Saturday Morning — The Great Hall: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Chaotic Shenanigans
Breakfast at the Gryffindor table had descended into a level of absurdity not seen since the Great Pumpkin Juice Spill of '91.
Ron Weasley was brandishing a slice of buttered toast like it was Excalibur, butter now glistening heroically on his sleeve. Neville Longbottom had acquired a dollop of marmalade in his hair—courtesy of a rogue piece of toast that had, according to eyewitnesses, launched itself across the table with all the aerodynamic grace of a drunk seagull. Meanwhile, a bowl of porridge next to Hermione's teacup was bubbling ominously, making noises like it was pondering the futility of breakfast.
Tracey Davis, who had defected from the Slytherin table for what she called "diplomatic reasons," was currently bribing a fifth-year Ravenclaw with a chocolate frog to enchant her spoon into stirring her cocoa. Daphne Greengrass, seated nearby, looked like she was calculating the caloric cost of putting up with other people's nonsense before noon.
Harry Potter was nestled between Hermione and Neville, wearing the lazy expression of someone who had slept well, eaten better, and was currently shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth like a king who moonlighted as a chaos gremlin.
"Okay," Ron said, mid-theory. "But what if the broom is alive? Like, it's sentient wood. What if it decides it doesn't like me and just chucks me into a tree?"
Hermione looked up sharply, scandalized. "It's charmed, Ronald. Not haunted by a bitter forest spirit with abandonment issues."
Ron waved his toast at her. "I'm just saying—if I get yeeted into the Whomping Willow, I CALLED IT."
Neville paled visibly. "Flying lessons," he muttered. "We're going to die."
"You're not going to die," said Hannah Abbott kindly from the Hufflepuff table beside them. She and Susan Bones were eating toast and watching Gryffindor like one might watch a reality show with extra explosions.
"Easy for you to say," Neville mumbled. "You have yours tomorrow. We're the test dummies."
Daphne sipped her tea with all the menace of a Bond villain having a spa day. "It's just a broom. How hard can it be?"
Tracey snorted. "You scream when the stairs move."
"I do not scream," Daphne sniffed. "I just dislike vertical betrayal."
Harry chuckled, but his amusement was interrupted by a tug at his ankle. Looking down, he saw a familiar sentient puff of cloud magic coiled around his leg like a misty puppy having a Very Bad Morning.
"Aether?" Harry whispered under the table. The cloud drooped dramatically.
Hermione leaned over. "Is he sulking?"
"Yeah," Harry said. "He thinks I'm replacing him with a broom."
Aether let out a whimpery foof, curling tighter around Harry's ankle. Two droplets formed teary little eyes on its surface.
"Aww," Susan cooed. "Tell him he's irreplaceable!"
Harry leaned down slightly. "You're my favorite method of transport, buddy. No broom could ever compare to cloud-surfing with you."
Aether perked up immediately and zoomed upward to lick his cheek with peppermint-scented fog.
"Mate," Ron said, blinking. "Your cloud just kissed you."
"Affectionate vapor kisses," Harry replied. "Highly underrated."
"My broom never does that," Ron grumbled.
Just then, the unmistakably smug voice of Draco Malfoy sliced through the general chatter like an off-key trumpet solo.
"—and then I narrowly avoided the Muggle helicopters, right? Their primitive flying machines couldn't even hope to catch a Nimbus. Daddy says I've got the reflexes of a Seeker already. Could've signed with the Tornadoes this summer, but you know—Hogwarts."
Crabbe and Goyle guffawed like synchronized meat slabs.
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Helicopters?"
Harry glanced over. "Is he actually claiming he got chased by helicopters?"
"Oh yes," Hermione muttered. "Because obviously, the Statute of Secrecy is just a gentle suggestion."
Harry stood and raised his voice just enough to carry. "Hey, Malfoy! Quick question."
Draco turned, trying to look casually superior. "Yes, Potter?"
"How many Muggles were in those helicopters you narrowly escaped?"
Draco faltered. "Er, half a dozen?"
