"Umbridge has been reading your mail, Harry. There's no other explanation, I'm almost certain of it," said Hermione grimly. Then she added, "Watch your frog, it's escaping."

The windows were alight with a dull, grey glow: thick clouds plucked and passing overhead, brushed out like titan strands of leaden hair, or the underside stream of an ocean fog.
A bullfrog hopped across the long wooden table, escaping from a tray of shallow swamp water and moss, as it croaked hopefully and made one desperate leap for the other side. Harry flicked out his want.

"Accio!"

The frog soared back into his hand, defeated and—if such a creature could make a face—terribly inconvenienced, its tiny arms dangling gloomily over Harry's fingers. As he squirmed to hold it still, the classroom rattled with the frenzied sounds of plenty more escaping frogs and birds.

It was often for this reason, that Charms became one of the best lessons to enjoy a private chat.

"Stay still!"

Over in the corner, Ernie MacMillan struggled in a similar fray: his frog slipped out his hands and leaped into Justin Finch-Fletchley's salver, landing with a great splat! as both boys' faces were suddenly doused in lily-pads and marsh water. On the other side of the room, a couple more students—namely, Mandy Brocklehurst, Blaise Zabini, and Seamus—cried out when their ravens nipped at their fingers; Blaise was having a particularly hard time as both his raven and the ones surrounding him appeared to be greatly vested in shiny rings, as well as the polished necklace on his person. Finally, and adding further to the disorder, were the number of those birds that had been frozen: black-feathered bodies spinning in slow circles several metres above their heads, their wings stiffened in a perpetual beat of flight.

Since the hour started, Professor Flitwick had become accustomed to immobilising the ravens, whose greedy eyes were so often caught by a large, shining terrarium hanging near the window. While it usually lived on Professor Grubbly-Plank's quarters on the second floor, today the terrarium—an intrinsic swamp-pond wonderland encased by platinum and glass—sat on a wooden platform with walls about a quarter its size, yanked high in the air by chains attached to the tall ceiling.

"Professor! Can't you just put that thing on the floor?!" cried a horrified Lavender, as she watched another bird get zapped into the air.

"Would I if I could, Ms. Brown! But I am afraid that I'll be freezing our amphibian friends next, if I place their home within reach!" Professor Flitwick replied.

With the room full of croaking bullfrogs, cawing ravens, alongside both students and teacher leaping and moving frantically around: the heavy downpour of rain clattered against the classroom windows, lending Harry, Ron, and Hermione's whispered discussions, total secrecy.

"Harry? Harry, listen," Hermione urged; she tugged at his robes to keep him from staring up at the ravens overhead, "I've been suspecting this ever since I heard Filch was ordered to search for people sending Dungbombs… I mean, it's a bit of a feeble joke, isn't it? Once someone's parcel had been opened or their letter read, it would have been quite clear that they weren't ordering or sending them, so you wouldn't have been in trouble at all! But then I thought, what if somebody just wanted an excuse to read your mail?"

She brushed her thick hair out of the way; Ron's raven cawed loudly at him and hopped dismissively from its metal perch.

"It would a perfect for Umbridge—fake the tip off to Filch, let him do the dirty work, confiscate the letter… and then either find a way to steal it from him, or else demand to see it—I don't think Filch would even object, when has he ever stuck up for student rights? … You're squashing your frog."

Harry looked down—indeed, he was squeezing his bullfrog so tightly that its tiny arms flailed around a little more helplessly than usual—and he placed it hastily back into its tray.

"It was a very, very close call last night," Hermione continued. "I just wonder if Umbridge knows how close it was… Silencio!"

The bullfrog on which she was practicing her Silencing Charm was struck dumb mid-croak and glared at her reproachfully.

"He was quick to get out, but if there was one in a million chance that she could've caught him—"

"—Snuffles would've been back in Azkaban by this morning," said Harry, finishing the sentence for her. "I know, and you're right… it does make a lot of sense."

Professor Flitwick swept by, running off to help Dean who waved his hand madly in the air. Distracted, Harry pointed his wand at the bullfrog but missed the incantation which immediately caused it to swell like a green balloon and emit a high-pitched whistle.

