In an instant, eyes around Theo lit up.
"Theo, are you going to—?"
Theo grinned. "Not going to. Already did. I cast a Confundus Charm and slipped grass-juice into their Snakeweed tonic."
Hermione hesitated. "Isn't that… a bit much?"
Harry and Ron gaped—Hermione objecting? But she squared her shoulders.
"I recall mountain pepper seeds don't cancel a Snakeweed brew either—potency remains, but there's a… burning after-effect." She lifted a brow. "Only diarrhoea is far too kind. Shall we add a pinch?"
"That's the Hermione we know," Ron breathed.
Theo flashed a thumbs-up and dosed the Slytherins' phials with finely ground mountain pepper.
Under the Disillusionment's veil they slipped away.
That evening, every Gryffindor first-year taking Flying received the same note:
"Bring nothing if you must—but do bring full-cover protective gear. There may be… a golden shower from a clear sky."
…
Morning blurred past. By lunch, notices confirmed it: Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years would fly together this afternoon.
Even forewarned, nerves and excitement crackled along the tables: for most, this would be their first time astride a broom. Quidditch was Britain's number one sport; broom control was the bedrock, and teams always scouted top flyers from this very class.
Even Theo's eyes held a shine. What was a year at Hogwarts without a broom under the wind and at least one Quidditch run?
And socially, Quidditch opened doors. Professor McGonagall bent rules for it; even Snape watched House results. A strong showing could grease introductions.
As lesson-time neared, Hermione muttered rules and trivia at speed; Neville shivered beside her, trying to soak in courage. Theo chuckled.
"This is Hogwarts—nothing too terrible will happen. I'll be up there with you. And Harry—his dad was a brilliant Gryffindor Chaser; it runs in the blood. You'll both be fine."
The reassurance worked; two strained smiles answered him.
At half three the sky was bright, the breeze mild. Twenty school brooms lay in two neat ranks on the lawn.
Slytherin didn't arrive early as in the storybooks; they sauntered in slightly late—every face brimming with confidence, all save Draco Malfoy, who had been cut out of the plan. Ground duels were one thing, they thought; in the air, they'd reign—especially with "tonics."
From a tower, Marcus Flint and several older Slytherins—most of them on the House team—watched, a Bludger caged at Flint's side. He swore he'd have his payback the moment Theo left the ground.
"Best if he breaks his neck," Flint muttered.
Madam Hooch strode in, whistle at her lips. "Well? Don't stand about gawping! Beside a broom, quickly. Right hands over the hafts—now say, Up!"
Brooms hopped like eager cats into Slytherin palms—and many, except Draco, kicked off without waiting for the whistle, whooping as they looped the towers.
Hooch's mouth tightened, but she marked it anyway. "Slytherin, ten points for general proficiency. Next time, you wait for my signal."
She turned. "Gryffindor? Why are you frozen?"
Theo counted under his breath. "Gear on, now."
Once, his commands might have drawn eye-rolls. Lately, first-years moved when Theo spoke. Every lion tugged on the tucked-away protective coveralls; Hermione & co. double-layered for good measure. They even held out a set to Madam Hooch.
"I must be misreading the roster," Hooch deadpanned, tugging the zip. "Are you sure you're Gryffindor? For a moment I thought Hufflepuff… Still—no harm in safety. Insects, dust—brooms can be filthy."
Above, and on the tower, Slytherins howled with laughter.
"Look at the pramsuits!"
"Gryffindor babies!"
"Hide in your shells and watch us fly!"
They scissored the air between spires, bellowing triumph. The older Slytherins cackled with Flint.
"Get this on tape—immortal humiliation!"
Hermione glanced at Theo. "Time?"
Theo's grin sharpened. "Just about."
As the last of the first-years swooped past the tower, several bellies gurgled ominously. A shared thought flickered: No one will notice a little… release at this height, surely?
Muscles relaxed.
Sunlight poured through blue sky.
A shimmering golden rain pattered from above. Flint and his mates, mouths open in laughter, blinked at the drops.
"Raining? In this—wait—why is it salty and bitter—and—ugh—what is that smell?!"
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