The Gryffindor common room was shrouded in the soft, gray light of dawn. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a gentle bed of amber coals, casting a warm, flickering glow over the squishy armchairs and the heavy tapestries lining the walls. It was early, early enough that the usual rowdy chatter of the house was entirely absent, replaced by the tranquil crackle of wood and the faint rustle of parchment.
Hermione sat cross-legged on one of the plush armchairs near the hearth, a thick tome on second-year Arithmancy fundamentals resting open in her lap. Opposite her, Abigail curled on the end of a long sofa with a notebook tucked under her arm, tapping her quill lightly against her chin as she reviewed her notes for Transfiguration. As a first-year, the quiet morning hours were a rare luxury before the common room inevitably turned into a chaotic sea of older students shouting, practicing spells, or rushing to finish last-minute homework.
A sudden, sharp breeze swept through the common room as the heavy oak portrait hole swung open.
Two third-year Gryffindors stumbled inside, stamping their boots on the rug. They were shivering slightly, but their faces were flushed with a strange mixture of utter bewilderment and giddy excitement.
"I'm telling you, it makes no sense!" one of them whispered loudly, shaking a dusting of bright crimson powder off his cloak. "Look at it! It's not melting like normal snow!"
"Did you taste the green ones?" the other boy asked, brushing brilliant gold specks off his sleeves. "It tastes like mint chocolate! I swear on my broomstick, the green ones taste like mint chocolate!"
Hermione's head snapped up from her textbook, her brow furrowing in immediate suspicion. She set her book aside and glanced over at Abigail, who had also paused mid-thought, her quill hovering precariously over her parchment.
"What on earth are you two talking about?" Hermione asked, her voice sharp with second-year authority as she leaned forward. "It's six in the morning."
The first boy turned, his eyes wide as he held out his gloved hand. Resting on his palm were three perfectly round, thick disks of pristine, crystalline ice. Each one was remarkably large, easily the exact size and weight of a gold Galleon.
"Look at them!" the boy insisted, stepping closer to the hearth so they could see. "The storm last night... it left this outside!"
Hermione and Abigail both leaned in to inspect the icy disks.
The first disk was a vivid, shimmering scarlet, and pressed into its very center was the intricate, perfectly detailed crest of Gryffindor, complete with the roaring lion. The second was a deep, sparkling emerald green with the Slytherin serpent etched flawlessly into its surface. The third was a brilliant bronze and blue, bearing the Ravenclaw eagle. Every single disk was uniform in shape and thickness, looking less like a natural snowflake and more like a freshly minted batch of magical coins carved out of frozen glass.
"They're all over the grounds," the second boy rambled, pulling off his scarf. "Layers of them! The courtyard is completely covered in red, yellow, green, and blue snow! And each color has a different flavor! The yellow ones with the Hufflepuff badger taste like warm honey cake!"
Abigail stared at the flawless Gryffindor crest pressed into the scarlet snowflake. Her mind immediately traced the impossible precision, the utter disregard for standard meteorological laws, and the sheer extravagance of turning a winter storm into a multi-flavored, house-themed spectacle.
Hermione stared at the exact Galleon-sized proportions of the ice disks, her lips parting slightly in total, unadulterated disbelief.
Both girls looked up from the ice, their eyes meeting instantly across the hearth.
"Harry," they said in absolute unison.
It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a guess. It was a cold, mathematical certainty.
Hermione immediately turned her head toward the narrow spiral staircase leading up to the boys' dormitories. "Harry!" she called out, stepping toward the stairs. "Harry, get down here right now!"
Silence answered her.
Abigail stood up, setting her notebook down on the sofa as she walked over to the foot of the staircase. "He's usually up by five for his morning routine, isn't he? Did anyone see him go down to the Great Hall or the grounds?"
"He wasn't in the dormitory," a sleepy voice called down from the upper landing. Neville was slowly coming down the stairs, rubbing his eyes and yawning heavily as he buttoned his robes. "I woke up a few minutes ago to check on my Mimbulus mimbletonia, and Harry's bed was completely made. It didn't even look like it had been slept in."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, long-suffering exhale that sounded far too exhausted for a twelve-year-old.