"S-Silencio!" blurted Hermione, pointing her wand at the frog. It deflated silently before them. "It's alright, Harry… calm…"

Harry, who had not realized that his head was aching terribly, dropped his hands beneath the table and clenched at the seat of his chair. Hermione looked worriedly at him, perhaps remembering the time that he had ballooned his Aunt Marge.

"Sirius mustn't do it again, that's all," she said, delicately. "I just don't know how we're going to let him know, we can't send him an owl!"

"I don't reckon he'd risk it again," remarked Ron, speaking up for the first time. "He's not stupid; he's been on the run from the Ministry for ages now and he knows he was nearly got… Silencio!"

The large and ugly raven in front of him let out a derisive caw.

"Silencio! SILENCIO!"

"It's the way you're moving your wand," said Hermione critically. "You don't want to wave it, it's more a sharp jab—"

"Well, ravens are harder than frogs," Ron said, testily.

"Fine then, let's swap," said Hermione. She seized Ron's raven and replaced it with her own fat bullfrog. "Silencio!"

The raven continued to open and close its beak, but no sound came out.

"Very good, Miss Granger!" came Professor Flitwick's squeaky little voice. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all jumped as the top of his head appeared at the front of their table. "Now, let me see you try, Mr. Weasley!"

"Wha—? Oh—alright," said Ron, very flustered. "Er—… Silenthio!"

Jabbing at the bullfrog, he thrust his wand forward so harshly that he poked it right in its eye.

"Oh!"

The frog gave a deafening croak! and leapt off in an impossibly high arc from Ron's desk, aiming toward its elevated home. However, it had not apparently leapt high enough; the bullfrog hit the side of the terrarium and rebounded off it, arcing in the air once more with a surprised rasp.

"Croak!"

"Immobulus!" shouted Professor Flitwick. The bullfrog instantly froze; it hovered mid-air, stout body spinning with an eternal set of wide, bulging eyes.

Professor Flitwick and the three Gryffindors sighed in collective relief.

Unfortunately, they had not foreseen the impact that the small bullfrog would cause, as that precarious wooden platform began to sway backward, tipping the terrarium on its side.

As if the roof had flown off and let the storm in, a collection of small, hollowed logs, lily-pads, and watered-down muck and slime, came crashing upon them: fully drenching those who had the misfortune to sit on the opposite end of the classroom.
Cold water rushed through the wooden floors, and Ron cried out as it began leaking through the worn soles of his shoes first. Mud splattered—Harry wiped as much of it off his glasses as he could—and Hermione gasped; the entirety of Professor Flitwick's front had been coated in buckets of moss and grime.

They were able to enjoy a few moments of silence before a vile stench began to rise.
Screeching—either in hysterical laughter or disgust—erupted from the second classroom of the third floor, pealing down the halls so loudly that a few ghosts stuck their head in.

It came as no surprise later, when Ron was given additional practice of the Silencing Charm for homework; and, when Professor Flitwick decided to leave Grubbly-Plank's bullfrogs alone for the next few days.


At noon, the sky continued to pour out like heavy barrels rumbling across uneven wooden floors, a shroud of grey fog clinging to the outskirts of the castle's walls. In Hogwart's courtyards and especially on the long bridge of the Viaduct, you could see students sprint across, the tails of their robes flapping behind them and their feet thrashing against wet stone.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stayed indoors during their break.
They wandered through the castle with sloshing footsteps—the socks still wet inside their shoes—along with the faint scent of rotten eggs. Eventually, they found seats in the noisy and overcrowded Great Hall wherein Peeves floated dreamily by, occasionally gobbing ink pellets at a random student. They waved hello to Evan and Hidiyah, who sat at the end of the Hufflepuff table, and blocked a familiar camera lens which shoved itself into Harry's face.

"Hi, Harry!" a shrill voice called.

"Hi there... Colin..."

They had barely taken their seats when Angelina came struggling through, booming over other groups of gossiping students.

