The changing room of the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch was a scene of chaotic energy—mostly nervous energy, but hey, it's not like Harry Potter expected anything less before a match. The weather outside was so bad it looked like the sky had completely lost its mind. It wasn't just raining cats and mice; it was as if the entire animal kingdom had decided to take a swim and forgot to ask for permission.
"Honestly, I'd rather be anywhere but out there," Ron Weasley grumbled, adjusting his Keeper gloves. His ginger hair was already plastered to his forehead with the humidity. "And I'm pretty sure I can feel the rain in my bones. Do you think the pitch will flood? Maybe we should practice swimming."
Fred Weasley, twirling his Beater bat like he was auditioning for a Quidditch-themed action movie, shot a glance at Ron. "Oh, please. Flooding would just add to the chaos. Besides, we'd only be halfway into the match before Malfoy's whining about the 'flooded pitch' gets old. You know, like usual."
"Maybe we should just chuck him in the lake and see if the water's deep enough to drown his dramatic flair," George added, grinning mischievously as he balanced his bat on his shoulder.
"Too good for him," Jean Grey said from the other side of the room, her arms casually crossed over her chest as she looked through the window. She was dressed in her Quidditch gear, which fit her like it was custom-made by some enchanted tailor. "If we're throwing people in the lake, let's at least throw in someone who deserves it. Draco wouldn't even know how to swim without it being some kind of weird, 'Look at me, I'm so refined, I'm learning how to swim in style' moment."
"Maybe we should do that," Harry added, leaning against his locker with a wicked grin. "Just to see if his ego floats or sinks first. The suspense would be killer."
There was a moment of shared laughter before Ron gave them both a flat look. "Not funny. If you two get me in trouble for a joke, I'll—"
"Shut up, Weasley," Fred interrupted with a dramatic eye roll. "We're just trying to keep the mood light before Captain Doom-and-Gloom gets here."
As if on cue, the door to the changing room slammed open, and in walked Oliver Wood, broomstick in hand, a serious look plastered across his face. He was the kind of guy who didn't need a loud entrance to command attention. He was just... Oliver Wood. And when Oliver Wood had a look on his face, it was better to listen.
"Alright, team," he said in that voice of his—half stern, half motivational speaker—like he was about to lead them into battle. "I know the weather's about as pleasant as a pile of wet socks, but we've trained in worse. This isn't the time to back down. It's time to show the rest of the school that Gryffindor isn't just about looks and lucky charm bracelets."
"Honestly, you don't need to add the 'lucky charm bracelets' bit," George snickered under his breath, nudging Fred with his elbow.
"You've got to give him credit," Fred said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "No one does 'pep talks' like Wood. Makes you feel like you could take on a mountain. Or... you know, survive the rain."
Katie Bell, looking sharp in her Chaser gear, rolled her eyes but flashed a grin at Fred. "Honestly, I think I'd rather take on a mountain than listen to another one of Oliver's 'motivational speeches' about how we're not 'lucky charm bracelets.' But you know, it's part of the charm."
"I'll have you know," Oliver began, pointing his broomstick at Fred like it was a weapon, "I'm trying to give you all a little fire, a little—"
"Fire? Or do you just like the sound of your own voice, Wood?" Jean interrupted, winking at him as she tossed her hair back. "Because it's starting to sound like a broken record."
"Thanks for the insight, Jean," Oliver said with a half-smile, clearly appreciating her sarcasm despite his best efforts to keep a straight face. "Now, I've got a job for each and every one of you. No more jokes. We're going to play like Gryffindor, and we're going to fight for this match. We might not have the perfect conditions, but we've got heart, and that's all we need. We don't let the rain—or Malfoy—get to us. Got it?"
"Got it!" the team chorused, though Ron added under his breath, "I just hope I don't drown out there."
"Right," Oliver continued, ignoring Ron's side comment. "You've all been briefed on the strategy, but here's the deal: Don't let up. We're going to show Slytherin that no matter what the weather does, we're still coming for them. No excuses."
"That's the spirit, Captain!" Fred said enthusiastically, raising his Beater bat in the air. "If the rain doesn't drown us, let's at least make sure Malfoy's dramatic act does."
