Plain Sight

Thalia hadn’t expected their plan to take effect so quickly. She had assumed they would have at least a day or two before the chaos unfolded. But as the entire school sat in a mandatory study hall, hunched over textbooks and parchment, preparing for the looming exams, the double doors of The Great Hall swung open with a sharp bang.

Professor Umbridge strode in, and the moment Thalia laid eyes on her, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Her eyes went wide in stunned disbelief before she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth to smother the laugh threatening to escape.

The woman before them was an absolute spectacle. Her usually pasty complexion had been transformed into a striking shade of cyan blue, the unnatural hue spreading from the tip of her round nose all the way down her neck, as though she had taken an ill-advised swim in an enchanted inkpot. Her typically immaculate curls were a disaster—stiffened into awkward clumps, crusted with what looked like layers of dried paint, and speckled with an absurd amount of bright red glitter. It appeared that no matter how hard she had tried to scrub herself clean, stubborn flecks of paint still splattered her shoes and stained the cuffs of her pink angora jumper, the once-pristine fabric now blotched with garish streaks of colour.

A ripple of barely contained laughter spread through the hall like wildfire. Quiet sniggers and muffled giggles echoed off the stone walls as students exchanged wide-eyed glances, some biting their lips, others ducking their heads behind books in a futile attempt to keep their composure.

Umbridge’s beady eyes flicked around the room, her expression venomous as she attempted to silence them with a single glare. But the effect was less than intimidating. If anything, the contrast between her furious scowl and the ridiculous state she was in only made it funnier. Her usual attempt at authority was completely undermined by the absurdity of her appearance—like an angry garden gnome who had lost a fight with an explosion of craft supplies.

Thalia forced herself to look away, pressing her lips together so tightly they almost hurt. Beside her, Ginny had her face buried in her arms, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Across the room, Lee Jordan had gone completely red, struggling to keep quiet as he pretended to be deeply engrossed in his textbook.

With a huff of indignation, Umbridge marched stiffly to her seat at the front of the room, chin raised as though sheer arrogance alone could salvage her dignity. But the moment she turned her back, the whispers and muffled snickers only grew louder.

Thalia leaned over to Ginny, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think we may have overdone it."

Ginny peeked up, eyes sparkling with glee. "Are you kidding?" she whispered back. "We underdid it."

Thalia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud. 

Although Umbridge made a valiant effort to regain control, her usual tactics—the sharp, high-pitched throat clearing and piercing glare—seemed utterly useless against the sea of barely contained laughter. The students had reached a point of no return. Every time she attempted to shush them, another snort or whispered remark would set off a fresh wave of giggles. Her furious scowl only added to the hilarity, the cyan blue of her skin contrasting comically with the furious flush creeping up her cheeks.

Eventually, she seemed to realise the futility of it all. With a sharp inhale through her flaring nostrils, she straightened her skirt—only for it to hitch awkwardly at an odd angle, having dried stiff with paint. A loud snort erupted from the back of the room as she attempted to smooth it down, only making it worse.

Her jaw clenched. “I have other matters to attend to this afternoon,” she announced through gritted teeth, attempting to maintain what little dignity she had left. “Therefore, you are all dismissed. Take this time to revise!”

With that, she turned on her heel—though the stiffness of her paint-hardened clothes made the movement rather unnatural—and waddled toward the doors, her shoes making an unfortunate squelch with each step. The moment the doors shut behind her, the room erupted.

Lee Jordan practically launched himself across the room toward Thalia and Ginny, laughter bubbling from his chest. "That," he gasped, clutching his stomach, "was fantastic!"

Thalia, still wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, grinned. "I almost feel bad," she admitted, though the mischief in her voice said otherwise. "Cyan really isn’t her colour. Maybe she’ll have better luck with green... or perhaps orange?"

“We should’ve at least made the paint pink to match her aesthetic,” Ginny quipped, gathering her books.

"That would have been too kind," Lee snickered.

