The first weekend at Hogwarts had finally arrived, bringing with it crisp autumn air, the scent of pumpkin pasties wafting from the Great Hall, and—most importantly—the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts.
Now, if you thought Quidditch tryouts were an orderly, well-structured event, you clearly didn't know Oliver Wood. And if you thought Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts were anything less than pure, unfiltered chaos, then you had definitely never met Fred and George Weasley.
A crowd of hopefuls gathered on the Quidditch pitch, all vying for the coveted reserve spots: three reserve Chasers, two reserve Beaters, one reserve Keeper, and one reserve Seeker. Among them, Jean stood with her arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips like she already knew she was going to win. Ginny practically vibrated with excitement, rocking on the balls of her feet like a firecracker ready to explode. And then there was Ron, who looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment.
On the other side of the pitch, the main Gryffindor team—Oliver Wood (team captain, Quidditch lunatic, and human motivational poster), the ever-chaotic Fred and George Weasley (Beaters and part-time agents of destruction), Seeker extraordinaire Harry Potter, and the power trio of Chasers (Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell)—huddled together.
Oliver surveyed the applicants like a general inspecting his troops, clipboard in hand, expression serious. Too serious. Suspiciously serious.
"Right," Oliver began, voice laced with authority. "We need a tryout format that tests skill, endurance, teamwork—"
"And most importantly," Fred cut in, leaning on his broom, "the ability to dodge bludgers aimed directly at their heads."
George nodded solemnly. "We call it natural selection."
Harry snorted. "Right, because nothing says 'team bonding' like head trauma."
Angelina rolled her eyes. "Can we please not scare them off before we even start? We need reserves this year."
Oliver ignored them, hyper-focused on his clipboard like it contained the meaning of life. "Alright. First round—basic drills. Passing, dodging, shooting. Beaters will go through bludger control exercises, and Keepers will face penalty shots. Then we'll end with a scrimmage."
Alicia gave an approving nod. "Sounds solid."
Fred raised his hand. "Question. Are we allowed to 'accidentally' hit the Quaffle directly at Ron's face to test his reflexes?"
George mimed deep contemplation. "I mean, technically, that would be part of the Keeper drills."
Ron turned an alarming shade of red. "Oi! Can we not turn me into a human target today?"
Jean smirked, nudging him. "C'mon, Ron. Think of it as a character-building exercise."
Ron groaned. "Yeah, great. Because what I really need in life is more character development."
Ginny twirled her broom in her hands, grinning at her brother. "You'll be fine. Just… maybe try not to scream if a bludger comes at you?"
"Who said anything about screaming?!" Ron protested. "I don't scream."
Jean and Harry exchanged a look.
"Oh, no, of course not," Jean said, voice dripping with mock sincerity. "That wasn't a scream when that spider landed on your shoulder last week. That was… what did you call it, Harry?"
"A battle cry," Harry deadpanned.
Ron glared at them both. "I hate you lot."
"Love you too, Ron," Jean said sweetly.
Oliver, having somehow developed selective hearing, clapped his hands together, snapping everyone's attention back to the tryouts. "Alright, enough talking. Brooms up!"
And with that, the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts officially descended into mayhem.
—
If there was ever a Guinness World Record for the Most Chaotic Quidditch Tryouts in Hogwarts History, Oliver Wood would be the undisputed record holder. Not that he'd appreciate the honor—he was too busy having an aneurysm over the sheer amount of talent, incompetence, and unchecked ego currently on display.
"Alright, listen up!" Oliver barked, looking like he was about two seconds from throwing his clipboard at someone. "Chasers, show me your passing, accuracy, and dodging! Keepers, prove you can actually stop a goal! Beaters, for Merlin's sake, do not commit manslaughter! Seekers—" He sighed heavily. "Just try not to look lost."
Fred turned to George, grinning. "Did he just say don't commit manslaughter?"
George shrugged. "Selective hearing, dear brother. I heard 'test their reflexes.'"
Alicia rolled her eyes. "Just try not to put anyone in the hospital, alright?"
