The Gryffindor Quidditch team stood in the cramped, musty dressing room beneath the roaring storm outside, their mood sinking as fast as the temperature. The rain hammered against the windows, filling the space with a constant drumming sound. There was a collective groan as Oliver Wood, the ever-determined captain, paced back and forth like a general preparing for war.
"Alright, listen up!" Oliver barked, his voice cutting through the grumbles and sighs. "We're not skipping practice just because it's a monsoon out there. The weather's going to be exactly the same tomorrow against Slytherin, and if we can't play in this, we're screwed."
Fred Weasley, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow and exchanged a glance with George. "So, let me get this straight. You want us to practice getting completely drenched so we can be ready to lose tomorrow?"
George grinned mischievously, twirling his bat like he was auditioning for a part in a drama. "Great plan, Wood. Should we also set ourselves on fire for added effect? Maybe a few giant spiders to spice things up?"
Oliver's glare could've frozen water. "I swear, Fred, George—if you don't get your heads in the game, I will personally turn both your brooms into rubber chickens."
Ron Weasley, adjusting his oversized Keeper gloves and looking thoroughly unimpressed, leaned back against the bench. "You know, I could've been in the common room, tucked up with a nice cup of hot chocolate. But no, instead I'm here, about to get soaked and possibly end up in the hospital wing with pneumonia."
"Quit complaining, Weasley," Katie Bell said, pulling her wet robes tighter around herself and giving him a look that was half amused, half exasperated. "Not like you'll be able to catch a cold with the rain pelting us. It'll probably just wash you away."
"Ha, ha, very funny," Ron muttered, glancing at Jean Grey, who was sitting across from him with her arms crossed and a smirk playing on her lips.
"Honestly, Ron, you're acting like this is the worst thing that's ever happened to you," Jean said, her voice rich with playful sarcasm. She looked every bit the untamable force she was, with her fiery red hair and piercing eyes that seemed to see right through everyone. "Not like we've ever been caught in worse storms. Ever heard of, you know, life?"
"Yeah, 'cause nothing says 'life' like risking hypothermia in the middle of a Quidditch match," Ron shot back, his scowl deepening.
Fred snorted from across the room. "To be fair, Ron, if anyone's going to survive hypothermia, it's you. You're built like a walking hot water bottle."
George chimed in, "And just imagine, when the rain starts freezing, Ron's head might actually match his hair for once."
Ron gave them both a look, his cheeks flushing. "You lot are impossible."
Ginny Weasley, perched on a bench with her broom beside her, gave a dramatic sigh. "I think Fred's right. This rain's basically going to drown us in misery before we even get to Slytherin. At this rate, we'll be lucky to see anything tomorrow."
"I'm just trying to figure out why Oliver thinks this is a good idea," Jean quipped. "I mean, you'd think he'd learn after all the times we've had to deal with bad weather, but here we are."
Oliver, overhearing, shot a pointed look at Jean. "I'm not going to stand around and have you lot be unprepared for the worst. We're going out there because this is what separates the champions from the whiners."
"Right, right, champions," Dean Thomas muttered, raising his hand as if to make an official point. "Just hope the rain doesn't completely ruin our hair. I think my curls are about to take a permanent dip."
Alicia Spinnet chuckled from the back of the room, her voice teasing. "If your hair survives the rain, Dean, I'll be really impressed."
Demelza Robins, who had been quietly watching the banter, piped up from her spot in the corner. "Stop jabbering, you lot. It's only going to get worse, so we might as well get used to it. Let's at least make it fun by pretending we're some sort of waterlogged sea creatures."
"Sea creatures?" Fred said with a grin, glancing at George. "Sounds like the perfect metaphor for a Slytherin."
"Yeah, well," George added, flicking his broomstick up and down, "if they're sea creatures, we'll just be the sharks. And sharks are pretty good at hunting... especially when they've been trained in heavy rain."
"Alright, enough with the nonsense," Oliver barked again, clapping his hands. "We're doing this, and you're going to look like a well-oiled machine when you do. I don't care how wet and miserable you are, you're going to practice like we're about to win the Cup. Let's go."
With that, the team trudged out onto the pitch. As they stepped into the storm, the full force of the rain hit them, and the wind made it feel as though they were being pummeled by buckets of icy water. The pitch was a swamp of mud, and visibility was low—perfect conditions for Oliver's drill.
