Slugs, Silver Brooms, and Sudden Fame
The corridor outside Charms classroom was unusually loud.
Keith stepped out first, followed by Rias, Susan, Helana, and Hermione—still mid-conversation about wand precision—when the noise hit them like a Bludger.
Shouting.
Sneering.
Bragging.
Keith raised an eyebrow.
"…That," he said calmly, "sounds expensive."
Nimbus 2001 vs Common Sense
Ahead of them stood two Quidditch teams, facing off like rival armies.
On one side—Gryffindor, brooms worn, handles scratched, pride intact.
On the other—Slytherin.
Every single Slytherin player was holding a brand-new Nimbus 2001, polished so brightly that sunlight bounced off them like silver mirrors.
At the front stood Draco Malfoy, chin lifted so high he looked at risk of tipping backward.
"My father," Draco announced loudly, "donated these Nimbus Two-Thousand-Ones to the entire Slytherin team."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Marcus Flint smirked.
Terence Higgs twirled his broom.
The Slytherins basked.
Draco's eyes locked onto the Gryffindors.
"You can't even touch these brooms," he sneered. "Talent can only get you so far. Money finishes the job."
Keith sighed softly.
"Ah," he muttered. "Canon."
Susan blinked. "What?"
"Nothing."
Ronald Weasley's Worst Timing™
At the edge of the crowd stood Ron Weasley.
Still humiliated.
Still desperate.
Still incapable of reading a room.
His ears burned red as Draco laughed.
Suddenly—Ron stepped forward.
"At least Gryffindor doesn't buy victories!" Ron snapped. "We've got talent—something you can't purchase!"
The corridor went silent.
Keith slowly turned his head.
"…Oh no."
Draco's smile sharpened.
"Oh?" he drawled. "Coming from you, Ronald Weasley? The family of blood traitors who can't even afford a decent wand?"
Ron's hand clenched.
Wand out.
Hermione gasped.
"Ron—don't—!"
Keith's lips curved.
He whispered internally:
Raphael.
"Acknowledged, Master. Initiating Probability Adjustment."
Keith's eyes gleamed with mischief.
"…Let's see how history improves."
Eat Slugs — Enhanced Edition 🐌✨
Ron shouted,
"Eat slugs!"
The spell backfired—just like it was supposed to.
Except—
It didn't.
The magic twisted mid-air.
The spell split.
One bolt slammed into Draco Malfoy.
Another curved sharply and struck Marcus Flint square in the chest.
There was a heartbeat of silence.
Then—
"—URGH—!"
Draco doubled over.
Flint gagged.
Both dropped their brooms.
And then—
SLORP.
Thick, wriggling slugs began pouring out of their mouths.
Not normal slugs.
Huge.
Slimy.
Sparkling faintly green.
The crowd screamed.
"MERLIN—!"
"IS THAT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN?"
"WHY ARE THEY SHINING?!"
Draco fell to his knees, retching slugs onto the marble floor.
Flint tried to shout.
More slugs.
Ron stared in horror.
"…I didn't mean—"
Then Ron gagged.
Keith blinked.
"Oh."
A third slug crawled out of Ron's mouth.
Raphael's voice echoed calmly:
"Collateral comedic enhancement detected. Acceptable outcome."
Keith covered his mouth.
"…Worth it."
Instant Legends
Madam Pomfrey arrived at a sprint.
Her scream echoed down the corridor.
"OUT OF THE WAY—!"
Draco, Flint, and Ron were dragged to the Hospital Wing, leaving a trail of slugs behind them.
Students stared.
Then whispered.
Then laughed.
By dinner—
The rumors exploded.
"Ronald the Sluglord""Draco Malfoy: Heir of Slime""Marcus Flint, Devourer of Gastropods"
Someone hung a sign near the Hospital Wing:
SLUG TRIANGLE — ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK
Keith walked past calmly with his group.
Hermione stared at him suspiciously.
"…You're smiling."
Keith tilted his head innocently.
"Am I?"
Susan giggled.
Helana snorted.
Rias shook her head fondly.
"Keith," Hermione said slowly, "did you do something?"
Keith looked at the ceiling.
"…Magic is mysterious."
Aftermath
Slytherin Quidditch practice was canceled.
Gryffindor morale skyrocketed.
Ron became famous again—
Not heroic.
But unforgettable.
Draco refused to speak for two days.
Marcus Flint swore revenge.
Keith returned to class like nothing happened.
Inside his pocket, Ninetales' crystal charm glowed faintly—warm and amused.