At that moment, Angelina Johnson appeared at their side, arms crossed but lips twitching in reluctant amusement. She lowered her voice as she leaned in. "Of course it was you lot," she whispered, shaking her head. "Even without the twins here to lead you astray, you’re still causing trouble."

"But this is even better," Lee insisted, practically bouncing on his feet. "The usual suspects for this kind of prank aren’t here, and we left no evidence to make her suspect us!" He practically beamed at the brilliance of it.

Angelina exhaled, her amusement dimming slightly as she glanced toward the doors. "For your sake, I hope not," she murmured, a flicker of anxiety flashing in her dark eyes. "You do realise she’ll be out for blood now, right?"

“Oh, definitely,” Ginny smirked, hoisting her books under one arm. “I just wonder how many more she’ll open before she realises."

Thalia let out a low chuckle. "I was thinking that. I almost wish we’d kept a couple back just to send later when she least expects it."

Ginny shot her a wicked grin. "One step ahead of you," she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "I’ve got more under my bed."

Lee let out a bark of laughter. “Brilliant.”

Thalia’s grin widened, her chest swelling with pride. The twins might not have been here, but their legacy was alive and well—and judging by the way the entire school had erupted into laughter today, Fred and George would have been proud.

For the rest of the week, the entire school existed in a state of barely concealed anticipation, each morning holding the promise of another spectacle. The tension was almost palpable—students whispered excitedly in corridors, heads turned expectantly every time Professor Umbridge entered a room, and hushed giggles followed in her wake.

By Thursday, she stormed into her sixth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson tinted an alarming shade of green, the colour staining her skin from the tips of her stubby fingers to the roundness of her jowls. Fine flecks of gold glitter clung stubbornly to her lashes, catching the light with every furious blink, while a particularly stubborn patch had settled on her upper lip, making it look like she had grown an unfortunate, sparkling mustache.

The following Tuesday, she arrived at breakfast in an even worse state—her entire body stained a deep shade of purple, her movements stiff with irritation. A trail of orange glitter followed her wherever she went, leaving a shimmering path in the corridors like some bizarre, grumpy comet. By then, the entire school had turned the pranks into a full-blown betting pool. The common rooms buzzed with speculation about which colour she would turn next, the odds shifting rapidly based on theories and trends. Some believed it was random, while others were convinced she was being transformed in the order of a rainbow.

Rumors spread like wildfire, each more outrageous than the last. Some swore it was the ghosts playing tricks on her out of sheer spite, others insisted it was a group of rebels sneaking into her office at night to sabotage her personal belongings. Most, however, blamed the infamous Weasley twins, theorising that the attacks were simply leftover pranks and traps laid before their departure and now activating one by one.

But no one—not a single person—suspected Thalia, Ginny, and Lee.

However, while the students found endless amusement in the situation, Umbridge herself was becoming foul. The more colours she turned, the more unpredictable and cruel she became. Her voice, already grating, had taken on a permanently shrill edge, and her punishments grew increasingly absurd. Detentions were handed out like sweets for the most ridiculous infractions—humming in the hallway, having a shoelace untied, or even returning a library book late.

The atmosphere in the castle grew tense, the oppressive weight of her temper pressing down on everyone. But even as her punishments escalated, the laughter in the halls remained, a quiet but powerful rebellion. Because no matter how many detentions she gave, no matter how many ridiculous rules she enforced, the entire school still watched in delight as she paraded around like an unknowing participant in a magical colour wheel experiment.

It seemed that when Professor Umbridge realised she could not crush the spirit of the students, she turned her attention to the teachers instead. If she could not break the will of those under her rule, she would dismantle the very foundation of the school itself.

Her attacks on subjects she deemed unworthy became more frequent and vicious. Firenze, the centaur professor, was the first to be dismissed. With an air of smug satisfaction, Umbridge had banished him from Hogwarts entirely, sending him back to his herd in the Forbidden Forest as if he were nothing more than an unwelcome guest overstaying his welcome. There had been no fanfare, no official announcement—one day, he was simply gone, and whispers of his exile spread like wildfire through the halls.