Harry Potter, always the first to rise to a challenge, was already hovering in the air, adjusting his broomstick. He threw a look over at Ginny. "Well, this is going to be fun," he muttered, voice barely audible over the storm. "At least it's not snowing."
Ginny smirked, her grip tight on her broom. "Don't say that too loud, Harry. You might just jinx it."
Jean, catching up with Ron, gave him a nod as they both flew in formation, her eyes gleaming. "Alright, Weasley. Time to prove you're not the weak link here."
Ron shot her a skeptical glance as they both darted through the wind. "Says the girl who's telekinetic."
"Exactly," Jean replied with a grin. "The rain can't stop me. You? I'm not so sure."
Demelza's voice rang out from above them as she dove through the storm, narrowly missing a rogue bludger. "Can we quit the chit-chat and actually practice? I don't know about you lot, but I'd rather not die in the rain for no reason!"
Fred's laugh echoed over the pitch. "You'd think we were facing the Slytherin team already! Get your heads in the game, Demelza."
George turned to Fred, his voice full of mischief. "Right, right. Let's at least look good while we fail miserably."
Oliver, stationed at the center of the field, waved his arms. "Alright, team! Let's show Slytherin what we've got! If we can handle this weather, there's nothing they can throw at us that we can't handle!"
"Yeah," Ginny called out, her voice filled with her usual fire. "And if we can survive Wood's enthusiasm, we can survive anything!"
"Right!" Oliver said, beaming with pride. "That's the spirit! Now let's practice like champions—flooded, bedraggled champions!"
—
The rain was relentless. It wasn't just falling; it was pounding, drumming down on the players like a hundred angry woodpeckers. The sky above them was a bleak gray canvas of misery, and every gust of wind that whipped across the pitch felt like the heavens themselves were trying to drag the players into the earth. The sound of the rain hitting the brooms, the robes, the goggles was deafening. It was as though the universe had decided that Quidditch wasn't challenging enough, so it had cranked up the difficulty to "monsoon."
"Alright!" Oliver Wood bellowed, his voice barely audible over the roar of the wind. "Main team versus reserves! We're playing in this, so get your heads in the game!" He shook his drenched hair out of his eyes, looking like a madman possessed by some unholy Quidditch spirit. The guy had more passion than a gnome in a fireworks factory. "There's no such thing as bad weather, just bad players! Let's go!"
Fred and George Weasley zoomed past him in perfect sync, their faces lighting up despite the storm. The twins were grinning like they'd just found out they were getting a free trip to Honeydukes.
"Do you reckon the bludgers are going to be faster in this weather?" Fred shouted, his voice high-pitched over the storm, "Or are we going to get nailed by the rain instead?"
George squinted, peering into the misty horizon. "Honestly, I think the rain's trying to kill us faster than the bludgers will. But hey, it is a good warm-up for dodging Death Eaters."
Meanwhile, Ron was on the opposite end of the pitch, doing his absolute best to look miserable while flying in circles. "This is mental," he groaned, his voice full of wet, cold despair. "Oliver's got us out here in this—why couldn't we have done this in nice weather, like a normal team?"
"You're complaining about a little rain?" Jean Grey asked, floating by him effortlessly. The rain didn't seem to bother her at all, and that was saying something considering she was the kind of person who was usually busy saving the world from nuclear meltdowns. "Try reading my mind, Ron. That's a real challenge."
"Yeah, and try flying in a storm that's trying to drown you," Ron muttered, giving her a pointed look. "I swear, this is some kind of punishment for something I did in a past life."
Jean just flashed him a wicked grin, her hair a wild, fiery mane as she zipped through the air. "Trust me, if we can survive this, we can survive anything."
Dean Thomas, flying alongside her, was swiping at his goggles every few seconds, trying to clear them of the water. "Great," he grumbled, wiping the lenses for the fifth time. "Now I've got rain, sweat, and god knows what else smudged on my goggles. I can barely see a thing!"
Ginny Weasley, whose hair looked like it was trying to outdo the storm in terms of wildness, shot past them at breakneck speed. "You can't see anything? Try not being able to hear a word anyone's saying because of the wind. It's like flying through a hurricane!" She gave a cheeky little wave. "Good luck with that, everyone!"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, "but at least you're not playing with one arm frozen to your broom."
