The morning sun, usually a welcome golden counterpoint to the deep green shadows of the Great Hall, seemed merely to illuminate Charlie Weasley's profound exhaustion. He sat at the long Gryffindor table, consuming his breakfast with the singular, grim focus of a man attempting to refuel a failing engine.
His eyes, rimmed with dark circles that spoke of an entire night spent staring into the void of defeat, gave him the unmistakable appearance of a panda who had recently lost a major custody battle.
His mind was a relentless, self-flagellating loop, reviewing slow-motion replays of the Quidditch massacre. The shame was a tangible weight, and only a furious, singular purpose now animated him: redemption.
He needed to drive his fractured team harder than ever, transforming their humiliation into unified, brutal efficiency. Everything else—the usual morning chatter, the incoming mail, the petty politics of the school—was irrelevant noise.
He barely glanced up when a flutter of brown wings announced the arrival of the morning post. However, his self-imposed isolation was shattered when Oliver Wood slid onto the bench beside him, his face etched with a deeper, more venomous shade of fury than Charlie's own.
"Charlie, you need to read this now," Wood said, his voice a tight, low hiss, shoving a folded copy of The Daily Prophet across the table.
Charlie looked at the massive, luridly printed headline that dominated the front page, and the remnants of his appetite vanished instantly, replaced by a scalding wave of sick, adrenalized rage.
SEBASTIAN SWANN: CHARLATAN OR INCOMPETENT?—RITA SKEETER INVESTIGATES THE PROFESSOR WHO BROUGHT SHAME TO HOGWARTS
The accompanying photograph was a malicious, zoomed-in shot of Sebastian looking distracted on the sidelines, edited to make him appear simultaneously arrogant and vacant.
Charlie snatched the paper, his hands already trembling. The article, dripping with Rita Skeeter's trademark cocktail of half-truths and theatrical malice, was not just an attack on Sebastian's coaching—it was a vicious, political indictment of his entire educational tenure.
Sebastian Swann, once the gilded darling of the Quidditch world, has apparently traded the broomstick for the tenure track, yet demonstrates an alarming inability to manage anything beyond his own inflated reputation. Yesterday's crushing, utterly predictable defeat by Beauxbatons, televised across Europe, stands as damning testimony to his profound ineptitude.
Is Professor Swann deliberately concealing his pedagogical shortcomings, or is this merely a case of Dumbledore's latest folly—appointing a glorified sportsman with a flair for the dramatic over a genuine academic?
Skeeter has learned that Swann's primary focus this term has not been rigorous magical discipline, but the corrupting influence of Muggle studies—an effort which, many pure-blood families believe, is an insult to our heritage.
We have confirmed sources stating that Professor Swann has spent his class time not on serious scholarship, but on frivolous excursions to the non-magical world, leading young wizards to engage in trivial pursuits such as purchasing pre-packaged confectionaries and fizzy drinks!
This is not merely neglect of duty; it is an active corruption of young, impressionable minds. When a professor prioritizes cheap theatrics and soda over strategic excellence, can we truly be surprised when his Quidditch team collapses under pressure?
Skeeter invites the public to question: What dark secret compels Professor Dumbledore to place the future of Hogwarts in the hands of this dazzling, yet demonstrably incompetent, 'Deflector' of all things academically sound? The truth, this author suspects, lies not on the Quidditch pitch, but buried beneath a mountain of Swann Alchemy profits.
The sheer volume of calculated insult made Charlie's vision spotty. He was clutching the paper so hard his knuckles had turned white, the cheap paper threatening to tear under the pressure of his suppressed fury. The attack was brilliantly structured: it used the undeniable humiliation of the Quidditch loss to delegitimise Sebastian's entire revolutionary agenda.
His anger, already volcanic from the defeat, was doused with the gasoline of perceived injustice, and the resulting blaze was immediately stoked by the noise of the Hall.
Whispers, normally a quiet undercurrent, rose to a buzzing chorus of agreement.
"The paper has a point, though, doesn't it?" a third-year Hufflepuff ventured, leaning close to her friends. "Professor Swann is in charge of the whole Quidditch project. The loss reflects badly on him, not just the players."
"Exactly. He's a Seeker, so of course he only focused on Cedric," someone else chimed in. "He probably doesn't even understand what a Chaser's defensive pattern is supposed to look like. The team was doomed from the start."
