It was barely dawn, the sky just starting to lighten, when Oliver Wood (Gryffindor Quidditch captain and certified maniac) dragged Harry out of bed.
Harry groaned, splashed water on his face, threw on his practice gear, slung his Nimbus 2000 over his shoulder, and shuffled out like a zombie.
He didn't even make it past the common room portrait before Colin Creevey ambushed him.
Harry was this close to hiding under the invisibility cloak every morning. Colin had memorized Harry's entire schedule and asked him questions like six or seven times a day. Dude, personal space.
He'd warned Colin that Quidditch practice was boring, but the kid still tagged along, chattering nonstop the whole way to the pitch, asking Harry about everything from Bludgers to breakfast.
The cool morning breeze wasn't helping Harry stay awake. He was mid-yawn when—
"Hey, Lucien! Morning!"
Colin's excited squeal snapped Harry awake. There was Lucien, strolling back from the pitch, carrying a broom.
A Nimbus 2001?
Harry's brain short-circuited. When did Lucien get a broom? The newest model, faster than the 2000? Is he joining Ravenclaw's team?
Has he already been practicing? At this hour?
Suddenly, facing Ravenclaw in a match felt a lot scarier.
"Morning, Colin. Hey, Harry."
Lucien waved and headed straight for the castle. Breakfast time. Gotta fuel up.
He was moving fast (food-motivated), and Harry didn't get a chance to grill him. Wood was waiting, so Harry jogged to catch up.
In the locker room, the whole team was already there. Wood was in full coach mode, whiteboard and all, going over tactics he'd "painstakingly developed" over the summer.
Harry was exhausted but forced himself to listen. He still felt guilty about missing last year's final (Gryffindor got crushed).
After Wood's hour-long TED Talk, they finally hit the pitch.
Harry spotted Ron and Hermione in the stands, and Colin with his camera ready to document Harry's every move.
"Lucien asked us to bring you breakfast," Ron yelled, holding up a lunchbox (the one Lucien gave him for Christmas last year). "Eat after practice, yeah?"
Harry grinned and waved. Nice.
They'd barely taken off when Wood spotted Colin snapping photos and mistook him for a Slytherin spy. He dove to confront him, but George stopped him.
"Relax, Slytherin doesn't need spies…"
George jerked his chin toward the field.
"They just show up."
A pack of green-robed Slytherins had rolled in, led by Marcus Flint, who looked like he ate nails for breakfast.
Wood landed hard, nearly wobbling off his broom. "Flint! We booked the pitch!"
Flint smirked, towering over Wood. "Oh yeah? Let me read you something…"
He unfolded a note with dramatic flair. "Ahem. 'I, Professor Severus Snape, grant the Slytherin team use of the Quidditch pitch today to train their new Seeker.'"
Wood's face went purple. "Where's this new Seeker?"
Flint grinned and stepped aside. "Introducing our generous new Seeker, who made huge contributions to the team!"
The team parted, revealing… Draco Malfoy.
Who was yawning like he hadn't slept in a week.
Flint grabbed Malfoy by the collar, yanked him forward, and slapped his back hard enough to echo.
"Draco Malfoy, Slytherin's new Seeker!"
"And thanks to him, we've got these babies!"
The team hoisted brand-new Nimbus 2001s, gleaming in the sunrise.
Gryffindor's brooms (Comets and Cleansweeps) suddenly looked like toys.
Malfoy, still half-asleep, winced from the back slap and fumbled in his pocket. Where's the Bull-Horse Potion?
Lucien had been dragging him out of bed at 4 a.m. every day for "special training."
"If you haven't seen Hogwarts at 4 a.m., how do you expect to be a real Seeker?"
Malfoy figured if Lucien (who was insanely good) trained like that, it must be legit. No complaints.
But the potion (a coffee-colored energy drink Lucien invented) was gone. He'd have to buy a crate from the Seventh Workshop later. No way was he asking for a friend discount. Malfoys don't beg.
He was dozing off standing up when Flint started trash-talking.
"Look at those Comets. Good for sweeping floors, maybe. For Quidditch?"
Flint caressed his 2001 like it was a baby dragon. "This is a real broom."
Hermione and Ron had wandered over by then. Hermione sized up Malfoy (still nodding off) and stared Flint down.
"If brooms decided games, we'd just compare prices. Gryffindor doesn't need fancy toys to win."
The Gryffindors cheered. The twins whistled in sync:
"Hope those shiny sticks help your fragile little egos~~"
Flint's face twisted. He loomed over Hermione.
"Sharp tongue for a buck-toothed little—"
He sneered.
"—Mudblood."
Silence. Dead. Silence.
Malfoy blinked awake. Did I miss something?
BANG!
A loud crack. Flint screamed, "MY BROOM!"
Ron was holding some kind of alchemical air gun (one of Lucien's gadgets). Flint was on his knees ten feet away, cradling his snapped Nimbus 2001 like a dead pet.
Malfoy's first thought: That thing's kinda cool. Should I get one?
---
Great Hall – Lunch
Malfoy and Lucien sat at the edge of the Slytherin table.
"So Flint just flew," Malfoy said, shoveling mapo tofu. "Weasley's air gun thing is wild. You taught him well. Muggles have something like it, right? Metal wand?"
Lucien snorted mid-bite of crispy duck. It's called a gun, dude.
He'd pieced together the chaos: his reinforced flying car saved Ron's wand from snapping, so no slug-vomiting incident to stop the fight. Instead, both sides went at it.
Ron, now a pro with the air gun, escalated things fast. And Malfoy (too tired from 4 a.m. drills) didn't say the slur himself. Flint did.
"So it turned into an all-out brawl?" Lucien asked.
"Brawl? Oh, fists and stuff. Yeah, some wands, some brooms. Nearly snapped another 2001."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "Where were you in all this?"
Malfoy grinned, proud. "I'm Slytherin—I can't just stand there. But I'm not beating up Potter's friends either. That'd make things weird for us."
He gestured between them.
"So I signaled Potter, Granger, and Weasley. We dueled each other—just the four of us, away from the big guys. One-on-three practice, like we did in tutoring. Both sides think I fought for them. Genius, right?"
Lucien put his chopsticks down. This kid's a snake in the best way.
He gave Malfoy a thumbs-up. "You're a legend."
Malfoy got even cockier. "Granger must've told them what the word means. She blasted Flint with something when he wasn't looking."
Lucien nodded. Good for her. Revenge served hot.
"That word's nasty," he said. Calling a Muggle-born wizard "Mudblood" was like telling an orphan they were raised by wolves. Or worse.
Malfoy scratched his cheek, awkward. "Yeah, Flint's an idiot. Loud mouth, no brain."
"We all got detention. Snape locked Flint in the dungeons—serious kind. Never seen him that mad."
No wonder. Snape hated that word more than anyone. Probably because he'd said it to Lily once.
Malfoy sighed. "I barely joined the team and now the captain's gone."
Lucien shrugged. "No vice-captain?"
"Nah. Flint's a control freak."
Lucien casually tossed out: "Then run practices yourself. You know Quidditch inside out. You donated the brooms—people will listen. It's just drills."
Malfoy blinked. "Me?"
"You've got the skills, the gear, and the name. Old dogs don't leave, new ones don't rise."
Malfoy's eyes lit up. Ambition was basically Slytherin oxygen.
Leading the team (even temporarily)? Potter could never. If this worked, he'd rub it in Gryffindor's face during their practice.
Watch out, Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy's in charge.