"Maybe if you didn't have that scowl plastered on your face, the rain wouldn't stick to your goggles!" Ginny yelled back, her voice cutting through the storm like a knife. She spun around and made a dramatic dive, taking full advantage of the weather, like a phoenix embracing a flame. "See you at the finish line, losers!"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Ron muttered, still fuming.
But Harry Potter—Harry Potter—was having none of it. While the rain tried to reduce the entire match to an underwater version of Quidditch, Harry had an epiphany. He wasn't just the Chosen One; he was also the guy who always figured out how to fix a problem when it seemed impossible. And this rain was nothing if not a problem.
"Hang on," Harry muttered to himself, pulling his goggles off his face. He squinted through the sheets of rain that blurred everything. Then he smirked. Of course. He reached up and flicked his wand with a nonchalant "Impervius" under his breath, as if he'd just invented the solution to world peace instead of simply enchanting his goggles.
The effect was immediate. No more droplets sticking to his lenses. The rain flowed off them like water off a duck's back, and he could see everything clearly again.
Harry grinned. "Why didn't I think of this earlier?"
Then he zoomed through the pitch, his broom streaking forward like a rocket. "Alright, people! Everyone needs to do this right now! If you want to see something besides rain, cast Impervius on your goggles!"
Ginny Weasley, who had been mid-dive, pulled out her wand without a second thought and cast the charm on her goggles. Her reaction was immediate and enthusiastic. "Holy cow, Harry, this is amazing! It's like I can see again!"
Ron, who was now able to see clearly, threw his hands up in exasperation. "Bloody brilliant. I could've used this thirty minutes ago!" He flicked his wand lazily and cast the charm on his own goggles. "I'm ready now, finally!"
"About time!" Harry yelled, still zooming around, enjoying the rain-free visibility. "Alright, let's make this match count! Time to show the reserves just who's boss!"
Fred and George, catching on quickly, mirrored his actions and slapped Impervius on their goggles. "You heard him, lads!" Fred called out to his twin. "Let's give these poor souls a proper show of Weasley-level skill."
"You mean an unbeatable show of skill," George corrected, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Of course!" Fred agreed. "I mean, after all, who could possibly top us?"
"Not these lot," George smirked, "but let's give them a good chase anyway."
Meanwhile, Jean was already in her element. The rain didn't bother her, and neither did the wind. She was too busy making perfect passes to Demelza and Dean, who seemed to have had enough of the storm. "You lot better catch up," Jean shouted over the wind. "Or I'll have to go solo on this!"
Dean grinned despite himself. "Yeah, yeah, we're trying, alright?"
"Try harder!" Jean teased, laughing as she sped off again. "You're going to need it!"
As the match raged on, despite the miserable conditions, the players started to find their rhythm. Impervius had solved the vision problem, but now they had to deal with the bludgers, the wind, and the cold. But the determination of the team—both main and reserve—began to shine through, and for a moment, it was as if the storm had no power over them at all.
Ron, now fully enjoying the game, leaned toward Katie Bell, who was flying alongside him. "I've got a feeling we might actually stand a chance against the main team now."
Katie, her cheeky grin lighting up her face despite the rain, shot back, "You're damn right we will. Just try and keep up!"
And with that, the game picked up speed, the weather and their soaking wet clothes now secondary to the ferocious competition between the two teams. As for Harry, he was off on another dive, the rain no longer a problem, his goggles clear, his broom steady beneath him, and his mind laser-focused on the prize ahead.
This was going to be a good match.
—
Ginny Weasley wasn't the type to let a little thing like a torrential downpour—or, let's be honest, a literal thunderstorm—slow her down. The rain was slapping against her face like it was some kind of vendetta, and her broom felt like it had a mind of its own, slipping sideways as if to say, Nope, not today. But Ginny, the fiery Weasley she was, didn't even blink.
She was a blur of motion, a streak of red slicing through the grey gloom, weaving expertly through the rain as though it were all just part of the fun. "This is a walk in the park!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, which, considering the hurricane-like wind, could've been a shout or a whisper, depending on how you wanted to interpret the sound waves.
From below, Ron's voice filtered up, utterly unamused. "You say that now, Gin, but wait 'til a Bludger the size of a hippogriff comes at you. Then we'll see how 'easy' it is!"
Ginny barely spared a glance at him. "Please, Ron. I'll dodge it with my superior speed and grace! Also, charm," she added with a cheeky wink.