"And did they applaud when you zipped away? Or maybe ask for autographs while you broke international wizarding law?"
Hermione added sweetly, "Because broom-flying above Heathrow airspace has been banned since the 1962 Obscurial Incident."
Draco flushed pink. "You wouldn't dare—"
"Not accusing," Harry said cheerfully. "Just mocking. Big difference."
Jim, Harry's overly dramatic inner voice/spirit weapon/manifestation of utter chaos, somersaulted in Harry's mind wearing aviator goggles and a flaming scarf.
"DING DING DING! ANOTHER VERBAL KO FROM THE MONKEY KING HIMSELF! SOMEONE FETCH THE MALFOY ALOE BECAUSE THAT WAS A GRADE-A BURN, BABY!"
Tracey leaned toward Daphne. "He's so good at this, it's kinda unfair."
Daphne nodded like a disinterested noblewoman. "It's like watching a lion juggle."
Draco puffed up like an angry flamingo. "My father will hear about this!"
"Please do!" Harry called. "Tell him Harry Potter says hi, and also that the Ministry offers a delightful pamphlet on flying restrictions."
Aether floated up and formed a little mist-medal that sparkled with smugness. Harry accepted it with a wink.
"Look at us," he said to his friends. "Flying lessons, mocking Malfoy, and giving a cloud emotional validation. Solid start to the weekend."
The bell rang.
Jim dramatically saluted inside Harry's head.
"TO THE BROOM CLOSET, SKY-HOPPERS! Destiny awaits! And by destiny, I mean imminent doom, minor concussions, and style."
Neville whimpered.
Ron patted him on the back. "At least if we die, we die with flair."
As they marched toward Flying Lessons: Gryffindor and Slytherin Edition (also known as Turf Wars on Sticks), Harry looked at the broom shed, then down at the puff of sentient mist now wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet made of stormclouds.
"You'll always be my first ride," he whispered.
Aether sparkled with smug joy.
Ron stared. "Mate. Is your cloud purring?"
"Yes," Harry said. "He's very secure in our relationship."
Jim exploded in applause.
"AND THUS OUR HERO RISES INTO THE SKY—WITH A BROOM, A CLOUD, AND THE EGO OF A DEMIGOD WHO JUST MADE SNAPE TAKE NOTES!"
Harry grinned. Time to fly.
—
The morning sun slathered Hogwarts in warm, buttery gold as the group trudged across the lawn toward the Quidditch Pitch. You could almost hear the background music swelling—something adventurous, with just a hint of comic mischief. And if you listened really closely, you'd also hear the voice of Riyu Jingu Bang—aka Jim, the Monkey King's magical staff-slash-sentient over-the-top chaos gremlin—yelling telepathically in Harry's brain like a caffeinated game show host.
"DAWN OF DESTINY, KID! FLIGHT! FREEDOM! FAAAAA-BULOUS FACEPLANTS!"
Harry sighed. "Jim, we're just learning to hover."
"YES. LIKE A MAJESTIC CLOUD-WINGED PLATYPUS! RISE, YOU BEAUTIFUL ANKLE-STRAPPED SKY BEAST!"
Beside him, Aether the cloud floated smugly, tethered to Harry's wrist by a vapor-thin tendril. The cloud puffed into the shape of a broomstick, then X'd it out, then turned into a thumbs-up made of mist.
"See?" Harry said. "Aether gets it."
"Gets what?" Ron asked, bounding up beside him with a broomstick under one arm and the confidence of a man who had never successfully flown but was definitely going to win the Quidditch World Cup next week.
"I'm not really a broom guy."
Ron blinked. "Then how are you planning to—? Wait. Is that cloud flipping me off?"
"Language," Hermione said crisply from Harry's other side. "Aether's gestures are metaphorical. I think."
Aether, as if on cue, morphed into a teeny haloed angel cloud. Then devil horns. Then an angry cat. Then the Halo Master Chief helmet. No one was sure what that meant.
"I don't care what that puffy vapor monkey says," Ron muttered. "I've read Quidditch Through the Ages cover to cover three times."