Angelina muttered, "No promises."
Jean had claimed Harry's old Nimbus 2000 like it was an extension of herself, cutting through the air with effortless precision. While half the hopefuls wobbled around like they'd just learned what gravity was, she was weaving through the crowd like a seasoned pro, plucking the Quaffle out of the air as easily as if someone had handed it to her.
Ginny, ever the competitive one, matched her move for move.
"You keeping up, Weasley?" Jean teased, effortlessly dodging a Bludger from Fred.
Ginny smirked. "Oh, you wish you were this fast."
Oh, it was on.
The two of them zipped across the pitch, their passing so fast and precise that it looked choreographed. Fred sent another Bludger their way, just for fun, and Jean ducked so smoothly she might as well have been expecting it.
Ginny, not to be outdone, twisted midair and launched the Quaffle straight through the hoop from a ridiculous distance. Oliver actually dropped his clipboard.
Alicia let out a low whistle. "Alright, that was just rude."
Angelina smirked. "That wasn't a shot. That was a statement."
Jean, not about to be outdone, pulled off a near-impossible corkscrew maneuver, twisting past Dean Thomas before nutmegging the Keeper (a poor second-year who now looked like he might cry) and sinking another goal.
Oliver, now scribbling furiously, shouted, "Jean and Ginny, you're through to the next round!"
Ginny beamed. Jean smirked and flipped her hair like she'd just finished an action movie sequence.
"Also," Harry added, watching Ginny's flight patterns, "if we could get her on a halfway decent broom instead of those school twigs, she'd be a solid Seeker."
Oliver, still looking overwhelmed, nodded. "Noted."
Meanwhile, Angelina and Alicia had their eyes on Demelza Robins, who was darting through defenders like she had a personal vendetta against them.
"She's fast," Angelina observed.
"And accurate," Alicia added. "I say she's in."
Katie, meanwhile, pointed to Dean. "Dean's got solid positioning. He should make the cut."
Oliver nodded. "Alright—Jean, Ginny, Demelza, Dean. Next round."
Dean gave a thumbs-up. Demelza grinned. Ginny nudged Jean. "Guess you'll have to keep up with me after all."
Jean rolled her eyes. "Don't get cocky, Weasley."
Ginny grinned. "Too late."
Meanwhile, at the other end of the pitch, Ron Weasley was experiencing a full-scale existential crisis.
He clutched his broom like it might betray him, looking pale.
Harry patted him on the shoulder. "Mate. Breathe. It's just practice."
"Easy for you to say," Ron muttered. "You don't have people watching you."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I play Seeker. Literally everyone watches me."
Ron opened his mouth, paused, and groaned. "Fair point."
Despite his nerves, once the Quaffle started flying, Ron wasn't bad. A little stiff, a little panicked—but he blocked just enough goals that Oliver, after much deliberation, nodded.
"Alright, Weasley. You're in the running."
Ron exhaled. He'd done it! He'd—
"I'M NEXT!"
Harry closed his eyes. Oh, for the love of Merlin.
Cormac McLaggen strode onto the pitch with the confidence of a man who had never been told to sit down in his entire life.
He immediately started giving instructions.
"Alright, listen up, Wood, you're holding that clipboard all wrong—"
"McLaggen," Oliver gritted out.
"I mean, I would've saved that last shot, just saying—"
"McLaggen."
"I once played Keeper for—"
"McLaggen. Shut up and play."
McLaggen grinned, mounted his broom, and proceeded to block every single shot like he was the Chosen One of Keepers.
Oliver scribbled on his clipboard, looking like it physically hurt him. "Alright. McLaggen, you're in the running."
Harry groaned. "Fantastic."
Ron slumped. "Well. I had a good five minutes of happiness."
Jean, watching from a distance, smirked. "You want me to 'accidentally' hit McLaggen with a Bludger?"
Harry gave her a look. "You're not even a Beater."
"I know."
"…I am so tempted."
