Chapter Text
We make our way across the grounds, the cool evening air doing little to clear the firewhiskey fog from my mind. The Quidditch pitch glows in the distance, torches illuminating the field where students have already gathered. Draco stumbles slightly beside me, and I catch his arm, steadying him.
"We're a mess," he mutters, and I can't help but laugh—a rough, unfamiliar sound that scratches my throat.
"Always have been," I agree.
We fall silent as we approach the pitch. I spot them immediately—a small cluster of figures near the entrance. Hermione's coily hair catches the torchlight, and beside her, Katara's dark curls cascade down her back as she laughs at something Potter just said.
The sound carries across the field, bright and musical, making something twist painfully in my chest.
Potter stands too close to her, his hand hovering near the small of her back without quite touching. His face is alight with triumph at having made her laugh.
"Fucking Potter," Draco growls, his words slightly slurred. "Always has to be the center of attention."
I say nothing, unable to tear my eyes away from Katara's face. In the golden torchlight, her features are animated with a joy I've never been able to inspire. Her head tilts back as she giggles again, the sound cutting through me like a knife.
Potter leans closer, whispering something else that makes her cover her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.
"She's bloody brilliant," Weasley says, loud enough for us to hear. He's standing uncomfortably close to Hermione, his freckled face flushed with more than just the evening chill. "The way you explained that Herbology theory today—I've never understood it so clearly."
Hermione's cheeks turn pink as she tucks a ringlet curl behind her ear. "It's really not that complicated, Ronald. You just need to understand basic gardening techniques."
"See? Brilliant," Weasley grins, "Maybe you could help me with my essay later?”
My eyes slide to Draco, whose entire body has gone rigid beside me. His jaw is clenched so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding, as he watches Hermione's smile widen.
"I suppose I could," she says. "After dinner tomorrow, our usual spot in the library?"
The look of triumph on Weasley's face is nauseating. I can feel Draco's fury radiating off him in waves, his knuckles white around the neck of the flask.
"Perfect," Weasley replies, his hand brushing against Hermione's arm, "It's a date, then."
"It's a study session, Ronald," Hermione corrects, with a friendly eye roll. “Besides, it’s not like we don’t help the two of you with your essays on a regular basis anyway.”
Madame Hooch's sharp whistle cuts through the moment, saving me from having to physically restrain Draco, whose wand hand has started to twitch dangerously toward his pocket. He subtly tucks the flask into his robes.
"Attention, students!" she calls, striding onto the field. Her hawk-like eyes scan the assembled group, narrowing slightly when they land on Draco and me. "Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Ember—how good of you to join us. You're nearly late."
Draco straightens, "Apologies, Professor. We were detained after Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Well, now that everyone is here, we can begin." She gestures toward the brooms laid out in neat rows on the grass. "Today we'll be focusing on speed and agility. Each of you testing your ability to maintain control at high velocities."
This is a terrible idea. Flying while intoxicated is exactly the kind of reckless stupidity that will draw way too much attention to me.
But I can’t bring myself to care.
Madame Hooch's gaze sweeps over us, "We'll pair across houses today. Ember—" she points directly at me, "—you'll race with Weasley."
Perfect. Just perfect.
I glance at Draco, who is smirking at me, clearly fighting full blown laughter at my expense.
Weasley's expression sours as he reluctantly moves to stand beside me, keeping a careful distance as if my Slytherin tendencies might be contagious.
"Malfoy with Potter," Hooch continues, and Draco's smirk vanishes instantly.
She continues pairing students, her voice fading into background noise as I size up my competition. Weasley is tall and gangly, with decent flying skills—nowhere near Potter's level, but better than most.
In my current state, with firewhiskey warming my veins and dulling my reflexes, he might actually have a chance. But I can't let him win. Not after watching him fawn over Hermione, making Draco's face twist with that carefully hidden pain. Not after seeing the triumph in his eyes when she agreed to their ‘study session’.
I may be a mess in every other aspect of my life, but on a broom, I'm still an Ember.
"Granger with Raine," Hooch calls, and my attention snaps to Katara, who looks relieved to be paired with her friend rather than a Slytherin. Or Potter.
"Ember and Weasley will demonstrate first," Hooch announces, gesturing us forward. "Three laps around the pitch. First one to cross the finish line wins ten points for their house."