"Of course it wasn't," Hermione muttered under her breath, staring at the scarlet and gold snow melting slowly on the table. "Of course he isn't here."
While Hermione was already preparing the list of questions she would demand answers to at breakfast, Harry was standing in front of the Headmaster's office door.
Raising his hand, Harry knocked firmly on the heavy oak door. He didn't wait for a verbal answer before stepping inside, only to freeze dead in his tracks.
Standing beside his grand mahogany desk was Albus Dumbledore. The wisest wizard of the modern age was dressed in a pair of faded, star-patterned nightclothes and a slightly crooked lavender nightcap. In his hand was a muggle toothbrush, which he was vigorously working over his teeth, a light foam dusting the corners of his mouth.
Harry stared. He had actually witnessed the Headmaster in a similar state of domestic informality once before, yet the sheer, unvarnished jarringness of the vision still hit his analytical mind like a sudden collision.
"Right..." Harry muttered under his breath, taking a slow step forward while his brain desperately tried to process the sight. "Yes... I keep forgetting that you are also a human."
Dumbledore held up a single finger, offering an apologetic, foamy smile as he gestured toward one of the plush, high-backed armchairs facing the desk.
Harry walked over and sat down, leaning back into the cushions and rubbing his temples in a deliberate effort to erase the visual from his memory banks.
A moment later, the gentle sound of running water drifted from behind a small wooden screen in the corner, followed by the soft rustle of heavy fabric. A flick of a wand sounded, and Dumbledore stepped back into the main room, his starry nightclothes seamlessly replaced by his customary sweeping robes of midnight blue, his long silver beard combed and pristine.
"An easy detail to overlook, my dear boy," Dumbledore said pleasantly, straightening his lavender nightcap with a flick of his wrist before letting it transform into his usual wizard's hat. "Though I assure you, even the Headmaster requires basic dental hygiene. Especially after spending an evening sampling Gryffindor-red snow. It turns out the raspberry fizz leaves quite a sticky residue."
Harry shifted slightly in the chair, resting his forearms on his knees. "Right. About that... I suppose I should apologize for the chaos. The weather charm got a bit away from me last evening. It wasn't entirely calculated to turn into a house-themed confectionary storm."
Dumbledore waved a hand dismissively, settling into his chair with a gentle twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, think nothing of it, Harry. The house-elves were quite fascinated, and the staff room had a rather lively discussion regarding the flavor profiles." His expression softened slightly, a touch of genuine inquiry replacing the playfulness. "Though I must ask... are you quite alright? We saw you get swept straight off the Astronomy Tower terrace by the initial gale last night."
"I'm quite alright, Headmaster," Harry replied smoothly, his tone completely unbothered. "I managed to Apparate away mid-air before I hit the walls, and went back home for the night."
He adjusted his cuff casually before adding, "Though I didn't stay there long. Just had a few matters to handle before coming back to the castle."
Dumbledore chuckled softly, resting his elbows on the desk and interlacing his long, thin fingers. "I must admit, Harry, the staff was quite mesmerized by the sheer atmospheric display. Though Professor McGonagall spent a good twenty minutes trying to track down her favorite tartan hat, which I believe is currently perched atop the astronomy tower head."
The Headmaster leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "How exactly did you manage to sow such a magnificent, multi-flavored meteorological disaster across the entire valley?"
"It was a weather manipulation charm I've been developing," Harry admitted smoothly, leaning back into his chair. "I was trying to construct an localized climate-altering framework, aiming for light, controlled snowfall to test out the spell. But it seems the formula is still incomplete and requires further tinkering. And I have absolutely no idea where the house-crests, colors and flavor is coming from."
"And blew you right out into the night sky along with it," Dumbledore noted, a light hum of amusement in his voice. "A truly spectacular maiden flight, if I do say so myself. Though I believe poor Rolanda Hooch suffered the most direct casualty of your experiment. The gale tore her dragon-hide flying goggles straight from her hands and launched them into the Scottish highlands."