"I've got permission!" she said. "We can re-form the Quidditch team!"

"Excellent!" said Ron and Harry together.

"Yeah," said Angelina, beaming. "I went to McGonagall, who went to Dumbledore and, well Umbridge had to give in. Ha! So, I want you down at the pitch at seven o'clock tonight, all right? We've got to make up time… you realize we're only three weeks away from our first match?"

Without waiting for their response, she then squeezed away, narrowly dodging an ink pellet from Peeves (which instead hit a nearby first year) as she joined Katie with the good news. Ron, still smiling, looked out of the window which was now opaque with hammering rain.

"I hope this clears up then…" he paused. "What's up with you, Hermione?"

They both turned to her. She too was gazing through the window, but her eyes felt glassy, unfocused.

"Just thinking…" she murmured, frowning as beads of water slid down her reflection.

"About Siri—… Snuffles?" asked Harry.

"No… not exactly," Hermione said slowly. "More wondering… I suppose we're doing the right thing… aren't we?"

Her friends exchanged a look.

"You might want to explain yourself properly," Ron advised. "'Cause you really aren't making any sense, right now,"

Hermione regarded him as though she had only just realized he was there.

"I was just wondering," she said, voice clearer now, "whether we've done the right thing… starting the defense group."

"What?" cried Harry and Ron together.

"Hermione, it was your idea in the first place! And it's a good idea!" Ron added, voice creaky and indignant.

"I thought so too," said Hermione, twisting her fingers together. "But after talking to Snuffles…"

Harry shook his head. "You made one blunder in choosing the Hogs Head… he still thought it was alright to go forward—"

"Yes," said Hermione, staring at the window again. "Yes, that's what made me think that it maybe wasn't a good idea after all…"

Harry looked at her sharply.

"What do you mean?"

Disrupting, Peeves floated above them. He rest on his stomach, peashooter at hand and ready, and all three of them automatically lifted their bags to cover their heads until he had safely passed.

"You're saying, that because Sirius agrees with us—" Harry angrily put his bag on the bench beside him— "What? We shouldn't do it anymore?"

Hermione pushed her bag deep underneath the table and resurfaced, looking tense and rather miserable. "I don't think that we shouldn't do it, I'm just… Do you honestly trust his judgment?"

"I do!" said Harry at once. "He's always given great advice!"

An ink pellet whizzed past them, striking Katie Bell squarely in the ear. Hermione watched Katie jump to her feet and start throwing things at Peeves, before staring at her own hands.

"You don't think he's become... I don't know... reckless? Since he's been cooped up in Grimmauld Place? You don't think he's possibly... living vicariously through us?"

Harry stared at Hermione, looking at her like one would look at a bullfrog that could suddenly speak in perfect English.

"Hear me out, I just—! I think he's really frustrated at how little he can do where he is; I think that he hates how everyone's keeping him out and I think that because of that, he'd love to be 'in charge' of forming secret defense societies right under the Ministry's nose," Hermione waved her hands agitatedly in the air, "and while I understand, and it must obviously be difficult! … It might be reasonable to say that he may be egging us on, somewhat… b-but for his own sake…"

"That can't be! He wouldn't do that! Do you think he'd do that?" Harry turned to Ron. He did not sound hostile, only bewildered, and yet his friends could not mistake the familiar spark threatening in the light of his eyes.

"I… Shit." Ron looked utterly perplexed. "I dunno, 'arry…"

Hermione piped up, "I'm not trying to insult him! We all know what he's done for us and for you…"

"You have, have you?"

"Harry,"

"Then, why would you say that he's—!"

"—I just worry…" said Hermione, talking over him, "that the things he said last night, it… it sounded like he wanted someone to relive his own adventures, like back from when he was at school…"

Harry bit his tongue.

"He was trying to help," he glowered, almost closed mouthed.

Hermione chewed her lip and did not get to answer; the bell rang just as Peeves swooped down upon Katie, emptying an entire ink bottle over her head. Somehow, in retaliation, Angelina managed to yell at him off—though not without getting a very wet raspberry in between—as Peeves disappeared through a wall.

