Great Hall — Gryffindor Table — October 30th, 7:21 AM
Status: Quidditch Nerves: Low. Broom Flex: Maximum. Chaos Gremlin Mode: Prepped.
The Great Hall was doing its usual pre-Quidditch buzz—half breakfast buffet, half battlefield. Gryffindors were hyping each other up, Slytherins were practicing their "subtle" hex-face smirks, and Flitwick had already levitated three pumpkin pastries to dodge a rogue Exploding Snap card war.
Then Harry walked in.
Well, not walked. He glided. With his squad in tow: Ron (ready to eat the entire menu), Hermione (three scrolls deep in Quidditch stats, despite claiming she "wasn't that into it"), Neville (bravely not tripping), and a floating stormcloud-broom hybrid that looked like it had personally insulted gravity and won.
Aetherion Mark I.
The broom didn't hum. It purred. It didn't fly. It hovered with the confidence of a Formula One car that had been enchanted by both Stark Industries and Olympus, then dipped in dragon blood and sprinkled with "I'm better than you" energy. It shimmered in Infernal Crimson, runes glowing faintly as if whispering, You wish you were this cool.
"Jim," Harry muttered under his breath as they walked. "Tell me you didn't add the spoiler."
"Technically," Jim—a.k.a. Riyu Jingu Bang, staff of legends, cloud of chaos, and sarcasm elemental—"it's not a spoiler. It's a moonlight-siphoning, friction-reduction stabilizer wing with aesthetic benefits. Also? It looks sick."
Hermione glanced up from her notes and blurted, "Is it glowing... more than yesterday?"
"He added sparkle thrusters," Harry sighed.
"Correction," Jim declared. "I added majestic moonburst flares. For intimidation. Also it shoots glitter. The safe kind."
Ron stared. "Mate. It looks like a Nimbus 2001 made a deal with a demon and got therapy."
"Thank you," said Harry, completely serious.
Neville reached out to touch it. The Aetherion growled.
"It growled at me," he said, pulling his hand back like it bit him. "Why does your broom have opinions?"
"He's a good boy," Harry said proudly. "He just doesn't like being touched without consent."
Aether, now back in his cloud-dog form, wagged his misty tail and nuzzled Neville apologetically. Then morphed back into a broom with a sound like a sigh and a sparkle that made half the Ravenclaw table blink.
Across the hall, Draco Malfoy actually dropped his croissant.
"Oh, no," Malfoy said, voice full of dread and jealousy. "He brought that thing to breakfast."
Tracey Davis leaned around her stack of toast and deadpanned, "You're just mad it's prettier than you."
Susan Bones, sitting with Hannah and Daphne, gave a low whistle. "If that thing goes faster than it looks, Slytherin's toast."
Daphne Greengrass nodded. "Good. I hate toast."
Harry, blissfully unfazed by the attention, marched to the Gryffindor table. The Quidditch team was already there.
Oliver Wood looked up from his clipboard of play diagrams like he was about to declare war. "There he is. Our secret weapon."
"Morning, Captain," Harry said, dropping onto the bench as the Aetherion hovered to his side and leaned itself against the table like a brooding Hells Angel with runes.
Fred and George Weasley looked at it like it was a new prank victim.
"Can it launch fireworks?" George asked.
"Or throw shade? Like literally?" Fred added.
"Shade-throwing module online," Jim intoned dramatically. "Also I learned Spanish last night. Your great-aunt's cat has poor taste in curtains."
Angelina Johnson, cool as a comet, gave a nod of approval. "Looks like something you could duel in space on."
"You could," Jim said smugly.
"You shouldn't," Hermione added quickly.
"But you could," Jim repeated louder.
Katie Bell leaned closer. "Please tell me it has turn signals."
"It has predictive dodge algorithms," Harry said.
Alicia Spinnet grinned. "I don't know what that means, but I'm into it."
Oliver tossed his clipboard aside. "Game plan? Irrelevant. Potter, fly like you did on Tuesday. You broke three laws of physics, four Hufflepuff hearts, and at least one Ravenclaw telescope."
Hermione muttered, "He's more like one-third sky god, one-third chaos engine, one-third hormonal disaster."
"And all sparkle," Jim added proudly.
Dean Thomas was already sketching the Aetherion on a napkin. Seamus Finnigan was trying to name its various parts like he was narrating a nature documentary.
