Until Quidditch started again, Dylan refrained from exploring the Forbidden Forest.
After staying up late that day, he felt the effects on his concentration in class. Although the fatigue-eliminating spell kept him awake, the physical exhaustion remained, something magic couldn't completely erase. He didn't want his Forbidden Forest excursions to interfere with his studies.
He initially went to the Forbidden Forest to complete his refinement tasks and collect materials. This way, he wouldn't always have to rely on Professor Snape when brewing potions. There were also some special potions he wanted to experiment with, things he preferred to keep secret. Naturally, that meant gathering the necessary ingredients himself.
But if he went into the Forbidden Forest every day just for materials, he'd be missing the point. That was something Dylan wanted to avoid.
Instead, he decided to limit his trips to weekends. That way, even if he needed extra lessons from other professors, he would still have enough time to rest. After all, proper rest was key to effective studying.
The Quidditch Match
The day of the match arrived, and Harry picked up an interesting piece of gossip from Ron.
"Professor Dumbledore is going to watch the game," Ron said excitedly.
This lifted Harry's spirits. He had considered faking an illness to avoid the match, afraid of another attack from Quirrell, but with Professor Snape as the referee and Dumbledore in attendance, he changed his mind.
When the players entered the stadium, Harry immediately spotted Dumbledore sitting in the teacher's stand. Seeing him put Harry in a much better mood.
But then he caught sight of Professor Snape striding toward the referee's seat, and all his enthusiasm vanished.
"He's definitely going to be watching me, just waiting for a reason to take away points," Harry muttered, his expression darkening.
"Just like in Potions class," Dylan said with a chuckle from the audience.
Perhaps because of Snape's presence, Harry played harder than ever before.
He even broke a record in Hogwarts' Quidditch history—catching the Golden Snitch in just three minutes and twenty-four seconds.
At the crucial moment, right when it seemed Snape was about to interfere, Harry snatched the Snitch, securing victory for Gryffindor!
The Gryffindor crowd erupted.
Hermione, flushed with excitement, jumped up and waved the Gryffindor flag—Neville's bedsheet, to be exact.
Ron let out a sharp whistle, loud and piercing over the cheers.
Even Professor McGonagall, usually so composed, clapped with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, her face glowing with pride.
Dylan grinned. He almost wanted to cast Avada Melon Chain Lightning just to add to the celebration.
Trouble in the Slytherin Stands
Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the Slytherin stands was completely different.
Their students sat stone-faced, resentment written all over them.
Malfoy, in particular, looked furious, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
He couldn't stand seeing Gryffindor celebrate, especially since it was filled with people he considered beneath him.
To make things worse, those very students were now looking at him with smug, triumphant grins.
Malfoy muttered something under his breath, and soon, two Slytherin students stalked toward the Gryffindor crowd.
They walked aggressively, speaking loudly enough for others to hear.
"What are these brainless Gryffindors so happy about? They only won by luck!" one sneered.
"Yeah, if the Golden Snitch hadn't flown straight to Potter, how could they have won so quickly?" the other added.
"A victory based on luck, and they act like they have real Quidditch skills!"
"Besides, luck never favors fools—especially fools of impure blood."
"Hmph. No noble blood, no real talent. Even if they can use magic, their parents are still filthy Muggles—the lowest class, the most—"
The words struck a nerve among the Gryffindors.
Some of them turned, ready to fire back.
But before anyone could step forward, something unexpected happened.
The chubbier of the two Slytherins slipped.
He lost his balance, tumbling forward with a startled yelp.
The skinnier boy beside him instinctively grabbed at his friend to steady him—but instead, he was yanked down as well.
Together, they crashed over the railing.
Gasps filled the air as they plummeted.
Dylan blinked, momentarily stunned.
They had come over to stir up trouble—only to throw themselves off the stands instead.
Because they had fallen far from the teachers' seats, none of the professors noticed.
Dylan sighed and raised his wand.
Just like he had done for Neville in flying lessons, he cast a spell to slow their fall.
"Retardo Motus!"
"Arresto Momentum!"
Of course, he could have simply levitated them back up.
But where was the fun in that?
Let them fall—it would be a valuable lesson.
His spell kicked in at just the right moment.
The two figures, one fat and one thin, slowed down just before impact.
And then—thud!
They landed right on their backsides in the middle of the Quidditch pitch.
Dylan walked to the edge of the stands, peering down at them.
The two Slytherins sat frozen, clutching their backsides, faces twisted in pain.
"Well," Dylan mused, "I suppose teaching their butts a lesson isn't so bad."
Snape Intervenes
Professor Snape had seen the fall.
His expression darkened, and he strode toward the scene, black robes billowing behind him.
His sharp gaze instantly locked onto the two students sprawled on the pitch.
"You—"
Before Snape could say anything, Dylan stepped forward.
"Professor," Dylan said innocently, "your Slytherin students came over to insult Harry after he won. Before we could even react, they just… fell."
Dylan let out a theatrical sigh.
"Luckily, I cast the slowing spell in time, so they weren't seriously hurt." He shook his head, as if truly bewildered. "I don't know why they did it, but clearly, they've learned their lesson."
Snape's glare swept over the Gryffindors.
They had been ready to fight just moments ago, but now, under his icy stare, they shrank back into their seats.
With one last glance at his fallen students, Snape turned on his heel and walked away.
Dylan grinned.
Victory—both on the pitch and off it.
(End of Chapter)
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