Weasley grabs a school broom, testing its balance. I select one as well, though the world tilts slightly as I bend to pick it up. Druk shifts nervously on my shoulders, chirping a warning that I pretend not to hear.
“You can sit this one out,” I murmur to him.
He chirrups. launching from my shoulders to float down next to Yue who’s watching with disinterest, cleaning her paws with that calm feline grace.
Katara bends down to pat his head, “Hey there, trouble.” She giggles as the two settle next to each other, staying close to her feet.
"You sure you're up for this, Ember?" Weasley asks, his tone carrying that particular Gryffindor blend of challenge and false concern. "You look a bit... unsteady."
"Worry about yourself, Weasley," I reply, mounting my broom. "I could outfly you blindfolded."
He snorts, mounting his own broom. "We'll see about that."
We hover a few feet above the ground, waiting for Hooch's signal. I can feel Katara watching from the sidelines, her blue eyes intent.
"On my whistle," Hooch calls, raising her arm. "Three... two... one—"
I'm off, the world blurring around me as I urge the broom forward. The firewhiskey in my system doesn't dull my flying—if anything, it removes hesitation, replacing caution with reckless abandon. Wind tears at my hair, cold against my flushed face as I lean low over the broomstick.
Weasley is close behind, the determination on his freckled face visible even from the corner of my eye. Hunched forward, knuckles white against the weathered wood of his broom.
But I was born to fly—it's the one gift my father couldn't corrupt, the one skill that still feels purely mine. I take the first turn tight, feeling the broom vibrate beneath me as I push it faster than school brooms are meant to go. The stands blur past, faces melting together as I focus only on the path ahead, on the sweet rush of air filling my lungs.
"Come on, Ron!" I hear Potter shout from somewhere below. "He's not that far ahead!"
But I am. With each second, I pull further away, the distance between us growing as I complete the first lap.
"ALRIGHT EMBER!" Draco whoops over the wind in my ears.
Weasley's face has turned as red as his hair, his teeth gritted as he struggles to match my pace. He tries cutting the corner on the second turn, a desperate move that nearly sends him crashing into the stands.
"Careful, Mr. Weasley!" Hooch calls, but her voice is distant, irrelevant to the race unfolding above.
I dive suddenly, a feint that makes Weasley hesitate just long enough for me to gain another few feet.
Draco's laugh drifts over the pitch, loud and uninhibited, "SHOWING OFF, FIRE BOY!"
The combination of Draco's cheers and the firewhiskey makes me bold, reckless—I execute a roll that allows me to cut under Weasley's path, disrupting his concentration.
"THAT"S FUCKING FLYING!" My eyes flick to see Draco's hands cupped around his mouth, a huge smile on his face.
"That's cheating!" Ron shouts as I pull ahead.
I laugh, the sound whipped away by the wind. "That's strategy!"
As I round the pitch for the second lap I hear something unexpected—cheering. Not just Draco's voice, but others. I risk a quick glance down and nearly lose my grip when I spot Hermione jumping up and down, beside her—my heart stutters. Katara, her blue eyes tracking my every move, one hand raised in a small, almost reluctant wave when our eyes meet.
"Go, Zuko!" someone whoops. The small cheer is so unexpected that I nearly falter, my eyes darting to the source. Hermione's hands cupped around her mouth as she shouts.
I pull my gaze back to the race just in time to avoid Weasley's attempt to knock me off course with his elbow.
"Foul!" I hear Draco shout from below, but I don't need the referee.
I surge forward, calling on every ounce of flying skill in my blood. I've got this—I can feel it in my bones.
More whoops sound from Draco, along with a few supportive barks that make me laugh out loud.
Weasley is still trailing, his face contorted with effort as he tries to close the gap between us. The stands flash by, a kaleidoscope of colors as I urge the broom forward with everything I have.
As I cross the finish line, a roar erupts from the small crowd. I pull up sharply, the world spinning slightly as I hover above the pitch, chest heaving.
Weasley appears seconds later, his face flushed with exertion and humiliation as he glares at me.
"And the winner is Ember!" Hooch announces, “Ten points to Slytherin, for exceptional flying."
I descend slowly, the ground still unsteady beneath my feet as I dismount. My head is spinning—partly from the firewhiskey, partly from the exhilaration of flight, and partly from the memory of Katara's wave.
Draco is there immediately, his face split in a genuine grin as he claps me hard on the back. "Bloody brilliant!" he crows, all traces of his earlier melancholy temporarily forgotten. "Did you see Weasley's face? Priceless!"