Malfoy, across the room, sneered. "Some of us prefer actual brooms to enchanted vanity projects."
Fred shot up. "And some of us still use training wheels, but we don't shame them in public."
"Ours comes with a snark module. Yours still needs a steering charm," George chimed in.
"Eight languages, Malfoy," Jim called across the Hall, somehow being heard only by the Slytherin. "I can roast you in Latin and beatbox in Icelandic."
Ron clapped Harry on the back. "You ready, mate?"
Harry looked around. His team. His friends. His sentient broom. His divine destiny. The usual.
He grinned. "Born ready. Let's flatten some snakes."
—
Quidditch Stadium – Gryffindor Changing Rooms – 8:10 AM
Status: Nerves Brewing. Stadium Buzz Rising. Slytherin Intel Incoming. Jim's Ego Ascending.
The Gryffindor team crossed the Quidditch pitch like they were walking away from an explosion in slow motion. Robes flared. Broomsticks gleamed. The occasional lightning crackled off Aetherion, Harry's sentient flying cloud/Broomstick, which zoomed above them like an overcaffeinated golden retriever in love with its own sparkle trail.
"Easy, boy," Harry murmured, giving the puffball a pat. Aetherion rumbled like a thundercloud purring. "Save the shock-and-awe for the game."
Aether let out a high-pitched zap of approval and proceeded to spin like a coin on fire. This was fine. Totally normal. Just another Saturday for Harry James Potter: Monkey King, Child of Mischief, Lunar Archer Prince of Chaos, and Seeker for Gryffindor.
Inside the changing room, Oliver Wood was having a full-blown pregame breakdown. He paced like a commander who hadn't slept since August (spoiler: he hadn't), eyes wild, clipboard clenched like a life preserver in a sea of teenage overconfidence.
"RIGHT! Team huddle!" he barked, snapping the air like a whip.
Everyone scrambled into position. Fred and George were doing coordinated jumping jacks for no reason. Angelina adjusted her gloves like she was preparing for ritual combat. Katie and Alicia stood back-to-back like they were posing for the cover of Witches Who Don't Miss: Annual Quidditch Edition.
Jim, Harry's shape-shifting chaos-staff/spirit weapon/magical gremlin with the voice and energy of Jim Carrey mid-espresso overdose, floated overhead and projected a sparkling illusion of Harry with angel wings and theme music.
"I present to you," Jim said, dramatically flipping his imaginary cape, "the One, the Only, the Sparkle-Charmed, Chaos-Fueled, Bird-Riding, Broom-Breaking Potterrrr!"
"Jim," Hermione said without looking up from her clipboard, "I swear to all the gods, if you turn into a fog machine again—"
"I am the fog machine, darling," Jim whispered. "And I am humming the Avengers theme. Telepathically. No one can stop me."
"I could stop you," Harry offered.
"You could," Jim agreed. "But would you really ruin the moment?"
Oliver banged his clipboard against the chalkboard like a man at the end of his rope and halfway into motivational speaker mode.
"Focus! Let's talk Slytherin. Marcus Flint."
He pointed to a crude drawing of what might've been a troll mid-dental crisis.
"Captain. Chaser. Dirty player. Thinks shoving is a strategy. He'll expect you to retaliate. Don't. We play smarter. Montague and Pucey are the other Chasers—fast, but they telegraph their plays like first-years writing love letters."
Katie smirked. "Sounds like a Tuesday."
Alicia added, "Think we can make them cry if we switch formation mid-pass?"
"Bonus points if they run into each other," said Angelina, popping her knuckles.
"Good," Oliver nodded. "Keeper's Miles Bletchley. He's steady, but not immune to panic. We keep the pressure on. Angelina, you're on rapid rotation today."
Angelina grinned like she'd just been handed an all-access pass to punch Slytherins in the ego.
"Oh, yes," she said.
Oliver's tone dropped a full octave. "Now. Beaters. Derrick and Bole. Big. Mean. Less brainpower than a broken Quaffle."
"Which is why," Fred said, pulling on his gloves, "we brought superior twin genetics."
"Beater twins on monster patrol," George added, doing a dramatic wrist roll.
"Do we get badges for this?" Fred asked.
"Do we get snacks?" George asked.
"I love them," Jim whispered in Harry's head. "Let's adopt them. I'll be their chaotic uncle."
"And finally," Oliver tapped the last sketch, "their Seeker. Terence Higgs. Fast. But he's not Potter."
