It started as a joke. A one-time thing. A spur-of-the-moment decision made by a group of restless students who refused to let curfew dictate their fun. That was three months ago.
Now, every Friday night, Hogwarts transformed into something magical in a way even the Founders couldn’t have predicted. The great tradition of Midnight Quidditch had been born.
It was absolute chaos.
**
The moment the clock struck midnight, a swarm of students—dressed in everything from plaid pajama bottoms to oversized sleep shirts—snuck out of their common rooms, brooms in hand. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws exited through the portrait hole, dodging Filch’s cat with the help of the Fat Lady, who conveniently “accidentally” swung open at just the right time to block Mrs. Norris’ view. The Slytherins and Hufflepuffs had an easier time; the entrance to the dungeons was a maze Filch never quite figured out, and the barrels leading to the Hufflepuff common room provided perfect cover.
Tonight, as the students rushed to the pitch, Hermione Granger stood in the center of the field, rubbing her temples. “If McGonagall finds out about this, she’s going to kill all of you.”
“She won’t find out,” George Weasley said confidently, tossing a Quaffle between his hands. “Because you, dear Hermione, are going to be our impartial judge. No favoritism, no chaos, just fair play.”
“I don’t know why I let you people talk me into this every week,” she muttered but took her place at the center nonetheless.
The teams were already forming—Slytherins and Hufflepuffs versus Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. It was always the same teams; no one could quite remember why, but it worked. The sheer contrast between the two groups was comedic gold. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws played like they were strategizing for war. The Slytherins and Hufflepuffs? A bizarre combination of ruthless cunning and terrifyingly efficient teamwork.
Tonight’s captains were Cedric Diggory and Fred Weasley, both already deep in a heated (but whispered) argument about rules—or lack thereof.
“I swear, if we end up in detention, it’ll be your fault,” Hermione scolded as she climbed onto the makeshift referee stand (which was really just a stack of school trunks charmed to levitate).
Draco Malfoy stood nearby, arms crossed over his silk pajama top. “This is ridiculous. We’re all going to get caught. And why do I always have to play? I hate this sport.”
“Malfoy, honestly, you’re going to slip off that broom in those silk pajamas,” Katie Bell pointed out, eyeing his attire. “At least wear something with traction.”
“I’ll have you know these are high-quality enchanted silk,” Draco sniffed. “Perfectly aerodynamic.”
“More like perfectly ridiculous,” muttered Anthony Goldstein.
“Alright, let’s go!” Hermione called out, rolling her eyes at the bickering. “Standard Quidditch rules apply. First team to score 100 points wins, or if the Snitch is caught—whichever happens first. No hexing each other.” She paused and looked at the Slytherins. “That means you, Malfoy.”
“Preposterous accusation,” he said airily, mounting his broom.
And then, without another word, the game began.
**
Hagrid, wrapped in a giant patched blanket, sat in the stands with Fang, cheering equally for both teams.
“Go on, ya lot! That’s it, Diggory, show ‘em how it’s done! Aye, that’s some fine maneuvering there, Cho!”
The game was, as always, a mess. The Gryffindors played aggressively, the Ravenclaws tried (and failed) to strategize on the fly, the Hufflepuffs worked seamlessly together, and the Slytherins played like they were out for blood. There was at least one near-collision every five minutes, usually accompanied by Draco’s panicked shrieking.
“I SWEAR TO MERLIN, IF YOU HIT ME WITH THAT QUAFFLE ONE MORE TIME—”
“Then duck, Malfoy!” yelled Angelina Johnson, laughing as she zoomed past him.
The Snitch, charmed to glow faintly in the darkness, flitted around the goalposts while the Seekers—Harry Potter and Theodore Nott—chased it relentlessly.
Halfway through the game, Neville Longbottom, playing as Beater for the first time, accidentally hit the Bludger straight into the Slytherin goalposts, sending Draco into a downward spiral.
“I’M GOING TO DIE!”
“You’re like five feet from the ground, you drama queen!” yelled Fred.
Draco hit the grass with a loud oof, groaning dramatically. “I’m never playing again.”
“That’s what you said last week,” Blaise Zabini reminded him as he helped him up.
And yet, five minutes later, Draco was back in the air, grumbling but playing nonetheless.
**
The match lasted an hour before Harry finally caught the Snitch, and the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw team erupted into cheers. But the best part of the night was still to come.
By the time they stumbled back toward the castle—some limping, some leaning on each other for support—the house-elves had already prepared a massive spread in the Room of Requirement. Plates piled high with biscuits, sweets, hot chocolate, and pumpkin pasties covered every surface.
“We need to sleep,” Susan Bones mumbled around a mouthful of treacle tart.
“Agreed,” said Terry Boot. “Can we crash in the Slytherin dorms tonight?”
The Slytherins exchanged glances. “I mean… sure?” said Pansy Parkinson, blinking sleepily. “Whatever. Just don’t mess with our stuff.”
No one had the energy to protest. They barely made it to the dorms before collapsing onto the extra mattresses they all kept under their beds specifically for these occasions. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws piled onto one side, the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins on the other. Someone—probably George—summoned blankets from Merlin-knows-where, and within minutes, the room was filled with soft breathing and occasional murmurs.
The last thing Draco heard before drifting off was Seamus muttering, “Reckon McGonagall knows about this?”
A beat of silence, then a quiet chuckle from Daphne Greengrass. “Oh, she knows.”
“She just pretends she doesn’t,” added Hannah Abbott sleepily.
“Smart woman,” muttered Draco, finally closing his eyes.
Midnight Quidditch would happen again next week. And the week after that. And the one after that. Because for all their differences, at the end of the day, they were just students who wanted a break from essays, exams, and House rivalries.
House unity at its finest.