"You fell asleep drooling into it halfway through chapter six," Hermione said.
"Yeah, well, it's the intent that counts."
Behind them, Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis walked side-by-side, robes fluttering, sass levels dangerously high.
"That cloud is better at shade than Tracey," Daphne said.
Tracey scoffed. "Rude. Accurate, but rude."
Aether turned into a hand holding a gold medal.
"Traitor," Tracey muttered.
Neville Longbottom followed, clutching his broom like it might suddenly attack. "What if mine decides to throw me off?"
"Oh, relax," Ron said. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Harry, Tracey, and Daphne simultaneously turned to stare at him.
"You've cursed us all," Daphne said flatly.
"You've doomed us," Tracey agreed.
"Nice going, Ronald," Hermione sighed.
"Guys, it's fine," Ron said quickly. "I mean, it's not like Madam Hooch is secretly a dragon in disguise who eats the clumsiest student first—"
"LINE UP, FIRST YEARS! BROOMS TO YOUR RIGHT!"
Madam Hooch appeared like a thunderstorm with a whistle. Short, steel-haired, and giving off big referee-from-a-dystopian-sports-movie energy, she strode up and down the line with the authority of someone who could eject you from the sky with a glance.
She blew her whistle again—sharper than a Howler. "Today, we'll start with hovering. You will not race. You will not dive. You will not attempt to ride your brooms like bucking hippogriffs or reenact Top Gun. Am I clear?"
Jim's voice echoed in Harry's brain. "WHAT IF I WANT TO REENACT TOP GUN, HARRY?! I WANNA BE MAVERICK! CALLSIGN: BANGSHOT!"
Harry rolled his eyes. "You're the definition of a flight risk."
Draco Malfoy, of course, had arrived early and pre-smugged himself for the occasion. His broom rested on his shoulder like an overpriced prop in a broomstick fashion show.
"Try not to cry when you eat turf, Potter," Draco said with a smirk. "Wouldn't want a raincloud to rain on your parade."
"Rainclouds only rain on idiots," Harry replied without missing a beat.
Aether zoomed over Draco's head and plink!—one single, glorious drop hit the center of Draco's ridiculously expensive robe.
Draco looked up in horror. "WHAT—?!"
"Bless you," Harry added.
Ron tried to stifle a laugh and ended up choking.
Madam Hooch snapped her whistle again. "BROOMS UP!"
Most brooms obeyed. Some didn't. Ron's smacked him in the face. Neville's levitated like it was possessed, then immediately flopped to the ground in dramatic protest. Tracey's broom hovered dutifully. Hermione's bobbed politely. Daphne's hovered with bored perfection.
Harry's? It glided into his hand like it respected him.
Jim said, "OOOH. THAT'S A MAIN CHARACTER ENTRANCE. YEAH, BABY. NOW STRIKE A POSE."
Aether floated beside Harry's broom like a wingman with attitude. He even poofed into aviator sunglasses and a tiny scarf.
"You don't have to fly," Harry whispered to the cloud. "Just hang out. Be my good boy."
Aether sparkled proudly. Good boy achieved.
"Feet off the ground on my count!" Madam Hooch barked. "Three… two… one!"
With a chorus of yelps and gasps, students shot up like popcorn. Some rose gracefully. Some wobbled. Ron screamed.
Harry ascended smoothly, like he'd been born in the sky, Aether spiraling around him like a mini weather satellite on a sugar high. Hermione floated beside him, eyes wide and focused.
Neville—well. Neville rose two inches, shrieked, and spiraled sideways like a dying paper airplane.
"Oh no!"
Madam Hooch was already on it, wand at the ready, muttering incantations like someone who'd done this too many times to count.
Jim hollered in Harry's brain. "THIS IS AMAZING. I WANT A SLOW-MO MONTAGE. GIVE ME A TRAINING ARC! GIVE ME—"
"Please stop yelling," Harry muttered. "I'm trying to not die."
"NOT DYING IS FOR COWARDS!"