All eyes turned to Harry, who, for the record, had been lounging on a bench like a Roman demigod mid-vacation. He stood, did a casual stretch, and gave a lazy, two-finger salute.
"I'll try not to lap him too many times," he said. "Wouldn't want to ruin his self-esteem. That's more of a Tuesday thing."
"You're insufferable," Hermione muttered.
"And yet here we are," Harry said with a wink.
"Alright, listen up!" Oliver yelled, snapping the room back to attention. "We keep the game tight. No sloppiness. No showboating."
He looked pointedly at Harry, Fred, George, and Jim in succession.
"We play like it's tied. All the way. Got it?"
A booming, "GOT IT!" shook the room.
Jim flared up like a Roman candle. "Cue epic soundtrack. Release the pigeons. Light the victory fireworks—oh wait, those are just Aether having a happy seizure!"
Sure enough, the little storm cloud was spinning in loops, sparking off the walls and humming a tune that might've been Queen.
Harry stood, rolling his shoulders, Aetherion swirling excitedly around him like a tiny elemental cheerleader. He cracked his knuckles, smiled that wild, too-sharp smile that made Snape twitch, and said:
"Let's go win a war disguised as a game."
Jim whispered, awestruck, "I just got chills. I live for this kid."
—
Quidditch Pitch — 8:23 AM
Status: Tension Crackling. Ego Levels: Ascending. Weather Forecast: 100% Chance of Sparkles.
The Gryffindor changing room doors burst open like they had somewhere to be and dramatic timing to keep. Seven figures stepped into the sunlight like Avengers emerging from a slo-mo shot, robes billowing, brooms gleaming, and the collective energy of a squad that knew they were about to cause emotional damage and possibly physics violations.
Leading the charge: Oliver Wood, eyes full of war, clipboard tucked under his arm like it owed him rent.
Holding up the rear: Harry Potter, the Monkey King, Son of Chaos, casually smirking like he'd just stolen your crown, your broom, and possibly your girlfriend's attention. At his side hovered Aetherion Mark I—the broomstick equivalent of a Lamborghini wrapped in dragonhide, dipped in solar flares, and sprinkled with stardust. Aetherion shimmered in Infernal Crimson, its runes pulsing like a heartbeat under a glamour of illusion.
Strapped to Harry's wrist, Jim was silent.
But only physically.
"Cue the music, cue the storm, cue the dramatic narrator voice! It's time to violate gravity, baby!"
"Jim," Harry muttered internally, "chill."
"I don't know her."
Across the pitch, Slytherin emerged like a pride of smug snakes, brooms in hand, Marcus Flint leading them with his trademark jaw-clench and aura of permanent dental distress.
"Look smug while you can, Potter," Flint sneered.
Harry gave him a lazy two-finger salute.
"I could make him cry with a haiku," Jim whispered in Harry's brain. "Should I?"
"Save it for halftime."
Up in the announcer's box, Lee Jordan was already hyped like a caffeinated DJ about to drop the best track of his life.
"WELCOME, HOGWARTS!" Lee's voice boomed through the stands, "to the clash of titans, the war of wills, the inevitable overuse of dramatic metaphors—yes, it's GRYFFINDOR VS. SLYTHERIN!"
The crowd erupted. Banners waved. Fireworks (probably Weasley-made) went off somewhere.
"First up, the lions of Gryffindor!" Lee continued. "Led by Captain Clipboard himself: OLIVER WOOD!"
Oliver nodded once like a general acknowledging destiny.
"Chasers: Alicia 'Precision Aim' Spinnet, Katie 'Break Their Ankles' Bell, and Angelina 'Slytherin Slayer' Johnson!"
The girls raised their brooms in sync, glowing with power and spite.
"Beaters: Fred and George 'Chaos Cubed' Weasley! Twin terrors! Prank lords! The reason Filch drinks!"
Fred fist-bumped George, who blew a kiss to the Hufflepuff stands. A low boom sounded from somewhere nearby. Possibly their shoes. Possibly on purpose.
"And finally," Lee grinned, drawing it out like a showman, "the Seeker: Harry 'Sky King, Chaos Prince, and possibly divine' Potter! Riding the Aetherion Mark I, a.k.a. The Broomstick That Made Bletchley Cry in the Showers!"
Harry kicked off.