"Seriously, Wood, you make us sound like a bunch of Gryffindor robots," Jean said, grinning. "I mean, if I'm going to 'fight for the team,' can we at least have some snacks afterward? Like a big cake or something? Maybe a celebratory feast?"
"After we win, you can have all the cake you want," Oliver shot back, his tone serious but a glimmer of humor in his eyes. "But first, we're going out there to crush this match."
The team exchanged determined glances, and just like that, the last of the nerves evaporated. They were Gryffindor. They were going to take on Slytherin, rain or not.
"Alright," Ron said, smirking as he picked up his broom. "But if we lose, I'm blaming Malfoy's ego for distracting me."
"Deal," Jean said, already moving toward the door. "Let's go remind him he's not the only one who can play dramatic roles."
Fred and George gave each other a look, a silent agreement that said, This match was going to be one for the books. They'd have to make sure Malfoy got the memo that no one was buying his act. Not today.
As the team filed out, ready to face the storm, Harry felt the familiar rush of excitement. The rain wasn't going to stop him. No, he was going to fly circles around anyone who thought a little bit of bad weather could take him down. With a grin, he turned to Ron.
"Race you to the pitch?" Harry asked, a playful gleam in his eye.
Ron groaned. "Not today, Potter. I'm already wet enough."
"Well, at least you'll have a head start. See you out there!" Harry winked and bolted ahead, not even waiting for Ron to protest.
And just like that, the storm outside seemed like it didn't even matter. Harry was ready to chase down the Snitch, and no amount of rain or drama from Malfoy could take him off his game.
This was Gryffindor. And no storm—no matter how big—could ever stop them from winning.
—
The rain came down like it had a personal vendetta against anyone stupid enough to be outside, and the Quidditch pitch looked like it had been turned into a swamp. The wind howled like it was auditioning for Lord of the Rings, but nobody on the Gryffindor team seemed phased. If anything, they were almost excited about it, like this was their chance to prove that no amount of weather could stop them from making Slytherin eat dirt.
Harry's broomstick was already looking like a soggy rag, but the moment he swung a leg over it, the usual spark of excitement surged through him. The game had officially started, and the only thing that could possibly make this day worse was if he somehow managed to crash into Ron and end up spending the rest of the match drenched and broken—though he wasn't entirely sure that would be a bad thing, given Ron's constant complaints.
As they walked toward the pitch, Ron, still adjusting his gloves in that methodical way he always did when something was bugging him, muttered under his breath, "Honestly, if the Bludgers get any wetter, we might have to start using rubber balls. At least they'd bounce back."
Fred overheard this and gave a loud, obnoxious snort of laughter. "Ron, mate, don't be silly. We know you'll just bounce back, all plump and squishy after the rain."
George added, "Honestly, you might even survive being hit by a Bludger now. We could have a new form of entertainment: 'Ron Weasley, the Human Shield.'"
"I've been hit by a Bludger in nearly every practice this year, and that's before we factor in Fred and George's attempts at aiming them at me," Ron said with a sigh, rolling his eyes. "At this point, I'm just trying to survive the storm without getting wet."
Harry smirked. "Don't worry, mate. If you get hit, just pretend it's a surprise. It'll throw the Slytherins off."
"Sure, Harry," Ron muttered, but he gave Harry a skeptical look anyway. "You know, I can't decide whether you're brave or just a little bit insane. You don't even flinch when the rain turns the pitch into a slip-and-slide."
Fred nudged George and nodded toward Ron. "You heard the man. Bravery is clearly overrated."
They reached the sidelines where the reserve players were standing, already trying to keep their brooms from getting too soaked. Ginny, who looked like she had just stepped out of an action movie, was casually twirling her wand between her fingers. Her hair, usually neat, was a matted mess thanks to the storm, but that didn't stop her from giving Harry an eyebrow raise as he passed by.
"Need a raincheck on your weather-forecasting skills, Harry?" Ginny asked, flashing him a grin that could have melted glaciers.
Harry threw a glance at her. "You're about to find out that a little rain isn't going to stop me. But hey, if it does, I'll just call you in as my replacement."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "You wish, Potter. I'd still beat you one-handed."
