[Third person POV]
Oliver and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team stood on the pitch, their eyes following Alicia as she was carefully guided away toward the hospital wing to Madam Pomfrey. The air around the team felt heavier now, the cheers of the crowd dulling into a concerned murmur.
From the opposite side Marcus Flint watched with a wide grin tugging at his lips. "So," he called out loudly, making sure his voice carried across the pitch, "is the game still on? Or does this count as our win automatically since the Gryffindors are down one member?" His tone was laced with mock sympathy, though the smirk betrayed his enjoyment of their misfortune.
Oliver's eyes narrowed dangerously, and his jaw clenched. "Who says we're down a member?" he snapped, his voice sharp enough to slice through the growing tension. "I don't remember any of us saying we're out just yet."
Without wasting another second, he spun toward Professor McGonagall, who stood at the edge of the pitch with her arms crossed. "Don't end the game yet, Professor," Oliver declared firmly. "We can still play—and in memory of Alicia, we'll win this match."
"In memory?" George snorted from the side, trying not to laugh. "She isn't dead yet, mate."
"Aren't you writing her off a bit early?" Fred added with a teasing grin.
Oliver ignored them both, his determination unmoved. He turned abruptly toward Harry and pointed. "Go and get our secret weapon. We've been saving this one for just such an occasion!"
Harry nodded and kicked off the ground, his broom slicing through the air as he sped away toward the castle.
Oliver, watching him disappear into the distance, faced McGonagall again. "We're all still roaring to go, Professor," he insisted.
McGonagall's stern gaze moved from player to player, reading their expressions carefully. Most of them were still gripping their brooms with determination, the fire of competition burning in their eyes. With a reluctant sigh, she finally said, "Alright. Very well then. The game will continue."
…
Far away from the pitch, Harry slipped into a quiet room tucked within the castle. He stopped short, his eyes widening slightly at the sight before him—Arthur was sitting before a dark brown magic circle etched into the floor beneath his feet. From the circle, a jagged spike of earth jutted upward, casting sharp shadows along the ground.
"Nice~ It worked!" Arthur said with a satisfied grin, pumping a fist. He turned at once, sensing Harry's presence. "Oh—hello, Harry. Like my second-tier magic circle? I call it 'Earth Spike.' Much deadlier than it looks—"
"You're needed on the field," Harry interrupted, still catching his breath from the flight over. "There was… well, an incident." His voice wavered slightly, and his hands tightened around his broom handle.
Arthur's expression shifted to concern. He snapped his fingers, and the magic circle shattered into fading embers of light. "What happened? Are you alright?"
Taking a steadying breath, Harry explained what had happened to Alicia on the pitch.
Arthur's brow furrowed. "Is she okay?" he asked while grabbing his broom from where it rested against the wall.
"Yeah… I think so. She was sent over to Madam Pomfrey," Harry replied, rubbing the back of his neck.
Arthur stepped closer and placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. "I can tell you're feeling a little nervous because of what happened, but don't let fear run the match for you."
"That's easier said than done…" Harry mumbled, fiddling with the end of his broom.
Arthur's mouth twitched in a faint smile. "Here's a tip: if you want the game over quickly, just catch the Snitch before anything else happens."
Harry let out a small scoff. "Why didn't I think of that?" he said sarcastically.
"Because sometimes the simplest solutions are the hardest to see," Arthur replied smugly, sounding far too much like an old wizarding philosopher for someone his age.
"I was being sar—oh, forget it," Harry sighed, shaking his head with a small chuckle. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
The two of them walked side-by-side to the pitch, mounting their brooms and kicking off into the air. The wind rushed past them as they soared toward the waiting crowd.
Both teams were already hovering in position. Madam Sprout, whistle in hand, floated between them, holding the Quaffle. But before she could even signal the restart, the Slytherins caught sight of Arthur.
"Hahaha! That's your secret weapon?!" one of them barked, laughter erupting from their side.
"Wow, how desperate is Gryffindor this year, bringing in two first-years?" another jeered.
"What's that shrimp supposed to do, eh?"
Arthur's smirk widened. "Shrimp? That's not what your mum said last night!" he shot back without hesitation.
Fred and George clapped their hands over their mouths dramatically, eyes wide as they waved their free hands in the air. "Ohhhhhhh!!" they chorused together, making the moment even louder.
Oliver doubled over on his broom, laughing so hard he nearly lost his balance in midair.