"Ah," Harry said, a subtle dry smirk touching his lips as he reached into his robes. "Yes, I heard about that."
"Which is why I made sure to get her new ones," He pulled out a sleek, leather-bound case from inside his subspace pouch and laid it neatly on the desk.
"I made a brief stop before returning to castle," Harry explained, flicking the silver catch on the case open to reveal a pair of newest, pristine dragon-hide goggles with enchanted anti-glare lenses. "Her old pair was severely outdated anyway. These are custom-fitted, spell locked against atmospheric drag, fog-proof and I made them completely shatterproof."
"Quite the gift you have prepared, Harry," Dumbledore murmured, looking genuinely impressed as he closed the lid with a soft snap. "Rolanda will be absolutely delighted. Her old pair had survived three dragon-flying accidents and held together largely by habit and a prayer. Although quite frankly she could have replaced them anytime she wanted."
"It was the least I could do for sending her flying gear over Hogsmeade," Harry said mildly, settling deeper into his armchair.
Dumbledore smiled, sliding the case to the corner of his desk before leaning back in his chair. "I must ask, though... you surely didn't come over to my office to apologize for the yesterday's chaos?"
"No, sir," Harry admitted, a faint, dry smirk touching his lips as he gestured loosely toward the sleek leather case on the desk. "I brought a peace offering. Something I believe might potentially save my hide from getting completely demolished in the Great Hall today when you announce the weather dynamics for the next month."
Dumbledore's silver eyebrows twitched upward with quiet intrigue. "A peace offering? Now that sounds remarkably preemptive, even for you."
"Think of it as a long-overdue institutional correction," Harry said, leaning forward slightly. "Back in my first year, during my very first flying lesson, I had the misfortune of inspecting the school's broom supply. To put it politely, half of them were historical hazards and the other half were fit for firewood. I was honestly quite frustrated with myself later for not fixing the issue sooner... I certainly wasn't short on capital even back then, but it slipped through the cracks of my mind."
He reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a heavy parchment manifest, and slid it across the mahogany desk.
"So I decided to rectify it in bulk," Harry continued casually. "I have a shipment scheduled to be delivered to Hogwarts tomorrow. Two hundred and fifty Comet 260s for introductory flight classes, and two hundred and fifty Cleansweep 7s for advanced students."
Dumbledore picked up the manifest, scanning the figures with practiced ease. But as his eyes traced down the columns, his half-moon spectacles slipped down his nose. The perpetual twinkle in his bright blue eyes flickered, replaced by a rare, stunned pause.
He stared at the numbers once. Then twice. Slowly, he set the paper down on the mahogany desk between them.
"Five hundred new brooms," Dumbledore said softly. "That is... substantial, Harry."
He glanced back at the parchment, a dry, slightly rueful smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"Those ancient Shooting Stars in the shed have failed more panicked first-years than I care to count. This will correct a long-standing quiet unfairness, especially for the Muggle-borns who arrive with no idea that flying on a bad broom isn't their fault. For that, I am truly grateful."
He paused, resting his chin on his steepled fingers as he looked over his glasses at Harry.
"I am also acutely aware of how this will look to the Board of Governors. Lucius Malfoy in particular will have a minor stroke," Dumbledore added, his tone lighter now, almost conversational, though a note of genuine practical caution remained. "Some will see an extraordinarily generous gift. Others will see a twelve-year-old quietly buying half the school's goodwill. We will need to be careful with the presentation."
"You don't need to worry about the maintenance load either, Headmaster," Harry offered, settling comfortably into his armchair. "I'm including a fully automated spatial maintenance bay with the shipment. It self-sanitizes, checks the charms, and realigns the wood after every lesson. Madam Hooch won't have to spend her weekends doing manual inspections."
Dumbledore let out a low, amused chuckle, shaking his head. "An automated maintenance bay. Of course you are."
He tapped his finger against the manifest, his gaze sharpening just a bit.