Ron grunted from the stands, but Ginny couldn't hear him over the sound of her broom slicing through the air. That's the thing about Ginny: she didn't take no for an answer, and she definitely didn't take rain for an excuse.
Now, Harry Potter. Oh, Harry was having way too much fun.
This wasn't just Quidditch for Harry. Oh no. This was personal. If he had to, he'd have performed an impromptu victory dance while catching the Snitch in the middle of a thunderstorm. And let's be clear, Harry was one hundred percent the stunt guy in the movie who says, "Hold my drink," before pulling off some insane aerial maneuver.
He was on his Firebolt. His glorious, perfectly calibrated Firebolt. And he was moving through the rain like a ghost. No, scratch that—like a ghost on a mission to violate every law of physics. If anyone else had tried what Harry was doing, their broom would've exploded and their bones would've snapped like twigs. But Harry was Harry, and Harry didn't care about things like safety or aerodynamics.
"Bet I can catch it before you, Weasley!" he yelled, completely oblivious to the absurdity of his challenge. He executed a move so sharp and reckless, the Firebolt screamed under him, and for a moment, Harry thought he might actually die—but then, he pulled off a move so wild that even he didn't know how it worked.
Ginny, of course, wasn't about to let that slide. "In your dreams, Potter!" she shot back, flinging her broom into a ridiculously tight turn, the wind howling in protest. She didn't care about physics either. Why should she?
"You know, I should really start charging for these thrills," Harry muttered as he shot forward, seeing the glint of the Snitch just ahead. "Could make a fortune at the Quidditch World Cup."
"I think you'll be charging straight into the ground if you keep flying like that," Ginny snapped, her face set in a determined grimace. Her eyes locked onto the golden speck, flickering through the rain.
Harry pulled ahead, his Firebolt humming beneath him like a racing engine, leaving Ginny in his wake for a split second. But then, she did something insane. With a speed that seemed to defy reason, she cut sharply across his path, leaning into a dive that had the whole Quidditch pitch spinning around her.
"Not today, Potter!" Ginny yelled, and Harry, being Harry, couldn't help but grin like a maniac as he turned mid-dive to avoid crashing into her.
"Well, not today, then," he said, pulling out a move that could only be described as absolutely insane.
Ginny was closing in on the Snitch. So close. Her fingers were practically brushing it. She could feel it. Her pulse was racing. This was it. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. The rain slapped harder, but it didn't matter. Ginny's eyes locked onto the Snitch, her fingers reaching out.
"I will catch you!" she growled, her voice dripping with determination, but the Snitch darted away from her, taunting her.
Harry pulled a ridiculous barrel roll, the broom twisting and weaving in the air like it had no concept of gravity. "Gotcha," he called, his hand closing around the Snitch. He pulled up just in time to narrowly avoid slamming into the ground, clutching the Snitch as if it were some long-lost treasure.
Ginny shot him a glare so fierce, she probably could've burned a hole in him with the heat from her eyes alone. "You jerk," she muttered under her breath, but then—bam. Her broom jerked to the side as a Bludger came roaring at her from nowhere. Ginny barely dodged it, her heart hammering in her chest.
But Harry, of course, was already taunting her. "Told you I'd catch it first!" he yelled as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
"Yeah, well," Ginny shot back, voice dripping with venom, "next time I'll catch it without needing to kill myself in the process!"
From below, Ron's voice called out, utterly unimpressed with the entire spectacle. "Seriously, you two? Couldn't you just have a normal game without trying to kill each other?"
"Wouldn't be fun if we did, Ron!" Harry called back, tossing the Snitch from one hand to the other as he made his way down.
"Yeah, but you're supposed to be team players," Ron said, his voice getting louder as he approached the pitch. "You've both nearly wiped out three times already! And can you not pretend this is some Hollywood action scene, Harry?"
Ginny grinned, even though her hair was plastered to her face and she looked like she'd just been dunked in a swamp. "If it weren't for Harry, we'd all be bored," she said, the spark in her eyes as defiant as ever. "A little chaos never hurt anyone, right?"
Ron looked as if he was about to argue, but Fred and George's voices echoed from the stands, both shouting in unison: "More dangerous than a Bludger in a hurricane, but that's why we love it!"