Fred and George, up in the air, surveyed the nervous Beater candidates like lions watching a herd of particularly weak-looking gazelles.
"Alright, hopefuls," Fred called. "Rule number one of Beating—"
George grinned. "—if you can't handle a Bludger to the face, you're in the wrong sport."
"Survival of the fittest," Fred added cheerfully.
The candidates gulped.
Fred released a Bludger.
It immediately lasered toward a fourth-year, who let out an unholy shriek and veered so hard he nearly fell off his broom.
Fred turned to George. "That's a no."
George nodded. "Definitely a no."
The search for Beaters continued.
As the first round wrapped up, Oliver examined his clipboard like it had personally offended him.
"Alright," he muttered. "Four solid Chaser candidates, two Keeper hopefuls, still looking for Beaters, and—" He glanced at Harry. "Seriously? Ginny as Seeker?"
Harry shrugged. "She's got instincts. Get her on a real broom, and she'd be dangerous."
Oliver sighed. "Next round—we see if these lot can actually play together."
Across the pitch:
—Fred and George were traumatizing more Beater candidates.
—McLaggen was loudly explaining why he definitely should've been picked last year.
—Ron was contemplating faking his own disappearance.
—Jean and Ginny were still smirking at each other, their rivalry officially locked in.
Oliver groaned. "This is going to be a long day."
—
Fred and George Weasley were having way too much fun.
The Quidditch pitch looked like it had hosted a particularly aggressive duel. Bats lay discarded, robes were torn, and at least three hopefuls had excused themselves with creative variations of "I just remembered I have somewhere else to be, forever." One fourth-year had bravely swung at a Bludger—only to take himself out instead. A fifth-year attempted dual-wielding Beater bats, missed both swings, and earned a nosebleed for his trouble.
It was, in Fred's words, "an afternoon well spent."
"Right!" Fred called out, surveying the two survivors—Jimmy Peakes, a scrappy second-year built like a brick wall with the enthusiasm to match, and Ritchie Coote, who looked less like a warrior and more like someone wondering how he'd ended up here in the first place.
Fred grinned. "Final round!"
Ritchie groaned. "Final round? We had a final round! That was the one where we didn't die!"
George clapped him on the back. "Oh, no, mate. That was the preliminary final round."
Fred smirked. "This is the part where we separate the legends from the liability forms."
Ritchie muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
Jimmy, on the other hand, grinned, adjusting his grip on the bat. "Bring it on."
Fred and George exchanged identical expressions of delight. They really liked this kid.
Fred held up a hand dramatically. "Alright! One last test—sixty seconds. Your job? Keep the Bludger away from—" He turned to the other three Gryffindor Chasers. "Angelina, Alicia, and Katie!"
Angelina, hovering nearby, folded her arms. "Wait. What now?"
Alicia looked deeply unimpressed. "Why do I feel like this is going to end poorly for us?"
Fred waved a dismissive hand. "You'll be fine!"
Katie Bell, who had spent the last ten minutes cheering every time someone got hit, grinned. "Define fine."
Fred ignored that.
George gestured to the new recruits. "This is your chance to prove you can protect your teammates."
"By hitting things," Fred added.
"And not each other this time," George said, throwing a pointed look at Ritchie.
Ritchie sighed. "That happened once."
Fred grinned. "Once is all it takes to make the next five years of training very interesting for you."
Jimmy, ever the optimist, gripped his bat. "Ready!"
George smirked. "Atta boy."
And with that, he whacked the Bludger loose.
It immediately shot toward Angelina like it had a personal vendetta.
Jimmy lunged, swinging with all the force of a kid trying to murder his alarm clock. The Bludger rocketed sideways—directly at Ritchie.
"OI!" Ritchie yelped, ducking just in time. "Some warning would be nice!"
"Surprise training!" Fred called cheerfully.
"You're welcome!" George added.
Ritchie let out a breath and gripped his bat. "Right. My turn."
The Bludger came whizzing back around, and this time, Ritchie was ready. With a well-timed crack, he sent it spinning toward the goalposts.