With his friends scrambling for their bags underneath the table, Harry turned tail and roughly slung his own over his shoulder, walking off without a single word.


"Ow!"

Cedric felt something sharp smack the back of his neck.

Whirling around, he pressed his palm against at his nape and met the gaze of one Hidiyah, who looked at him expectantly.

"What?" Cedric hissed, low.
The classroom was quiet and hushed.

Their professor—Bathsheda Babbling—propped themselves up on a stool, lecturing as they slotted reels into a vintage projector, small runic stones floating around their giant, witch hat. Because of this many in the class were having a terrible time writing notes, as the crooked end of the hat blocked some of the details of the diagrams presented on the wall.

Cedric was no different: a long length of parchment spilled over the side of his desk, full of messy scribblings and shorthand as well as a number of question marks dotting circled passages.

Frazzled, he looked to the front—where Professor Babbling raced through diagrams of sigils that they had discovered in the ancient Aztec city of Tenochtitlan—before glancing to the seat behind him again, in slight annoyance.

Yet again Hidiyah had begun tinkering with her wand, leather pouch out and unbuttoned, and a variety of small gears and copper wire scattered across her desk with no scroll of parchment, quill, or inkpot to be found. Her hatred of both the classroom and the lesson was spelt rather plainly on her face, but Cedric stared pointedly.

"Couldn't have just tapped my shoulder?" he whispered.

"Forgive me," Hidiyah mouthed back, a very non-apologetic smile on her face as her fingers signed briefly out of habit. "Look down!"

"What?" Cedric gestured.

"The note!" Hidiyah glanced up, making sure that Professor Babbling had not noticed. "I-hit-you-with… a note! Look down!"

In the darkness, Cedric climbed under his wooden desk, trying to keep as quiet as he could while fumbling behind his chair. He finally found a thick piece of scrap parchment and wiped the remnants of the room's dust and dirt off, before opening it up.

He brightened; the handwriting was familiar.

Meet outside Hall, 6pm.
—H


The weather did not improve as the day wore further on.
Rain hit cobble like thick swaths of drapery, the droplets of water bouncing aloft before it hit brickstone and grass patches a final time. Staring out at this, Harry shivered.

Waiting was always a dreary affair.

Because of the weather and because of the way the clouds bore densely in the sky, the castle flickered alight at a much earlier hour than expected: everything from the gas lamps, the fireplace hearths, the floating torches, candlesticks, and strung chandeliers, ignited and cast a warm, glimmering glow. There was the soft sound of leisurely chatter and St. Nick's ghostly laughter that echoed through the hallways; in the entrance, some hopeful Gobstones Club members played a game to cheer themselves up, and the Bloody Baron seemed drunk again, circling up and down the stairs that lead to the boathouse with whiskey and a sea shanty on his breath. Inevitably, all of it: the light, the sound, the warmth drifted like a sweet siren call from inside the castle, clattering steeply to Harry who was but a cold and damp figure, stewing outside.

As soon as classes ended, he abandoned Hermione and Ron, telling them only briskly that he had arranged to meet Cedric later in the evening; but in fact, he only stood at the outskirts of the entrance courtyard, unaccompanied for what felt like hours. A good portion of his left robes and trousers were now wet, and the smell of the swamp mud that he had not properly cleaned off his glasses, carried strong through the heavy rain.

Waiting was always dreary affair, and sullen, Harry did not react when a figure approached.

"Sorry I'm late! I had to ask the professor a load of questions about—" Cedric ran through the corridor and skidded to a halt, breathing hard— "Where's Hermione and Ron?"

Without looking, Harry shook his head.

"Not today," he said, turning to see Cedric sweep the hair from his face and shake the rain off his robes. "I wanted to talk to you alone,"

In the midst of the wiping the water away, Cedric stopped.

"A-Ah," he swallowed. "… Really?"

Harry stared at him.
Then it hit.

"Oh, no! No, it's not about… err—"

Understanding, Cedric laughed, look somewhat relieved. "My bad,"

"No, no! I'm sorry, I… wasn't clear…"

They each gave an awkward smile here—it was the first time that they had talked about it—and silence settled like a thin, short blanket.