The firewhiskey makes me grin back, wide and unguarded. "Told you I could outfly Weasley blindfolded."
Triumph coursing through me like liquid gold. For a moment—just a moment—Friday seems distant, less important than this perfect present where I've won something clean and fair.
Draco's eyes drift past me, his smile faltering slightly before strengthening again. I follow his gaze to where Hermione stands, her curly hair flying around her tan face as she whispers something to Katara. When she notices Draco looking, she gives him a small, almost imperceptible— smile?
Draco swallows audibly, giving a terse nod back.
But it's Katara who holds my attention. When our eyes meet, she doesn't look away. For once, she holds my gaze, and there's something in those blue depths that wasn't there before. She gives me a small smile, before turning back to Hermione.
"She's impressed," Draco murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "Both of them are."
"Doesn't matter.” I nudge him with my elbow.
"Liar," he says, nudging me back, with a grin.
Druk flutters back over, small growls of approval coming out in small bursts of flame as he wraps himself around my shoulders again now that I’m not flying drunk.
Across the pitch, Weasley's face is as red as his hair as he storms over to Potter, broom clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
"He cheated!" he insists, loud enough for everyone to hear. "That dive was illegal—and he cut me off!"
"Mr. Weasley," Hooch sighs, "what Mr. Ember performed was a perfectly legal racing maneuver. Perhaps if you spent more time practicing and less time complaining—"
"But he's—" Weasley gestures wildly in my direction, clearly struggling to articulate his frustration.
"A better flyer than you," Draco drawls, his smirk firmly back in place as he stares Weasley down. "Accept it and move on, Weasel."
Hooch's whistle cuts through the brewing fight. "Malfoy, Potter, you're up next. Same rules. Three laps around the pitch."
Draco saunters forward, the firewhiskey giving his usual strut an extra swagger that somehow makes him look more confident rather than drunk.
"Try to keep up, Potter," Draco drawls, mounting his broom. "I'd hate for you to embarrass yourself in front of your fan club."
Potter's eyes narrow as he grips his broom. "Just fly, Malfoy."
"On my whistle," Hooch announces, raising her arm. "Three... two... one—"
They're off—two blurs shooting upward, Potter's crimson robes flapping wildly against Draco's emerald ones. For a moment they're neck and neck, but then Draco executes a perfect barrel roll, cutting under Potter's path and surging ahead.
"GO DRACO!" I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth. "SHOW HIM HOW SLYTHERINS FLY!"
Draco hears me. I know he does because he immediately pulls into a tight spiral, his body nearly horizontal as he takes the first turn at a speed that makes Hooch gasp.
Potter tries to follow but over-corrects, losing precious seconds as he rights himself. Potter is good—I'll reluctantly give him that—but Draco is flying like a man possessed.
"That's it!" I shout as he completes the first lap, already several broom-lengths ahead of Potter. "Leave him in the dust!"
As Draco rounds the far goal posts, he pulls into a vertical climb that has everyone gasping, before executing a perfect spiral dive that brings him right back on course without losing any speed. It's showing off, pure and simple, but it's also bloody brilliant flying.
"Did you see that?" I crow to no one in particular, unable to contain my grin. "That's how you fly a fucking broom!"
Potter's face is tight with concentration as he tries to close the gap, but Draco is untouchable tonight. He performs another flashy maneuver—a barrel roll that transitions seamlessly into a corkscrew—purely for the spectacle of it, drawing appreciative whoops from the crowd.
I’m laughing, genuinely laughing, as I watch my best friend out-fly the famous Harry Potter with style to spare. It feels good—like winning something that matters, even if it's just a practice race on school brooms.
Hermione stands with her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes tracking Draco's every move with unmistakable fascination. By the second lap, Draco's lead is undeniable. He's flying with a grace that even Potter can't match today. When he catches my eye, a wicked grin spreads across his face.
And then he shows off even more.
Halfway through the final lap, with Potter still struggling to catch up, Draco pulls into another vertical climb, shooting straight up before executing a flawless backward loop that has the entire crowd gasping. He transitions seamlessly into a corkscrew dive, his control is perfect.
"THAT'S IT!" I whoop, jumping up and fist-pumping the air. "FUCKING BRILLIANT!"