Jean Grey, standing just behind Ginny, smirked from the sidelines. Her eyes, glowing faintly despite the weather, didn't leave Harry's for a second. "Don't forget who's got the backup plan if you end up underperforming, Harry."
"Backup plan?" Harry said, raising an eyebrow as he smirked. "Please, Jean. If I mess up, the real plan is to blame it on Fred and George, like always."
Dean Thomas, who had been watching the exchange with amusement, chimed in, "You know, if you do crash, I'll be there to help you up. Maybe not right away, though. I'm still waiting for my own moment to shine out there."
Harry shot him a look. "Not to be dramatic, Dean, but if you end up on the field, you might be more useful than Ron here anyway."
Ron shot a mock glare. "Hey, at least I won't be as drenched as you two. You look like drowned rats."
"Only because we're embracing the storm," Fred said, jumping in. "Plus, 'drowned rat' is so last season. This is a wet hero look now."
Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, and Angelina Johnson were already readying themselves on their brooms, getting into their trademark positions. Katie was focused, already running through some strategies in her head, while Angelina and Alicia exchanged a few last-minute tips. Fred winked at them as they passed by.
"You ready to give Slytherin a nice, soggy beating?" Fred called out.
Angelina raised an eyebrow at him. "What do you think? We're about to give them a very wet wake-up call."
As the teams lined up at the center of the pitch, there was no doubt in Harry's mind that this was going to be one of those matches that people would still be talking about years from now. He could see the Slytherin team already assembled, their sleek black uniforms like shadows against the gloomy sky. But none of them had the swagger that Harry saw in Marcus Flint, standing like a mountain at the front. The guy was built like a tank, his arms crossed, glaring at anyone who dared to meet his eyes.
And then there was the handshake. Or more accurately, the hand-crush contest. Flint's hand came down like a bear trap, while Oliver Wood stepped forward with a grin that could've belonged to a lion about to pounce.
"I swear, Flint," Oliver muttered, squeezing back, "one of these days, I'll break your hand. Just you wait."
Flint's grin only widened, like he was having too much fun with this. "Wouldn't be the first time, Wood. You've got a weak handshake for a Keeper."
"Yeah, well, I didn't learn how to shake hands from an ogre," Oliver shot back. "But hey, I've got a few surprises for you today."
"Bring it, Wood," Flint said, turning on his heel.
Professor Hooch, standing nearby with a frown like she was seriously considering taking away everyone's brooms, gave a disapproving glance at both captains. "Enough of that, you two. Save it for the pitch."
"Fine, Professor," Flint muttered.
Oliver, always quick to respond, gave one last look at Flint. "See you in the air."
And then, it was time. The teams mounted their brooms, the wind howling even louder now, as if daring them to take off into the chaos. Lee Jordan's voice broke the tension like a bomb going off.
"Welcome, welcome, everyone, to the most exciting match of the season!" Lee's voice rang out across the pitch. "You are in for a treat today, folks! Gryffindor versus Slytherin in the most dangerous conditions we've seen in years. And trust me, we've got a storm here that could put even Harry Potter's Quidditch skills to the test!"
The players kicked off the ground, shooting into the air, rain pelting their faces like missiles, but they didn't even flinch. Harry flew upward, a grin plastered on his face. This was what he lived for. This was his world. And no storm was going to change that.
—
The rain was coming down in sheets now, the kind of downpour that made you question your life choices—like, "Why did I choose to play Quidditch in the middle of this monsoon?" But if there's one thing Harry Potter knew, it was that Quidditch didn't stop for a little rain. In fact, the rain made everything better. The pitch was practically a slip-n-slide, and every player was skating around like they were auditioning for a Quidditch-themed ice show.
Lee Jordan's voice rang out above the chaos, his excitement practically making the clouds above them vibrate. "And the Chasers, folks! Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell—absolute legends out there. They're dodging Slytherin's defense like it's an obstacle course in a circus. I mean, Montague's got the reflexes of a sloth on sleeping pills, Flint's just trying to look intimidating, and Warrington? Well, I'm pretty sure he's only playing to get out of doing homework."
