The week leading up to the Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw match passed in a haze of whispered scheming, stolen supplies, and far too many late-night strategy sessions in the Gryffindor common room.
Cael Vale learned something quickly:
When the Weasley twins said "prank", what they really meant was military-grade, meticulously orchestrated chaos.
And quietly judging it all?
His ever-present, deeply unimpressed System.
[System Alert]: Operation "Revenge by Weaponized Stench" initiated. Estimated success rate: 84%.
Estimated maturity level: Non-existent.
Cael tucked the enhanced Dungbomb into his robes, smirking faintly.
"Relax. It's for morale."
System : Morale can also be improved by not committing biochemical terrorism....But I am not gonna lie I like it
By Friday evening, their team had gathered a rather alarming assortment of ingredients from all corners of the castle — some swiped from the Potions storeroom, others "borrowed" from Filch's confiscated stash, and a few…acquired through morally grey channels that Lee Jordan steadfastly refused to elaborate on.
The result?
Twelve magically enhanced Dungbombs — sleek, dark, humming faintly with etched runes along their surface, practically vibrating with malevolent potential.
Fred twirled one between his fingers like a prized artifact. "Beautiful, aren't they?"
"The Mona Lisa of magical sabotage," George agreed reverently.
Cael asked " how do you know about Mona Lisa "
Fred replied " Well dad sometimes talks about Muggel stuff to us Of course after some scolding from mom "
The stench recipe was both simple and devastating:
• Base notes of rotting sewage.
• Undertones of decomposing fish.
• A generous helping of troll armpit.
• Week-old Hippogriff droppings.
• And — courtesy of George's twisted brilliance — a concentrated essence of magically distilled skunk musk.
"Not dangerous," Cael confirmed, inspecting one like a cautious potioneer. "But potent enough to knock a grown wizard flat."
Fred beamed like a proud parent at a disastrous science fair. "That's the Gryffindor standard."
The Night Before the Match
The promised Day Came
The stadium loomed empty beneath a pale moon, stands silent, pitch pristine — utterly unprepared for the chemical warfare about to descend upon it.
Cloaked in black, Cael, Fred, George, and Lee crept along the shadows like seasoned saboteurs. The enchanted Dungbombs hovered obediently behind them, drifting along like ominous little soldiers of olfactory doom.
"Timing is everything," Cael murmured, eyes scanning the field. "They go off exactly halfway through the match. Maximum audience, maximum humiliation."
[System Notification]: Congratulations. You've successfully led a group sabotage. Your Gryffindor delinquent instincts are flourishing and I….am....loving....it "
George held up a rune-inscribed timer, grinning. "Five-second delay after activation. Enough time to look innocent and mildly appalled."
They worked quickly, slipping beneath the stands, planting the bombs with surgical precision:
• One beneath the Ravenclaw bench.
• Three beneath the Slytherin seats.
• Several spaced along the lower stands.
• And a cluster near the commentator's booth — because Lee insisted poetic justice required him to have front-row seats to the chaos.
"I almost feel bad for Madam Hooch," Fred whispered, arming a device near the referee stand.
"Almost," George agreed solemnly.
Cael pressed the rune on the final device, the faint hum of magic responding beneath his fingers.
"Remember," he warned, straightening up, "innocent expressions. Think 'wide-eyed first year accidentally wandering into the wrong common room' energy."
Lee grinned like a man unburdened by conscience. "Mate, I always look confused. Natural talent."
Game Day — Saturday Morning
By dawn, Hogwarts thrummed with excitement.
The Quidditch stands overflowed with students. Banners waved wildly. House colors shimmered against the bright blue sky. Even the professors had turned out in force.
Professor McGonagall sat near the front, lips pinched into a line of stern expectation. Snape brooded beside her like a storm cloud in human form. Madam Hooch paced near the pitch, adjusting her whistle. And at the back, Dumbledore leaned against the railing, eyes twinkling with the kind of serenity only possessed by someone utterly oblivious to impending catastrophe.
The Gryffindor group sat huddled together, expressions scrubbed clean of mischief, shining with exaggerated innocence.
Fred elbowed Cael. "Nervous?"
Cael tilted his head, smiling faintly. "Born for this."
The match began in a flurry of motion — brooms shot into the air, Quaffles spun, Bludgers whizzed past skulls.
Slytherin's brutal tactics crashed into Ravenclaw's rigid formations, the score neck-and-neck as strategy and aggression collided.
Celtyn Rosendale barked orders from above, his prefect badge gleaming obnoxiously like a polished insult. Flint, snarling like a Bludger with legs, smashed anything that moved.
The crowd roared.
Cheers echoed.
And then—
Halfway through the match, just as Celtyn soared above the pitch, launching into a dramatic speech about "aerial discipline"—
BOOM.
Twelve concealed Dungbombs detonated in flawless, synchronized chaos.
A dense, grey-green cloud erupted beneath the stands, sweeping across the pitch with terrifying efficiency.
The effect was immediate.
Students gagged. Dozens clutched their faces. Some toppled from the stands. The stench of rotting sewage, fermented skunk, and indescribable filth invaded every corner of the stadium.
Madam Hooch dropped her whistle, eyes bulging.
"Oh—Merlin—" Thud. She fainted, collapsing to the ground like a felled broomstick.
Snape recoiled, face contorted in undiluted horror. "Merlin's beard—" He keeled over, fainting with more elegance than a man known for angry stalking had any right to.
Professor Flitwick squeaked in alarm and tumbled backwards off his seat, vanishing behind the stand.
Even McGonagall's iron control cracked. She clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes watering violently.
"Sweet Morgana—" she managed, swaying dangerously.
Chaos erupted.
[System]: Hogwarts' most prestigious sporting event has been reduced to airborne vomiting. Hahahahahaha"
On the pitch, pandemonium reigned.
Players spiraled off-course, coughing mid-flight. Celtyn, still mid-rant, inhaled a lungful of toxic air, promptly tumbling from his broom in a heap by the Ravenclaw goalposts.
Flint, eyes streaming, swung his bat blindly—only to smash a Bludger squarely into his own teammate's face.
Fred and George clutched each other, wheezing with silent, violent laughter. Lee nearly fell off the bench, gasping like a man possessed.
Cael sat calm, arms folded, watching the stadium collapse into a perfect storm of nausea, mayhem, and poetic humiliation.
Mission: Complete.
⸻
Aftermath
The match was officially abandoned.
Madam Hooch's statement declared the pitch a "biological hazard zone."
All day, the corridors buzzed with wild, increasingly ridiculous theories:
Slytherin sabotage?
Ravenclaw gone rogue?
Peeves' greatest masterpiece?
A rogue potion gone nuclear?
But suspicion?
Not a whisper toward Gryffindor.
Their expressions of wide-eyed shock and perfectly timed sympathetic groans sealed the alibi.
That evening, in the common room, Fred raised an imaginary goblet high.
"To revenge," he proclaimed proudly.
"To the worst smell in Hogwarts history," George added with a wicked grin.
Lee grinned wide enough to split his face. "And to us—the masterminds behind the stink heard 'round the school!"
Cael smirked faintly, already calculating the next great Gryffindor operation.
⸻
Hogwarts learned a valuable lesson that day:
Never underestimate a Gryffindor with a grudge.
Or access to magically weaponized hygiene disasters.
⸻