Aetherion launched into the air like it had been summoned by the gods. It didn't rise, it ascended, glowing like an oncoming comet. The runes flashed. The air trembled. Somewhere, a first-year fainted.
Draco Malfoy sputtered on pumpkin juice.
"HE'S BARREL ROLLING!" Lee shrieked. "IN SLOW MOTION. I REPEAT. SLOW. MOTION. ROLL."
"Oh yeah," Jim cackled. "We're legally a special effect now."
Madam Hooch blew her whistle hard enough to silence an earthquake.
Oliver and Flint strode to center pitch. Their handshake looked less like sportsmanship and more like two tectonic plates trying to crush each other into submission.
"Mount your brooms!" Madam Hooch barked.
The teams rose into the air. Gryffindor with practiced grace. Slytherin with practiced malice.
Harry hovered higher. Aetherion purred beneath him. Lightning danced across its core.
"We ready?" Jim whispered.
"Born ready," Harry replied, eyes narrowing on the pitch.
Above, the scoreboard flashed:
GRYFFINDOR - 0 SLYTHERIN - 0
"PLAYERS IN POSITION!" Lee roared. "EVERYONE BREATHING? TOO BAD!"
Madam Hooch raised her whistle.
"Three..."
"Two..."
"One..."
"RELEASE THE CHAOS!!!" Jim howled.
The whistle blew.
The game exploded into motion.
And Harry shot forward like a red streak of divine mischief with a broom that purred like thunder.
—
Quidditch Pitch — 8:28 AM
Status: Game On. Wind Resistance: Optional. Higgs' Dignity: Rapidly Degrading.
The Snitch vanished in a glimmer of sunlight. And so did Harry.
One second he was hovering beside Aetherion, scanning the sky with that cocky glint in his emerald-silver eyes. The next, he was a streak of red-gold cutting across the pitch like a comet with attitude.
Terence Higgs dove.
Harry? Harry inverted.
"Oh. My. Gods," Lee Jordan screamed through the speakers. "POTTER'S DOING AN INSIDE-OUT DIVE SPIN! HIGGS IS IN A DIVE, AND POTTER JUST WENT FULL-TILT TOP GUN!"
Aetherion didn't so much fly as taunt gravity. It curled beneath Harry in a corkscrew so snide it probably deserved detention.
"I call that one the Flaming Parental Disappointment," Jim whispered in Harry's head, voice smug like a jazz saxophone solo.
"You named that move just now, didn't you?"
"Obviously. I'm a creative spirit, Harry. Let me live."
Higgs cursed under his breath and pushed forward, his broom trailing just behind Harry like an exhausted chihuahua chasing a space shuttle.
Harry peeked back and gave him a lazy wave.
"That's it," Jim said. "I'm making that your signature move. The Petty Wave."
Meanwhile, below the altitude where oxygen was optional, the Gryffindor Chasers were making Quidditch look like synchronized magical warfare.
Angelina Johnson dropped low, then zipped upward with a juke so clean it should've come with a warning label. She flipped the Quaffle to Alicia, who passed it behind her back to Katie mid-barrel-roll.
Katie caught it, spun, and launched it through the left goal hoop with a snap of her wrist that made Bletchley yell something in what might've been French. Or a stroke.
Lee was howling.
"KATIE 'BREAK-THE-HOOP' BELL WITH A SNAPSHOT THAT JUST MADE BLETCHLEY REEVALUATE HIS LIFE CHOICES! That's 40 to 10, Gryffindor, and the Slytherins are LOSING COMPOSURE LIKE A BROKEN TIME-TURNER!"
Fred and George, overhead, were in full twin-attack mode.
"George! You see that Bludger?"
"Yeah, Fred. That one looks Flint-shaped."
"THEN LET'S CUSTOMIZE IT."
Fred whacked the Bludger like it owed him money. It veered sharply toward Flint, who barely managed to duck—only to get clipped a second later by Angelina shoulder-checking him mid-pass.
"Sorry! Did you want that dignity back?" she called sweetly.
Back in the sky, Higgs was running out of clever.
He tried a sharp bank to the left.
Harry yawned.
Then flicked Aetherion sideways, riding the arc like he was surfing moonlight.
Higgs attempted a body feint.
Harry vanished.
Poof. Gone in a swirl of sparkling mist.
He reappeared a full broom length above and behind Higgs, hanging upside down, boots crossed like he was lounging on a hammock made of smug.
