Harry looked at Sherlock, his eyes unknowingly moistening.
He knew it!
Although Sherlock had been busy with other things during this time, he had never forgotten about him.
And despite being so busy, he had even taken time to do a data comparison between the Nimbus 2000 and Nimbus 2001.
Sherlock was really too good to him!
But Harry didn't say these words out loud.
Good Friends, for life!
Everything was understood without words.
After a while, seeing that it was about time, Harry got up and dressed, going to breakfast with his roommates.
When they reached the Great Hall, they were surprised to find the other members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team all squeezed together at the empty long table.
Each of them looked nervous and silent.
Seeing this scene, Sherlock couldn't help but frown.
It seemed he had underestimated the pressure the Nimbus 2001 had brought to the entire Gryffindor team.
Harry, whose mood had improved somewhat after Sherlock's comfort, immediately became nervous again upon seeing this situation.
"Harry, you should still eat a few bites of breakfast."
Ron said, stuffing cheese bread into his mouth while speaking unclearly.
Harry shook his head. "I don't want to eat anything."
"How about some toast?"
Hermione coaxed.
"I'm not hungry."
Harry continued shaking his head.
Ron and Hermione exchanged glances, then looked toward Sherlock.
Then as now, just like this moment now.
Last year at this same time, Harry couldn't eat before his first Quidditch match in his life.
No matter how the two of them tried to persuade him, it was useless. In the end, it was only when Sherlock spoke that Harry ate something.
At that time, the two were somewhat speechless, feeling that Harry only listened to Sherlock alone.
But now they only hoped Sherlock could work his magic again.
Harry's wellbeing was more important than anything else.
"Eat something, Harry—you need to maintain your strength. The Seeker is always the person the opposing team focuses on defending against."
Hearing this, Hermione and Ron immediately breathed a long sigh of relief.
Sure enough, as long as Sherlock spoke, everything would be fine.
Wait!
This voice!
Why was it female?
The two suddenly realized that the speaker wasn't Sherlock. They looked up in surprise and discovered that Cho Chang, the Asian girl from Ravenclaw, had appeared at some point and was now standing in front of the Gryffindor table.
That sentence had come from her.
Harry was also stunned when he saw Cho Chang. "Cho, how—how did you come here?"
"Isn't there your match today?"
Cho Chang greeted the others and sat down across from Harry.
Looking at Harry's somewhat dejected expression, she frowned. "Don't be like this. Do you remember what I told you before?"
"Which sentence?"
"..."
Cho Chang was somewhat helpless but still said, "The key to determining victory or defeat in a match is always the person."
"I know, but..."
"Eat something first. If you don't even believe in yourself, how can you make your teammates believe in you?"
Looking into Cho Chang's bright black eyes, Harry was stunned, then nodded and took the toast that Neville handed him.
Seeing this scene, Sherlock nodded with satisfaction.
Hermione and Ron looked helpless.
'So only our words don't work?'
Regardless, this result was good.
As eleven o'clock gradually approached, the entire school began heading toward the Quidditch pitch.
Today was muggy and humid weather, with thunder rumbling faintly in the sky.
When Harry entered the changing room, the team members put on their bright red Gryffindor robes and sat down to listen to Wood's customary pre-game pep talk.
"Lads, and ladies."
Wood's gaze swept over each team member, pausing particularly on Harry's face for a moment before speaking.
"The time has come."
"This important moment," said Fred.
"The moment we've been waiting for," said George.
"Shut up, you two!"
Wood said irritably. "The Slytherin team's broomsticks are better than ours—this is undeniable.
But the people on our broomsticks are stronger than theirs. We've trained harder than them and flown in all kinds of weather conditions."
"Absolutely right," said George.
"Since August, my clothes haven't been dry," said Fred.
"Shut up!"
Wood glared fiercely at the Weasley twins again. These two kept making jokes and completely ruined the tense atmosphere he was trying to create.
He took a deep breath before speaking again.
"We're going to make them regret it—Harry!"
"Yes!"
"Ravenclaw's Cho Chang was absolutely right. You need to show everyone that as a Seeker, having a rich father alone isn't enough.
The longer this drags on, the worse it is for us, so Harry, we either win quickly or die on the field.
You must make all of Slytherin regret letting that chromium bastard Malfoy buy his way onto the team!
Believe in yourself, the power is within you!
You can definitely do it!"
Faced with Wood's repeated emphasis, Harry secretly clenched his fists and nodded heavily.
When the Gryffindor Quidditch team members walked toward the field, they were greeted by a burst of noisy cheers and applause.
During this period, Professor Snape had indeed been somewhat insane.