Angelina and Alicia, showing excellent survival instincts, promptly zoomed in opposite directions.
Katie, on the other hand, did not move. She just grinned. "Hit me with your best shot!"
Alicia, horrified, grabbed her broomstick. "NO, DON'T ACTUALLY—"
Jimmy intercepted the Bludger before it could turn Katie into a cautionary tale. He sent it skyward, laughing. "Nice reflexes!"
Katie whooped. "Now that's what I'm talking about!"
Fred nodded approvingly. "Not bad, Peakes!"
George squinted at Ritchie. "Coote, you need to follow through more. Right now, you're hitting like you're afraid it'll hit back."
Ritchie deadpanned. "It does hit back."
Fred clapped him on the shoulder. "Then it's personal. Make it regret ever existing."
Angelina crossed her arms. "So are they on the team or what?"
Fred turned to Jimmy and Ritchie, giving them a critical once-over.
Then he beamed. "Alright, you two. Congratulations. You're officially our reserve Beaters!"
Ritchie blinked. "Wait. We passed?"
Jimmy whooped. "YES!"
George smirked. "What, did you think we made you do all that for fun?"
Alicia muttered, "I wouldn't put it past you."
Katie cackled. "This is great! I'm gonna get hit so much more now!"
Alicia facepalmed. "That is not the goal, Katie!"
Angelina rolled her eyes and turned back to the new recruits. "Congrats, Peakes and Coote. Welcome to the madness."
Fred slung an arm around each of them. "We're so proud."
George nodded solemnly. "We promise to make you regret this immediately."
Jimmy grinned. "Looking forward to it!"
Ritchie sighed. "I already do."
—
It was the last round of tryouts, and Gryffindor House was about to witness a spectacle. If chaos had a face, it would be wearing Quidditch gear, holding a broomstick, and smirking like it knew exactly what it was about to do to everyone's sanity. Fred and George had set the bar for madness, but now—now it was time to crown a new reserve Keeper, and the whole team was about as confident about this decision as they were about an unscheduled visit from a rogue Bludger.
The candidates? Oh, you couldn't have asked for a better duo if you'd pulled names out of a hat full of questionable choices.
Ron Weasley, the lovable, perpetually nervous second-stringer who'd spent the last ten minutes muttering to himself like a wizard preparing for his first duel, stood next to Cormac McLaggen, a walking ego wrapped in Quidditch robes. It was like watching an underdog and a self-proclaimed hero trying to share the same space without combusting.
Dean Thomas, standing off to the side and adjusting his broomstick with the kind of grace usually reserved for Olympic gymnasts, glanced at Cormac and then exchanged an exasperated look with Ginny. "I swear, if he talks about his 'natural Keeper abilities' one more time, I'm hexing him into next week."
Ginny, arms folded across her chest, gave Dean a smirk that said she was already halfway there. "No need to waste a spell. I think he's already convinced himself he's won this thing."
"Yeah, well, if there was an award for most obnoxious," Dean muttered, "he'd win that by a mile."
From the far side of the pitch, Alicia Spinnet, who had been unusually quiet so far, let out a dry laugh. "It's almost impressive. His ego could fill the entire Quidditch pitch."
Katie Bell, still adjusting her hair under her helmet, grinned. "Yeah, and Cormac would probably try to catch the Quaffle with it. Wouldn't surprise me."
Jean, standing with her arms casually crossed and a wry smile tugging at her lips, gave a slight nod in agreement. "I'm half-expecting him to announce himself Keeper before the tryouts are even finished. Like, 'Oh, you all didn't need to bother. I've got this.'"
Angelina Johnson, ever the calming presence, sighed but couldn't hide her amusement. "Alright, alright. Let's just focus on the tryouts. We don't need to make this more of a circus than it already is."
Ron, who had been standing next to Cormac trying to blend into the pitch like a particularly anxious broomstick, looked like a man preparing for his own personal Quidditch-related apocalypse. His face was so red it could've rivaled a Weasley sweater in the worst possible way. He adjusted his gloves—again—and muttered to himself, probably running through a list of his mistakes from the previous weeks.
