Breeze, sun—and golden rain.
What might have been idyllic dissolved into shrieks and retching around the pitch.
"Merlin's—!"
"What is this—"
"Urgh!"
Drenched older Slytherins, a few drops unlucky enough to find mouths, turned green and dropped to their knees. Overhead, first-years went dead pale. Their guts roiled like storm-tossed seas; a breath's relaxation promised catastrophe. Then the pepper-burn arrived.
Flying became a fantasy. One by one, Slytherin brooms wobbled into emergency landings, a reek rising like a fog.
Madam Hooch went a shade of moss. She was responsible for all in-flight emergencies—but this…
"Aguamenti," Theo said crisply. Cool conjured water drenched the culprits head to toe—freezing but blessedly clean.
Hooch shot him a grateful look. "Gryffindor, twenty points."
Then her eyes narrowed. The lions had all brought protective gear. Did they know? Had they done this?
Not now. The priority was the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey could have this hot potato. "No one moves," Hooch told the Gryffindors, pinching her nose inside her hood as she hustled a staggered green line toward the castle.
She vanished with them—and the pitch erupted.
"No Slytherins! Hah!"
"Disgusting—but I will happily remind them of it at breakfast for the next seven years."
"Theo! Harry! How did you—"
"State secret," Theo said, grinning. "More important—free flight. Hooch and Pomfrey will be rowing until the bell—no one's stopping us."
Harry's broom leapt; joy cracked across his face. Flying fit him to the bone. At one, he'd zoomed about the sitting room on a toy broom; years hence he'd play cat-and-dragon with a Horntail; even Krum would praise his skill. In peace, he might have been a star.
Laughter and whoops rose as lions took the air. Even Hermione, resolutely anti-risk, let Theo coax her skyward—then let loose high-pitched screams that dopplered across the grounds.
Theo turned to Neville. "Breathe. Think of the greenhouse. You've got this."
Neville's legs pushed—up he went. No wild bolt, no broken wrist; wobbly and low, yes—but flying, and steering.
"I'm writing Gran," Neville yelled. "She forbids brooms—but I flew on day one!"
Theo waved—and was about to take his own spin when a solitary figure caught his eye. Draco Malfoy, alone and at a loss; the only "survivor," and now stranded. He looked less like a "Malfoy dragon" and more like a small, scruffy yellow dog.
Theo sighed, mounted—and called out, bright and baiting: "Malfoy! I hear you brush shoulders with helicopters. Can you actually fly? Beat me, and I'll admit it."
Draco straightened. "I'll easily beat you."
They kicked off together. Theo didn't lean on Mastery of Wind & Thunder—only the easy coordination of a hardened body. Malfoy was good—very good—just a half-step below Harry. He chased hard, never quite closing.
An hour later the lions drifted down in twos and threes. Theo alit with a smile. "Not bad. Still didn't catch me."
"That's because these are school brooms," Draco sniffed, then couldn't help the spark in his eyes. "On a Nimbus Two Thousand, I'd pass you in a heartbeat. Next time, I'll be faster."
His mood lighter, he turned towards the doors—
—and ran straight into Flint and the Slytherin Quidditch squad.
They had seen Draco and Theo talking. Flint shoved Draco flat. "Traitor. What did they pay you?"
"You eavesdropped. You dosed our phials. Blood-traitor."
He hauled Draco up by the collar; a gem-set fire-drake pendant glinted. Flint ripped it free.
"Traitors get punished. I'll chuck this into the Black Lake."
He kicked off, Quidditch-captain swift. Draco vaulted after him.
"That's my birthday present! Mother gave me that—give it back!"
But House fliers were faster and better mounted. They cut him off and began to pass the pendant like a Quaffle from broom to broom.
"Want it?"
"Admit you're a traitor."
"Blood-traitor. Slytherin's shame. Or watch it sink. Try to take it—if you can."
Harry's eyes went flint-spark bright. He disliked Draco—but a mother's gift held hostage? He could have throttled them.
He arrowed up. "Give it back—or else."
Theo's gaze chilled; he shot skyward alongside.
Smirking, Flint banked for the far side, drawing them, kites on a line, out towards the Black Lake.
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