And for the record, even if Ron would've liked to be grumpy about the whole thing, deep down, he couldn't help but love the madness of it all. Quidditch, after all, was about chaos. It was about speed. And it was about never letting up, even in the face of insane weather.
But mostly, it was about making sure you came out on top, which, for today, meant Harry Potter—again.
—
The rain wasn't just coming down now—it was monsooning. Ginny Weasley, soaked to the bone and dripping like she'd just emerged from the Black Lake, stomped toward the locker rooms, her broom trailing behind her like a poor, abandoned puppy. If brooms could look embarrassed, hers definitely did.
"Honestly," Ginny muttered, glaring at the slick, stormy sky, "if Harry pulls that smug, cocky stunt again, I'll—"
"You'll what, Ginny?" Fred Weasley's voice cut through the air like a prankster's dagger. Of course, he appeared out of nowhere, right behind her, just like he'd been hiding in the clouds.
Ginny, already in the mood to hex someone (just not sure who yet), whipped around, eyes practically glowing with the kind of irritation that could cause spontaneous combustion. "I'll—" She paused, frowning at the ridiculousness of her own words. "I don't even know anymore," she finished, as she let her broom fall with a dramatic thud, the rain hissing where it met the stone floor.
Fred, ever the weasel, just grinned. "Not gonna finish that threat, huh? Guess you're slacking off, Gin-Gin."
Ginny gave him a look that could melt stone, but her drenched, bedraggled hair (which had once been perfectly styled) just made her look extra dangerous. "You're lucky I don't have the energy to hex you right now."
"Tell you what," Fred said, gesturing around like he was about to give an important speech, "next time it rains, you won't even need a wand. I think I see your mood magic working just fine."
As if summoned by the chaos that was Fred, George slid in next to him, his soaked hair sticking out in every direction like he'd tried to style it by sticking his head in a bucket of water. "Oh, I think the rain did wonders for Ginny's attitude," he said, not missing a beat. "But hey, you've got the whole 'drowned rat' look going, Ginny. Very fashion-forward."
"Yeah," Fred added with a wink. "Very edgy."
Ginny tried to muster a glare, but it was hard to be intimidating when you were just... soggy. "I swear, you two are lucky I'm not in the mood to murder you both."
From the back of the group, a soggy Jimmy Peakes shuffled forward, looking like a man who'd just discovered what it felt like to be waterlogged from the inside out. "Is it too late to change careers?" he said, dragging his soaked self behind the twins. "Because I think I'd make a pretty decent professional warm blanket right about now."
"Warm blanket?" George asked, wrinkling his nose. "You sure? Because you look more like an unseasonable damp towel."
"Could be worse," said Ron, who was probably the only one who looked more like a wet mop than anyone else. "At least I don't look like I've been trying to reenact Moby Dick with my broomstick."
Ginny shot him a glare that could kill a dragon. "I swear, Ron, you've got the stamina of a potato in a sauna."
"And yet," Ron said, puffing his chest out like he'd just won a medal, "I'm still the only one who managed to avoid getting knocked out by a Bludger."
"You dodged the Bludger?" Demelza Robins asked, dripping next to him, clearly incredulous. "Or did you fall into it and hope it wouldn't notice?"
"I did dodge it," Ron grumbled, and for a second, his eyes flickered toward Harry, who was walking ahead of the group like he was still in some Quidditch show-off mode, holding the Snitch in his hand like a victor fresh from a battle.
"Oi!" Ginny called out, hands on her hips. "Let me guess, Harry, you're going to keep that smug grin on your face the whole time, right?"
Harry, who had clearly been soaking in the attention, looked back at her with an eyebrow arched so high it was basically orbiting. "Smug? Me?" he said, holding the Snitch aloft like a trophy. "Nah, Ginny, just thinking about how you almost caught me. You know, when you blinked?"
"Don't even start, Potter," Ginny snapped, rolling her eyes so dramatically it looked like they might fall out. "If it wasn't for this ridiculous storm, you'd be the one eating dirt."
Harry grinned, obviously too smug for his own good. "Aww, Ginny, the weather is what's to blame? I mean, I get it, trying to make excuses after I literally took you on a ride through the clouds. You should've seen your face when I swerved left—you looked like a startled hippogriff."
"Get lost, Harry!" Ginny said, throwing up her hands. "I'm too wet to argue with you."
"Alright, alright," Harry said, dropping the Snitch into his bag with a flourish. "But I'll give you credit. If you could have seen straight, you'd probably have made me work for it. Maybe next time?"
