing. That way, you'll have the last laugh right before you trip over your own feet again."
Tracey grinned. "Yeah, you'll need a better excuse next time. You don't just fall off a broom and end up with a perfectly broken arm that miraculously heals itself."
The Slytherin table erupted into laughter, and Draco finally slumped in defeat, wishing he could literally vanish into thin air. Or, at the very least, hide under the table. He settled for staring at his mashed potatoes with the same intensity one might reserve for an exam they hadn't studied for.
Meanwhile, over at the Gryffindor table, Harry was barely keeping it together. He leaned over to Jean, whose expression was one of cool, collected amusement as she sipped her pumpkin juice.
"I think we've officially broken Malfoy," Harry muttered with a grin, leaning back in his seat. "This is like watching a trainwreck in slow motion. I'm kind of impressed."
Jean smirked, glancing over at the Slytherin table where Draco was slowly shriveling under the weight of his own humiliation. "You know, Harry," she said, her voice low and almost conspiratorial, "I think we could get used to this." She paused, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Who knew Malfoy would make such a great punching bag?"
Harry snorted. "Right? I might start taking notes on how to make someone's life miserable with a single word. I think I could turn this into an art form." He looked over at the Slytherins, still reeling from Daphne and Tracey's latest burns. "Next time, though, I might bring popcorn. This is just too good."
Jean raised her glass. "Cheers to that," she said with a sly smile, and the two of them exchanged a look that said, without words, This is just the beginning.
—
As the Gryffindor table began to empty out, the noise in the hall reached a fever pitch—chattering, laughing, and the occasional "watch where you're pointing that fork!" This was the perfect chaos that defined Hogwarts breakfasts, and it was only made better by the prospect of a Quidditch match. Harry Potter, however, wasn't entirely focused on the flying around with brooms and balls. No, he was too busy enjoying his favorite part of the morning: making Malfoy look like an idiot.
Speaking of which, Cedric Diggory and Susan Bones were heading toward them. Cedric, ever the picture of calm, was looking way too smug for someone who'd just witnessed Draco Malfoy spectacularly implode in front of the entire school. He had that kind of smile that said, I've got a secret—and it's deliciously scandalous.
"Hey, Potter. Jean," Cedric greeted them with a casual nod, his voice as smooth as ever but with an extra sprinkle of sincerity. "We just wanted to say thanks for, well, dealing with Malfoy for us."
Susan, trailing behind him, added with a laugh, "Yeah, seriously. I mean, if you hadn't stepped in, we'd be gearing up to play a Quidditch match in the middle of a hailstorm. You saved us from that catastrophe. I owe you one." Her grin was a little too wide to be entirely professional, but then again, who could blame her?
Harry turned to Jean with a wicked grin on his face. "Saved them from Malfoy, huh?" He rubbed his hands together dramatically. "I feel like we should charge admission for that kind of entertainment. Can't let such a rare, special talent go to waste."
Jean gave him a look that was half a smile, half an eye roll. "Yeah, because Malfoy's inability to act like a human being is totally priceless."
Cedric chuckled, the sound low and almost amused. "I mean, I wasn't expecting the whole dramatic injury routine. Who knew Malfoy was auditioning for a role in The Tragedy of the Pompous Prince?"
Susan snorted. "Honestly, that was a masterpiece of overacting. I'm pretty sure he'll be trying to convince the entire school that he's a victim of some mysterious curse before lunch." Her tone was joking, but there was a genuine look of appreciation in her eyes. "You two really did save us from a nightmare. I don't know how we would've stayed focused if we had to deal with that on top of everything else."
"Well, it's not like we wanted you guys to have to fight weather and Malfoy," Harry said, the sarcasm dripping from his voice like he was reading from a well-worn script. "That'd be cruel and unusual punishment. And I do try to keep things humane, y'know?"
"Yeah," Jean chimed in, smirking. "Besides, there's only so much a team can do when their star player's busy playing injured and pretending to be the second coming of a drama queen."
Cedric laughed, leaning back slightly. "I think 'second coming' might be a bit of an exaggeration. But still, he really did go full-on, 'look at me, I'm the tragic hero.'"
Susan's lips twitched as she tried to hold back another laugh. "I'm just surprised he didn't start weeping for dramatic effect. I half expected him to pull out a violin."
"Honestly," Harry continued, his voice full of mock contemplation, "I was waiting for him to break out the speech about how he was cursed by a long-forgotten relative, then dramatically announce his resignation as the most self-important person in Slytherin." He paused, glancing at Jean, "Though, to be fair, he really did have the 'suffering' part down."
Jean snorted. "It's the only thing he does with any degree of competence."
Cedric grinned, shaking his head. "You two really did take him down a peg. Honestly, we couldn't have handled that situation without you. We've all got enough to worry about with the match, and Malfoy just—well, you know how he is."
Harry shrugged like it was no big deal. "What can I say? It's just another Tuesday in the life of me, really. I'm just here to keep the world from tipping into utter chaos."
Susan rolled her eyes, though the fondness in her smile was undeniable. "You're full of it, you know that?"
"Full of awesome, you mean," Harry corrected her, tapping his chest with a smirk. "And I'm fine with that. Someone has to keep things interesting around here."
"Well, you've definitely done that," Cedric said, his grin widening. "Seriously, thank you. I don't think we'd have been able to stay as focused as we needed to if we were worrying about a weather catastrophe and Malfoy's performance art. You've done Hufflepuff a solid."
Jean raised an eyebrow. "So we're not getting a thank-you gift? No medals for saving your team from total disaster?"
"You're right," Cedric said, his tone mock-dramatic. "We'll get right on that. But first, we should make sure Malfoy isn't plotting to somehow turn the entire match into a disaster."
"Ah, classic Malfoy," Harry said with a grin, leaning back in his seat. "Just when you think he can't outdo himself, he pulls out a new trick. But hey, we've got this in the bag. We'll just go out there, show Slytherin what Gryffindor's really made of." He flashed a wicked grin. "And I'll try not to make him cry too loudly when he gets benched."
Susan chuckled, giving him a thumbs-up. "You've got this. And try not to make Malfoy's humiliation too public. Though, I can't promise we won't be passing around a few extra copies of that 'injury report.'"
"Appreciated," Jean said dryly. "Now, if you two don't mind, I think we've got a Quidditch match to get to before Malfoy decides to set up his next round of theatrics."
Cedric turned to leave, but not before giving Harry a friendly clap on the back. "We'll see you on the pitch, then. And thanks again. You've both made this whole thing a lot less painful to deal with."
"Good luck," Harry said, grinning at them both as they walked away. "And I'll try to keep Malfoy on the sidelines this time. It'd be a shame if he tried to stage another 'heroic' comeback."
As they disappeared into the crowd, Jean turned to Harry, a playful glint in her eye. "I think they might actually be more grateful to us for the show than they are for their own team."
Harry shrugged, looking unrepentant. "Hey, someone had to save the day. Might as well be us."
Jean snorted. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're kinda good at that."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You think so?"
Jean's smirk grew wider. "Oh, I know so. Let's just hope Malfoy doesn't figure out how to make a bigger fool of himself this time."
"Don't worry," Harry said, as they stood up to head toward the pitch. "I think he's already given us his best shot. And personally? I think it's a winner."
With that, the two of them made their way out of the Great Hall, ready to take on whatever drama the day had in store. One thing was for sure—Draco Malfoy was officially public enemy number one, and Harry? Well, he was ready for the sequel.
---
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