There were a few unspoken truths at Hogwarts:
One — Slytherins never played fair.
Two — Quidditch victories were worth more than exams.
Three — If you humiliated Gryffindor, you'd eventually pay for it.
Unfortunately for the Slytherins, they hadn't realized that just because they thought they won, didn't mean it was over.
Plans were already brewing, and with Slytherin's next match against Ravenclaw only a week away, revenge was practically inevitable.
It all started in the Gryffindor common room, two days after the brutal Gryffindor-Slytherin match. Cael Vale had barely opened his Potions notes when the couch beside him dipped violently under the combined weight of Fred and George Weasley, both grinning like mischievous spectres who'd stolen the castle's secret supply of fireworks—and possibly set them alight.
"We've got a plan," Fred announced, eyes sparkling with dangerous enthusiasm.
"A very reckless, possibly catastrophic plan," George added, sprawling upside down across the armrest like an overgrown cat.
Cael arched an eyebrow, already bracing for chaos. "Let me guess… explosions?"
Fred smirked. "Explosions of pride, obviously."
Before Cael could reply, Lee Jordan bolted into the room like Peeves was on his heels, nearly flattening a first-year in his excitement. His grin stretched ear to ear, eyes blazing with the kind of manic joy reserved for Christmas morning—or imminent disaster.
"You lot will not believe the opportunity we've got!" Lee declared, throwing himself onto the carpet like it was a battlefield. "Ravenclaw match. Next week. You know what that means?"
Cael frowned, already predicting the answer. "It means Slytherin—with their over-rehearsed passes and tragically inflated egos—will probably run circles around everyone unless we break their momentum."
"Exactly." George pointed a finger dramatically. "But not just Slytherin. Also the Intellectuals."
Cael's eye twitched. "The… what?"
Lee groaned, flopping onto his back like a wounded soldier. "The Intellectuals. Ravenclaw's finest snobs."
Fred snorted. "The ones who think 'practical jokes' belong in the same category as 'immature wizardry' and 'socially regressive behavior.'"
"They called Angelina reckless," Lee added, scandalized. "Said Fred's 'uncoordinated,' and Wood? Merlin help us—'unfit for aerial leadership.'"
Cael's jaw clenched. "They said that publicly?"
"Worse," George muttered darkly. "They said it in the library. Loudly. With diagrams."
Cael let out a sharp breath, eyes narrowing. "And the professors just… allow it?"
"Technically," Fred shrugged, "he's not breaking any rules. Just being insufferable."
"And leading the insufferable pack?" Lee chimed in. "Celtyn Rosendale."
The name alone made Cael's headache return. Celtyn Rosendale. Sixth-year prefect. Ravenclaw Chaser. And owner of the most punchable smirk in Hogwarts.
After the Gryffindor loss, Celtyn had apparently appointed himself Hogwarts' resident Quidditch critic, dissecting every Gryffindor flaw with smug precision, and ensuring the entire castle heard about it.
"Lecturing on 'positional integrity' like he's revolutionized flying," Lee grumbled. "Acting like he's got a patent on breathing."
Cael tilted his head. "Sounds like someone overdue for public humiliation."
George's grin turned positively predatory. "Exactly our thinking." He slung an arm around Cael's shoulder. "Which is why we need you, resident schemer."
"Operation: Humiliate the Intellectuals and Slytherins." Lee clapped his hands, eyes glittering with glee. "Step one—design the worst, most catastrophic prank Hogwarts has ever seen."
The Planning Begins
The group clustered near the common room fire, parchment and quills strewn across the floor like war plans. Ideas flew faster than enchanted broomsticks.
"Dye their uniforms green and silver?" Lee suggested, sketching a crude Ravenclaw robe dripping in Slytherin colors. "Make 'em look like baby snakes?"
"Amusing, but predictable," Cael replied, twirling his quill thoughtfully. "We need lasting psychological damage."
Fred's eyes gleamed. "Swapping their brooms for ones charmed to fly backwards?"
George chimed in, "Or—sabotage their Quidditch kit with a Weasley prototype? Something subtle. Diabolical."
Lee snorted. "We'd get caught faster than a Hufflepuff at a poker table."
Cael leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "We do this cleverly. We hit their pride, their performance, their nerves. Quietly. By the time they realize what's happening, it's too late."
Fred and George exchanged wicked, identical grins.
"Cael," George declared proudly, "I knew sorting you into Gryffindor was destiny."
They brainstormed for hours, ideas evolving from mere pranks to masterpieces of sabotage. Suggestions piled high:
Swapping Ravenclaw playbooks with false strategies.
Enchanting Celtyn's broom to make odd squealing noises mid-flight.
A spell that made their team chant "We love Slytherin" uncontrollably every time they scored.
Eventually, Lee slammed his quill down. "No, no, no. It's gotta be bigger."
Cael's eyes lit up. "Dungbombs."
Fred's head snapped up. "Go on."
"Not ordinary ones," Cael continued, voice low with promise. "Magically enhanced. The kind that flood the Quidditch pitch with a stench so foul, players can't breathe, let alone fly."
George whistled, impressed. "Overwhelming stench of…?"
"Rotten sewage and animal waste," Cael confirmed, smirking. "Imagine the whole stadium gagging mid-match."
Fred rubbed his hands together. "We plant 'em before the game. Enchanted for delayed detonation—halfway through the match, boom. Smells like a troll's armpit. Ravenclaw loses composure. Slytherin? Off their rhythm. Chaos."
"And the best part…" Lee grinned, already envisioning the headlines, "everyone blames each other. Ravenclaw blames Slytherin. Slytherin blames Ravenclaw. We sit back, victorious."
By the end of the night, the parchment was a battlefield of sabotage sketches, enchantment notes, and crude doodles of Celtyn Rosendale and Marcus Flint with cartoonishly oversized noses, surrounded by stink clouds.
Cael tapped the final diagram, satisfied. "Gentlemen, prepare yourselves. Next week, we don't just reclaim our dignity… we rewrite the rules."
Fred raised an imaginary goblet. "To revenge."
George clinked his fist against Fred's. "To glorious, stinking revenge."
And as the fire crackled behind them, the Gryffindor common room filled with the sound of laughter, scheming, and the promise of imminent chaos.
Hogwarts wasn't ready.