Chapter 4: The Sticky Quaffle and the Inverted Witch part-1
I looked at my wand. In the original story, Ron was average. But with this system and with a wife as accident-prone as Hermione was becoming, I was going to be the most powerful wizard of the age.
And all it cost was a little bit of Harry's dignity and Hermione's modesty. A fair trade, in my opinion.
(Now,) I thought, looking toward the shed where the broomsticks were kept. (Molly mentioned Quidditch later. I wonder how aerodynamic Hermione's clothing is?)
I whistled a cheerful tune and picked up a gnome, chucking it over the garden fence. Being Ron Weasley was going to be fun.
The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the overgrown grass of the Weasley orchard. Following the "Garden Incident," Hermione Granger had spent a considerable amount of time in the bathroom, presumably scrubbing herself pink and giving herself a pep talk about dignity.
When she finally emerged, she had changed into a pair of muggle denim shorts and a somewhat loose-fitting t-shirt.
(A brave choice,) I noted internally, analyzing her outfit with my enhanced intellect. (Denim offers higher friction and structural integrity than a skirt, reducing the risk of tearing. However, the t-shirt is loose. The aerodynamic drag coefficient will be high and without a tucking mechanism, it is susceptible to inversion.)
I was sitting on the porch, ostensibly repairing a broken toaster that Arthur Weasley had brought home. With my new "Magical Theory Comprehension," I realized that the issue was not the muggle wiring, but a conflict between the heating element and the ambient magic of the Burrow. I tapped it with my wand, reversed the polarity of the enchantment and the toaster popped up two perfectly golden slices of bread.
"Ron!" A voice boomed.
Two identical redheads apparated directly onto the grass in front of me with a loud crack. Fred and George Weasley had arrived.
"Nice to see you, little brother," Fred said, grinning.
"Heard you turned eighteen today," George added. "We brought a gift. And by gift, we mean a prototype."
They held up a jar filled with a purple, viscous substance.
"What is it?" I asked, putting the toaster down.
"Gripping Grease," Fred declared proudly. "Apply it to your hands or your broom handle. You will never slip off again. Guaranteed to withstand gale-force winds."
"We call it the 'Super-Grip 3000'," George said. "Although, we are still working on the removal agent. It tends to stay sticky for... well, days."
My eyes lit up. This was not just a prank item; it was a catalyst.
(System,) I thought. (Analyze the properties of this substance in conjunction with the Clumsy Aura.)
"Analysis complete," the system's voice echoed in my head. "Substance: Magical adhesive. Interaction with Clumsy Aura: High probability of unintended adhesion to sensitive areas or clothing, resulting in restricted movement and potential exposure."
"Brilliant," I said aloud. "We should test it. Harry and Hermione are here. Let us play two-on-two Quidditch."
"Quidditch?" Harry asked, emerging from the kitchen with a glass of pumpkin juice. He looked wary, likely still recovering from the trauma of feeling Hermione's anatomy earlier. "I am not sure, Ron. Hermione does not really fly."
"I can fly!" Hermione's voice came from the doorway. She sounded defensive. She stepped out, crossing her arms over her chest. "I passed the first-year flying lessons, thank you very much. I am just not obsessed with it like you boys."
"Great!" I clapped my hands. "Fred and George can referee and test their products on the Bludgers. Harry, you take Hermione on your team. I will fly solo as keeper. If you can score past me, you win."
"That hardly seems fair," Hermione said, frowning. "Two against one?"
"I am feeling confident," I said smoothly. "Besides, Harry is the best Seeker in a century. He can cover for you."
I saw the challenge spark in Hermione's eyes. She hated being seen as the weak link.
"Fine," she stated. "Let us do it."
Ten minutes later, we were in the paddock. The twins had released a set of balls. The Bludgers were coated in the purple "Gripping Grease," which meant if they hit you, they would not just bruise you; they would stick to you and drag you around.
"Be careful of the Bludgers!" Fred shouted from the ground. "Do not let them touch your skin!"
We took to the air. I hovered near the makeshift goal hoops (three rusted buckets on poles). Harry zoomed around effortlessly on his Firebolt. Hermione was on one of the old Cleansweeps from the shed. She flew slowly, gripping the handle so tightly her knuckles were white.
"You alright, Hermione?" Harry called out, circling back to her.
"I am fine!" she shouted over the wind. "Just... focus on the Quaffle!"
The game began. It was chaotic. I used my new reflexes to block shots with ease. My mind calculated the trajectory of the Quaffle instantly. I was playing like a professional.
(Time to spice things up,) I decided.
"Hey, Hermione!" I shouted. "Catch!"
I threw the Quaffle—a large red leather ball—high into the air, aiming it so it would arc just above her head. It was a difficult catch for a novice.
Hermione reached up with one hand to grab it. At the same moment, a Bludger, coated in the sticky purple slime, came rocketing toward her broom tail.
"Look out!" Harry yelled.
Hermione panicked. She jerked her broom handle sharply to the right. The Bludger missed her broom but grazed the back of her t-shirt.
Splat.
The heavy iron ball stuck fast to the fabric of her shirt, right between her shoulder blades.
"Oh no!" Hermione cried out.
The weight of the iron ball immediately dragged her backward. The physics were undeniable. A one hundred and fifty-pound iron ball attached to a loose cotton shirt creates a significant drag vector.
Hermione was pulled backward off her broom seat. She screamed, her legs losing their grip on the broom handle. She was now dangling in the air, suspended only by her hands which were still clutching the broom handle for dear life.