"Ron," Jean said, offering him a brief but reassuring smile. "You've got this. You've been practicing. You know what you're doing."
Ron nodded weakly, his ears still glowing with that kind of crimson you only get when you're the last person to notice that everyone is staring at you. "Thanks, Jean," he mumbled, though it was clear he was still wrestling with his doubts.
"Alright!" Oliver Wood called out from the middle of the pitch, hovering like a slightly stressed-out hawk. "Penalty shootout. We'll have each of you take a shot, and I'll judge based on actual performance, not how good you think you are, McLaggen."
Cormac, who hadn't even noticed the dig, was busy stretching in front of the goalposts like he was already posing for a future "Most Legendary Keeper" portrait. "You'll see," he announced, loud enough to make sure everyone in a three-mile radius could hear. "I'm about to show you all why I'm the best Keeper Gryffindor's ever had. You'll thank me later."
Fred, who was somehow always in the right place at the right time, hovered next to George, both twins wearing matching grins that would make a lion think twice before attacking. "Can't wait to see that. I'll be collecting all my bets on Ron to win this one."
"You mean collecting bets on the inevitable fall of McLaggen's ego?" George chimed in, laughing.
Oliver, looking exasperated but still his usual intense self, gave the twins a pointed look. "Focus, you two."
"Right, right," Fred said with mock seriousness. "Total focus. Who's first again?"
"Ron," Oliver said, pointing toward the nervously fidgeting Keeper. "Ron Weasley, get ready."
The rest of the team—who were definitely not about to let the Cormac Show go on without a little entertainment—watched in rapt attention. Everyone knew Ron could be brilliant when his nerves weren't getting in the way, but his nerves were like the kind of jinxed Bludger that never quite left him alone.
Fred, sensing an opportunity for maximum teasing, shouted, "No pressure, Ron, but McLaggen is already designing the Keeper locker for himself."
Ron shot Fred a death glare, which, frankly, only made the twins' smirks widen. "Thanks," Ron muttered, looking as though he'd rather face down a Hungarian Horntail than Cormac McLaggen's arrogance.
Oliver, for his part, gave Ron an encouraging look. "Focus, Ron. You know this."
Ron took a deep breath and steadied himself. His eyes shifted between the posts and the golden Quaffle Oliver had casually tossed into the air. A quick glance at his teammates—Katie, Alicia, Ginny, and even Jean, all giving him silent but supportive nods—helped ground him, even if just a little.
"Alright, Ron," Oliver said. "First shot—let's see what you've got."
And that was the moment Ron found himself caught between doubt and determination. His mind was telling him he could do this. His hands, however, were still shaking like they'd been cast under the effects of an overzealous Tickling Charm.
Before he could second-guess himself, Cormac McLaggen's booming voice interrupted. "You all might want to watch this. It's going to be spectacular."
"I'm sure it will be," Katie muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes so hard you could almost hear them. "We'll all be amazed."
At that, the tension on the pitch was practically visible, like a string pulled tight and about to snap. But that didn't matter. Not right now. What mattered was Ron, who had just launched himself into a proper Quidditch moment—a moment that might just make or break his Gryffindor Quidditch career.
But as for how it would go, well… we'd have to wait just a bit longer to find out.
—
Ron Weasley stood between the goalposts, feeling like he was about to have a very public meltdown. His broom was trembling beneath him (or maybe that was just him), and he was fairly certain his heart was doing some sort of tap dance in his chest. The entire team was watching him, but of course, his attention was mostly focused on the giant, orange quaffle that was hurtling toward him like an angry bludger.
"You've got this, Ron," Jean's voice floated over to him, low and steady, like a calm breeze on a sweltering day. "Don't let your brain screw it up."
Ron could feel the sweat forming on his palms. His fingers itched for something to hold onto other than his broomstick. His gaze flicked to Jean, who was leaning against the stands like she had all the time in the world. She was looking at him with a glint in her eye that said, I believe in you, but I also know you're about to freak out.