Seeing the entire Gryffindor side erupt into laughter, Marcus Flint's grin vanished. His jaw tightened, and he slowly dragged his thumb across his neck in a threatening gesture as his glare fixed on Arthur.
Arthur merely spun around on his broom and gave his broom tail a cheeky shake, earning a fresh wave of laughter from the stands.
The effect was immediate. Flint's pale skin flushed crimson, and every Slytherin player's face darkened with rage.
Madam Sprout, floating between the two teams, blew a sharp note on her whistle, signaling the Keepers to take off and guard their posts. The whir of broomsticks filled the air as the players streaked to their positions. A moment later, she held the Quaffle at her side, glanced between both teams, and then, with another loud whistle, hurled it high into the air.
Arthur shot forward like a released arrow, his broom leaning low into the wind. A Slytherin Chaser broke away from the pack as well, both of them reaching for the Quaffle. Their hands slammed against the red ball at the exact same moment with a loud thwack.
Arthur grinned in his usual cocky fashion. "You should work out more~," he quipped, his tone infuriatingly casual. With a sharp twist of his wrist, he wrenched the Quaffle free and flung it backward in a perfect arc. Katie Bell, already anticipating the pass, caught it with ease.
"What a way to restart the game, folks! Alicia Spinnet's substitute—First Year Arthur King—snatches possession for Gryffindor, already proving his place on the team! Katie now in possession…" Jordan Lee's voice boomed from the commentary box, every word dripping excitement.
"Even with Katie in control, the Slytherins have their beady eyes fixed on Arthur! That earlier taunt clearly worked!" Jordan went on. "Katie's clear for a shot—ah, blast it! Blocked by those slimy—"
"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall's voice cut through like a whip.
"Sorry, Professor," Jordan said quickly, though his tone betrayed no real regret. He cleared his throat and carried on, "Slytherin now in possession!"
Arthur leaned low over his broom, eyes locked on the Quaffle. He dove, weaving through two Bludgers, until he was right on the tail of the Slytherin Chaser. Two more green-robed players closed in on him from either side, grinning maliciously.
Arthur's smirk widened. At the last possible moment, he jerked his broom upward, and the two Slytherins—still charging forward—slammed shoulder-first into each other with a satisfying crunch.
Now directly above the Chaser holding the Quaffle, Arthur turned around on his broom and wrapped his legs under his broomstick and let himself drop sideways into open air.
"Hallo!" he said in a ridiculously posh English accent, suddenly dangling upside down right in front of the startled Slytherin.
"Ahhh!" the Chaser yelped, jerking back in shock.
"I'll be taking that, thank you very much!" Arthur chirped, snatching the Quaffle from his hands before swinging himself back upright on his broom in one smooth motion.
Now every single Slytherin on the pitch was chasing him, their faces twisted with fury. Arthur's grin only grew wider, adrenaline pumping through his veins. As he bopped and weaved around Bludgers, he caught Angelina Johnson's eye, giving her a sharp, deliberate look. She understood instantly and angled her broom after him.
Fred and George, spotting the developing play, dove in on either side of Arthur. Their bats swung in perfect sync, knocking every Bludger that came close right back toward the Slytherins in hot pursuit.
Arthur stood on top of his broom as he rounded the goalposts and suddenly slammed on his brakes, his broom jerking to a halt just in front of the Keeper. He faked a powerful downward throw—then, with a flick of his wrist, sent the Quaffle sailing upward instead.
The Slytherin Keeper, fooled by the feint, dove low. Angelina swooped in above Arthur, snatched the Quaffle from midair, and with a perfect overhead toss, sent it sailing cleanly through the hoop.
The stadium exploded in a deafening roar of cheers and stomping feet.
"WHAT AN AMAZING PLAY FROM GRYFFINDOR!" Jordan bellowed over the noise. "A MASTERCLASS IN TEAMWORK! NOBODY WORKS TOGETHER LIKE A GRYFFINDOR!"
"Your bias is showing again, Mr. Lee!" McGonagall's voice called sharply.
"Say that without smiling ear-to-ear, Professor!" Jordan shot back without missing a beat.
Arthur gave a dramatic bow midair, one hand sweeping to his side while the other stretched high toward the sky. Angelina zipped past him with a wide grin, holding out her hand. They met with a solid high-five, the crowd still roaring their approval.
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