"Did you just NIGHTCRAWLER HIM?" Jim shrieked.
"It was a flicker jump."
"YOU MAGICAL TROLL. I LOVE US."
Lee Jordan's voice cracked from the excitement.
"HE'S BACK! HARRY POTTER JUST DID A QUANTUM PHASE DIVE — I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO CALL IT! SOMEONE GET ME A NAME FOR THAT MOVE, I CAN'T BREATHE!"
"We call it the We-Live-For-Drama Slide," Jim whispered reverently. "Add that to the lore."
The crowd? Unhinged.
The Snitch? Reappeared. High above the north tower, glittering like it knew it was about to be caught and was panicking existentially.
Harry's smile dropped. Game face on.
"Let's end this, boy," he whispered.
Aetherion purred.
The pitch shuddered.
"Oh it's ON," Jim howled. "Cue the battle music. Cue the thunder. Cue the part where Higgs cries into his broomstick!"
And Harry shot forward like a demigod dipped in glitter and vengeance, the storm at his back, and mischief in his soul.
—
Quidditch Pitch — 8:31 AM
Status: Snitch Lock Acquired. Obstruction Tactics: Engaged. Chaos Level: Emergency Sparkle Protocols.
The Snitch was ahead—glinting gold just above the North Tower, fluttering like it didn't realize it was about to be snatched out of the sky by a flying demigod with vengeance in his blood and glitter in his soul.
Harry was on it.
Aetherion wasn't flying. It was declaring war. The broom—half stormcloud, half starfire—hummed with an electric snarl as it streaked through the air, leaving behind a shimmering tail of magic and smugness.
"LOCKED IN!" Jim screamed in Harry's mind. "Target acquired! Boosters primed! Queue the final boss soundtrack! I'm thinking big brass section. Epic percussion. Fog machines on overdrive!"
"No Wagner," Harry muttered.
"Wagner it is!"
Behind him, Terence Higgs was losing altitude, speed, and the will to live. His cheeks puffed. His broom shuddered. His hopes died.
Desperate, Higgs called, "Bole! Peregrine! NOW!"
The two Slytherin Beaters, clearly done pretending they knew the rules, kicked into attack formation. Not toward a Bludger. Toward Harry.
Bats raised.
Lee Jordan sounded like he was having a meltdown over a live wire.
"OH SWEET CIRCUS OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL CHAOS, THE SLYTHERIN BEATERS ARE TRYING TO BODY-CHECK POTTER! WITH BATS! THAT IS NOT IN THE RULEBOOK! SOMEONE TELL MADAM HOOCH SHE'S GONNA NEED TO FINE SOMEBODY!"
Harry ducked one swing. Aetherion shimmered and twisted beneath him.
The second Beater came in from the right.
And then the air EXPLODED.
Fred Weasley rocketed in from above with the fury of a caffeinated thunder god.
"MISS ME WITH THAT SWING, YOU GOBLIN-FACED NINCOMPOOP!" Fred yelled, sending a Bludger at Bole with the force of five exploding cauldrons.
George followed with his bat spinning like a medieval morning star. His Bludger nailed Peregrine mid-chest, knocking the wind out of him AND the smug off his face.
"Did we just commit aerial justice?" George asked.
"With flair," Fred confirmed.
"I WANT TO FRAME THEM," Jim sobbed. "I WANT TO SCULPT THEM IN GOLD AND SING THEIR NAMES TO THE MOON. THESE BOYS ARE ART."
Harry didn't even look back.
The Snitch dipped.
He followed.
Aetherion let out a low thunder-growl. Its core pulsed. Sparks flared in the air. Wind cracked around them like the heavens were clapping.
"PHOENIX MODE ENGAGED!" Jim yelled. "Your hair is on fire. LITERALLY."
"We'll call it 'the Sun God special,'" Harry muttered.
The Snitch zagged.
Harry zagged harder.
Down below, the stands were losing their collective minds. Gryffindors were standing on their benches. Slytherins were halfway to staging a legal protest.
Lee Jordan was borderline unhinged.
"HE'S RIGHT ON TOP OF IT! POTTER IS GLIDING LIKE A SKY HAWK ON A GLITTER FIX! THIS ISN'T JUST QUIDDITCH, THIS IS THEATER! THIS IS ART! THIS IS—HANG ON, HE'S REACHING—"
SNAP.
Harry's fingers closed around gold.