Restless, Cedric looked to the ground and began tapping it with his shoe.

"Well," he said, with as much brightness as he could muster, "Well… we should get to the matter at hand then, yes? I just hope this won't tip off the undesirables—"

"What? Are chats no longer 'good' ideas either?"

At Harry's abrupt and bitter tone, Cedric turned to him surprised.

"Sorry." said Harry quickly, surprised himself; he raised his hand to pinch in between his eyes and sighed, "Sorry, that came out badly!"

He would not admit it, but Hermione's accusations about Sirius lay, still smouldering within him.

For some bizarre reason, Cedric did not frown but was grinning rather impishly.

"Are you sure there isn't something you want to tell me?" he asked.

"No!" Harry paused. "Yes? … But it's not about—"

He sighed and closed his eyes again.

"Sorry, I can't seem to speak properly, right now…"

There was a loud and magnificent snort, as Harry—not so amused—muttered more apologies under his breath. With the smile yet to fade, Cedric carefully eyed their surroundings, looking to the ground when he was satisfied that they were alone.

"Forgive me then, it's just paranoia; I mean, normally people wouldn't give a toss about two blokes talking up a storm in the courtyard, but with everything that's happened…"

"No, I agree." Harry said, shaking his head. "I wasn't thinking…"

"Well, let admit I don't think there's any use in hiding anymore. She heard what she heard and there's no stopping now, for either of us—"

"Right,"

"—but you're allowed, you know," Cedric said, turning. "'Bad' or half-baked ideas—some days they're allowed… Like, when two friends stand side by side and look sadly into the rain, maybe when they're not supposed to—"

"I'm not looking sadly into the rain," Harry protested. Cedric grinned, knowing.

"Neither. That's the twist though, isn't it?"

A short breath exhaled through Harry's nose, clouding into brief mist before disappearing; it sounded awfully like he had made a small kind of laugh there, and Cedric's smile deepened.

"Look here,"

He stepped forward and took out the wand from his pockets, sticking it over his head and pointing toward the sky. A thin eruption of water propelled from the tip, bursting out and mimicking the shape of an umbrella as it shielded him from the falling rain.

"Could you indulge me?"

As he asked this, he beckoned Harry forward who—marvelling—stepped under the umbrella without hesitation, staring as the water fell right on top of them without landing in its usual way. Instead, the rain seemed to melt into the gush of the umbrella frame, making it grow taller and wider as Cedric spun it around: the stem of water that protruded from his wand's tip curving and spiralling, and yet the canopy remained strong, water disappearing into fleeting motes of light as it fell to the stone floor.

"Now, I have a strange request," said Cedric suddenly.

"Go on,"

"I want you to not focus—yeah, take off your glasses—and I want you to just squint right at the hall…"

Reluctantly, Harry did as he asked; he looked forward.

"Oh,"

The Great Hall looked wonderful behind the rain.

While he had wanted nothing more than to be indoors enjoying the warmth, outside, Harry could admire the way the light shined from out the windowpanes. They were beacons when bright enough, orbs that glowed like fireflies when dim.

"Now, just… just let go," Cedric murmured.

As Harry stared, clear sight now vague and his hands out of his pockets, the cold gradually felt fresh to him, crisp even. It settled on his skin like a thin mist and when he breathed, he relished the clean air flowing through as his chest rose. In its descent, his breath came out as a haze, tinted amber by the reflection of the glowing windows and along with it, the moss of the courtyard too, glistened with rain and the interior light of the castle. Steady now was the rhythm of the downpour around them: it hit prettily against cracks and rock, dripping down and comforting—though Harry simmered—like the notes of a deep-rooted song. He could let the sounds overtake and muffle his thoughts when he stared long enough, blur the light into shielding his eyes when he stared hard enough, and the castle—instead of being the object of his temptation and envy—morphed into being a dreamlike dwelling that cradled around him.

The rain drew into a lighter patter—though not by much—as they stood there, gazing at the Great Hall.

