As soon as April arrived, the Scottish Highlands shook off the last remnants of winter.
The air was warmer, the sun a little brighter, and students had already abandoned their thick cloaks for lighter robes.
From the Hogwarts tower, the land stretched out like a giant canvas, tinged with the faintest hint of green.
Yet, up close, the grass was still sparse, fighting to break free from the cold grip of the past season.
Early April also meant another Quidditch match—this time, Ravenclaw versus Slytherin, with none other than Professor Snape as the referee.
Ravenclaw wasn't weak by any means, but against the cunning and relentless Slytherins, they were already at a disadvantage before the game even began.
It was hard to win against a team that saw rules as mere suggestions.
And with Snape officiating? Forget fairness.
The match stretched for an exhausting hour and a half.
Snape awarded Ravenclaw a staggering twelve free throws, but Slytherin only received six. The bias was so blatant that it was laughable.
If Hogwarts had red cards like Muggle football, Snape would've sent the entire Ravenclaw team—and their reserves—off the field in the first thirty minutes.
When the final whistle blew, Slytherin emerged victorious once again.
The students from Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw fumed but bit their tongues.
Openly challenging Snape was a lost cause.
By dinner, the Great Hall was buzzing with complaints.
Some called Slytherin shameless; others accused Snape of favoritism.
The atmosphere was thick with frustration.
And then Malfoy just had to make an entrance.
"Hahahaha!" His laughter arrived before he did, echoing obnoxiously as he strutted forward with his usual entourage—Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind him.
Malfoy's platinum blonde hair gleamed unnaturally, like he'd dumped an entire bottle of hair gel on it.
Despite the warmer weather, he looked as smug as ever, soaking in the post-victory glow.
"You Ravenclaws—ah!" Whatever insult he had planned was cut short.
Harley, still bristling from the match, didn't hesitate.
She launched herself at Malfoy, her fist connecting squarely with the blond's face before he could even react.
Malfoy barely registered what was happening before he stumbled back, clutching his face in shock.
And then things got worse for him.
Harley seized the opportunity, looping an arm around Malfoy's neck in a tight headlock.
Her grip was strong, honed from years of Quidditch practice.
Malfoy thrashed, struggling to pry Harley's arm off, but it was useless.
"H-Help!" he wheezed, reaching desperately for Crabbe and Goyle.
The two goons hesitated. They were bigger, sure, but years of being bested in fights had left them with a healthy dose of fear.
Their eyes darted between each other before, with a nervous gulp, they charged forward.
Bad idea.
Ron, Neville, and Jerry had been waiting for this.
The second Crabbe and Goyle lunged, they were met with well-timed counters.
Ted, ever the strategist, casually flicked his wand, hitting Goyle with a Leg-Locker Curse.
The oaf toppled over, taking Crabbe down with him like a domino effect.
Ron and Neville wasted no time pinning them to the ground.
The scene looked almost comical—two hulking figures sprawled out, arms yanked behind their backs, completely at their captors' mercy.
Ted shook his head, glancing at Hermione. "This Malfoy trio just keeps getting worse."
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. "Honestly, I don't understand why they keep trying."
"Determination?" Ted mused. "They've got the spirit of a classic villain—always coming back for more."
Meanwhile, Harley was still holding Malfoy in a chokehold, ignoring the Slytherin's increasingly frantic wheezes.
Ted gave her a light tap on the arm. "Alright, he's done. Let him go before he passes out."
With a reluctant huff, Harley released Malfoy, who dropped to the ground gasping for air.
"Ted, why'd you stop me?" Harley complained, shaking out her arms. "I was just getting started!"
"If you kept going, we'd have to haul him to the hospital wing," Ted pointed out.
Harley huffed, clearly unsatisfied, but let it go.
Hermione, ever the moral compass, frowned. "Malfoy didn't even finish his sentence before you attacked him."
Harley smirked. "I don't need to hear him. I can tell exactly what he's about to say just by the way he breathes."
And honestly, she wasn't wrong.
Malfoy, still rubbing his sore throat, glared at them from the ground. He had been thoroughly humiliated before he even got to dish out an insult.
But, as expected, he wasn't about to let it go so easily.
"You lot—you're just a bunch of idiots!" he sputtered, his face red with fury.
"A pathetic Weasley! A washed-up Longbottom! A know-it-all Granger! And Potter, you—!"
His insult was drowned out by a loud, angry shriek, something between a groundhog's screech and a furious peacock.
Crabbe and Goyle, still pinned under Ron and Neville, suddenly found their courage.
"Yeah! If we weren't hungry, we'd totally have won!"
"Speaking of food, I could use a snack," Goyle muttered, rubbing his stomach.
"Me too!"
Malfoy turned to them in exasperation.
"You two—get out of here!" He smacked the floor in frustration.
Ted sighed. "Well, that was entertaining. Same time next week?"
Ron chuckled. "With these guys? Wouldn't be surprised."
As the group walked away, leaving Malfoy and his fallen minions behind, Harley stretched with a satisfied grin.
"Well, that felt good."
...
Losing the Quidditch match stung, but life went on.
They had an appointment with Hagrid that afternoon.
The half-giant had been oddly secretive, pulling them aside earlier and whispering, "Got somethin' special to show yeh—come quiet, alright?"
Curiosity piqued, the six of them decided to bring along some food—just in case Hagrid decided to offer them his homemade snacks.
No one wanted to relive the rock-hard biscuit incident of last time.
Hagrid's hut, perched on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, looked as inviting as ever.
The trees nearby seemed to have welcomed spring earlier than the rest of the castle grounds, their branches adorned with fresh green buds.
Ted took a moment to appreciate the view before they reached the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
The door was thick—more like a slab of wood hacked from an ancient tree than something meant for everyday use.
For a first-year, it would've been nearly impossible to budge.
"Come in!" Hagrid's booming voice echoed from inside.
A moment later, the door creaked open, and Hagrid's massive, shaggy head peeked out.
His dark beetle-like eyes darted left and right as if checking for unwanted company.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Hagrid… are you hiding something?"
"Me? Hiding? Nooo, 'course not!" Hagrid said, a little too quickly.
"I'm a gamekeeper! Taking care o' magical creatures is what I do! How could tha' possibly be—" His voice trailed off as he realized he wasn't convincing anyone.
Now they were really interested.
Harley, ever the bold one, ducked under Hagrid's massive arm and stepped inside. The others followed, squeezing through before Hagrid could change his mind.
Before shutting the door, Hagrid stole one last glance outside, then bolted it shut behind them.
Inside, the hut was unusually warm for April. Thick curtains covered the windows, and a roaring fire blazed in the stone hearth, radiating waves of heat.
Ron wiped his brow. "Blimey, Hagrid, are you roasting something in here?" He patted the bag of meatloaf he'd brought, just in case.
Hagrid scratched the back of his head. "Er, no."
They all stared at him expectantly. He sighed in defeat. "Alright, alright! But yeh can't tell anyone!"
With a dramatic flourish, Hagrid grabbed an iron hook and swung open the fireplace grate. The group leaned in—and collectively gasped.
Sitting among the glowing embers was an egg.
Not just any egg.
A massive, spiked, turquoise-colored egg, nestled in the heart of the fire like some sort of enchanted gemstone.
The shell shimmered under the flames, completely unfazed by the intense heat.
Its surface was rough, covered in strange, scale-like ridges that formed jagged patterns, with tiny protrusions like spikes running along the curves.
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Word count: 1427
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