He spun upright in midair, cloak rippling behind him, hair smoking just a little, hand raised high with the Snitch sparkling between his fingers.
Silence for one breath.
Then the pitch exploded.
Fireworks detonated from the Gryffindor stands. A first-year fainted. Someone released enchanted lions that roared and did backflips.
Lee's voice broke entirely.
"HARRY POTTER HAS DONE IT! GRYFFINDOR WINS! BY A LANDSLIDE! BY A HYPERSONIC, CELESTIALLY ORDAINED LANDSLIDE!"
Fred and George collided midair in a double high-five that could've shattered glass.
Angelina whooped.
Alicia sobbed.
Katie punched the air so hard it triggered an accidental Spark-Charm.
Oliver Wood clutched his broomstick like it was a baby and burst into a single, manly tear.
Madam Hooch screamed herself hoarse at Bole and Peregrine, who were pretending to be unconscious to avoid expulsion.
Harry hovered, grin sharp as moonlight.
"History," Jim whispered. "Legend. Icon. And yes—probably a line of very expensive action figures."
Harry nodded to his team, then to the crowd. "Let's go home, boys."
Aetherion purred like a storm satisfied.
And Harry Potter, Chaos Prince of Quidditch, turned toward glory—and a celebratory breakfast the size of a small country.
—
Quidditch Pitch – Ground Level – 8:38 AM
Status: Victory Secured. Ego Levels: Ascending. Chaos Level: Tactical Glitter Deployment. Party Planning: Unleashed.
The second Harry's boots kissed the grass, the Gryffindor team exploded toward him like an overcaffeinated musical number waiting to happen.
Angelina was the first to make impact—laughing so hard she nearly took him down with a full-on tackle-hug that might've registered on the Ministry's Seismic Activity Chart.
"You lunatic!" she shouted, voice gleaming with pure joy. "You beautiful, gravity-defying, physics-murdering lunatic!"
Her braid was slipping loose, face streaked with sweat, stardust, and unfiltered pride. Honestly, she looked like a victorious war goddess with mascara.
Alicia came in from the right, hugging him so tightly she might've cracked a rib. "Harry. Your hair was on fire. You went full solar flare! Solar. Flare!"
Harry blinked. "I prefer the term incandescent drama beacon, but sure."
Katie bounced over next, high on adrenaline and Butterbeer fumes, practically vibrating with excitement. "And then you just—SNATCHED it! Midair! On fire! Are you even mortal?"
"Technically?" Harry said. "No. But I fake it really well."
Inside his head, Jim's voice shrieked in mock horror: "YOU DIDN'T EVEN FLEX, YOU GORGEOUS FLAMING DEMIGOD! They weren't ready. I wasn't ready. Hogwarts wasn't ready. The Geneva Convention wasn't ready. I need a juice box and emotional support glitter. STAT."
"Chaos-fueled perfection," Jim added out loud, dramatically appearing on Harry's shoulder as a tiny version of himself wearing sunglasses and a judge's robe. "Score: Ten out of Ten. Vibes: Immaculate. Threat level: Emotional support basilisk."
Fred and George detonated into the circle like glittery grenades.
"WE LIVE—" Fred bellowed, grabbing Harry by the shoulders like he was about to propose.
"WE LAUGH—" George declared, conjuring a cyclone of sparkling confetti made entirely of Slytherin detention slips and what might've been Malfoy's dignity.
"WE THROW A PARTY!" they finished in stereo, finger guns blazing.
"Tonight?" Harry asked casually, as though the answer wasn't etched into the stars.
"Tonight," Angelina confirmed, already mentally assembling a party plan that could rival a Ministry Ball and an intergalactic rave. "Gryffindor Tower. No curfew. No excuses. All in."
"Password's still Firewhisky Forty-Two, yeah?" Katie asked, already halfway into decorating mode.
"Changed it yesterday," George said, eyes gleaming. "It's Harry Freaking Potter. No punctuation. Capital F."
Oliver jogged up next, clutching his clipboard like it was the only thing holding his soul in place. His hair looked like he'd aged twenty years in ten minutes, and he was thrilled about it.
"I just—" he gasped, sounding like he'd seen the face of Merlin himself. "I need to sit down and maybe cry into a broom closet, but bloody hell, Potter. You won that match like it owed you child support."
Harry flipped the still-glowing Snitch in one hand and smirked. "What can I say? I'm very emotionally persuasive."