"Brilliant, isn't it?"

"Yes," Harry took a deep breath. "It is,"

Cedric smiled contently and looked to him.

"So then," he said, "are you alright?"

Harry glanced back, "Why?"

"Well, you haven't sent me a note before, and… oh, your glasses, they're still—"

"Ah,"

As Harry tried put them back on, his fingers stumbled, far too numb from the cold to hold still as he heard them clatter toward the ground. Hastily, they stooped and squatted to the grey stone below; Cedric found them almost immediately.

"Here—" he said. Harry flinched, but his sight grew sharp once more as Cedric slipped them on— "Better?"

A finger brushed against the tip of Harry's ear; it burned.

"Yeah, s'great," he mumbled, "sorry—"

They helped each other up, breath fogging a little longer, as Harry touched his ear.

"Listen, I wasn't trying to worry you with the note, it's just…" he began to tell Cedric about what had happened with Sirius last night, along with what Hermione had to say this morning.

Gaping, Cedric stared at him, now aghast. "In the fireplace?"

"Yes," said Harry grimly, "I'm positive it was her,"

"And Hermione and Ron…"

"I think they might've been spooked that she found him so quickly, but that's not the point, the point is…" Harry bit his tongue again, considering. "I know they mean well, but… they're wrong,"

He continued, "Sirius isn't like that. He wouldn't suggest something dangerous just to get a kick out of it, no matter what Hermione says! He wouldn't do that to me,"

"I believe you," Cedric said, sympathetically, "I believe you, but they're only worried, Harry—"

"I know!" said Harry hotly; he clenched his fist. "I know that. But it's not fair on Sirius,"

Cedric nodded.

"—and I wish they'd just stop thinking that way. He can't even defend himself!"

"Right,"

Harry sighed.

"Anyway, the point is... we need to make this work," he said quietly. "Prove to them that it isn't a bad idea—"

"That's the hope, isn't it?" said Cedric, letting out a similar, deep exhale; his brow furrowed, "Poor Sirius… I'm guessing there'll be no more midnight conversations in the fireplace then?"

"No. Not with Umbridge still around,"

"Another unspoken decree—" Cedric drew a large breath— "The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts deems nocturnal fraternizing with disembodied heads in a fireplace, a criminal offense of HIGH trrrrreason—!"

Harry chuckled. It was not as good of an impression as Ron's or Ginny's, but he had hit that pompous, nasal quality about her well; he let go of his fists.

"Jokes aside, I need your help. We just need to convince Hermione and Ron further somehow—" Harry pulled out the Marauders Map from his pocket and tapped his wand against it— "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Cedric's eyes widened as the empty parchment began to blot with a blueprint of the castle, finely inked and with floating banners tracking the movements of all the students within.

"Wicked..." he breathed; a boyish grin graced his face. Harry handed him the other side of the map as they turned away from the Entrance Hall and spread it out in between them.

"Erm, so—I thought that we could start by getting on the things that Snuffles was asking about…"

Cedric nodded, still blinking out of his astonishment, "Y-yeah, that sounds like a good idea. I suppose… have you found a place for meetings, yet?"

Harry threw his head to the side, another sigh, "No. I'd thought we'd go hunting for it together with the map, but Snuffles brought up another good point that I hadn't thought about last night; I'm not sure how we can get all those people to any meeting place secretly—"

"Yes…" said Cedric thoughtfully, "yes, you're right…"

"So that's another thing to consider, somehow moving through the castle without notice,"

"Hm. I think I have an answer for the first problem,"

Harry stopped.

"You do?"

"Yeah… though, I didn't find it, really—"

"Then we should go! See it right now, I'm—" Harry looked down at his watch. "Oh no…"

"What?"

"Er, Mischief managed—!" Harry stared out to the wet weather, up Cedric's umbrella, and began folding up the map— "Do you mind walking me to Quidditch?"


At quarter past seven that evening, the Gryffindor team stowed their wands inside the pockets of their robes, shouldered their brooms, and then followed Angelina out of the meeting room.