Professor Flitwick found himself under relentless scrutiny. Again and again, Umbridge assessed his lessons, hovering in the back of his classroom with her clipboard in hand, lips pursed in disapproval. The official reasons for her constant inspections were vague at best, but everyone knew the truth. The topic of Flitwick’s height—whispered behind closed doors but never outright stated—was a point of quiet contention for her. She never said he was unfit because of it, but her lingering glances, her exaggerated remarks about "appropriate stature for a position of authority," spoke volumes.

But no one had it worse than Hagrid.

It was painfully clear that Umbridge subscribed to a deeply prejudiced ideology, and in her eyes, Hagrid was the perfect target. The half-giant could barely get through a lesson without being forced to endure her relentless questioning. His booming voice, once filled with enthusiasm and warmth, had taken on a nervous, hesitant edge as he fumbled through long-winded explanations about his teaching methods; his large hands wringing together as he tried, again and again, to defend the very subjects he had once taught with so much pride  to someone who had already decided he was unworthy.

His once-thriving Care of Magical Creatures lessons had become unbearable to watch. The students saw it. They saw how his lessons suffered, how his shoulders slumped a little more each day. They saw the way he avoided eye contact when his name was whispered in the corridors, the way he would clear his throat and quickly change the subject whenever Umbridge’s interference was mentioned.

But worst of all, they saw the quiet resignation in his eyes—the creeping realisation that no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, it would never be enough for her.

And Umbridge? She thrived on it.

It hadn’t surprised Thalia when Hagrid had approached Harry and Hermione just before the Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw Quidditch match. His heavy footsteps had been nearly lost beneath the excited chatter of students making their way to the stands, but when he finally caught up to the pair, his beetle-black eyes shimmered with unshed tears. His voice, usually so full of warmth, was gruff and uncertain, thick with something dangerously close to desperation.

"Can I have a word?" he muttered, his tone almost pleading.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance before looking at Thalia, their expressions tight with concern, as if silently apologising for leaving her behind. She waved them off, forcing a reassuring smile. "I’ll save you both a seat," she promised, though something uneasy twisted in her stomach. Both Hermione and Harry threw her a tight nod before disappearing into the sea of students. 

Turning on her heel, Thalia quickly wove her way through the throngs of excited students pouring into the stands, her boots thudding against the rickety wooden steps as she climbed higher and higher. The stadium pulsed with energy—laughter and chatter rang through the air, the occasional cheer echoing from the Gryffindor side as eager supporters warmed up their voices for the match ahead.

Though the early summer warmth still clung to the lower levels, the higher she climbed, the stronger the wind became, tugging at her hair and sending ripples through the sea of red and blue scarves. The cool gusts bit at her exposed skin, and she found herself grateful for her choice in attire—George’s old Quidditch jumper, oversized and well-worn, the fabric still faintly laced with the scent of his cologne. She pulled it tighter around herself, seeking comfort in the familiar warmth, in the lingering presence of the boy she missed so dearly.

Her eyes flickered up and down the packed benches, scanning the buzzing crowd for familiar faces. The sea of students, shifting and swaying with excitement, made it nearly impossible to pick out individuals, and after a few minutes, she sighed, resigning herself to the idea of sneaking into the commentary box with Lee instead. At least there, she could have a good view and provide running commentary on the absurdity of the match.

Just as she was about to turn away, a tall, gangly figure caught her eye—Neville. A wave of relief washed over her. His height made him an easy beacon in the crowd, and where Neville was, Nova wouldn’t be far. Sure enough, a second later, she spotted her friend’s chocolate-brown waves bouncing behind him, her head tilted back in laughter at something someone had said. And, as expected, Kristen was there too, most likely third-wheeling as usual, though if she minded, it never showed.

