The Gryffindor common room was lively that night, as if the house had collectively decided to throw a victory party despite the fact no match had been played. The fire blazed high, laughter ricocheted off the walls, and more than a few students were retelling "the flying tree-slayer incident" for the tenth time.
But up the boys' dormitory stairs, behind a door discreetly shut against the noise, four Gryffindors huddled around Oliver Wood's bed like generals at a war table.
Fred and George sat cross-legged, each with identical grins that belonged on wanted posters. Lee Jordan leaned back in a chair, hands behind his head, wearing the smugness of a man who knew history was in the making. Oliver Wood, Quidditch Captain and full-time zealot, paced the narrow strip of carpet, muttering to himself and occasionally sketching diagrams in the air.
He stopped abruptly, turning to them with eyes bright as a Bludger in the sun.
"You saw him today."
Fred spread his hands. "Saw him? Oliver, we practically watched a new Hogwarts legend being born."
"Yeah," George added, "and that legend just so happens to be built like a centaur and fly like he's trying to kill the sky."
Lee smirked. "And let's not forget he punched an oak tree in half before dinner. That's… not standard Quidditch training, but I feel like it should be."
Oliver's mouth twitched into a smile that was equal parts admiration and pure, calculated greed. "That's not a player. That's a weapon. A weapon we need."
Fred nodded slowly. "And by 'we,' you mean—"
"Gryffindor," Oliver said, his voice low and sharp. "Against Slytherin."
There was a collective moment of silence — not out of shock, but because they were all savoring the image.
George leaned forward. "You're picturing it right now, aren't you? Inosuke as a Beater, bat in both hands, no one in green robes making it past the halfway line."
Oliver's grin widened in a way that made him look like he'd been taking notes from Peeves. "Not just stopping them. I want Bole and Derrick afraid to take off. I want Marcus Flint so rattled he fumbles the Quaffle before the whistle. I want Slytherin's entire offensive line questioning whether it's worth the hospital wing trip just to cross midfield."
Fred chuckled. "Wood, you're sounding a little… dark."
"Dark?" Oliver's eyes gleamed. "I'm sounding victorious. Slytherin plays dirty — always have. You saw what they did to Angelina last year. Now imagine answering that with a force of nature they can't out-muscle, out-speed, or out-cheat."
Lee tipped his chair back dangerously. "You're not just thinking about winning. You're thinking about Destroying them."
Oliver stopped pacing, leaning forward on the bedframe. "You bet I am. This isn't just Quidditch. This is war. And Inosuke…" His grin turned almost predatory. "…Inosuke is the siege weapon."
Fred exchanged a look with George that was half-amused, half-serious. "Alright, so we all agree — we want him on the team. But let's be real. This guy doesn't know a Quaffle from a cauldron."
"That's irrelevant," Oliver said. "We don't need him to understand the rules. We need him to follow one instruction: 'Hit the bludger at anything wearing green.'"
Lee snorted. "That, I can see him mastering in record time."
George leaned back, folding his arms. "Only problem is, he's not exactly the 'join for house pride' type. We can't just ask."
Oliver's eyes gleamed with something halfway between competitive fire and calculated malice. "We're not just recruiting Inosuke. We're going to light a fire under him so hot he'll take Slytherin's heads clean off during the match."
Fred leaned forward eagerly. "So, we're talking motivation?"
"Not motivation," Oliver said with a small, wolfish grin. "We're talking outrage. We make him hate Slytherin before he even knows what a Quaffle is."
George smirked. "And how exactly do we do that? He doesn't seem the type to care about house rivalries."
"That's where the framing comes in," Oliver said smoothly. "Tomorrow morning, Fred and George 'accidentally' tell him they overheard Slytherin's captain—"
"Marcus Flint," Lee supplied.
"—Marcus Flint," Oliver continued, "laughing about him in the locker room. Said he was 'all bark, no bite.' That his muscles are just for show. That he'd never last in the air because he's too stupid to handle a broom."
Fred's eyes lit up. "Oh… that's perfect. Tell him Flint said he looked like a lost troll in hand-me-down robes."
"Add that he'd be more use scrubbing cauldrons than playing Quidditch," George added with relish. "Really twist the knife."
Oliver nodded approvingly. "We give him no reason to doubt it. Say you overheard it while walking past the changing rooms. Add a bit about how the Slytherins were laughing at him. The more personal the insult, the more dangerous he'll be on the pitch."
Lee raised an eyebrow. "And what about the broom situation? Inosuke on a Cleansweep's one thing, but if you want him in full berserker mode, he'll need something… sturdier."
Oliver tapped the side of his head. "Already thought of that. I'm having Spintwitches deliver a reinforced Beater's bat — heavier than regulation. If he can lift a tree, he can swing this. And if he swings this… Merlin help the Slytherins."
Fred let out a low whistle. "You're really planning to weaponize this guy."
"I'm planning to win," Oliver said simply. Then, almost as an afterthought: "And maybe scare Slytherin so badly they fake injuries to skip the rematch."
Lee chuckled darkly. "That's cold, Wood. I approve."
The room fell into a comfortable silence, each of them lost in the same daydream — the roar of the crowd, Slytherin players scattering like startled pigeons, Inosuke a blur of muscle and chaos tearing through the pitch.
Finally, George broke the silence. "Alright. We approach tomorrow. Fred, you and I run the 'they think you're weak' routine. Lee, you sell him on Quidditch being basically aerial combat. Oliver, you present the bat. We don't give him time to say no."
Oliver nodded sharply. "Exactly. Gentlemen, by this time next week, we'll have a new Beater — and Slytherin will have a new reason to hate us."
Fred raised his butterbeer bottle. "To Gryffindor victory."
George clinked his against it. "And Slytherin misery."
Lee added his with a grin. "And the sheer chaos of introducing Inosuke to organized sport."
Oliver lifted his own bottle last, voice low and deliberate. "To victory, gentlemen. And to crushing Slytherin so thoroughly they think twice before breathing near us again."
They drank, the flicker of the dorm's lamplight casting shadows that made the four of them look far less like schoolboys and far more like conspirators on the edge of launching a campaign.
Outside the closed door, the common room still buzzed with stories of the day's madness. But inside, the plan was set. And if anyone had listened closely, they might have heard Oliver Wood's final murmur as he sat back down, voice low and dangerous:
"Enjoy your last two months of breathing easy, Slytherin. The boar's coming."