Harry Potter and the Dovahkiin

The last two days had been nothing short of a disaster.

Double Potions on the first day—can you believe it? The less you saw of Snape, the better, and yet here he was, twice, glaring at them like they'd personally brewed his morning coffee wrong. And to make matters worse, it was with the Slytherins. Gryffindors got to have a lovely little Herbology session with the Hufflepuffs, probably singing to mandrakes or whatever it was they did. Meanwhile, Ben was stuck brewing something that smelled like troll feet while Snape lurked about like a vulture. Unbelievable.

Then came Transfiguration, where Ben's magic once again decided to do its own thing. Instead of turning the beetle into a button, he somehow detonated its backside. One second, a beetle. The next, a tiny explosion and a pair of twitching legs where its rear end used to be. McGonagall just stared at him for a long moment before marking his attempt as "incomplete."

And then—because the universe clearly had it out for him—Defence Against the Dark Arts with Gilderoy Lockhart

Ben, thoroughly done with the day, just started swatting at the pixies with his wand like he was batting away flies. "Depulso! Depulso! Depulso!"

The little menaces went sailing across the room—one crashed into a stack of books, another tumbled headfirst into an inkwell, a third spiralled straight into Lockhart's ridiculous peacock-feathered quill, and one unfortunate pixie smacked face-first into Lockhart's portrait, which let out an indignant "Ow!" Another shot straight out the window, while one more hurtled toward Lockhart himself—only for him to duck just in time, leaving it to thud against the door instead.

By the time Ben stopped, the classroom was an absolute wreck, but at least it was a quiet wreck.

Lockhart, after a long moment of slack-jawed horror, cleared his throat. "Well! A marvellous demonstration of—er—force! Ten points to Ravenclaw!"

Ben wasn't sure what was worse—that this was what finally earned him House points, or that Lockhart had winked at him while doing it.

In the evening, Ben and Cho spent their time changing bedsheets, scrubbing floors, and sorting through an endless array of Skele-Gro, Pepperup Potion, and various dubious remedies, all under Madam Pomfrey's ever-watchful eye.

By the next morning, Ben's outburst was the talk of the castle. Some were sympathetic. Others, less so—like Draco Malfoy.

"Honestly, Brown, if you're that desperate for attention, maybe Hagrid's got a kennel open," Malfoy drawled. "Or better yet, set something on fire next time—give us all a proper show."

Ben, in turn, repaid the favour during Herbology by ever-so-subtly lifting Malfoy's earmuffs with a touch of telekinesis. The resulting encounter between Malfoy and a very disgruntled Mandrake earned the little ferret a one-way trip to the infirmary for the rest of the day.

Which, as fate would have it, meant that Ben ended up changing Malfoy's bed sheets during detention. Oh, the smug look on his face.

It was finally Friday, and Ben sat in Charms class, eagerly counting down the minutes until the bell. Quidditch tryouts were today, and while his Comet 260 was still confiscated, that wasn't about to stop him. He had plenty of old brooms he'd patched up over the break.

His favourite, an old Nimbus 1000, was already in Ginny's hands, so that was off the table. Instead, he'd be riding a broomstick of his own making—a Frankenstein of a broom built from the body of a Comet 220 and the bristles of a Nimbus 1500. A little rickety, sure, but comfortable. It lacked the sharp control of a Comet 260 or the raw speed of a Nimbus 2000, but it had character.

He'd even carved a little dragon into the handle—meant to look like Norene, though the wings were a bit lopsided—and dubbed it the Crosswind 9000. A bit cringe, maybe, but it had personality. And that was what mattered.

As the bell rang, Ben shot out of the classroom like a blur, racing toward the Quidditch pitch. Tryouts were today, and with detention hanging over his head in the evening, he didn't have much time to waste.

"Cho! Have you had your go yet?" he asked when he spotted her sitting at the edge of the pitch, broomstick on her lap. She looked a bit down—not surprising, considering how her so-called friends had been treating her lately.

"Not yet," Cho sighed. "But it looks grim. I heard Eleanor Whitmore's trying out for Seeker this year."

"She is?" Ben frowned. "Huh. She's alright, but you're just as good. Honestly, someone light and nimble like you would fit Seeker better, don't you think?"

Eleanor Whitmore was a sixth-year and had been a reserve Chaser for two years. She'd filled in for a couple of matches and done... fine. Not bad, but not exactly dazzling. Ravenclaw didn't exactly have a deep pool of talent to draw from. Plenty of Quidditch enthusiasts, sure, but not many who liked to slog through mud and sweat for it.

"Yeah, but Owen Abernathy's captain this year," Cho said darkly. "And everyone knows he's completely smitten with Eleanor."

Owen, Ravenclaw's Keeper, was a seventh year and had been on the team forever. Apart from Edgar Cornfoot, their hot-headed Chaser, Owen was the only seventh-year left with the experience to lead.

"I didn't know that," Ben said, puzzled. "What's so special about her, anyway?"

Cho gave him a look. "What are you, blind? Look at her—she's beautiful." She nodded toward the blonde, who was chatting with Owen—who was practically drooling.

"Yeah, I get that, but she's also so full of herself," Ben said, wrinkling his nose.

"You'd be too, if you had her golden hair and that effortless smile," she said.

"Hey, I have gorgeous hair," Ben said, sounding genuinely offended.

"Yeah—and you can't stop mentioning that, can you?" Cho shot back. Ben had to admit—she got him there. 

---End of Chapter---