Not only Gryffindor, but even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had lost quite a few points to him.
The other professors couldn't manage to shamelessly add points to their own houses like Snape did, regardless of their image, so these two houses naturally hoped to see Slytherin defeated, which would also let them vent their frustration.
Madam Hooch, the flying instructor, asked the two captains, Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint, to shake hands.
Wood was an ordinarily strong man, while Flint was a strongly ordinary man.
The two glared at each other threateningly and gripped each other's hands with great force, as if this could give them an early advantage.
"Listen for my whistle."
Madam Hooch naturally noticed this scene, but she pretended not to see anything.
She knew all too well about the grudge between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
As long as they didn't foul on the field, she couldn't be bothered to care.
"Three—two—one—"
The crowd roared, sending them off as they took flight. Fifteen broomsticks shot up into the heavy gray sky together.
Harry flew higher than everyone else, including the referee. He squinted and looked around, searching for traces of the Golden Snitch.
Hermione crossed her hands on her knees, staring nervously at the field.
Regarding the sport of Quidditch, her theoretical knowledge was very solid.
She could even rival Wood, that fanatical Quidditch boy.
But when it came to practical experience, she fell short.
During this period, every weekend the Quidditch pitch was always occupied by the four house teams, which greatly reduced the time she spent learning to fly with Sherlock—in most cases, she would only stay at the field during Gryffindor's training.
Although Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw hadn't explicitly refused, to avoid suspicion, she and Sherlock still didn't linger.
As for Slytherin, that went without saying.
Ron had binoculars hanging around his neck, searching hard for Harry's figure on the field.
"Bloody Hell! That bastard Malfoy even dares to provoke Harry!"
At this moment, Ron had to admit that Malfoy indeed had talent in flying—at least much more than himself.
In the binoculars' field of view, Malfoy shot through like an arrow beneath Harry at high speed.
This couldn't be achieved merely by relying on the Nimbus 2001's speed.
Ron somewhat unwillingly put down the binoculars and turned to look at Sherlock, asking curiously.
"Sherlock, why aren't you nervous at all?"
Hearing this, all the nearby friends turned their heads.
Indeed, Sherlock was exactly as Ron described—his expression was calm, showing no signs of nervousness.
"Now that Ron mentions it, I think so too."
Seamus asked somewhat puzzled, "Sherlock, you seem completely unconcerned. Why?"
"Yeah, Sherlock, those are Nimbus 2001s, and there are seven of them!" Dean couldn't help asking too.
Faced with his friends' questioning, Sherlock said calmly and composedly.
"It's simple—because Harry is much stronger than Malfoy."
Hearing Sherlock's words, everyone couldn't help but look at each other.
'What a simple and direct reason.
But... was it valid?'
"The ones who truly need to be worried about were never people like Malfoy."
Sherlock said softly.
Hermione didn't hear clearly and asked. "Sherlock, what did you say?"
"Nothing."
Sherlock's gaze wasn't only on Harry, and not even only on the field. While observing the match, he would occasionally glance at the stands.
No one knew what exactly he was looking at; they just found his behavior somewhat strange.
At this time, it began to rain in the sky, and it was getting heavier.
Large raindrops hit Harry's face, making it difficult for him, wearing glasses and high in the air, to understand the specific situation on the field.
"Slytherin thirty, Gryffindor zero!"
Just then, Lee Jordan's commentary voice perfectly reminded him that the situation was not optimistic.
The Nimbus 2001 was indeed having an effect.
In just this short time since the game started, Slytherin had already scored three goals in a row.
If it weren't for Gryffindor's captain and Keeper leading by example with outstanding performance, they would have lost even more.
This made Harry even more nervous.
"Hey, finding this exciting, Scarhead?"
Malfoy caught sight of Harry's anxious expression and couldn't help feeling triumphant.
Now they were on the Quidditch pitch, Sherlock wasn't nearby, and he could insult Harry however he wanted.
This feeling of being able to vent freely was absolutely wonderful!
He even felt he could do some more excessive things to Harry, like...
Knocking him right off his broomstick!
But for now, this could only remain a thought. To actually put it into action would require long-term planning.
He understood Sherlock—normal collisions during the match wouldn't make him say anything.
But if there were malicious fouls...
Gemma Farley had made it very clear.
"If you don't want to end up like Marcus Flint, you'd better apologize to Mr. Potter and Mr. Creevey."
Just thinking about this female prefect from his own house made Malfoy feel nauseous.
As a Slytherin prefect and a pure-blood wizard, she actually spoke up for stinking Mudbloods—it was absolutely incomprehensible!
If he became prefect someday, he definitely wouldn't be like her!
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