"Even so, Rolanda inspects every single broom personally before a student so much as lays a hand on them. That is non-negotiable," Dumbledore said plainly, though the familiar, mischievous twinkle returned to his eyes full force as he leaned forward over the desk.
"As for the announcement at breakfast..." The Headmaster tapped his chin thoughtfully, a bright, conspiratorial grin spreading across his face. "Perhaps I should simply inform the Great Hall that Mr. Potter has generously replaced the entire flying fleet as a humble, preemptive apology for turning the castle grounds into a month-long meteorological catastrophe?"
Harry let out a dry, quiet chuckle. "I suppose that might just save me from Professor McGonagall's hexes or curses when she sees me today."
"I believe that would certainly give the staff room a good laugh," Dumbledore agreed warmly, leaning back in his chair with a soft sigh of satisfaction. "And off the record, Harry... I am rather moved. It takes a wonderfully sharp mind to look at an old problem the rest of us had simply allowed to linger for decades, and quietly fix it before breakfast."
Harry smiled faintly, settling back into the plush leather armchair. "I'm glad we could settle the flight stock so easily, Headmaster. But as entertaining as a confectionery blizzard and five hundred training brooms might be, neither is the primary reason I knocked on your door at six in the morning."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, adjusting his spectacles. "Oh?"
Reaching into his robes again, Harry pulled out a heavy, leather-bound binder from his subspace pouch and slid it across the mahogany desk. It was noticeably thicker than the broom manifest, bound in deep charcoal leather and stamped in gold with the clean geometric emblem of Nexus.
"It's a plan I had been making for the past month, and I had my dad, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Parkinson and Victor confirm the logistics and value, last night," Harry said, resting his forearms on the table. "They agree with me on the fact that this plan might just change Hogwarts forever in an unprecedented way."
"Which is why I put together this detail and I just wanted your thoughts on it." He nodded towards the binder.
"A plan," Dumbledore echoed curiously, pulling the binder toward him. "Its seems you have been rather busy."
Dumbledore flipped open the heavy charcoal binder.
At first, his expression was merely polite, the pleasant curiosity of a headmaster indulging a particularly gifted student. He scanned the opening summary page, his blue eyes drifting casually down the first block of text.
Then he stopped.
The habitual twinkle in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, razor-sharp focus. His thumb froze against the leather binding. He read the line again, his half-moon spectacles slipping lower down his nose.
Slowly, Dumbledore turned to the second page. Then the third. As his eyes tracked through the blueprints, the logistics, and the final figures, his hand slowed to a complete standstill. He flipped through two more pages at double speed, looking for the catch. Any single condition. But none existed whatsoever.
There wasn't one. Every angle was closed. Moreover every single objection had already been answered.
Dumbledore slowly set the binder down on the desk, staring at the open page as the sheer, breathtaking scope of the transformation settled into his mind. His mouth parted slightly. For several seconds, the wisest wizard of the age just sat there, completely stunned into silence by the sheer perfection of the design.
He looked up at Harry, his eyes wide with a mixture of utter disbelief and quiet, profound awe.
Harry didn't say a word. He simply sat back in his plush leather armchair, offering a faint, calm nod and a slow, knowing smile.
That silent confirmation snapped Dumbledore straight out of his stupor.
He stood so quickly the heavy chair scraped hard against the stone floor. There was no polite farewell, no glance at Harry. The stunned awe vanished, replaced by pure institutional urgency.
He strode across the office, his midnight-blue robes billowing behind him, and dropped to one knee before the hearth. Grabbing a brass pot from the mantelpiece, he scooped out a massive handful of Floo powder and threw it directly into the embers.
Emerald flames roared up to the mantle. Dumbledore shoved his head into the fire, his voice echoing through the chimney with a sharp, thunderous authority.
"Minerva! Filius! Pomona! Severus! Rolanda!" Dumbledore called out, his usual leisurely cadence completely gone. "Drop whatever you are doing this instant! Emergency staff assembly in the Headmaster's tower right now! Do not wait for breakfast! Move!"
