"Brilliant save! Oliver Wood deflects another shot—Marcus Flint's despicable scheme crumbles! The Weasley twins launch their counterattack..."
Lee Jordan's commentary crackled with urgent rhythm through the stadium speakers.
Gryffindor stands erupted in cascading waves of euphoria, faces blazing with passionate pride and unrestrained joy.
The Slytherin section told a different story entirely.
At some imperceptible moment, the atmosphere had undergone sinister metamorphosis—previous cacophony settling into predatory silence.
Excited, indignant expressions vanished completely, replaced by smiles that never touched cold eyes.
Proud, indifferent gazes harbored traces of indescribable mockery, radiating bone-deep menace.
Tiger stood with crossed arms at the crowd's epicenter, expression utterly detached—as if match outcomes held zero significance whatsoever.
Sensing subtle shifts within that emerald ocean, Hermione's pulse stuttered violently.
Ominous premonition erupted from her core like a freight train's shrieking whistle—tearing through mental fog, barreling straight toward catastrophic collision.
This was bad.
Hermione frantically scanned the aerial battlefield, simultaneously drawing her wand to prevent Harry from shattering his neck during inevitable plummeting.
She understood Tiger with terrifying clarity.
Can't solve the problem? Eliminate the problem-maker. Pure Shelby methodology—they despised endless complications.
"Angelina deflects that Bludger!"
"Spectacular contact!" Lee Jordan leaped with microphone-clutching excitement.
"Bludger impact sends the Quaffle spinning away from Marcus—Weasley twins in hot pursuit!"
A emerald figure dove toward the Quaffle with predatory intent. Lee Jordan instinctively warned:
"Adrian Pucey closing fast!"
"Careful, Weasley—that bastard's planning to—"
"JORDAN!"
Professor McGonagall's disapproval cracked like a whip.
Lee Jordan swallowed his warning sheepishly but continued his relentless commentary:
"Quaffle trajectory shifts!"
"Neither player backing down!"
"Weasley and Adrian neck-and-neck—destroy him, Weasley! Gryffindor eternal!"
"ETERNAL!" Gryffindor stands detonated in volcanic celebration, screams and battle cries layering into deafening crescendo.
Ron fixated on his airborne brother, white-knuckled fists pumping, face crimson with fraternal pride. Only Hermione sighed with weary resignation.
Vicious wind shrieked past their ears as surrounding scenery blurred into streaking impressions.
George Weasley gritted his teeth, repeatedly ramming Adrian with calculated violence—attempting to provoke retaliation, bait his opponent into rule-breaking aggression.
Adrian responded with uncharacteristic restraint, maintaining acceleration while staying glued to George's flight path—seemingly hunting for the perfect opening.
As the Quaffle entered striking range, both players raised Beater's bats with lethal preparation.
Adrian endured dull pain radiating from his ribs, cruel lips curving with meaningful anticipation.
"Quaffle within contact zone!"
"Come on, Weasley!" Lee Jordan's voice exploded through amplification.
George Weasley and Adrian's pupils contracted as bats swung simultaneously with devastating intent.
Witnessing George's superior swing speed, Gryffindor celebrations intensified exponentially.
However, in that microsecond of contact—
Adrian's bat bypassed the Quaffle entirely, connecting with George Weasley's skull with surgical precision—clean, decisive, utterly without hesitation.
George felt reality consumed by absolute darkness, vertigo and agony crashing over him like tsunamis.
Balance abandoned him completely.
Invisible forces ripped him from his broom, sending him plummeting toward earth in helpless free-fall.
Celebration died instantly.
Horrified screams pierced stadium air.
"GEORGE!"
Ron lunged toward the barrier, nearly tumbling from the stands before Neville yanked him back to safety.
Predictable.
Hermione massaged her temples against splitting headache.
"Adrian! Goddamn executioner!"
"Despicable conspirator!"
"Blatant foul! Eject that snake!"
Following momentary shock, Lee Jordan's complexion blazed scarlet as profanity erupted. Gryffindor stands matched his outrage, banners waving amid continuous protests.
Meanwhile, Adrian appeared genuinely bewildered mid-air—expression mixing regret with confused innocence.
Fred Weasley prepared to charge, but Marcus and teammates intercepted his advance.
Madam Hooch reacted with professional efficiency, immediately cushioning George's descent with magical intervention. Quidditch pitch protective enchantments prevented player fatalities.
"Child, are you conscious?"
"How do you feel?"
Distant voices seemed to drift from celestial heights.
George Weasley battled waves of nausea and skull-splitting pain, struggling to lift impossibly heavy eyelids.
The world appeared shrouded in gossamer mist, Madam Hooch's silhouette blurred beyond recognition.
Only after bitter potion flooded his mouth did relief begin penetrating the agony.
"I'm... fine, Madam..."
"I can still play..."
"Absolutely not, child. You require immediate medical attention."
Madam Hooch firmly restrained George's attempts to rise.
Gryffindor substitutes arrived with stretchers, transporting him toward the hospital wing.
"Ten points to Gryffindor. Adrian Pucey receives one foul—three strikes mandate ejection."
Amid Gryffindor protests, Madam Hooch mounted her broom and ascended, hawk-like scrutiny fixing on the perpetrator before whistle-blast signaled match resumption.
Quidditch regulations permitted collisions, elbowing, and grappling—but imposed draconian penalties for malicious fouls.
Slytherin remained masters of rule manipulation. Marcus and company displayed zero satisfaction, instead offering continuous apologies to Gryffindor players.
This behavior appeared normal.
Utterly abnormal.
When had proud, self-possessed Slytherins ever genuflected before rash, crude Gryffindors?
Such apologies constituted pure mockery.
Fred Weasley trembled with homicidal rage. Oliver Wood's teeth grinding echoed audibly across the pitch.
Atmospheric volatility intensified exponentially—collisions and curses triggering Madam Hooch's repeated whistle interventions.
At that precise moment, Lisa—who'd been hovering without engaging in aerial combat—swallowed her cookie with deliberate calm.
She rolled away from a Bludger's surprise attack. Nearby, Angelina Johnson lowered her bat, glaring with arctic hostility. Lisa responded with serene smile.
"Bitch, you'll regret this momentarily."
The enthusiastic greeting tinkled like crystal spring water.
Angelina couldn't decipher Lisa's words, but intuited their malevolent nature.
She abandoned further entanglement, diving after Fred Weasley in pursuit of Adrian—seeking vengeance for George's assault.
"Mr. Potter..."
Lisa arched one elegant eyebrow, observing Harry Potter's continued Golden Snitch hunting, lips parting with silken menace.
"A publication featuring the Savior's intimate encounters with house-elves in the hospital wing would prove... extraordinarily popular."
As her words settled like death sentences, Lisa adjusted her broom trajectory, gliding toward Harry Potter with spectral stealth.
Initially, Harry had radiated pure excitement—his Nimbus 2000's velocity genuinely unmatched.
Lisa had deliberately avoided pursuit, refusing to chase like some mindless insect.
Now, however, escalating field violence had obviously rattled the first-time competitor. His aerial vigilance deteriorated progressively—without teammate protection, Bludgers would have eliminated him long ago.
"Shelby spoke absolute truth."
"Slytherin men indeed surpass livestock—otherwise Slytherin women would collapse from exhaustion."
Just as Harry Potter detected the Golden Snitch's flight pattern with keen precision, Lisa had already positioned herself behind him with phantom silence—not even wind betraying her presence.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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