"Right," Ron whispered to himself. "I'm a Keeper. I can do this."
He wasn't convinced, but before he could argue with himself about it, Oliver Wood was hovering in front of him, wearing a grin that was way too cheerful for the occasion.
"First shot, Ron!" Oliver called, giving him a thumbs-up. Ron wasn't sure if the thumbs-up was meant for him or if Oliver had just developed a nervous tick. "Do your best!"
Ron gave a weak nod. "Best. Got it." He wasn't sure if he was talking to Oliver or just trying to convince his brain that it wasn't going to explode any minute now.
And then, like some kind of twisted game of Quidditch roulette, Angelina Johnson stepped forward with that grin of hers, the one that told Ron she knew exactly what she was doing.
"Alright, Weasley," she said, bouncing the quaffle in her hand like she was holding an explosive device. "Don't screw this up, yeah?"
Ron swallowed. The world seemed to slow as she flicked the quaffle at him like it was a stray sock. His hands shot up, almost by instinct, and—wham!—the quaffle ricocheted off his fingertips, grazing the left hoop and sending it soaring out of bounds.
"Oi!" Fred yelled from the stands, clearly impressed. "Not bad for a Weasley!"
Ron didn't know whether to be insulted or flattered, but he settled for breathing for the first time in about thirty seconds.
"Ha! I did it!" he muttered to himself. "I blocked the first shot! Take that, inner demons!"
Alicia Spinnet was next, and she looked like she was ready to end him. She flashed a grin, cocking her head in that way that said, I'm going to make you regret being born.
"That was cute, Weasley," Alicia said, twirling the quaffle in her hand. "But I think it's time for a real challenge."
She sent the quaffle rocketing straight for him, and Ron barely had time to breathe before he was slapping it out of the air with a swipe of his arm. Pfft!
"Not bad," Alicia said, raising an eyebrow as the quaffle shot wide. "You might just survive this."
Katie Bell was up next. If Ron thought Alicia had been intense, well, Katie was about to redefine the word. She leaned on her broom, gave Ron a knowing look, and then said, "Time to see if you're lucky or good."
Before Ron could protest that neither applied, the quaffle was flying at him like a guided missile. Ron ducked and swung his arms out like a windmill— wham!
"Whoa, mate," Dean Thomas shouted, barely containing his surprise. "You actually got that one."
Katie narrowed her eyes. "I thought that was going in for sure," she muttered to herself, clearly impressed.
"Better luck next time!" Ron called, trying to sound way more confident than he felt.
Demelza Robins was next. She gave him a wink that would've made even George blush. "Hope you're really prepared, Ron," she said, tossing the quaffle lightly into the air like she was just getting warmed up.
Ron held his breath. This one was coming in fast, and he wasn't sure he could keep up. He swung his arms out, felt the breeze rush past him—and thwack! The quaffle ricocheted off his broomstick with an almost satisfying thud.
Fred and George erupted in the stands. "Weasley, I didn't know you had it in you!" Fred called, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"I didn't either," Ron muttered under his breath, still processing the fact that he hadn't collapsed yet.
Dean Thomas, looking more serious than usual, was up next. "Alright, Ron," he said, holding the quaffle steady like he was preparing for a shot on goal. "This is the real deal."
The quaffle came flying at him in a tight, fast arc. Ron's brain screamed at him to move, but his body barely reacted. Somehow, though, his broomstick caught the quaffle before it could make a perfect dive into the hoop. Thwack!
"Not bad, Weasley," Dean said, his voice sounding genuinely impressed. "You might just be the surprise of the season."
"Don't get too comfortable," Ron said, trying to act cooler than he felt. It's just a few shots. I can handle this.
And then it was Ginny's turn.
She floated down from her spot on her broom, looking far too calm. "You've still got this, Ron," she said with a grin, her voice almost too sweet. "But don't get cocky, alright?"
Ron swallowed. "I won't," he said, but he really wasn't sure if he could handle another one.