The fireplace flared wildly as startled acknowledgments began crackling back through the network.
Harry smoothly rose from his chair with a quiet chuckle.
"Well," Harry murmured, already moving toward the door, "I am leaving before McGonagall gets here. Five hundred brooms might be enough for an apology, but I am definitely not testing that theory in person."
The Great Hall was remarkably empty for seven in the morning.
Instead of the usual bustling chaos, clinking cutlery, and fluttering owls, only a handful of scattered students sat at the long wooden tables. The reason was entirely obvious through the towering enchanted windows: half the school was currently outside in their pajamas and winter cloaks, wading through ankle-deep, multi-colored snow and sampling the icy turf.
Harry paused near the massive, twenty-foot oak entrance of the Great Hall, which stood wide open as always, taking a quiet, precautionary peek inside.
He scanned the Gryffindor table. No Hermione. No Abigail. Ron was presumably still asleep. A quick glance across the room at the Slytherin table confirmed that neither Daphne nor Pansy were present either.
Harry let out a long, quiet breath of relief. "Perfect timing," he murmured to himself, stepping smoothly into the hall.
He walked over to the Gryffindor table, took a seat near the middle, and pulled a plate of poached eggs and grilled tomatoes toward him. Settling into the quiet ambient hum of the hall, he took a slow sip of black tea, thoroughly enjoying the rare, peaceful silence.
His sanctuary lasted precisely four minutes and fifty seconds.
Through the massive open doorway, the rhythmic, purposeful sound of crisp footsteps echoed off the stone flagstones of the Entrance Hall.
Harry didn't even need to turn around to know his peace was over; he could practically feel their gazes zero in on him.
Hermione Granger led the charge with the terrifying, unstoppable momentum of a runaway locomotive. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her hair was noticeably frizzy with static magic, and her eyes were locked onto the back of Harry's head with laser precision. Right beside her was Abigail, who was trying very hard to look stern and authoritative, though her quill was still tucked behind her ear and her notebook was clutched like a shield.
Flanking them were Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson, who had clearly met up in the Entrance Hall to pool their grievances.
"There he is," Pansy declared, pointing an accusing finger in his direction as they swept past the open threshold. "I told you he'd be eating breakfast like nothing happened!"
The four girls converged on Harry's section of the bench like a coordinated strike team.
"Harry James Potter," Hermione began, her voice dropping into that dangerously calm tone that usually preceded a lecture on school rules. "Care to explain why the courtyard is currently covered in four distinct flavors of house-themed, Galleon-proportioned crystalline ice?"
Harry casually set his teacup down on its saucer, not looking the least bit perturbed. He offered them a mild, pleasant smile. "Good morning, girls. Slept well?"
"Do not 'good morning' us," Daphne said smoothly, taking a seat directly across from him and folding her hands on the table. "Care to explain why Hogwarts is covered in multi-colored snow?"
"Well... No?" Harry tested the waters.
Daphne's left eyebrow twitched upward, a dangerous, razor-thin arch that could cut glass. "That was not a multiple-choice question, Harry."
"It sounded remarkably like a choice to me," Harry said pleasantly, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his knee. "Besides, I find that over-explaining the magic ruins the whimsy. Hogwarts is all about tradition so consider this a fresh, colorful and flavored tradition."
Pansy dropped the green ice disk onto the table with an unceremonious clack.
"If this is your idea of a tradition, your taste is abysmal," Pansy huffed, sliding onto the bench next to Daphne and folding her arms. "If you were going to turn the castle grounds into a sweet shop, the least you could have done for Slytherin was make it pistachio or dark truffle. Mint is for toothpaste, Harry. Toothpaste!"
"Well first of, Mint is refreshing," Harry countered calmly. "And second off, I have no idea where the color and the flavor in the snow is coming from. I only tried to make it snow."
"You tried to make it snow," Hermione repeated flatly, crossing her arms so tightly her sleeves strained. "You tried to make it snow, and somehow managed to mint-stamp Galleon-sized ice medallions with distinct house crests across three square miles of Scottish mountain range?"