Fred snickered from the back. "Next time? We can't even finish a practice without looking like we've all been dipped in the lake. Let's start with surviving that first."
"Yeah, I think I nearly froze to death just trying to see the Snitch," Demelza said, arms crossed as she shivered. "Next time, can we practice in something that's not literal murder weather?"
Katie Bell, looking as though she'd stepped out of an ice bucket, chimed in, "Maybe next time we just skip the whole flying bit and work on warming up instead."
As the group made their way toward the locker rooms, the collective grumbling of the soaked team filled the corridor. Even Oliver Wood, who was normally as serious as a brick wall, was clearly finding the whole thing a bit too much. He huffed, shaking his drenched hair out of his eyes. "That bloody show-off Harry Potter doesn't know how to take it easy."
"Well, when you're Harry Potter," Dean Thomas said, grinning with that good-natured charm that always seemed to cut through the gloom, "I guess you don't have to."
"I'd fly like that too if I didn't think I'd drown halfway to the goalposts," said Ritchie Coote, wiping the rain out of his eyes with the sleeve of his soaked shirt. "Is it too late to turn this into a competitive water polo game?"
"Nope," Jimmy said, eyes wide and mocking. "We're doing Quidditch 2.0—now with added flood."
"I think I'm about to die from hypothermia," Katie said, teeth chattering. "Can someone please get a fire started? I'm pretty sure I caught it just trying to fly through that storm."
"Alright," Fred said, rubbing his hands together like an evil genius, "who's in charge of getting the treacle tart—and the fire?"
"After all that?" George said, nudging him with a grin. "We deserve the entire bakery."
"Fire," Fred said again, a hint of panic in his voice. "This time, we're gonna need more than just food, we're going for warmth."
"You lot are all a bunch of miserable, soggy, chicken cowards," Harry teased as he plopped down onto the bench in the locker room. "Look at you—all whiny and miserable like you didn't just fly through the storm like legends."
Ginny, still trying to squeeze the water out of her broomstick, just shot him a look. "Shut up, Harry."
"Aw, c'mon, Ginny, don't be a sore loser. Next time, I'll give you a head start." Harry grinned, totally not sorry.
"Not next time," Ginny muttered under her breath. "Next time, you're the one who's getting drenched."
And so, amidst the laughs, the soggy groans, and the clinking of waterlogged brooms, the Hogwarts Quidditch team stumbled into the locker room, cold, tired, and somehow, in the end, united in their shared misery. After all, there was always next time—and next time—they'd get Harry back. Right?
—
Jean and Harry sloshed through the damp, echoing halls of Hogwarts, their footsteps somehow louder than the rumble of the storm battering the castle walls. Seriously, it felt like a giant was shaking the whole place, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if the storm was trying to get revenge for some minor insult he hadn't remembered. Note to self: Avoid offending weather gods, or you'll pay the price with torrential rain.
"Okay, I'm just going to say it," Jean muttered, pushing her wet hair out of her face. "If this weather doesn't clear up by Sunday, I might just set fire to the entire British Isles. I don't care if I end up in Azkaban. It will be worth it."
Harry snorted, half-distracted by the rivulets of water dripping down his face. "Yeah, because burning the entire British Isles is totally a solid birthday plan." He gave her an exaggerated side-eye, though the corner of his lips twitched upward. "I mean, we could always have a birthday bonfire, right? Just one giant inferno in your honor."
Jean's eyes narrowed, and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe I'll do more than set fire to the Isles. Maybe I'll go all 'Phoenix' on you and rain down fiery vengeance on your birthday party. I'll add fireworks for extra effect." She threw him a sideways grin, clearly enjoying the teasing.
"Yeah, I don't think you need to add any fireworks," Harry shot back with a grin that could've only come from someone who was very familiar with sarcasm. "You're already enough of an explosion, Jean. I mean, you're practically a walking disaster zone on your own."
Jean shoved him playfully, and Harry had to dodge to avoid the full force of her elbow. "Careful, Potter, or I'll unleash all my telekinetic powers on you. Your hair might be permanently stuck in that 'drowned rat' look."
"You're just jealous because I can rock the drowned rat look better than you," Harry shot back. "You don't even know what a real disaster looks like. If I were to show you, you'd have to get new robes from Madam Malkin's." He grinned devilishly, thinking of all the things he could say to make her laugh—or kill him.