"Still preferable."
Below them, Tracey shouted, "I feel like a cool witchy drone!"
"I feel like my insides are on the outside," Neville wheezed.
"Dude," Ron said from somewhere upside-down. "Help."
"You're doing great," Harry called cheerfully. "Just don't close your eyes or think about gravity!"
Ron screamed.
And thus began their first flying lesson: a whirlwind of flailing limbs, magical updrafts, and enough dramatic commentary from Jim to fill a Broadway soundtrack.
And this? This was only the beginning.
—
Neville wobbled.
Like, really wobble.
His broom didn't just wobble—it went full-on possessed sugar rush mode, zig-zagging like a caffeinated squirrel on a power line. His limbs flailed like noodles in a blender set to "panic," and his eyes bulged like he just spotted a Blast-Ended Skrewt in the snack cupboard.
"AIEEEEE—OH NO—OH NO NO NO—!" Neville's scream ricocheted off the castle walls, echoing with all the grace of a banshee auditioning for a heavy metal band.
"HERMIONE!" Harry heard her shout, but the real MVP in his head was Jim — aka Riyu Jingu Bang, aka the telepathic spirit guide with the personality of a manic Jim Carrey crossed with a Broadway hype man.
Jim (dramatic whisper): "OH, BABY. THIS IS BEAUTIFUL TRAGEDY. LIKE A BUTTERFLY CAUGHT IN A HURRICANE, DANCING WITH DEATH AND THRILLING EVERYONE WHO'S GOT A FRONT ROW SEAT."
Harry didn't have time to laugh—his boots hit the ground, broom thrust forward like he was auditioning for Top Gun: Quidditch Edition.
"Hang on, Neville!" he shouted, not sure if he sounded heroic or just plain nuts.
Aether—his loyal, cloud-shaped flying sidekick—puffed up into a helmet of swirling mist, forming a makeshift stormtrooper helmet right on Harry's head. Then, with a cheerful whoosh, Aether zipped behind him, leaving a speed trail that screamed "Mario Kart, but make it magical."
Ron, ever the expert commentator and part-time cheerleader, shouted something that sounded suspiciously like "YOU'RE GONNA DIE!" or maybe "GET THAT ON VIDEO!" Honestly, with Ron, you never knew.
Jim: "EXCELLENT. RON'S GOT THE PLAY-BY-PLAY. CAN SOMEONE GET THIS ON YOUTUBE? I'LL PROVIDE THE VOICEOVER. SPONSORED BY DRAGON-SLAYER ENERGY DRINK."
Neville's broom had other plans. At the peak of its sugar high, it pulled a majestic backflip straight into the nearest Quidditch goalpost.
CRACK.
The entire courtyard held its breath as Neville was launched like a ragdoll in a hurricane, limbs flailing, face screaming "help me."
"Nope," Harry growled under his breath. "Not today, broomstick. Not today."
Jim: "AND HERE COMES THE HERO. THE SKY KING. THE MONKEY KING—WAIT, WHAT'S THAT? SON OF LOKI AND ARTEMIS? OH, THIS JUST GOT EPIC."
Harry dived. Like, really dove—pulling off moves that'd make Maverick from Top Gun blush. He swooped under Neville, Aether releasing a gentle mist that acted like an invisible parachute, slowing Neville's fall from "Oh crap!" to "Mildly inconvenient."
He caught Neville midair with the ease of a pro Quidditch Chaser snagging the Snitch… if the Snitch was a panicked, flailing first-year.
"Gotcha," Harry said, spiraling down until their feet hit the grass with a thud.
Neville groaned. "Did I… die?"
Harry wiped sweat from his brow and gave him a thumbs-up. "Nope. Just sprained your wrist. You're lucky it wasn't worse."
Jim: "AND THE CROWD GOES WIIIIIIILDDD! SOMEONE HAND ME A MICROPHONE, I NEED TO RAP ABOUT THIS."
"Silencio!" Harry muttered telepathically, trying to shut Jim up before he summoned a full marching band.