"Well the colorful snow is just around the Hogwarts castle, not actually on the mountains." Harry offered. "Also, the spell just lacks calibration. It can be fixed. Soon."
"It lacks sanity," Abigail retorted, taking a sharp breath. "Besides, a normal weather magic doesn't produce baked goods flavors! You can't just accidentally flavor a blizzard!"
"I assure you, it was entirely unintentional," Harry replied smoothly, taking another small bit of his toast. "Although I'd say it's quite a good one huh? I mean you get to have flavored ice cones quite literally."
Daphne opened her mouth to shoot back a sharp response, but the side doors near the High Table swung open before she could utter a single word.
A sudden, heavy silence fell over the Great Hall.
The professors were entering. But they weren't walking in their usual orderly, dignified procession.
Professor McGonagall looked as though she had just survived a major crisis; her tartan hat back on her head, was slightly askew, and her sharp eyes were darting around the hall as if expecting a roof collapse. Professor Flitwick was hovering an inch off the floor in pure, manic excitement, whispering rapidly to himself. Professor Sprout was shaking her head in stunned, disbelieving laughter, while Madam Hooch walked alongside them looking utterly dazed, clutching a sleek leather case tightly to her chest.
Even Professor Snape, who usually glided into the room like an ominous shadow, looked visibly unsettled, his dark eyes fixed on the High Table with an intense, unreadable focus.
Behind them all walked Albus Dumbledore.
The Headmaster looked entirely unbothered, his midnight-blue robes sweeping gracefully across the stone floor, his silver beard tucked neatly into his belt. But as he stepped up to the gold owl podium, the twinkling in his blue eyes was operating at an absolute maximum.
"Look at them," Daphne whispered, her sharp political instincts instantly flaring as she watched the faculty take their seats. "Something happened in the staff wing. Look at McGonagall. What did you do, Harry?"
Harry took a slow, measured sip of his tea, looking remarkably innocent. "Me? I've been sitting right here eating eggs."
Dumbledore raised his hands, and his voice echoed clearly across the vast, enchanted ceiling.
"Good morning, students," Dumbledore began, his tone bright and cheerful. "Before we begin our morning meal, I have a few brief administrative announcements regarding our... rather colorful weather conditions."
The scattered students in the hall leaned forward, while Hermione kept her gaze deadlocked on the side of Harry's face.
"First," Dumbledore continued, his eyes scanning the tables with obvious delight, "I am pleased to inform you that the localized confectionery snowfall will persist across the valley for the remainder of the month. I encourage you all to sample the flavors responsibly, though I must advise against consuming the Slytherin mint-chocolate ice past nine in the evening if you wish to sleep."
Pansy threw her hands up in utter defeat. "Unbelievable."
"Second," Dumbledore said, leaning over the owl podium, his voice taking on a warm, conspiratorial edge, "I am sure many of you are wondering how this magnificent meteorological display came to pass in the first place."
The Headmaster paused, his bright blue eyes sweeping across the hall before landing squarely on the Gryffindor table.
"I am authorized to inform you that yesterday evening, Mr. Harry Potter attempted to test a rather ambitious localized climate charm atop the Astronomy Tower. Regrettably, the spell proved somewhat more... energetic than anticipated. It not only painted the entire valley in house crests, but it swept Mr. Potter himself into the night sky, where I believe he had a rather spirited exchange with Merlin"
A few muffled snickers broke out across the hall, while Hermione's eyes went wide as saucers as she stared at Harry in absolute horror.
"However," Dumbledore continued, his smile broadening, "to offer a preemptive apology for our new confectionery blizzard, Mr. Potter has made a rather generous gesture. Effective tomorrow morning, Hogwarts' entire flying broom inventory will be replaced with five hundred brand-new brooms. Two hundred and fifty Comet 260s for our first years, and two hundred and fifty Cleansweep 7s for our upper years."
For a second, the news hung in the air like an unexploded spell.
Then the Great Hall erupted into complete and total anarchy.