A particularly oily voice—a Ravenclaw who had resented being forced to compare Muggle logistics to Magical transportation—added loudly, "And that Muggle Studies class! They say he spent Galleons of school money just to buy potato chips! That's not education; it's an absolute mockery of our curriculum. Pure-bloods are right—what value is there in knowing the price of a chocolate bar?"
The last remark hit a nerve so raw and deep in Charlie that his inherent Gryffindor restraint nearly snapped. He shoved his chair back, his face crimson, ready to launch into a fiery defense of the professor who had given them his time, his money, and his best equipment.
He was about to denounce the entire crowd as gullible, sheep-like simpletons, but before the first syllable could escape his lips, a louder, far more violent disruption occurred.
CRACK!
The sound was not a shout but a deafening, percussive impact, as if a small cannon had fired at the Slytherin table. Marcus Flint, his already severe features contorted into a mask of pure, murderous rage, had brought his immense, ham-sized fist down on the solid oak. The cutlery jumped, the plates rattled, and the low, critical chatter in the hall died instantly.
Marcus stood up, his chair scraping back with a metallic shriek, and focused his deadly glare not on the Gryffindor table, but on a skinny, haughty-looking Sixth-Year Slytherin named McNeil who had just finished muttering a sneering agreement about Muggle Studies being a "pure-blood betrayal."
In three predatory strides, Marcus crossed the gap. He seized McNeil by the collar of his robes with both hands and effortlessly yanked the smaller boy straight out of his seat.
"McNeil!" Flint roared, his voice dangerously low but amplified by sheer, terrifying anger. His face was inches from the other boy's.
"Is that decorative knot on your shoulder what you call a head? Did a mountain troll eat your brain on the way to breakfast? You swallow whatever bile that ridiculous beetle of a journalist excretes onto the page? If I wrote in the Prophet tomorrow that you were a slimy, witless, festering piece of garden mulch, would you suddenly become one?"
McNeil, while terrified, clung stubbornly to his inherited prejudice. He swallowed hard, attempting to project a dignity he didn't feel. "I believe the analysis is sound, Flint! Professor Swann is a disgrace to the purity of our blood and his incompetence has cost Slytherin the most prestige!"
Marcus's control evaporated. His eye twitched violently, the blood surging to his face as the ultimate insult—attacking the prestige of his own house—was combined with the attack on his coach and patron. He raised his right fist, a blunt instrument of pure, unadulterated fury, ready to deliver a blow that would guarantee McNeil a week of bone-regrowing Skele-Gro and a lifelong fear of Quidditch Beaters.
Before the blow could connect, a powerful, invisible wave of repulsive magic slammed into both boys. They were separated violently, Marcus stumbling back a few paces, while McNeil was tossed unceremoniously back onto the bench, gasping.
"Mr. Flint assaulted a classmate in the Great Hall, which, even by your singularly barbaric standards, is a breach of decorum," a familiar, silken voice drawled, cutting through the stunned silence. "Slytherin deducts three points for gross misconduct and the destruction of institutional property."
Professor Severus Snape appeared at the entrance of the Hall, his black robes billowing in his wake, moving with the terrifying, silent speed of an apex predator. He didn't rush; he simply arrived.
He cast a dismissive glance at Marcus, who was panting with frustrated rage, then turned his full, arctic glare onto the still-gasping McNeil. The silence was absolute, heavier than the weight of a dozen textbooks.
Snape leaned in, his voice dropping to a soft, utterly lethal whisper that carried perfectly across the huge chamber.
"And as for Mr. McNeil, who publicly insulted a member of the Hogwarts faculty, questioned the Headmaster's judgement, and demonstrated an embarrassing deficiency in critical thought by reciting the spurious propaganda of a scandal-mongering tabloid writer," Snape continued, his tone turning sweet, almost conversational. "Slytherin will deduct a further twenty points."
The gasps this time were audible. Twenty points! That was a catastrophic loss, an unprecedented penalty for merely arguing.
"Congratulations, Mr. McNeil," Snape finished, a chilling smile touching his lips.
"Your inability to differentiate between truth and journalistic fiction, coupled with your public insubordination, has earned you two months of disciplinary duty in my dungeons. I believe the Flobberworm population is in desperate need of a fresh, enthusiastic student to assist with the mucus extraction process. Perhaps a two-month suspension from any non-essential recreational activity will give you time to contemplate the value of loyalty to your superiors."