Harry couldn't help but chuckle as he sped past Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin Seeker. Malfoy was tailing him like a dog that had just figured out how to bark at the mailman. "Potter," Malfoy sneered, his voice cutting through the downpour. "You know, for someone who thinks he's all that, you sure do fly like you've never seen a broom before."
Harry didn't even look at him, focusing instead on the way the rain seemed to make everything a bit more… fun. But of course, Malfoy had to make it weird.
"Yeah, Malfoy," Harry called back over his shoulder, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe you should've asked your daddy to buy you a broom that doesn't look like it was made out of leftover twigs from last year's Hagrid-approved broom sale."
Malfoy's eyes narrowed, but Harry didn't stick around to watch the reaction. Instead, he kicked his Firebolt into high gear. The thing practically hummed beneath him, and he shot forward, weaving through the rain like a rocket in a thunderstorm.
Lee's commentary cut through the air again. "And folks, Gryffindor's Beaters—Fred and George Weasley—are giving Slytherin a full-body workout, launching Bludgers like they're trying to send them to a different dimension. Slytherin's Derrick and Bole are doing their best to play defense, but it's like watching a toddler trying to stop a train. Not gonna happen, folks."
Harry couldn't help but grin. Fred and George were having the time of their lives out there, sending Bludgers at Slytherin like they were trying to take out a couple of gnomes in the backyard. The twins weren't just Beaters—they were chaos agents.
"And here comes Slytherin's defense," Lee continued, barely able to keep his voice steady with all the excitement. "Warrington's still trying to figure out what a Quaffle is, Flint's got the aim of a drunken hippogriff, and Montague is—well, Montague's just out here for the snacks, folks!"
Harry smirked. He could practically hear the eye roll in Lee's voice. Montague had always been an easy target, and today was no different. But all of that was background noise to Harry's main focus: the Snitch.
His eyes scanned the field, every instinct telling him it was nearby. And just then, he saw it. A glint of gold streaked across the sky, darting just above the Gryffindor goalposts. Without a second thought, Harry kicked his Firebolt into overdrive.
Malfoy, predictably, was right behind him, trying to keep pace. "You're not going to catch it, Potter," he called out in that smarmy tone of his. "You're not even worthy of it."
Harry's lips twitched. "Says the guy with the broom that looks like it was built by a blind goblin. You really think I'm not worthy of the Snitch? Come back when your broom stops struggling to stay airborne, Malfoy."
The insult seemed to hit its target. Harry could see Malfoy's knuckles go white around his broomstick, his face turning a lovely shade of crimson.
Lee, clearly enjoying the drama unfolding, didn't skip a beat. "And folks, here's the showdown we've all been waiting for! Potter and Malfoy are neck-and-neck in a race for the Snitch, and it's looking like Potter's got the upper hand with that Firebolt of his. Malfoy's broom might be nice, but it's not a Firebolt, and as we all know, folks—there's only one Firebolt. It's like comparing a rocket ship to a bicycle."
Harry could feel the speed of the Firebolt beneath him. It was like an extension of his body. The Nimbus 2001 wasn't a bad broom, but it wasn't this. Malfoy could push it all he wanted, but Harry was already streaking ahead, the Snitch now just inches away.
"Malfoy," Harry called back with a smirk, "you really should get a new broom. It's cute how you think it's keeping up, but we both know it's got more issues than a Daily Prophet editorial."
"Shut up, Potter!" Malfoy snapped, frustration leaking into his voice. But Harry was already pulling ahead, the Snitch fluttering just out of Malfoy's reach.
And then—bam. Harry's fingers closed around it.
"YES!" Harry shouted, grinning like a madman as the Snitch fluttered in his palm. "Who's your daddy, Malfoy?"
Lee's voice practically exploded over the intercom. "And it's over! Gryffindor wins, folks! Potter catches the Snitch with style—and trust me, that's the kind of catch that'll go down in history. Malfoy, on the other hand, might want to consider upgrading that broom. Just saying."
The crowd erupted in cheers, and Harry, grinning ear to ear, flew down to his team. Fred and George were already celebrating, high-fiving anyone who looked at them for more than two seconds. Oliver Wood was practically glowing with pride, and Katie, Angelina, and Alicia were celebrating like they'd just been crowned the champions of the Quidditch World Cup.