He crosses the finish line with Potter still half a quarter behind, pulling up with a flourish that sends his broom into one final spin before he descends, his face flushed with triumph and firewhiskey.
I rush forward, clapping him hard on the back as he dismounts. "Bloody spectacular," I tell him, unable to keep the grin off my face. "That loop was perfect."
"Did you see Potter's face?" Draco laughs, his eyes bright with vindication. "Like someone slapped him with his own Firebolt."
Across the pitch, I catch Hermione's expression and can't help but smirk. She's completely transfixed by Draco—her eyes haven't left him since he dismounted, even as Weasley tries desperately to recapture her attention.
The bookworm's face is flushed her tan skin sporting a rosy hue, lips slightly parted in what can only be described as awe. Draco notices too; I can tell by the way his posture subtly straightens, shoulders pulling back with pride.
While Hermione's gaze is locked on Draco, Katara's blue eyes are fixed firmly on me. Not just looking—really seeing me. The firewhiskey must be playing tricks on me, but I swear her smile grows wider when our eyes meet.
At our feet, Yue stretches languidly before flicking her tail in an elegant arc toward Druk. My little dragon immediately responds, wings fluttering in excited little bursts as he chirps to his friend. He launches from my shoulder in a streak of gold, circling Yue's head once before landing next to her. Crookshanks sidles up beside them, chittering softly as Druk chuffs a greeting.
Katara's laugh—soft and melodic—carries across the pitch as she watches our familiars' playful reunion. For a moment, I forget about Friday, about my father, about everything except the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she's genuinely happy.
"You've got it bad," Draco mutters, elbowing me in the ribs.
"Shut up," I'm too distracted by the way Katara tucks a curl behind her ear, her eyes still on me as she whispers something to Hermione.
Madame Hooch's whistle sounds again. "Next pair!" she calls, gesturing for Hermione and Katara to take their positions.
Katara takes her eyes away from mine, though not before giving me one last smile that feels like a secret between us. She and Hermione move toward the pitch, their heads bent close together in quiet conversation.
"What do you think they're talking about?"
Draco snorts. "Us, obviously.” his smirk is playful.
I watch Hermione and Katara mount their brooms, their smaller frames making the school brooms look oversized. There's an ease between them that I envy—the way they bump shoulders and share quiet laughs, completely comfortable in each other's presence.
"They're actually pretty good," Draco murmurs beside me as the girls hover, waiting for Hooch's signal.
The firewhiskey has settled into a pleasant buzz now, making the torchlight glow warmer against the darkening sky.
"Ten galleons says Granger crashes into a goal post," Draco mutters, but his eyes follow her with an intensity that belies his mocking words.
"You're on," I reply, knowing full well he doesn't actually want to win that bet.
The girls shoot forward. They fly side by side, Hermione's coily hair streaming behind her like a banner while Katara's dark curls whip around her face. I can hear their laughter carrying across the pitch, bright and uninhibited.
Potter and Weasley have positioned themselves near the finish line, their faces upturned as they track the girls' progress. The hunger in Potter's eyes as he watches Katara makes something hot and ugly twist in my gut.
"Look at those two," Draco sneers, nodding toward the Gryffindors. "Pathetic."
I grunt in agreement, though the word applies just as well to us—standing here, pretending we don't care, while unable to tear our eyes away.
Katara takes the first turn, her body leaning into the curve with a natural grace. Hermione follows a second later, her technique less refined but effective. Their competition lacks the cutthroat edge that defined our races—when Hermione wobbles slightly on the second turn, Katara actually slows to make sure she's okay before they both accelerate again, their giggles floating down to us like music.
"They're good." I admit, unable to keep the admiration from my voice as I watch Katara execute another perfect turn.
"For bookworms." Draco adds.
By the third lap, Katara has pulled slightly ahead, leaning low over her broom. Hermione is close behind, her determination evident in the set of her shoulders as she urges her broom faster. They cross the finish line with Katara just a broom's length ahead, both of them flushed and laughing as they descend to the ground.
"Well done, Miss Raine, Miss Granger!" Hooch calls, looking pleased. "Excellent control on those turns, especially you, Miss Raine."
The girls dismount, still breathless with exhilaration. Hermione immediately launches into an animated analysis of Katara's technique.
"That last corner was brilliant!" she exclaims, her soft brown eyes sparkling.
I watch from a distance. Draco stands beside me, his eyes never leaving Hermione as she gestures wildly, reenacting Katara's turns with her hands.