The sky was a deep, roiling grey. It threatened with thunder, abrasive winds, and nauseously reminded Harry of one particularly devastating match from his third year.

"Impervius!" he muttered, tapping the bridge of his glasses with his wand. Small spots of vapour that he had not previously wiped off, cleared from the glass like it had been sucked through an invisible vacuum.

"Hey, that's an idea!" said Ron. Trudging along in his oversized Keeper robes, he tapped his own Quidditch goggles with his wand and brightened, when the mist that had condensated within the glass faded away.

"This is great, I bet Hermione'll be proud of you for remembering that one!" he said.

"Sure." said Harry, shortly.

"Er… yeah…"

Ron scratched the back of his head and continued walking under the bleacher silently, Harry had been quite curt after the initial "Hello," he had given in the entrance. They eventually caught up to Fred and George who were also in the walkway, but seemed otherwise locked in a hushed and intense discussion.

"—but I bet she'd know what we'd done," Fred said out of the corner of his mouth. "If only I hadn't offered to sell her some Puking Pastilles yesterday!"

"We could try the Fudge," George muttered, "no one's seen that yet—"

"Are you joking? That'll make our flying worse, not get us out of it!"

"Scheming with your Snackboxes?" inquired Ron hopefully; beams of wood creaked as the avalanche of rain drumming on the roof intensified and wind howled around the building.

"We've been trying to, but all we can come up with is our preliminary batch of Fever Fudge,"

"Does it work?"

"'Course!" said Fred. "Your temperature'll go right up—"

"—but you get these massive pus-filled boils too," George added, "and we haven't worked out how to get rid of them yet."

"I don't see any boils," said Harry, staring the twins up and down.

"You wouldn't," Fred said ominously, "they're not in a place we generally display to the public—"

"—but they make sitting on a broom a right pain in the—"

"Diggory! You ready?"

Harry looked to the entrance of the Gryffindor platform where Cedric stood, having been roped into helping Angelina once more, though this time in exchange for her own professional opinions during one of Hufflepuff's training sessions.

He joined her at the front of the stand, gesturing out to the gloomy pitch and upon seeing this, George sidled down toward Ron and Harry, tapping his fingers against his chin.

"Hm… do you think he's trying to make a move?"

"Who?"

"… what?"

"I mean that Cedric of ours—" George began. Ron's stumbled off the beam of wood that he had been leaning on, brows shooting up faster than Harry could react.

"Cedric?!"

"Shh!"

They looked to the front, observing as—oblivious—Cedric and Angelina deliberated over the training regime that she had mapped out on the chalkboard.

"It's weird to see two house Captains being so friendly… especially with Angelina's competitive streak—"

"Well, she was always weak for a handsome face!" Katie reminded, coming up unexpectedly from behind them. Fred appeared bitterly.

"This goes much farther than a simple soft spot!" he exclaimed.

"Hang on, weren't you two just moaning about how you wanted to get out of her practice earlier?"

"Yeah?" George looked unperturbed. "So, what do you think, has he taken a liking or—"

"Honestly, I feel like he's been around all the time recently," Fred said, nodding along.

"Yeah, yeah! Like, one-of-us-Gryffindors all the time—"

"That's rubbish," Harry muttered, interrupting them before they could get any farther or louder. "He's here because he's been asked to be; Cedric's always been nice like that, and besides Angelina's the one calling for him to look at the team, not the other way around!"

"Hmph… s'pose,"

"Right."

Settled, they waited silently, their heavy boots knocking idly against the wood. George clicked his tongue.

"Then do you think Angelina's got it for him?"

"Merlin!" Ron turned and began swatting at both his brothers' faces. "You should just focus on flying straight today, warty-balls!"

The twins made noises similar to a pair of indignant boiling teakettles, which caused Angelina and Cedric to turn swiftly in their direction.

All the boys answered simultaneously.

"Don't ask!"

Katie jumped up over the twin's tall shoulders.

"Please!"

Down on ground-level and squelching through to the middle of the pitch, the Gryffindors recoiled as the mud deepened beneath their feet and they sunk a few inches, struggling against a wind that whipped about their robes and fierce rain skewered towards the east.

