Merlin's beard, Orli genuinely wanted nothing more than to remain in the common room or library, buried in her assignments.
But this weekend afternoon, Hermione had physically dragged her to the Quidditch pitch spectator stands, brooking no argument.
"For once you don't need to disappear into the dungeons," Hermione said while scanning for decent seats. "I think you desperately need a change of scenery."
She settled onto the wooden bench with satisfaction. "Five years, and you've never once watched Harry and the others train, have you?"
"Er..." Orli shaded her eyes against the glare, squinting upward. "Are you absolutely certain it's riveting entertainment to sit here roasting in the sun while watching people zoom about on broomsticks?"
The autumn sun blazed with unusual intensity, piercing the cloud cover to bathe the Hogwarts grounds in merciless golden light. For several moments she was completely dazzled, seeing nothing but dancing spots.
"This really isn't like you. Why don't we go write—"
The words died on her lips. Harry and Ron had just launched into the air, their scarlet robes billowing. One soared toward the far end of the pitch while the other positioned himself before the towering goalposts. Hermione's gaze followed the keeper's trajectory with unmistakable focus.
Orli studied Ron's form with growing concern. Tension radiated from every line of his body—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, white-knuckled grip on his broomstick handle. He kept tugging nervously at his pristine team robes, the fabric still stiff with newness. The Slytherin squad occupied the opposite end of the pitch, their presence like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
"Right then, everyone!" Angelina Johnson bellowed from her aerial position, voice carrying across the field with captain's authority. "Focus your minds! Certain individuals are determined to sabotage our training, but treat them like the insignificant gnats they are, understood?!"
A symphony of jeers and mocking laughter erupted from the Slytherin contingent.
"Brilliant, Weasley!" Draco Malfoy's voice sliced through the air like a blade. "Finally scraped together enough Galleons for a decent broom, did you?"
"Don't give them the satisfaction," Harry said, swooping alongside Ron with practiced ease. "Let's see how loudly they're laughing after we demolish them in the first match."
"Now that's the spirit I want to hear, Harry," Angelina called approvingly, the Quaffle secured beneath her arm as she circled like a hunting hawk. "Everyone into formation positions—now!"
Harry shot skyward like a crimson comet while Ron settled before the three golden hoops, looking like a condemned man facing execution. Angelina raised the Quaffle high, muscles coiling, then hurled it toward Fred with professional precision. The leather sphere flew to George in a perfect arc, who immediately launched it goalward with devastating force.
Ron managed an ungainly dive, snatching the Quaffle mere inches from the center hoop—but panic made him clumsy. He nearly tumbled from his broomstick entirely, arms windmilling desperately for balance. The Slytherin section exploded in cruel, piercing shrieks of amusement. Ron climbed back to altitude, the Quaffle clutched against his chest, his face burning scarlet with humiliation.
"Pass it here, Ron," Angelina said with deliberate calm, as though nothing whatsoever had occurred.
Ron lobbed the Quaffle back to Angelina, who sent it spinning to Fred, then George. This time George tossed it to Katie Bell, who without hesitation unleashed a wickedly curved shot that bent through the air like a striking serpent. Ron threw himself into a desperate rush—and missed by a heartbreaking inch.
"Ron, for Merlin's sake—pull yourself together! Concentrate!" Angelina's voice cracked like a whip, patience finally fraying.
Ron plummeted earthward again, chasing the wayward Quaffle like a man pursuing his fleeing dignity. When he finally returned to the goalposts, it was genuinely difficult to determine whether his face or the crimson ball blazed brighter.
Malfoy and his fellow Slytherins had abandoned all pretense of their own training. They clustered together like vultures, erupting in howls of sadistic glee at every fumble.
Harry dove from the heights to join the Chasers, perhaps hoping his presence might steady Ron's nerves. The strategy showed promise—when Harry sent the third attempt goalward, Ron caught it cleanly, confidence flickering in his eyes for one precious moment.
But triumph made him reckless. In his excitement, Ron hurled the Quaffle with such enthusiasm that it sailed completely past Katie's outstretched hands, striking her full in the face with a sickening crack.
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