"Should we go over there?" I murmur.
Draco snorts. "And interrupt the Potter admiration society? I think not."
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Potter materializes at Katara's side, Weasley trailing behind him like an oversized shadow. They position themselves strategically—Potter next to Katara, Weasley beside Hermione—both wearing identical expressions of exaggerated admiration.
"That was brilliant flying," Potter stands too close to Katara, his hand almost but not quite touching her shoulder. "The way you handled those turns—almost professional quality."
Katara smiles politely, taking a small step back. "Thanks, Harry. I've been practicing."
"You're a natural," he persists, moving forward to close the distance she just created. "With the right training, you could easily make the Ravenclaw team."
Weasley turns to Hermione with an enthusiastic nod. "You too, 'Mione! That was really impressive for someone who doesn't even like flying!"
Hermione's laugh is kind. "That's very nice of you, Ronald, but I think we both know I prefer keeping my feet firmly on the ground."
I feel Draco tense beside me, his knuckles whitening around the neck of the flask hidden in his robes. I nudge him slightly, a silent reminder to keep his composure.
"We should practice together sometime," Potter suggests, his voice dropping to what he probably thinks is an attractive murmur. "I could show you some seeker techniques."
"That's kind of you," Katara replies, her smile never reaching her eyes as she takes another subtle step away. "But I'm pretty busy with coursework this term."
Druk chooses this moment to make his presence known. He streaks across the pitch like a golden comet, circling Katara's head once before diving toward where Yue is already waiting, her mismatched eyes tracking his flight. Crookshanks bats a lazy paw in Druks direction, his fluffy orange tail flicking side to side.
The tiny dragon and fluffy cat disappear into the stands, their playful chirps and meows echoing across the pitch. I watch as they chase each other through the empty seats, Druk occasionally sending small puffs of smoke that Yue bats at with delighted paws. Crookshanks walks over to join them, his pace slow and unhurried, opting to sit a few rows down and watch them play.
"Look at them," I murmur, unable to keep the fondness from my voice. "They don't care about house rivalries or family legacies."
Draco snorts beside me. "Must be nice to be that simple."
Madame Hooch's whistle pierces the air as she calls the next pair forward. Two more students mount their brooms. Neither Draco nor I make any move to approach the others. The firewhiskey has left me in a strange limbo—bold enough to admire Katara from afar but not quite reckless enough to navigate the minefield of Potter and Weasley's territorial posturing.
"We should stay here," Draco says, as if reading my thoughts. "Let Potter make a fool of himself without our help."
I nod, leaning against the stands as we watch the next pair of students race. Their flying is competent but uninspired—nothing like the reckless abandon Draco displayed or the natural grace in Katara's turns. My eyes drift to where she stands with Hermione, both of them pointedly ignoring Potter's continued attempts at conversation.
"She keeps looking over here," Draco mutters.
"Who?" I ask, though I already know.
"Raine." He smirks. "Every time Potter opens his mouth, she glances this way."
I follow his gaze and catch Katara's eyes on me. She doesn't look away immediately. When Potter touches her elbow to reclaim her attention, her smile tightens almost imperceptibly.
"Granger too," Draco adds, a flush creeping up his neck. "Weasley's practically performing a mating dance, and she's looking over here."
I snort. "Maybe they're just wondering why we're lurking over here like a pair of antisocial prats."
"Speak for yourself. I'm being mysterious and aloof."
This pulls a genuine laugh from me, loud enough that several heads turn our way. The sound feels foreign in my throat—When was the last time I really laughed?
The race finishes to polite applause, followed by a Ravenclaw and Slytherin pair that draws more enthusiastic cheering. As each duo takes their turn, Draco and I remain apart from the main group, passing the flask between us when Hooch isn't looking. The firewhiskey has settled into a pleasant buzz now, dulling the edges of my anxiety about the coming days.
"—and that's why I think the Firebolt is still superior for competitive play," Potter drones on, gesturing wildly as if explaining Quidditch theory to someone who's never seen a broom. Katara's polite smile has gone fixed and glassy.
I'm about to suggest to Draco that we head back to the castle when Potter has fallen silent mid-sentence, his attention fixed on something in our direction. I follow his gaze and realize with a sinking feeling that Draco is mid-swig from the flask, the silver container glinting traitorously in the torchlight.