A small smile tugged at Thalia’s lips as she quickened her pace, the weight of unease settling just a little lighter on her shoulders. Still, even as she slid and pushed her way along the row and towards her friends, her mind lingered on the scene she had left behind—Hagrid’s urgent expression, the worry in Harry and Hermione’s eyes. She could only hope that whatever was going on wouldn’t keep them from the match for too long—Ron needed their support. Deep down, despite the cheers, the laughter, and the rising anticipation in the stands, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

As soon as Thalia slotted into her seat beside Kristen and Seamus, the blonde-haired girl whirled toward her, her expression one of utter exasperation, her bright blue eyes wide.

"Thank Circe you're here! The flirting has been repulsive!" she hissed, her eyes darting toward the pair in question.

Thalia raised a curious eyebrow, following her gaze, only to find Neville and Nova sitting just a few feet away, their heads bent close together, whispering, their cheeks tinted the same deep shade of red as the scarves wrapped around their necks. A slow, knowing grin spread across Thalia’s face.

"Bit harsh to complain about Dean and Seamus’ flirting when they’re sitting right here, Kristen," she teased, earning a dramatic sigh and withering look from Dean and the middle finger from Seamus.

Kristen rolled her eyes. "I meant Neville and Nova. Honestly, they’re so painfully obvious it’s killing me."

"Watching those two might actually be worse than waiting for you and Weasley to realise you had feelings for each other," Dean muttered, leaning in with a smirk.

Thalia felt warmth creep up her neck at the mention of George, but she merely shot Dean a glare. "We were not that bad."

"You were worse," Seamus chimed in, shaking his head. "Bless him, though. I think this is Neville’s first real crush."

Thalia turned her attention back to the pair, watching as Neville tucked a wayward strand of Nova’s hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering just a second too long before he dropped them back into his lap. Nova, meanwhile, seemed completely captivated, nodding earnestly at whatever the boy was saying, his usual nervous fidgeting forgotten in her presence. It was almost sweet. Almost.

"I think they make a rather lovely couple," an airy voice chimed in from behind them.

Turning, Thalia spotted Luna perched on the bench just above them, her usual serene expression in place as she peered at Neville and Nova as though studying the alignment of the stars.

"Their auras are perfectly in sync," Luna continued, tilting her head.

Thalia shot her a warm smile. "I agree. I think they’d be adorable together—we just need one of them to actually make a move."

“Preferably before one of them completely loses it and decides to escape this hell hole," Seamus added, leaning back against the bench. "Not before they turn one of the corridors into a swamp that Filch has to row students across, of course."

Thalia elbowed him hard in the ribs, making him grunt in protest. "Ow! Tell me I’m wrong, though!"

She just smirked and shook her head. The Quidditch match hadn't even started yet, but somehow, she was already more invested in the real game playing out before them—one of stolen glances, nervous laughter, and the unspoken words that hung thick in the air between Neville and Nova.

Thalia had never been a fan of Quidditch. Before she'd fallen in with the Gryffindors, she'd never even attended a school match—too much noise, too much chaos, and far too many people willing to risk life and limb for a few goals and a golden speck with wings. But today... today felt different.

The air in the stands crackled with energy, the tension and excitement rolling off the crowd in waves. Flags whipped in the wind, students chanted and stomped their feet, and the rhythmic beat of a conjured drum echoed through the stadium, rattling in her chest. The roar that erupted each time a goal was scored was enough to shake the wooden beams beneath her boots. Thalia felt the rush seep into her bones, a giddy thrill that had nothing to do with the game itself and everything to do with the people around her.

It seemed that nearly the entire Hufflepuff house had thrown their support behind Gryffindor, their usual house pride overridden by a shared disdain for Ravenclaw's smug confidence. Yellow scarves waved side by side with red, and Thalia found herself swept up in the chaos.

Kristen and Nova flanked her, their faces flushed with excitement as they shouted themselves hoarse—cheering wildly whenever Gryffindor scored and groaning in unison whenever Ron missed a save.

"Come on, Weasley!" Kristen hollered, cupping her hands around her mouth as though sheer willpower might help him block the next shot.

