“I asked you to help me with Potions, not to sit on my back and play Pokemon,” Bruce said.
Tony might have noticed that he sounded more irritated than usual, but his Flaafy was so close to evolving.
Tony Stark had a lot of owls.
“You’re not seriously upset about what the little Odinson brat said, are you?”
Bruce shrugged noncommittally.
Clint Barton was grinning from ear to ear when he left his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. After several long and frustrating weeks, he had finally produced a corporeal Patronus. Natasha wouldn’t be able to tease him about it anymore, especially since the form his Patronus took was so much more impressive than her measly spider.
“This is your chance to redeem yourself.”
At the last table at the end of the last row of bookshelves, he’d finally found his brother contentedly sitting amidst a messy collection of books, parchment, and quills.
“Brother, you’ve betrayed me,” Thor said, unraveling his Transfiguration homework across the table. “All the answers you gave me were incorrect!”
In his third year, Clint got into the habit of watching each of the other teams practice. Just watching was fine, but it frustrated him when he saw the Snitch and the practicing Seeker did not.
Eventually, it accumulated in his leaping from his perch in the announcer’s tower, kicking off on his broom, and grabbing the Snitch himself, nevermind that Slytherin had the pitch for practice.
Tony landed a bit harder than he intended and threw his broom roughly aside before turning to face the referee, who began shouting at him as soon as he was within earshot.
“Mr. Stark, you cannot just–”