"Is that—" Potter's voice carries across the pitch, his eyes narrowing behind those ridiculous glasses. "Malfoy's drinking during flying practice!"
Draco freezes, the flask still raised to his lips. His eyes widen as he slowly lowers it, but the damage is done.
Weasley's head snaps around, his freckled face lighting up with righteous indignation. "A flask!" he announces loudly, pointing at us. "They're bloody drunk!"
Madame Hooch's hawk-like gaze locks onto us immediately. "Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Ember! Front and center, now!"
I snatch the flask, pointedly taking a swig to draw attention away from Draco, but it’s too late. Hooch gestures for us to approach. I shove the flask into my robes, both our steps unsteady, betraying exactly how much we've had to drink.
"Care to explain yourselves?" Hooch demands, her yellow eyes flashing dangerously.
"It's just water, Professor," Draco lies, though the flush across his cheeks and the slight slur in his words tell a different story.
"Water," she repeats flatly. "Do you take me for a fool, Mr. Malfoy?"
Potter and Weasley have sidled closer, their faces alight with smug satisfaction. The rest of the class has gone quiet, all eyes fixed on the unfolding drama.
I catch Katara watching from behind them.
"Hand it over, Mr. Ember," Hooch extends her palm toward me.
I hesitate, weighing my options. There's no scenario where this ends well.
"Now, Mr. Ember, or I'll be adding detention to your punishment."
With a resigned sigh, I reach into my robes and produce the flask.
Hooch snatches it from my hand, uncorking and taking a cautious sniff. Her nostrils flare in outrage. "Firewhiskey! During flying practice! Do you have any idea how dangerous—how irresponsible—"
"To be fair," Draco interrupts, “We did win our races.“
"Mr. Malfoy, this is no joking matter. I should march you both straight to Professor Snape's office."
Potter's eyes gleam with vindictive triumph. "They could have hurt someone," he presses, stepping forward like the self-appointed Prefect he wishes he was. "Or themselves."
"They need to be punished," Weasley chimes in, practically bouncing on his heels with excitement. "Detention at least. Maybe even suspended from flying altogether."
I steel myself for the inevitable lecture, the points lost, the disappointed letter to my father that will result in consequences far worse than anything Hogwarts could devise.
Beside me, Draco sways slightly. Hooch gives the flask another contemplative sniff, then—to my complete shock—takes a small swig herself before corking it and slipping it into her own robes.
"Ogden's Finest," she notes with something almost like approval in her voice. "Well, at least you two have good taste."
Potter's mouth falls open. "Professor, you can't—"
"I can't what, Mr. Potter?" Hooch cuts him off, "Last I checked, I am still the flying instructor at this school."
"But they broke rules," Weasley splutters, his freckled face turning an alarming shade of red. "They were flying drunk!"
"And yet they both flew circles around you two," Hooch observes dryly. "Perhaps that's something to reflect on."
I bite back a smirk as Potter's face contorts with indignation.
Draco doesn't bother hiding his, the smile spreading wide across his face.
"But Professor—" Potter tries again. "they should be punished! Detention at least! They could have crashed into someone!"
"Yet they didn't," Hooch replies curtly. "In fact, they both flew rather spectacularly, as I recall."
Potter looks like he's swallowed something particularly unpleasant. "That's not the point—"
"The point, Mr. Potter," Hooch cuts him off, "is that I decide the appropriate consequences in my class." She turns back to us, her expression hardening. "Mr. Ember, Mr. Malfoy—back to your dormitories. Now. Sleep, whatever it is that drove you to drink, off."
Draco opens his mouth, probably to say something that will make this worse, but I grab his arm, squeezing in warning.
"Yes, Professor. It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't," she says, then adds, "The headaches you'll have tomorrow morning will be punishment enough, I suspect."
Weasley splutters in disbelief. "That's it? They just get to leave?"
Hooch rounds on him, yellow eyes flashing. "Would you care to join them, Mr. Weasley? Perhaps with a detention added for questioning my authority?"
That shuts him up.
As the other students begin to disperse, Hooch leans closer to us, her voice dropping so only Draco and I can hear. "Whatever's troubling you boys enough to seek solace in firewhiskey, I suggest you find better ways to cope with it. I won't be so lenient if this happens again. Understood?"
"Yes, Professor," we mumble in unison.
She gives us one last searching look before turning away, the confiscated flask clinking softly in her robes.
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