At some point, Nova, too restless to stay seated, had clambered up onto the bench for a better view, her arms loosely draped around Neville’s shoulders to steady herself. Poor Neville stood frozen beneath her touch, his ears burning redder than the Gryffindor banners overhead, whilst a wide grin spread across his face.

Thalia’s lips curled into a smirk, and she immediately elbowed Kristen, jerking her chin toward the pair. Kristen followed her gaze and promptly snorted, barely holding in her laughter.

"They’re hopeless," Thalia chuckled, her voice warm with amusement.

"Absolutely painful," Kristen agreed, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

The two girls dissolved into laughter, their voices lost in the symphony of cheers and chants that roared around them. And despite her usual indifference to Quidditch, Thalia felt something stir inside her— a simple joy that came from moments like this.

Ron had just spectacularly saved his sixth goal in a row, and the Gryffindor stands erupted in deafening cheers. The energy was infectious, the kind of raw, unfiltered excitement that made the entire stadium feel alive. But then, almost as if a storm cloud had passed over the pitch, the atmosphere shifted. A ripple of movement swept through the Slytherin section, students shuffling aside as a familiar blond-haired boy strode dramatically to the front.

Thalia’s stomach dropped. She turned sharply to Seamus and Dean, her eyes wide with alarm. “Oh no,” she muttered, already knowing what was coming.

Malfoy raised his arms, a smug grin plastered across his face, and the first notes of the taunting chant rang out, carried on a chorus of jeering voices.

"Weasley cannot save a thing,
He can't block a single ring.
That's why Slytherins all sing,
Weasley is our king!"

The singsong mockery slithered through the stadium like a curse, and for a moment, Thalia felt the panic rise in her chest. She remembered what had happened the last time Ron had heard this—the way his confidence had crumbled, the fallout that had cost Harry, Fred, and George their places on the team.

But this time… this time was different.

A movement beside her caught her eye as Seamus suddenly shot to his feet, nearly trampling Dean in his eagerness. With a wild grin, he heaved up an armful of large poster boards, hastily painted in crimson and gold.

“Right then, you lot!” he bellowed, holding them high above his head. “Let’s show the snakes what we’re really made of!”

A beat of silence—then, as if a switch had flipped, the Gryffindor stands erupted.

The entire house broke into song, their voices unpolished but ferocious, the words echoing off the stadium walls with such force that they drowned out the Slytherin jeers entirely.

"Weasley is our King,
Weasley is our King,
He didn't let the Quaffle in,
Weasley is our King!"

As if on cue, Neville—who had somehow produced a drum from beneath the bench—began pounding out a steady rhythm, adding fuel to the already roaring fire of Gryffindor spirit.

"Weasley can save anything,
He never leaves a single ring,
That's why Gryffindors all sing:
Weasley is our King!"

The song took on a life of its own, students linking arms, swaying in unison, their voices a battle cry of unwavering loyalty. The words weren’t just lyrics—they were beliefs. They were an anthem of defiance, of pride, of proving once and for all that Ron Weasley was not a joke.

Grinning, Thalia threw her arms around Dean and Kristen, laughing as they joined the song at the top of their lungs, swaying with the rest of Gyfinndor house. Slowly, like a gentle wave rolling onto shore, Thalia felt the energy shift around her. At first, it was just a few voices—soft, uncertain—but then, one by one, her fellow Hufflepuffs joined in. Their voices gained strength, merging with the Gryffindor chant until the song swelled, louder and louder, echoing through the stands.

Thalia turned slightly, catching sight of some of her housemates grinning as they belted out the words, clapping along in time with Neville’s steady drumbeat. It wasn’t just about house loyalty anymore—it was about unity, about standing together against the Slytherin taunts, about proving that Ron wasn’t alone.

From just behind her, a softer, more ethereal voice drifted through the air, barely above a whisper. Luna.

Thalia glanced back, spotting the Ravenclaw girl swaying gently, her dreamy expression unwavering as she sang under her breath. Her voice, though quiet, was steady, unshaken. Thalia knew Luna would be rooting for her own house in the match, but her loyalty to her friends was far more important. She was here, standing beside them, supporting them in her own quiet way.