Light was fading fast.

They could hardly see the edges of the pitch, even with the Impervius Charm cast upon all their goggles, and the rain swept through in large curtains as the sky grew darker, thunder that rippled from above them digging a little deeper to each beat of the heart. Having enough sense to be already on his broom and have Madame Hooch's Unfoggable Goggles on, Cedric's head craned.
He had gotten hold of his own robes from the Hufflepuff changing room and held onto his Nimbus 1001 apprehensively.

"Are you sure about this, Angelina?" he asked.

"We'll keep it short," she said, determined. Though worried, Cedric nodded and launched higher into the air, flying to the middle of the Hufflepuff stand with the whistle on his lips.

"All right!" Angelina shouted, her own whistle in hand. "You know what to do!"

She kicked off from the ground and the others followed, spraying mud in all directions.
With the wind pulling him slightly off course, Harry had only just gotten to his position when he heard a sharp, piercing sound crest narrowly over the shrill of the gale—

He shot off in rapid speed.

It was tricky, catching the familiar glint of the Snitch, for the wind felt much more alive than usual: it turned and whipped forward and back at its own cutting whims—never whispering, always in an uproar—and the force of the rain felt more like blows attempting to batter and pulverise his face.

Within a minute into practice, Harry heard the Bludger rocket past his ear as it knocked the end of his broom. Panic shot through like a poison arrow and he spiralled violently backward, the wind rushing at him, unrelentless, his arms splayed wildly in the air. Surging with instinct, he muscled hold of his broom once more and twisted to the left, gritting past the shudder of the sharp trajectory as he desperately tried to keep airborne.

WHACK!

Harry pulled back in anguish as his shoulder smashed against the blue-bannered walls of the Ravenclaw stand. He pulled with all his might, baring his teeth and avoiding a full-scale collision by a few mere inches as he soared back into open sky.
With nothing but an aching shoulder to show for it, Harry flew a lap around the perimeter of the pitch, unable to do anything but wince as he looked in all directions—the rainfall allowing only scant glimpses of his teammates in action.

Far below, George and Fred flew with their bats out, helmets and goggles strapped tightly to their faces as their heads twisted in fervent search of the Bludger, and by the goalposts, Ron practiced the slow circle formation that Angelina had taught him, his cheeks red despite the storm. Katie whistled past: only the barest hint of her dark-haired ponytail flying out from behind her as she wiped the rain off her face and Angelina hovered a short distance behind with the Quaffle under her arm, looking around somewhat erratically, unable to gage anything.

In fact, none of them seemed to have a clue of what the others were doing—even Cedric, who had moved closer to the ground—they knew only that the wind had picked up: it sent the sheets of rain into a torrent that built towards the dark sky like the hand of this unbridled storm.

Bearing, as the weather screamed into his hair, Harry completed his circle around the pitch, noting that even at a distance he could hear the pounding sounds of the storm pummelling into the surface of the lake. Everything slowed for him as he grinded to a halt, trying to catch his breath; he could feel the rain on his skin, the little drops pricking holes and the fat ones dragging down the felt of his robes, and Harry huffed—relishing the cold that dripped down his beaten shoulder—with the vague realization that somewhere out on the pitch: someone was calling for him.

Yes… yes, there it was.

They were calling—... no.
Shrieking?

He wasn't too sure.

They were yelling short bursts of… something, but it was dull and muted, like his ears had been submerged underwater. Even as the sky above flashed in white brilliance, casting a large shadow on the grounds and a harsh ringing inside his head: the crack of lightening seemed far, far away… distant somehow unlike the searing pain that grew at his forehead, a buzzing static that swarmed and seethed caustically in the canals of his ears.

Harry breathed hard.

"Ha… Ha… Stop that…" he gasped, blinking heavily. The Impervius charm seemed to have stopped working: he could feel the rain drip onto his lashes, and his sight had begun to cloud, the grey pitch began to dim.

Harry lurched forward suddenly, grip loosening on his broomstick.

He nosedived.