With a final, imperious sweep of his robes, Snape turned to address the hundreds of utterly frozen students, his voice booming like a funeral drum.
"What exactly are the rest of you imbeciles staring at? Do you have no morning classes? If a single student arrives late to my classroom this morning, I assure you, you will be joining Mr. McNeil in the dungeons. Move!"
The command shattered the tension. Students scrambled from the benches, grabbing their bags and robes, desperate to escape the Professor's wrath, the chaos of the fight instantly forgotten in the face of sheer, academic terror.
In the immediate aftermath, Charlie and Wood exchanged a look of bewildered respect for Snape's unique form of justice. Marcus had been punished, but McNeil had been decimated. Snape, in his own twisted way, had provided the most effective defense of Sebastian Swann possible, by savagely punishing anyone who repeated the Prophet's libel.
Outside the main doors, the Quidditch team—Charlie, Wood, Cedric, Marcus, and the two Chasers, Langdon and Paul—gravitated towards each other. They were no longer teammates; they were co-conspirators in a shared failure, united by the stinging injustice of the newspaper and their own deep-seated shame.
Langdon, the taller Chaser, broke the silence, kicking miserably at a loose stone. "That paper is filth. Skeeter can't see past her own ridiculous spectacles. She doesn't understand anything."
"She understands that a loss makes for a great scapegoat," Marcus growled, rubbing the hand that had nearly connected with McNeil's face. His rage had cooled into a hard, protective knot.
"The entire report is nothing but a smear campaign against the Professor, using our pathetic performance as the cannon fodder. She twisted the Muggle Studies classes—the trips, the logic, the whole point—just to make him look like a negligent fool."
Wood nodded heavily. "They're blaming the Professor for our lack of teamwork. They're saying he failed to teach us how to play, when he drilled us on team strategy every single session. We are the ones who let him down by flying like seven self-involved nifflers."
Charlie finally spoke, his voice low and firm, taking charge not with anger, but with responsibility. "We were all furious reading that rubbish, weren't we? We know it's lies. But think about the Professor. He put his reputation, his time, and his money on the line for us. He's taking the hit for the loss that we caused through sheer arrogance and poor communication."
Cedric, his sensitive Hufflepuff nature overwhelmed by guilt, looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "He must be furious. He must be heartbroken. He tried so hard to get us to work together, and we were stubborn. Now everyone in Europe thinks he's an incompetent fraud who only taught us how to buy sweets. If I were him, I'd want to leave the school."
"Exactly," Charlie said, the realization coalescing into a clear plan. "He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve to read that filth and know that everyone is echoing it, after all he did for us. He gave us the platform, and we were too self-centered to stand on it properly."
"So what do we do?" Langdon asked, shuffling his feet. "Do we write a letter to the Prophet? Get Penelope and the cheer squad to sign a petition?"
"No," Charlie stated firmly. "A public defense will just give Skeeter more space to write more venom. We need to do something for the Professor, something personal, to show him that we know the truth, and that we are responsible for the failure."
Marcus, surprisingly, was the first to endorse the plan. "A letter is weak. Snape handled the public statement perfectly. We need to face him. We owe him an apology—not just for losing, but for not listening to him when it counted." He added, his voice slightly softer, "And perhaps a promise that we'll stop flying like a gaggle of pompous, selfish idiots."
Paul and Langdon exchanged glances and nodded simultaneously. The shame was too heavy to carry alone. The act of defending the Professor was the only way to begin clawing back their self-respect.
"He's probably in his classroom, or maybe in the Quidditch office," Wood suggested. "Let's find him. We need to do this now, before the day gets away from us."
Charlie looked at his teammates—the disparate group who had, in the space of a single disastrous game and a single malicious newspaper article, been forged into something resembling a unit.
"Alright," Charlie said, taking the lead. "We go to the Professor. We tell him the truth: the loss was ours, the fault was ours, and the responsibility to fix it is ours. No excuses about the Snitch or the Bludgers. We apologize for our collective failure to apply his lessons."
The Hogwarts Quidditch Team, unified for the first time by something stronger than pride—by shame and loyalty—turned and headed towards the castle, ready to face the man they had unintentionally betrayed. The most difficult conversation of their lives was about to begin.