Jean raised an eyebrow, the teasing glint in her eyes unmistakable. "Ooh, big words, Potter. But honestly, if this storm keeps up, we're not going to be able to go anywhere except straight into the hospital wing. Or worse, Madam Pomfrey's office. She'd make us clean out cauldrons or scrub floors for hours if she caught us coming in with bruises and soaking wet clothes." She tilted her head and looked at him thoughtfully. "Now, that would be an epic disaster, don't you think?"
"Yeah, I'm not exactly in the mood to explain how I accidentally got a concussion from a rogue gust of wind," Harry agreed, shaking his head. "But hey, I'm sure you could handle it. You've got those 'powers' and all, right? You could probably blast that storm out of existence with a thought."
Jean smirked, the confidence oozing from her. "Well, I could if I felt like putting the effort in. But that might cause a few… issues. Like, I don't know, completely obliterating half of Scotland by accident? You know, just your standard Tuesday."
Harry snorted again, unable to keep his grin in check. "Right. No big deal—just obliterating half of Scotland in the name of 'birthday plans.' Honestly, Jean, you have way too much power. You'd be banned from every country in Europe within a week."
She chuckled darkly, her eyes sparkling. "And here I thought you liked chaos, Harry. It's not real chaos unless something's on fire. Or getting destroyed. Or—"
"—Or I'm caught in the middle of it, just trying to survive your craziness. You know, the usual," Harry finished for her, enjoying the banter far too much. It was these little moments that made everything worth it. Even when you were stuck trudging through a storm in the middle of Hogwarts.
Jean shot him a sidelong glance. "Oh, you like it. Don't even pretend you don't."
"Of course I do," Harry said easily, his grin turning mischievous. "Who wouldn't want to be around a super-powered, slightly homicidal storm goddess? You're basically a walking apocalypse waiting to happen."
Jean rolled her eyes dramatically. "I really do try to be humble, but it's hard when you've got someone like you constantly boosting my ego." She elbowed him again, and Harry dodged just in time.
They rounded the corner to Gryffindor Tower, where the comforting sight of the entrance came into view, but Jean stopped dead in her tracks. "Okay, seriously—what are we going to do about Sunday? If it's anything like this, our first official date will basically be spent in a hospital bed, and not the good kind. Not the kind that ends with ice cream and a romantic dinner." She raised an eyebrow at Harry, a playful challenge in her gaze. "So, what do you suggest we do? Call in a favor from Ororo, or do we just wait for the weather to miraculously clear up?"
Harry scratched his chin, pretending to deliberate. "Well, I was thinking, since you're so powerful and all, we could just ask you to personally summon some sunshine. But I guess contacting Ororo would be the safer bet."
Jean's lips curved into a smile that was almost predatory. "You do know I can handle a storm, right? But you're right. If I let my temper get the best of me, I might accidentally zap the entire Quidditch pitch, and we can't have that." She gave him a wink. "Let's just text Ororo. She's got some serious weather control mojo, and besides, I'd rather not spend the day fighting nature on our first date."
"Yeah, I'm all for not having a hurricane ruin our plans," Harry agreed with a grin. "Besides, I think we deserve a little sunshine, right? Especially if we're going to make Sunday as epic as your birthday deserves."
Jean smirked at him. "Oh, don't worry. The day will be legendary—rain or shine. But if we can pull off some sunshine, we might just be able to make it perfect." She raised an eyebrow at him. "You can handle the charm, right?"
"Definitely. I mean, how hard can it be?" Harry asked with a shrug. But there was a twinkle in his eye that suggested he was way more confident than he probably should've been. "But hey, worst case, we end up in the infirmary. We'll make it a memorable first date."
Jean's laughter rang out, clear and genuine. "You really know how to make me laugh, Harry. But seriously, let's get inside, warm up, and then we'll sort out this storm situation. I'm not spending my first date getting soaked to the bone." She turned toward the entrance. "Deal?"
"Deal," Harry agreed, just as the portrait hole swung open. "Let's go inside and make sure we don't end up in the worst weather-related disaster of the year."
With that, they walked into the warmth of Gryffindor Tower, already planning how they were going to make sure Sunday would be the perfect day. Because one thing was for sure: nothing would ruin their plans. Not even the weather.
---
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