"BETRAYAL!" Jim gasped, clutching his invisible chest.
Madam Hooch stormed across the field, arms swinging like she was refereeing a rugby match.
"Merlin's knickers, Potter! What the blazes were you thinking?!" Her glare could curdle pumpkin juice.
"Uh… a little?" Harry admitted with a sheepish grin, because honesty is the best policy when you're about to get grounded for the next century.
Hooch crouched to check Neville's wrist with the clinical precision of a surgeon and the zero patience of a hall monitor.
"Sprain. He's lucky. You…" she paused, eyeing Harry like she'd just spotted a dragon in a tea shop, "You fly like someone meant to be in the sky."
Harry blinked, not sure if that was a compliment or a threat.
"Thanks, I guess?" he shrugged, as Aether coiled proudly around his shoulders and then morphed into a floating crown above his head that read "Sky King."
Ron sidled up, rubbing a bump on his forehead, looking like he just watched a live-action stunt gone wrong and somehow found it awesome.
"Mate… that was insane. Like, you didn't just fly, you owned the sky. Like a bird or something."
Harry grinned. "More of a cloud guy, actually."
Tracey rolled her eyes but smirked. "Sure, sky ninja. You sure you weren't bitten by a radioactive broom?"
Daphne laughed, flipping her hair. "He's a show-off, but I respect it."
As the group turned toward the hospital wing, chatting and teasing, none of them noticed the tall figure watching from her office window.
Professor McGonagall, arms crossed over her tartan robes, lips pursed so tight they could cut glass, watched quietly.
No first-year had flown like that in decades. Not with such control. Such speed. Such... bravery.
Her mind raced, already flipping through Hogwarts rulebooks and trying to find a loophole.
Maybe it was time to reconsider that dusty old rule about first-years and Quidditch.
Because she knew for a fact that Harry Potter was no ordinary first-year.
—
The hospital wing smelled like antiseptic with a side of burnt toast—Hermione claimed it was worse than a Cornish pixie throwing a tantrum in a library. Madam Pomfrey zipped around Neville like a caffeinated whirlwind, clipboard in one hand and a stack of suspiciously shaped potions in the other.
"Sprained wrist. Minimal swelling. No concussion signs. Mr. Longbottom, you're lucky this isn't worse," she said, snapping her fingers with enough magic to wrap Neville's hand tighter than a burrito.
Neville gave a hopeful-but-skeptical blink. "So… I'm not dead?"
"Highly unlikely," Pomfrey replied dryly, "Though you might wish for it after the treatments I have in mind."
Neville swallowed hard, looking like he just realized he might have to face the Whomping Willow again.
Standing awkwardly near the doorway, Harry felt like a kid caught setting off fireworks inside the Great Hall. His palms slicker than a Hufflepuff trying to sneak past Snape during a Potions exam.
Jim—AKA Riyu Jingu Bang, the telepathic spirit guide who was basically Jim Carrey on a magical Red Bull binge—burst into Harry's head with his trademark chaotic energy.
"OH, BABY! FEEL THAT? SWEAT OF GUILT! YOU'RE ABOUT TO GET A MCCALLISTER-LEVEL TALKING TO, SO POLISH THAT 'I'M SORRY' FACE!"
Harry rolled his eyes so hard he was pretty sure he saw stars. "Shut it, Jim. Or I'm locking you in Azkaban."
Just then, the door creaked open with that oomph that screams "SERIOUS BUSINESS." In stepped Professor McGonagall herself—arms crossed, eyes sharper than a basilisk's glare, and with all the subtlety of a thunderclap in the middle of a rainstorm.
"Potter," she said, voice clipped like a cat ready to pounce. "A word."
Harry's heart tried to punch its way out of his chest like it was auditioning for a gladiator match.
Jim screamed in his head, "GAME ON! FINISH HIM! OR, YOU KNOW, FINISH THE SENTENCE!"
Harry groaned inwardly but followed McGonagall down the echoing corridor, the warm hum of his friends' chatter fading into a distant "Hey, don't die again, Neville!"