As Harry landed, he caught sight of Malfoy glaring up at him from across the pitch. His face was redder than a Weasley sweater, and he was clearly fuming. "You cheated, Potter!" Malfoy spat, his voice hoarse with anger. "That's not fair!"
Harry chuckled, holding up the Snitch for the whole world to see. "Right, Malfoy. Totally cheated. Just like the last time you got utterly shown up in front of the entire school."
With that, he turned to join his team, leaving Malfoy muttering to himself, his broom sputtering behind him like a motorbike that had seen better days. Gryffindor was victorious, and Harry had once again shown Malfoy who was boss. Rain or no rain.
—
The moment Lee Jordan's voice hit the airwaves, it felt like the entire stadium collectively held its breath, just waiting for the punchline.
"And there it is, folks! Gryffindor wins—again! With a jaw-dropping score of 180-0! That's right, Slytherin. Zero. Nada. Nothing. Like a particularly embarrassing game of Quidditch where you don't even show up!" Lee shouted, his voice practically vibrating with excitement.
The crowd exploded. It was like someone set off a hundred fireworks at once—explosive, loud, and impossible to ignore. Harry, naturally, was the one getting the most attention as he zipped around on his broom like he was the center of the universe. And to be fair, in this moment, he was.
"Potter," Lee continued, "catches the Snitch in record time! And I mean, record time. Malfoy had zero chance, folks. It was like watching a cat chase a laser pointer, except the cat was wearing a cape. And I'm sure Malfoy still thinks he's a Quidditch genius. Bless his heart."
The entire stadium howled with laughter. Harry grinned, because honestly, what else was he supposed to do? Malfoy was probably out there somewhere, drowning in his own salty tears. At least it wasn't his fault.
As Harry descended from the sky, showing off the golden Snitch with as much style as possible, he spotted his teammates in the distance—Oliver Wood, leading the charge like some kind of Quidditch drill sergeant, followed by Angelina, Alicia, and Katie, all of them practically glowing from the victory. Fred and George were already laughing and arm wrestling each other, trying (and failing) to look intimidating in their victory.
Harry couldn't help but feel a little proud of his team. They were basically unstoppable today.
They landed on the pitch, and Harry slid off his broom with the finesse of a seasoned pro. But as he did, a voice shouted across the field.
"Don't think you can escape just yet, Potter!" It was Ron, grinning like a madman. His cheeks were flushed, but the pure joy on his face was impossible to miss. Beside him stood the rest of the reserve team, waiting for their moment to celebrate. Jean, Demelza, Dean, Ritchie, Jimmy, and Ginny all lined up like they were ready to jump into the greatest group hug the wizarding world had ever seen.
Harry had just enough time to wave at them before Jean—who, let's face it, had never met a moment she didn't want to make her own—stepped up and planted a kiss squarely on his lips.
Okay, hold up. What?
Harry froze. His brain immediately short-circuited. It was like someone had suddenly cast a spell to make all the thoughts in his head come to a screeching halt.
Jean pulled away, her face impossibly smug. She gave him a little wink, that mischievous glint in her eyes telling Harry everything he needed to know. That was how she wanted to celebrate their victory, huh? And it wasn't even her birthday yet—her actual birthday was tomorrow, and Harry had already promised her a date in Hogsmeade. But this? This was a plot twist he hadn't been expecting.
"Happy Pre-Birthday to me," Jean teased, her voice dripping with amusement. "I figured I'd get the awkward first kiss out of the way so we can just enjoy tomorrow, yeah?"
"I—uh—I," Harry sputtered, blinking at her like he had no idea what just happened. He glanced around, but his friends were all watching this like they were seeing a car wreck in slow motion. "I didn't even—what are you—?"
"Not sure how you missed it, Potter," Jean grinned, her arms folded confidently. "But hey, I like to make a lasting impression."
Fred and George, who had clearly been watching from a distance, erupted into whoops of laughter.
"Oi, Harry!" Fred shouted, elbowing George in the ribs. "I thought you were supposed to be the one winning over hearts and minds, not losing yours to Jean here!"