The harmony of voices—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and even a Ravenclaw—rose together, filling the stadium, drowning out the last desperate attempts of the Slytherin song. The entire arena pulsed with energy, a defiant, joyful roar that sent shivers down Thalia’s spine.

And as she glanced toward the pitch, she saw Ron, his face set with determination, his shoulders squared, his grip tightening on his broom. He wasn’t crumbling. He wasn’t faltering.

He was ready.

And Gryffindor was with him.

The infectious energy of the song rippled across the pitch, seeping into the very bones of the Gryffindor team. It was as if the rhythm of their chant had synchronized their movements—passes became seamless, a perfect flow of red and gold streaks zipping across the field. The chasers moved with newfound precision, their coordination sharper than ever, weaving between the Ravenclaw defenders like threads in a tapestry. Every toss, every catch, was calculated, leaving no room for interception.

The beaters, despite lacking the legendary twin intuition, had settled into a steady rhythm of their own. Each bludger that hurtled toward their teammates was met with swift retaliation, their bats cracking through the air with controlled strength. They didn’t need to predict each other’s moves—instinct and trust carried them, a well-oiled machine working to protect their team.

Above them all, Ginny soared, an unrelenting streak of red against the endless sky. From her high vantage point, she surveyed the pitch like a hawk, every shift in movement below noted, every opportunity analysed. At times, she would suddenly dive, the wind screaming through her hair as she plummeted toward the ground—only to pull up at the last moment, throwing Cho Chang off completely. The Ravenclaw seeker, caught between her own instincts and Ginny’s deliberate feints, faltered more than once, her frustration visible even from the stands. With each of Ginny’s teasing smiles, each innocent shrug as she leveled out from another deceptive dive, it became clear—she was playing the long game, and she was winning.

Thalia twisted the frayed hem of George’s old Quidditch jumper between her fingers, the rough threads a small anchor against the rising tide of her nerves. The game had stretched on longer than expected, tension mounting with every passing second. Gryffindor’s chasers were relentless, pushing forward, their rapid goals wearing down Ravenclaw’s already exhausted keeper. Yet, despite their lead, the game wasn’t won—not until Ginny could secure the Snitch.

The sun, though a welcome warmth against Thalia’s skin, was proving to be Ginny’s worst enemy. It hung high in the sky, its golden rays relentless, casting long shadows and blinding the seekers as they scoured the pitch. What Ginny needed was a glimmer, a brief flash of gold to betray the Snitch’s hiding place. But so far, nothing.

Then, it happened so fast that Thalia almost missed it. One moment, the seekers were circling like hawks, and the next—Ginny was in a full-throttle dive.

The Gryffindor stands erupted. Screams and shouts rang through the air, feet stamping so hard that the wooden bleachers beneath them trembled. Thalia’s heart leapt into her throat as Ginny plummeted at a breakneck speed, her hair whipping behind her like fire against the sky.

Lower, lower—too low.

Gasps echoed around the pitch as it seemed for a breathless second that Ginny might crash, but at the very last moment, she pulled up, her broom skimming the emerald grass. Her arm shot into the air, fingers tightly clutching the struggling Snitch, its tiny wings fluttering feebly against her grip. A triumphant grin spread across her face, bright and victorious.

The roar of Gryffindor house was deafening, a tidal wave of celebration crashing over the stadium. Thalia barely registered her own voice joining the chorus, her hands thrown into the air in exhilaration. They had done it. They had won. The match and the Inter House Cup. 

Beside her, Seamus and Dean were a blur of ecstatic movement, leaping into the air as they shouted at the top of their lungs, their cheers peppered with colourful profanities. Seamus punched the air triumphantly, while Dean nearly toppled over from the sheer force of his own excitement.

A few feet away, Nova had launched herself at Neville in a burst of joy, her arms thrown around his shoulders as she crashed into him. Neville staggered slightly, his hand instinctively finding her waist to steady them both before they tumbled down the bleachers. For a moment, it seemed as though they might break apart in embarrassment—but instead, Nova shifted closer, tucking herself against his side, her head resting over his racing heart. Neville, looking both overwhelmed and utterly content, tightened his hold around her, his arms wrapping securely around her frame.