"Is this about Neville?" Harry asked, trying to sound casual but coming off as 'definitely sweating bullets.'
"Partly," McGonagall replied, eyes narrowing. "But mostly it's about you."
Cue the uh-oh soundtrack.
McGonagall's lips twitched into what could almost be called a smile—if you squinted real hard and ignored the menace lurking underneath.
"You flew with... remarkable skill today," she said. "And I am inclined to say it was… impressive."
Harry blinked. "Wait, that's not the 'you're grounded for life and banned from flying' speech?"
"No," she said, voice almost conspiratorial. "I want to discuss a proposition. Hogwarts might be ready to bend the rules about first-year flyers."
Harry's brain short-circuited like a malfunctioning wand. Did McGonagall just say 'bend the rules'???
Jim was already throwing a mental jazz hands party. "BEND 'EM LIKE BECKHAM, BABY! THIS IS YOUR ORIGIN STORY! PITCH ME THIS!"
Harry laughed despite himself. "I'm listening."
McGonagall led him into her office, where the walls were lined with portraits of past headmasters who looked equally scandalized and intrigued by whatever shenanigans Harry was about to stir up.
"Tell me, Potter," she said, fixing him with a piercing gaze, "what exactly do you plan to do with this talent?"
Harry smirked, feeling that surge of swagger only a Monkey King, Loki's son, and part-time sky ninja could carry. "Honestly? Keep everyone alive. Look cool doing it. Maybe break a few rules and some speed records."
McGonagall's eyes twinkled — like she'd just spotted a firecracker she wasn't quite ready to put out.
"Very well," she said. "Let's see if Hogwarts can handle a little chaos."
—
Meanwhile, back in the hospital wing…
Neville was grimacing like he'd just bitten into a bad batch of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans—except it was the pain from Madam Pomfrey's potion lineup.
Pomfrey muttered under her breath, "Clumsy Gryffindors… You'd think broomsticks came with instruction manuals."
Ron leaned in, whispering, "Think Harry's gonna be okay?"
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled fondly. "He's not just okay. He's about to rewrite the Quidditch rulebook."
Tracey smirked, flicking a stray lock of hair from her face. "Sky King or not, he's got moves. And that mouth? Deadly."
Daphne laughed, tossing her hair like a movie star. "Yeah, that mouth's gonna land him in detention before he graduates. But hey—at least he's entertaining."
Aether—the goodest cloud-boy ever—floated nearby, puffing up into a tiny applause cloud. Because honestly, Aether was just proud of his human.
And Harry? Well, he was about to fly higher than Hogwarts had ever dared imagine.
—
The hallways of Hogwarts smelled like a cross between old parchment, dust, and that unmistakable "something big is about to happen" electric buzz—kind of like when your phone's about to die but also about to get a text from your crush. Professor McGonagall stomped ahead with the grace and intimidation factor of a cat who just caught you trying to pet a kneazle without permission. Harry shuffled behind her, part nervous wreck, part 'please-don't-let-me-trip-on-my-own-legs,' with Jim—AKA Riyu Jingu Bang, his telepathic spirit guide who was basically Jim Carrey channeled through a magical Red Bull—doing cartwheels inside his head.
Jim: "OOOOH, BABY! THE BIG LEAGUES! YOU'RE ABOUT TO MEET THE MVP OF QUIDDITCH! GET THAT SMOKE READY—WE'RE GOING FULL MCCALLISTER!"
Harry shot a glare at the mental jester. "Shut it, or I'll lock you in Azkaban for a century."
Jim just giggled, like a hyperactive toddler on espresso.
They stopped outside a classroom door that was half-open, leaking muffled voices and the occasional sharp clang of a sword meeting a practice dummy. Inside, Professor Quirrell, looking like he'd been nervous at the Sorting Hat ceremony and never recovered, was trying to look authoritative while demonstrating a defensive spell that mostly involved a lot of twitchy hand waving.
"Professor Quirrell?" McGonagall's voice sliced through the room like a basilisk's glare.