Jim cackled in his head. "'Emotionally persuasive'?! That's going on the merch line, right next to 'Snitch Happens' and 'Fire Trails Are My Love Language.'"
"I'm printing that on a T-shirt," Jim muttered aloud. "Font: Ancient Runes. Color: Flaming Gold. Texture: Disrespect."
Above them, Aether descended with the majestic grace of a cloud-shaped deity in dog form, tail curling in elegant spirals of mist and sparkles. It gave a low, rumbly hummm that translated to: I am amazing, my rider is amazing, someone give me a celestial steak.
Harry reached out and gave the hilt a fond pat. "Good boy."
Aether shimmered happily, twisted midair—and promptly fluffed into his puppy-shaped form, all cotton-candy vapor and unreasonably adorable menace. Then he licked Angelina square in the face.
"Ack!" she squealed, wiping her cheek. "Okay, ew—but also awwwww."
"Best broom ever," Alicia declared. "Can I borrow him for emotional support finals?"
"Maybe," Harry said. "He's union now."
Neville jogged over next, looking like he'd just witnessed a magical apocalypse and was delighted about it.
"Mate," he panted. "You barrel-rolled Higgs. Sideways. While flaming. And left a hair trail. A hair trail, Harry!"
"It was an homage," Harry said solemnly. "To reckless chaos and aerodynamic hair gel."
Hermione finally stormed into the circle, one arm clutching three feet of parchment, the other wielding a quill that looked like it had opinions.
"Technically," she said, not even looking up, "you violated six school rules, three wizarding aviation laws, and at least one Geneva Convention."
"Correction," Jim whispered telepathically.
"Two Geneva Conventions. I checked. It's Rule 17-A: No weaponized sparkle maneuvers without UN authorization."
Ron popped in from behind, draped an arm over Harry's shoulders, and handed him a Butterbeer like a supportive sitcom best friend.
"And we'd do it again," Ron said, proud as a pygmy puff in a bowtie.
"Let the record show," Jim said, "that I was fully responsible for at least eighty percent of today's madness and I regret nothing. Also, I'm hosting karaoke tonight."
"Oh no," Hermione groaned.
"Dibs on Bohemian Rhapsody!" Fred called, already warming up his falsetto.
"I'm doing Livin' on a Prayer!" George added, striking a dramatic pose.
"Group number for Eye of the Phoenix?" Katie suggested, bouncing like an excited pixie.
"Yes," said Alicia, Angelina, Fred, George, and Jim in perfect unison.
"Can I do interpretive dance?" Jim asked, now wearing a sequined suit and conjuring backup dancers out of starlight. "Because I will be voguing midair on a flying teacup."
"Only if I can set it on fire first," Harry said, sipping his Butterbeer like a man who knew he was a problem and loved it.
And somewhere, far above them, the enchanted sky still sparkled with the lingering echoes of a boy with a blazing trail of silver-gold hair, a sentient staff with a stand-up routine, a shapeshifting cloud-dog with an attitude, and the kind of team that turned every Quidditch match into a full-on magical rock concert.
—
Gryffindor Tower – Common Room – Later That Night
Status: Party Mode: Engaged. Ceiling: Glitching. Fire Code Violations: Uncountable.
Mood: Unstoppable. Unfiltered. Unapologetically Glorious.
The Gryffindor common room was on fire.
Not literally. Probably.
Okay, maybe a little around the edges.
The vibe was exactly what you'd expect from a house full of adrenaline-fueled teenagers who'd just watched their Seeker go full divine-supernova-nuclear-peacock in front of half the school. The room pulsed with enchanted lights, bewitched basslines, and the kind of joyful chaos that made the portraits turn away and mutter things like, "Back in my day, we respected silence."
From the fireplace mantle, Lee Jordan—wearing glam hex shades and moving like a hype wizard possessed—controlled the music from an ancient gramophone he'd modified with what he claimed was "technically legal" goblin tech.
"Ladies, gents, and fireproof beings," Lee shouted, spinning like a DJ and a ringmaster combined, "welcome to Gryffindor After Dark! Where the beats are hot, the dancing is wilder than a Hippogriff on espresso, and the ceiling is currently ignoring all enchantments and raving to the music!"
Above them, the sky ceiling had given up trying to look like the Scottish night. Now it strobe-pulsed in electric purples and disco golds. Somewhere, a thundercloud danced.