George choked out, "Honestly, mate, you need to work on your kissing game. That was way too quick! The crowd's gonna be disappointed. They expected drama! And slow-motion! C'mon!"
Alicia snorted, shaking her head. "Oh, come on, that was way more dramatic than any of us expected."
Katie, still holding her broom, leaned over to Harry. "I thought you were supposed to be the cool, calm Seeker. Not the blushing, stammering idiot we all just saw."
"Really, Katie?" Harry gave her an exaggerated side-eye, his face redder than a Gryffindor banner. "Because I definitely wasn't planning on being the world's biggest awkward mess right in front of all of you. But, you know, here we are."
"Alright, alright, alright," Lee's voice boomed from the speaker again, and Harry's heart skipped. Lee's next line would be a zinger for sure. "Looks like Harry's game of Quidditch wasn't the only thing that got suddenly heated today! If you'll excuse me, folks, I think we're about to get some very interesting gossip. This is going to make Hogsmeade tomorrow even more interesting, eh?"
Harry buried his face in his hands, realizing that the whole school was absolutely going to be talking about this for the next few weeks. He could practically hear the rumors starting to swirl like a storm.
But then, a voice broke through the chaos.
"Well, looks like Harry's going to have a very interesting date tomorrow," Ginny said, stepping forward with a knowing smile. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. "Though, I hope you're not planning on spending all night thinking about how Jean kisses."
That was it. Harry's face reached the temperature of a firecracker. He shot a glare at Ginny, but she just winked and laughed.
"You know, you could've warned me before she just... did that," Harry muttered, still trying to get his bearings.
"Oi, we didn't even get the details of your date yet!" Fred interrupted, shaking his head in mock dismay. "What's the plan? Dinner? Dancing? More kisses? I'm just saying, you're the guy who's got this whole 'romance' thing figured out, right?"
"Honestly," Harry grumbled, trying to regain some composure, "I'm just hoping I can survive the next few hours without being roasted alive by my friends."
George slapped him on the back with a grin. "Mate, you're about to learn that being the Seeker is nothing compared to being the target of a hundred Weasley jokes. You'll be fine."
As everyone began to descend into the chaos of their post-game celebration, the whole crowd surrounding them, it dawned on Harry that he didn't mind the teasing as much as he expected. Because tomorrow, he was going to be with Jean, and that? That was something worth looking forward to.
And if the entire school was going to roast him for it?
Well, at least they were all watching. And who didn't like a little drama once in a while?
—
The Gryffindor Common Room was a sight to behold. It was as if the entire castle had just erupted into a party, and naturally, the party was taking place in their own corner of the universe. The fire crackled merrily, and there were banners everywhere proclaiming Gryffindor's ultimate superiority. The common room was a chaotic mix of red and gold, as if the walls themselves were cheering.
Fred and George, with their usual flair, had somehow procured a dozen bottles of butterbeer, all of which they insisted on cracking open at once, sending foam spilling everywhere. "To Gryffindor!" they shouted in unison, clinking their bottles together so forcefully they nearly took each other's heads off.
"To Harry!" Fred added, his voice slightly slurred already. "I mean, who else do we credit with snatching that Snitch like it was a Golden Egg on Easter?"
George grinned. "And let's not forget how he made Malfoy look like he was chasing after a rogue dragonfly on a broomstick held together by chewing gum and string."
Harry, trying to escape the attention, sidestepped them with as much grace as he could muster—considering the whole room had turned its gaze to him the moment he stepped through the door. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, still not entirely sure what to make of the whole 'Kiss of Death by Jean' incident that afternoon. "Let's just, uh, let's just focus on the fact that we won."
A collective cheer went up. Even Ron, who had spent the majority of the match with his eyes glued to the pitch, had joined in the celebration. He was holding a butterbeer like it was the Holy Grail, eyes wide with the kind of enthusiasm only Ron Weasley could muster after a Quidditch victory. "Yeah! We crushed them! Take that, Slytherin!" He raised his bottle so high it almost hit the chandelier. "And Malfoy's got to be crying into his pillow right now!"