"FIVE HUNDRED?!"
"Did he say Cleansweep 7s?!"
"NO MORE SHOOTING STARS!"
The roar of scraping benches, knocked-over goblets, and sheer, unfiltered pandemonium hit the high stone rafters all at once. Before the echoes could even settle, Fred and George Weasley executed a synchronized vault over the Gryffindor bench, landing squarely on top of the long oak table right in front of Harry.
"OUR SAVIOR!" Fred bellowed at the top of his lungs, dropping to his knees and bowing so low his forehead smacked against a plate of kippers.
"THE PROPHET HAS SPOKEN! DEATH TO THE SHOOTING STARS!" George roared, throwing his hands to the enchanted ceiling as if receiving a divine revelation. "DO YOU HEAR THAT, FRED? NO MORE BROOMS THAT DRIFT LEFT INTO THE WHOMPING WILLOW!"
"NO MORE SPLINTERS IN PLACES NO SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD SHOULD EVER GET SPLINTERS!" Fred shouted back, grabbing Harry by the shoulders. "POTTER, YOU BEAUTIFUL, MAD, GALLEON-HOARDING BASTARD!"
Before Harry could even respond, the surrounding tables broke formation entirely. The long-standing house divides dissolved in a matter of seconds under the sheer weight of five hundred brand-new brooms.
A wave of students surged toward the middle of the Gryffindor table. Two fifth-year Ravenclaw girls elbowed their way through the crowd first, beaming down at Harry.
"You are an absolute angel, Harry Potter!" one of them squealed, leaning down and planting a loud, enthusiastic kiss directly on his left cheek.
Before Harry could wipe it off, a sixth-year Hufflepuff chaser grabbed his face from the other side and planted another bright kiss on his right cheek. "If I score against Slytherin on a Cleansweep 7, I'm dedicating the goal to you!"
"Hey! Get in line!" a seventh-year Gryffindor girl shouted from behind them.
"Potter! Marry my sister!" someone yelled from the back.
"Marry MY sister!" George cut in, whipping around. "He gets first dibs on Ginny, you ungrateful heathens! He just saved us from Madam Hooch's museum of medieval torture devices!"
"Up he goes!" Fred roared.
Before Harry could even reach for his teacup, six sets of older hands hoisted him straight off the bench.
"Wait, hold on," Harry started, but his warning was completely drowned out by a deafening cheer as the students lifted him high above their heads.
The Great Hall turned into a full-scale celebration. The upper-years paraded Harry down the central aisle between the tables, tossing him up into the air.
"POT-TER! POT-TER! POT-TER!"
Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor students were all chanting in unison, jumping up and down, waving their napkins and goblets like battle flags. Pansy and Daphne were pushed back against the Slytherin table by the mob, staring in absolute, jaw-dropped awe as Harry was launched six feet into the air, caught effortlessly, and launched again.
Over at the High Table, Professor McGonagall had her mouth open in a perfect 'O' of horror, her hands gripping the edge of the tablecloth as if she were about to march down and put an end to the madness. She turned sharply toward the Headmaster.
Dumbledore, who had returned to his seat, simply leaned back in his grand golden chair, a wide, thoroughly delighted grin spreading across his face as he took a slow sip of his pumpkin juice, making absolutely no move to stop the riot.
"Five hundred..." Hermione gasped from down below, clutching her head in her hands as Harry flew overhead for the third time. "Harry, Hogwarts doesn't even have five hundred brooms! They've had barely eighty ancient Shooting Stars rotting in the broom shed since 1954!"
"I think he knows, Hermione!" Abigail squeaked, ducking as a stray napkin flew past her head.
"He bought off the entire bloody school," Pansy muttered, watching a seventh-year Slytherin beater high-five Harry in mid-air. "He almost flew off into the North Sea, and he bought off the entire bloody school."
Up in the air, spinning over a sea of cheering, chanting faces, Harry managed to catch Daphne's eye for a split second. Even as he was tossed up once more toward the enchanted ceiling, he offered her a calm, effortless wink and a dry, quiet smirk.