The quaffle shot straight toward him like a bullet, aiming for his right hoop. Ron flung his arms out in desperation—and somehow, by the grace of whatever magical creature was watching him, the quaffle ricocheted off his broomstick and out of bounds.
Ginny gave him a look of pure admiration. "You've got some moves, Ron. You might be a Keeper after all."
"Well, I'm keeping my head, that's for sure," Ron said, finally managing a grin as his confidence shot up just a little bit.
Jean's voice drifted over from the sidelines, casual and way too calm considering the intensity of the moment. "Alright, Ron," she said, her mischievous grin almost outshining the sun itself. "You want a challenge? Here it comes."
Ron was starting to think he should've just called it quits, but he didn't have that luxury. Jean launched the quaffle straight toward him with the speed of a professional, her broom cutting through the air like a dagger.
Ron's nerves screamed at him. His brain was fried. But he swung. And missed.
Sort of.
The quaffle glanced off the edge of his broom, ricocheted off the hoop, and flew out of bounds.
Ron let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. His heart was still pounding, but—somehow—he had blocked every single shot. He hadn't let a single one through.
Oliver Wood, now grinning like he'd just won the lottery, clapped his hands. "Well done, Ron! You blocked every single shot!" His voice cracked a little on the last word, as if he himself still couldn't believe it. "That's not something we can say every day."
Ron, for all his effort, was pretty sure he might just faint on the spot. "No problem, Oliver," he managed, though his voice was a little shaky. "I didn't die, so… that's a win, right?"
As Oliver's cheers were drowned out by the rest of the team's applause, Ron's eyes flickered to Cormac McLaggen, who was watching from the stands like he was planning to make Ron's life a living nightmare.
But that was a problem for later. Right now, Ron was just going to try not to fall off his broom.
—
The Quidditch pitch had gone completely silent. Well, not entirely silent—because if you counted the cackling laughter of Fred and George, and the distant clinking of Ron's nervous teeth as he anxiously rubbed his hands together, it might've been a bit more accurate to say it was filled with "anxiety, cockiness, and impending disaster."
Cormac McLaggen, standing as the last line of defense, looked so smug that Ron could practically hear his ego puffing up like a hot-air balloon. Seriously, the guy acted like he was one move away from inventing the next big Quidditch maneuver, called "The McLaggen Special." Spoiler alert: It probably involved a lot of jumping and way too much spinning.
"Alright, Ron, not bad, not bad. Watch and learn how a real Keeper does it," Cormac grinned, swiping his broomstick through the air as though it were an extension of his perfect self.
Ron blinked. "Yeah, that's... that's the plan, right?"
Fred, who was oddly quiet for once, nudged George. "You think Cormac actually believes his own hype?"
"Don't know, mate," George said, squinting at the show-off Keeper. "But I do know I'm about to make a fortune betting on the odds of him falling flat on his face."
Alicia, standing at the edge of the field, gave them both a sidelong glance. "Careful, Fred. You might be betting on our embarrassment."
"Oh, no worries," Fred said with a wide grin. "If he messes this up, I'll consider it a free lesson in humility."
"Great," Ginny piped up, folding her arms. "Maybe he'll be the one who gets hit in the face with the quaffle."
"Not if he blocks it," Katie reminded her, shaking her head. "But let's be honest, it's McLaggen. How long can this act last?"
Ginny gave a dry laugh. "He's blocked six so far, but let's see if his ego can handle one more hit."
"Couldn't hurt to try," Demelza said, tossing her hair back with a grin. "Besides, I'm getting bored watching him try to outdo us."
And so, as Cormac positioned himself in front of the goalposts, it was clear he was absolutely convinced he had this in the bag. Which, of course, was the universe's way of saying, "Get ready for a trainwreck."
The first shot was from Angelina. She launched the quaffle with precision—aiming for the left hoop—and Cormac made a move so dramatic that it might as well have been a Broadway performance. A leap, a pirouette, and wham—the quaffle was stopped cold. "Hah! Told you," he sneered at the team, arms outstretched in victory.