"Not just crying," Ginny added with a sly grin, appearing behind Ron. "Screaming like a banshee whose broom just broke mid-air."
"Couldn't have happened to a better git," Ron muttered. But before he could go on, he was immediately distracted by Fred and George pulling him into a group hug with the rest of the team.
"You're in Gryffindor, mate!" Fred shouted. "We're allowed to scream like that. All part of the tradition."
"Right!" George piped up. "So what if we went a little overboard and had a bit too much butterbeer? I'm sure it's completely legal."
At this, Harry couldn't help but snort. "You guys have no shame," he said, grinning. "And that's exactly why I love you."
"That's the spirit!" Fred replied, swinging his arm around Harry's shoulders in a not-so-graceful half-hug. "Come on, everyone! To Harry Potter, who just made Slytherin's dreams come crashing down, one Snitch at a time."
"Yeah, but let's be real," Ginny cut in, her grin wide and teasing. "We all know the real reason they lost was because Malfoy was too busy mooning over you to actually play Quidditch."
"Who, me?" Harry's ears turned a shade of red that almost rivaled the Gryffindor banners. He shot Jean a look, half-exasperated, half-amused. "He wasn't that distracted, was he?"
"Oh, he was," Jean teased, her eyes glittering with mischief. She leaned in, giving him a playful nudge that nearly sent him stumbling into a nearby chair. "And if you didn't notice, he had a very personal moment during your flight. Don't worry, he'll be running home to his mummy after this match. You know, for some comfort and hot cocoa."
Harry groaned, his face burning hotter than the fire in the hearth. "You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"
"I mean, come on," she said, practically bouncing in place, clearly enjoying herself. "It was too perfect. Malfoy, that poor kid, looked like he needed therapy after you pulled that Snitch stunt. I mean, did you see the look on his face when you swooped in? Priceless."
"Yeah," Ginny added with a mischievous grin. "I think I heard his feelings break all the way from the stands."
But before Harry could respond, the Phelps twins—Fred and George—had launched into another round of overly dramatic, exaggerated commentary, drawing everyone's attention once again.
"Now, for the moment we've all been waiting for," Fred said, holding up his bottle of butterbeer like an auctioneer with the world's greatest prize. "Let's get down to the real celebration. What's the deal with you two?"
"What?!" Harry spluttered. "I—what do you mean? You're all completely insane."
"Oh, don't pretend you're not dying to see what happens next," George said, eyes twinkling. "We all know what's going down tomorrow."
"Guys," Harry said, feeling his brain short-circuit again. He was honestly starting to think that maybe, just maybe, he would rather face Malfoy on a broomstick than his entire team right now.
Ginny, though, wasn't letting him off the hook that easily. She leaned toward him with a grin that was pure mischief, flicking her eyes over to Jean, who was now watching them both with a knowing look. "So," Ginny began, voice pitched just above a whisper, "are we going to see this 'Pre-Birthday' celebration go all the way?"
Jean burst out laughing. "You're just trying to get him to say something embarrassing now, aren't you?" she teased, her voice light but dripping with that unmistakable confidence that only Jean Grey could pull off.
Harry shot them both an exasperated look. "Oh, I see. You've been planning this from the start, haven't you? Well, guess what? I'm not that easy to embarrass."
Fred and George, of course, didn't let up. "Oh, we know you're not, mate," Fred said, elbowing Harry playfully. "But I do think a certain someone is dying to hear about your plans."
"Don't worry, mate," George said, his grin mischievous. "We'll make sure everyone knows how you plan on spending your evening with Jean. Butterbeer's on us for the next hour."
Harry groaned, but in that moment, surrounded by his friends—and by the whole chaotic, teasing storm that was Gryffindor—he realized that no amount of teasing could ruin the best Quidditch victory of his life. After all, with his friends behind him, how could he possibly lose?
Jean, smirking from the other side of the room, met his eyes. "Enjoying the attention, Potter?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as if she were the one in control of everything.
Harry gave her a half-smile, feeling far too relaxed to be anything but amused. "Just remember, Jean. You might be the star of the show tonight, but tomorrow's my game. And I'm already planning on winning."
She grinned. "We'll see, Potter. We'll see."
---
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