Aetherion, in full fluffy spark-cloud form, hovered blissfully over the party. With every bass drop, it puffed out a perfectly timed burst of glittery mist, like a celestial fog machine with rhythm and an ego the size of a Hungarian Horntail.
"Good boy," Harry muttered, pointing at him fondly.
Aetherion swirled in response, forming a sparkling heart shape in the air with its tail and then sneezing out a spark-burst shaped like a trophy. It winked—literally winked—at him.
Jim, ever theatrical and completely immune to indoor volume regulations, howled inside Harry's head like a banshee that had just won a talent show.
"WE NEED TO DO THIS EVERY NIGHT. Can we? Can we PLEASE? Just one floating cauldron of fireworks, two talking goats, a conga line, and I can die happy."
"Jim," Harry thought back, sipping his Butterbeer with mythic calm, "you can't die."
"Exactly. THAT'S HOW GOOD THIS PARTY IS. IT BROKE IMMORTALITY."
Across the room, Fred and George had transformed the old bulletin board into a Bludger Pong table. The rules were unclear. The danger level was not. The players wore goggles, used paddles charmed to explode on impact, and shouted things like, "NOSEBLEED BONUS ROUND" and "BLOBFISH MODE ENGAGED."
Angelina, radiant and wild, was demonstrating Beater techniques to terrified second-years. "No, no—if you don't swing from your core, you'll never break a nose properly," she said cheerfully, twirling a conjured bat. "C'mon, little lions, maim with meaning!"
Nearby, Alicia and Katie were dancing in the middle of a conjured flame circle, spinning like warrior priestesses who'd just declared war on physics. Katie's jacket was actually on fire. She didn't care.
"It's fashion fire," she yelled. "It's a statement."
"That your clothes have beef with gravity?" Alicia called, flipping her hair like a shampoo ad in a wind tunnel.
Oliver Wood, meanwhile, was parked on a beanbag in the corner, holding his Butterbeer like it had the answers to life.
"I just… he caught the Snitch… on fire," he whispered to no one in particular. "Midair. Flaming. Barrel-roll. I have dreamed of that moment since I was eight." His voice cracked. "I just love this team so much."
On the couch beside him, Hermione had barricaded herself behind a privacy charm, reading Advanced Defensive Transfiguration, Vol. 4 with an expression that screamed I-tolerate-you-because-the-Patriarchy-is-worse. Every time a blast of glitter got too close, her quill shot a protective charm that redirected it at Ron.
Who, by the way, was mid-flirt with Lavender Brown, and failing epically.
"I mean, it's like catching the Snitch is... a metaphor for commitment, right?"
Lavender blinked. "What?"
"You know. Fast. Elusive. Hard to pin down. But worth it?"
Jim's voice popped back in Harry's skull. "That boy needs a dating coach, a luck potion, and possibly an exorcism."
Neville, currently wearing two party hats and holding a cactus for some reason, ran by chasing a flying plate of enchanted cauldron cakes. "I named him Steve!" he yelled. "The cactus, not the cake!"
And Harry?
Harry stood at the center of it all, a Butterbeer in hand, the smell of burnt glitter and euphoria in the air, his hair still faintly glowing like the embers of a divine barbecue. His emerald eyes—flecked with silver now, like star shards in a storm—scanned the room like a king surveying his chaos kingdom.
A beat passed.
"So," Jim whispered, adopting the tone of a documentary narrator. "What's next for the Monkey King, Chaos Prince of Sparkly Doom?"
Harry raised his Butterbeer, toasted the room, his friends, the stars, and possibly the future itself.
"I dunno," he said with a lazy grin. "But tomorrow? I'm sleeping in."
Jim sighed, dreamy and dramatic.
"You earned it. You shone like a nuclear sunrise on a unicorn's birthday. You were glorious. I felt things, Harry. Sparkly things. My internal organs are confetti now."
"I always shine," Harry said, raising an eyebrow.
Jim gasped. "True. But tonight? You radiated plot armor and ancestral mischief. And I—" he sniffled, somewhere between fake tears and real pride, "I am proud to be your metaphorical talking stick."
In their shared mental space, they clinked their imaginary drinks together.
Somewhere, deep in the dungeons, a Slytherin sobbed softly into a monogrammed pillow.
Somewhere else, the stars winked.
Victory was sweet.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow would burn bright.
And also probably smell like leftover fireworks and singed tapestry.
---
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!