Quirrell's pale face almost twitched. "Yes, Headmistress?"
"I need to excuse Oliver Wood," she said, voice clipped but carrying an edge that said 'don't ask why, just do it.'
Quirrell's fingers twitched toward his wand, probably thinking about some flashy protest, but he wisely just nodded. "Of course. I'll let him go."
The door swung wider, and in marched Oliver Wood—the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, a fifth-year who looked like he'd been born clutching a broomstick and probably built his first goalpost before he could walk. His grin was the perfect mix of 'bring it on' and 'I smell raw talent.'
McGonagall gestured at Harry. "Oliver, this is Harry Potter. First year. But... with a certain... aptitude."
Harry couldn't stop the grin from creeping up. Jim exploded inside his head like fireworks at the Hogwarts ceiling.
Jim: "APTITUDE? BABY, THAT'S LIKE SAYING MICHAEL JORDAN HAD A DECENT JUMP SHOT! YOU'RE THE SKY KING, READY TO REWRITE HISTORY WITH EVERY SWOOP!"
Oliver's eyes locked on Harry like he was appraising a new broomstick model. "Potter, huh? I've heard the name. So... what's this aptitude? You flying circles around first years or what?"
McGonagall folded her arms, looking more hawk than human. "Let's just say he's demonstrated flying skills that might rewrite the Quidditch rulebook for first-years."
Oliver raised an eyebrow like McGonagall just said Harry could juggle dragons. "Rewrite the rulebook? That's a big promise."
Harry leaned in, channeling every ounce of Monkey King swagger and Loki's mischievous grin. "Rulebooks? They're more like... guidelines for losers who don't like winning."
Jim: "BURN! DROP THE MIC, SKY KING! MAKE 'EM EAT THAT!"
Oliver laughed, a genuine, booming sound that filled the hallway. "Alright, Potter, I like your style. You're not just talk, are you?"
"Nope," Harry said, smirking like a kid who just swiped a Sneakoscope. "I fly like I fight—fast, unpredictable, and with a healthy dose of chaos."
McGonagall's eyes twinkled—like she'd just found a firecracker she wasn't quite ready to snuff out. "We'll see if Gryffindor can handle that kind of chaos."
Oliver's grin grew wider, like he'd just caught sight of a bludger heading straight for the other team's keeper. "Consider me intrigued. Let's see if you can handle the pitch—and the team."
Harry felt the moment—the weight of history shifting like the first gust before a storm. This wasn't just about flying anymore. This was about carving out his place, smashing some records, and maybe ruffling a few feathers while he was at it.
Meanwhile, inside his head...
Jim: "WOO-HOO! THAT'S THE TICKET, BUB! THE TRAIN'S LEAVING THE STATION AND IT'S FULL STEAM AHEAD! NEXT STOP? QUADRAKILL ON THE QUIDDITCH FIELD! AND DON'T FORGET TO BRING SNITCH SNACKS!"
Harry rolled his eyes but grinned. Because yeah, maybe bending the rules and shaking up Hogwarts wasn't such a terrible plan after all.
Up above, Aether—the fluffiest, most supportive cloud-boy ever—puffed himself up into a tiny applause cloud, showering them with sparkly little drops of encouragement. Because honestly, even a sentient cloud knew: Harry was about to fly higher than anyone dared imagine.
—
Oliver was still wearing that I've-just-seen-my-next-seeker smirk when he turned to McGonagall, practically bouncing on his toes like a golden retriever who'd smelled bacon.
"So, uh, Professor," he said, clearly trying to sound casual but failing miserably. "Think we could get him a broomstick? Something sleek. Fast. Maybe one of the new Nimbus models? They're pricey, yeah, but if Potter's as good as you say—"
Harry didn't let him finish. He casually raised a hand, like he was about to ask if they had oat milk in the Great Hall. "No need. Got it covered."
Oliver blinked. "Got what covered?"
"The broom situation."
Jim: "OH SNAP, HE'S DOING THE THING. BUCKLE UP, OLIVER. THIS ISN'T A FLEX—IT'S A FULL-BODY STRETCH INTO THE GOD-TIER DIMENSION!"