Next up was Alicia, her throw a clean bullet heading straight for his middle hoop. Cormac, like some overzealous gymnast, threw himself sideways and snagged the quaffle mid-air. "Impressive," he said, as though he'd just invented gravity.
"Yeah, if you're aiming for a gold medal in 'Most Flamboyant Keeper,'" Alicia muttered, rolling her eyes.
Katie was next, and Cormac spun to block the shot with his broomstick raised high in the air. "You're going to have to try harder, sweetheart," he taunted, catching it at the last second.
Dean's shot was practically perfect, but of course, Cormac was there in time to dodge it, twisting in mid-air like he was auditioning for the role of "Man Who Defies Physics."
"Really? You're that good?" Dean raised an eyebrow, completely unimpressed.
Demelza's turn. She tossed the quaffle toward him like a professional; Cormac, not missing a beat, blocked it with a backflip that somehow managed to land him perfectly in the center of the hoop. "Oh, yeah, way too easy," he boasted.
Finally, it was Ginny's turn, and her quaffle was a rocket, heading straight for the right hoop. Cormac made an exaggerated swing at it, his broomstick twirling like some kind of idiot magician, blocking the shot with a grace that could only be described as "mildly concerning."
The crowd—and by "crowd," I mean the rest of the team—stood in stunned silence.
And that's when it happened. The moment everyone was waiting for. Jean. Jean, who had been standing off to the side, her eyes narrowing with a mischievous spark, stepped forward.
"Alright, Cormac. You've had your fun," she said, grinning in that "I'm-about-to-make-you-look-like-a-fool" way that she did so well. "Now, get ready to meet your match."
"Is that right?" Cormac sneered, taking his position. "Bring it on, darling."
"Wouldn't dream of doing anything else," Jean said, eyes glinting with that edge of playful danger. Then, just before lining up her shot, she gave Harry a subtle glance from the corner of her eye.
Harry, leaning casually against the goalpost, raised an eyebrow. "You know the drill. Just make him miss, yeah?"
Jean smiled knowingly, the slightest flicker of green in her eyes giving away her confidence. "That's the plan."
Then, like a hawk on the hunt, she took her shot. And this time, no one saw it coming.
The quaffle flew like a comet, but as it left her hand, something else happened—something subtle, something that no one noticed unless they were looking at Cormac's face. He blinked rapidly, his brows furrowed. His grip on his broomstick tightened in confusion, his mind scrambling to recalibrate as a fog settled over him.
"Bloody hell, what's happening?" Cormac muttered to himself, shaking his head as though trying to clear his thoughts.
And that was when the quaffle sailed past him, perfectly aimed. He swung his broom in the wrong direction, missing the shot by miles.
The entire team erupted into fits of laughter. Fred and George were doubled over, clutching their stomachs, while Alicia hollered, "Did you see that? Cormac lost it! Looked like he was trying to swat a fly with a broomstick!"
"You've got to be kidding me," Katie said, watching Cormac sputter and blink. "Did he just—? Did he—?"
"Yup," Demelza said, grinning. "He had a 'moment.'"
Ron clapped Jean on the back, almost too hard. "Bloody brilliant, Jean. He looked like a confused puppy in a windstorm."
Ginny smirked, crossing her arms. "I told you, all it took was a little distraction."
"Little?" Jean said, her grin widening. "That was surgical, my friend."
Oliver, who had been trying to hold in his laugh for the entire sequence, finally gave up and threw his hands up. "Alright, that's enough! Cormac, you're on your own. Go sit in the locker room and think about... whatever just happened."
Harry chuckled, watching Cormac walk off in a daze. "I've got to hand it to you, Jean. That was... well, it was art."
Jean smirked and winked. "I prefer to think of it as mental gymnastics."
With that, the game was officially over. Cormac McLaggen had been taken down a peg—no, several pegs—and Jean had earned the coveted title of "Keeper-Slayer."
And somewhere in the back of the locker room, Cormac McLaggen was wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was a little too full of himself after all.
---
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