Dumbledore permitted the joyful riot to run its course for three glorious, chaotic minutes before he finally raised his wand to his throat.
"Silence," Dumbledore's voice boomed softly across the Great Hall, cutting cleanly through the chanting, shouting, and general bedlam without needing to raise his tone. "If the upper years would be so kind as to return Mr. Potter to the ground before he accidentally tests his atmospheric levitation inside the castle rafters once more, I would greatly appreciate it."
A collective groaning laugh rippled through the room. Slowly, reluctantly, the sixth and seventh years lowered Harry back onto his feet near the Gryffindor bench. Harry casually smoothed his robes, straightened his collar, and took his seat as if he hadn't just been tossed toward the enchanted ceiling like a victorious Quidditch cup.
"You look entirely too pleased with yourself," Hermione muttered, her cheeks flushed, though she was carefully ducking her head so the surrounding crowd didn't see her hide a small, helpless smile.
"I am a man of the people, Hermione," Harry murmured, taking a slow, thoroughly unhurried sip. "I merely give them what they desire."
Down at the podium, Dumbledore raised his hands once more. The room fell into an immediate, expectant hush, every student leaning forward in their seats, practically vibrating with lingering adrenaline.
"Now," Dumbledore began, his voice carrying clearly across the rafters, his half-moon spectacles glinting with an unmistakable, mischievous glint. "While I fully appreciate the... exuberant gratitude displayed by our house teams, I must issue a brief, official advisory regarding the future of Hogwarts aviation."
The Headmaster paused, resting his long, thin fingers on the edges of the golden owl podium.
"I am aware that several of our hard-working Quidditch players and indeed, many ambitious students planning to try out for their house teams next term, have been saving their Galleons, or writing rather persuasive letters to their parents, in hopes of purchasing personal racing brooms for the upcoming season."
Many students across the hall looked caught as the statement landed, shifting guiltily in their seats.
"I must strongly advise you," Dumbledore continued pleasantly, "to hold your owls and keep your Galleons in your pockets."
A ripple of confused whispers ran through the hall.
"Effective at the start of the next academic year," Dumbledore announced smoothly, "Hogwarts will be implementing a standardized fleet protocol for all house Quidditch matches. Students will no longer be permitted to bring or utilize their personal brooms for official school competitions. Every match will be played strictly using school-provided stock."
"WHAT?!" Wood's voice cracked violently from the back of the Gryffindor table. He bolted upright, his face turning white. "No personal brooms? But our seeker uses a Nimbus 2000... Surely you aren't telling us that everyone will be using Cleansweep 7s?"
"Wait a minute," Fred called out, leaning over the table with his brow furrowed in sudden concern. "Does that mean... are we all going to have to play the Inter-House Cup on Cleansweep 7s?!"
"Are you mental?!" George added, throwing his hands up. "We just praised the man for getting us off Shooting Stars, and now he's making us play Quidditch on entry-level racing stock?!"
A collective groan began to rise from the house teams across all four tables. The initial euphoria of the five hundred new brooms suddenly felt dangerously like a double-edged sword for the serious athletes.
Dumbledore let the quiet wave of panic wash over the room for a calculated three seconds before his smile widened into a thoroughly wicked, conspiratorial grin.
"Do not despair, my ambitious young flyers," Dumbledore said softly, though his voice easily cut through the rising murmurs. "I assure you, you will not be competing on Cleansweeps or Comets."
The hall froze again.
Dumbledore leaned forward over the podium, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that echoed with heavy, magical force.
"Let us simply say... that Mr. Potter's generosity this morning was merely the first layer of a far grander foundation. The training stock arrives tomorrow. But what awaits our Quidditch players next year..." Dumbledore paused, his twinkling blue eyes sweeping directly over the stunned Quidditch captains, "...is something the magical world has quite literally never seen before. Consider it a subtle incentive to study hard for your end-of-term examinations."
With a final, cheerful nod, Dumbledore stepped back from the podium. "And on that note... dig in!"