McGonagall raised one regal brow, the kind of brow that had seen war, stupidity, and Weasley twins attempting synchronized fireworks—all without flinching. "Mr. Potter... do explain."
Harry gave her a crooked smile that somehow said trust me, this'll be fun and also maybe illegal in seventeen magical jurisdictions.
"Well," he began, "my Auntie Diana from America—you know, bit of a traveler, loves the moon, very... no-nonsense warrior energy—her boyfriend's kind of a broomstick designer."
Oliver perked up. "Really? What company? Cleansweep? Nimbus? Or one of those bespoke guys from Norway?"
Harry shrugged like it was no big deal. "His name's Ikol Rampestreker."
There was a beat of silence.
Oliver tilted his head. "Never heard of him."
"Yeah," Harry said, deadpan. "That's because he prefers working in... mystery. He's what the Muggle world calls 'off the grid.' Like Bigfoot, but better dressed. He's designing a prototype broom that's gonna make the Nimbus 2000 look like a toddler's toy."
Jim: "OH YESSSS. DROP THE CODE NAMES, BABY. ARTEMIS AND LOKI IN THE HOUSE. WE'RE PLAYING CHESS WHILE EVERYONE ELSE IS JUGGLING EXPLODING GOBSTONES."
McGonagall coughed once. It sounded suspiciously like she was suppressing a laugh. Or a What in Merlin's girdle is this child on about. But her eyes sparkled, just faintly. She knew. Of course she knew. Diana, the no-nonsense moon-worshipper? Artemis. The goddess. And Ikol? Classic alias of Loki—the most chaotic, sarcastic disaster god in the Nine Realms. Also known, privately, to her and a handful of others, as James and Lily Potter.
"Ah yes," she said smoothly, "Mr. Rampestreker. I'm... vaguely familiar with his work."
Oliver blinked. "Seriously? Rampestreker's real?"
Harry winked. "Oh, he's real. He made me a promise. Said he's cooking up something faster than a Nimbus, sleeker than a Silver Arrow, and with personality."
Jim: "HE SAID THAT WHILE BALANCING THREE DAGGERS ON HIS NOSE AND TURNING INTO A GOAT MID-SENTENCE. TRUE STORY."
Oliver looked like he was experiencing a full-blown broomstick-induced identity crisis. "And you're getting the prototype?"
"Yup."
McGonagall cleared her throat, tone dry as desert sand. "Which means, Mr. Wood, that you needn't concern yourself with requisitioning a broomstick for Mr. Potter."
Oliver just stared at Harry like he was the Golden Snitch in human form. "You're kidding."
"Nope," Harry said, his grin sharp enough to cut through dragonhide. "I don't ride brooms. They ride me."
Jim: "OH SNAP, HE WENT THERE. THIS CHILD NEEDS TO BE ILLEGAL."
Above their heads, Aether—cloud buddy, wingman, and certified emotional floof—poofed into a sparkly swirl of pastel-pink mist, spelling out SLAY in shimmering cloud-letters before dissolving into tiny cheering confetti bits.
Harry, naturally, ignored it like this was all very routine. McGonagall just pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something about the gods having a very twisted sense of humor.
Oliver finally laughed, shaking his head like he couldn't believe his luck. "Alright, Potter. You've got style. If that broom's half as good as your swagger, we're winning the Cup this year."
Harry just grinned. "Winning's fine. But I'm here to dominate."
Jim: "AND THERE IT IS. THE DROP-THE-MIC, SET-THE-HALL-ON-FIRE ENERGY. WE ARE LIVING, FOLKS. WE ARE LIVING."
McGonagall started walking again, muttering something about needing a Firewhisky and possibly a dimensional lawyer. Oliver followed, practically skipping. And Harry?
Harry just strutted like a boy who knew he had gods in his blood, chaos in his corner, and a sentient cloud doing jazz hands above his head.
And that was before he'd even touched the Quidditch pitch.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!