Kristen, who had been screaming herself hoarse beside Thalia, suddenly turned, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her in wild excitement. "They did it!" she practically screeched, her voice a mix of disbelief and exhilaration.

Thalia winced as Kristen’s voice rang in her ear, but she couldn’t help the laughter bubbling up in her chest. The whole stand was alive with roaring celebration, bodies pressing together in tight embraces, feet stomping, and fists pumping into the air. The sea of red and gold scarves swayed as Gryffindors basked in their victory, the sound of their joy echoing through the stadium.

Suddenly students began leaping over benches, shoving past one another in a desperate rush to the field. A tidal wave of red and gold surged forward, pouring onto the pitch as excited voices mixed with laughter and shouts of victory. The Gryffindor team, still gathered in a breathless huddle, barely had time to react before they were swallowed up by the celebrating crowd, tackled into fierce hugs and playful shoves.

Thalia barely had time to think before she was swept up in the movement, her heart pounding as she followed her friends at a skipping run. Her wide smile never faltered as she darted across the grass, weaving through the mass of students until she spotted the fiery-haired Weasley she was looking for.

"Ginny!" she called, but the younger girl had already turned, eyes alight with triumph.

The moment Thalia reached her, she pulled her into a tight embrace, laughter bubbling up between them as Ginny squeezed her back just as fiercely. Their hair tangled together in the wind, and when they pulled apart, Thalia grasped Ginny’s shoulders, her grin stretching even wider.

"You were incredible!" she shouted over the deafening roar of the crowd, her voice nearly lost in the celebration. She could see the flush of exhilaration in Ginny’s cheeks, her wild grin matching Thalia’s own.

Before either of them could say another word, a forceful wave of energy crashed into them—Angelina, Katie, and Alicia swarming in, their arms looping around the pair as they jumped up and down.

“That was bloody brilliant!” Angelina hollered, shaking Ginny by the shoulders before pulling her in for another hug.

“We destroyed them!” Katie cackled, throwing her head back as she whooped in triumph.

Alicia squeezed Thalia’s arm, beaming. “Did you see Ginny’s dive? I nearly had a heart attack!”

Surrounded by her friends, lost in the sea of joy and triumph, Thalia felt herself swept up in the euphoria of the moment. The world around them blurred into laughter, chants, and victory cries as they jumped together, the beat of celebration thrumming in her chest like a second heartbeat.

The crowd, still buzzing with energy, slowly began to trickle back toward the castle, their victory chants echoing across the pitch. Seamus, Dean, and Lee, grinning like madmen, had taken it upon themselves to hoist Ron onto their shoulders, parading him through the sea of students as if he were a war hero returning from battle. His freckled face was alight with disbelief, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to protest but had no words left.

Another round of Weasley is Our King erupted, louder and more jubilant than before. Thalia, her arm still draped lazily over Ginny’s shoulders, tilted her head back and sang at the top of her lungs, her voice joining the chorus of triumphant Gryffindors. Around them, students stomped their feet, clapped their hands, and banged on whatever surfaces they could find, turning their chant into an all-out celebration.

Ginny, her face still glowing with exhilaration, nudged Thalia’s side with her elbow, laughter dancing in her eyes. “Promise me you’ll join in with the dramatic retelling of my greatest play ever when we see the twins. I want a multi-perspective story.”

Thalia grinned, squeezing Ginny’s shoulder. “Oh, absolutely. We need the full cinematic experience—slow-motion dives, gasps from the audience, maybe even some interpretive reenactments.”

Ginny snorted. “Perfect. Fred and George will be gutted they missed it.”

Thalia smirked, nodding her head in agreement.

With that, the two girls fell back into step with their friends, their voices joining the sea of celebration as the golden light of the setting sun cast long, triumphant shadows across the grounds.