"Slytherin secures the Quaffle!"
"That bastard Adrian Pucey isn't going for goal—what the hell is he planning?"
"Bloody provocation!"
"Shatter his nose, Weasley!"
"No, no, Professor, don't confiscate the microphone—just a joke, won't happen again..."
Lee Jordan's commentary crescendoed with manic excitement while the pitch atmosphere thickened into something genuinely menacing.
Adrian Pucey hammered the Quaffle backward with vicious intent. Fred Weasley twisted desperately aside, the screaming projectile grazing his shoulder—cold sweat erupting across his skin.
Distance widened between them in microseconds.
"Terribly sorry, Weasley—truly didn't mean it... if you genuinely believe otherwise..."
"Fucking bastard!"
Wind-carried apologies vanished like smoke. Fred Weasley's complexion darkened to thundercloud gray, emotions igniting into uncontrollable inferno.
Madam Hooch hovered with furrowed concentration, declining match interruption while whistle-blast and raised hand signaled Adrian's second violation.
The perpetrator radiated zero concern, instead sweeping low past Gryffindor stands—triggering explosive profanity from outraged lions. Pure, calculated provocation.
Seeking justice for George, Angelina Johnson gritted her teeth and closed the trap.
"Slytherin coward!"
"Can you only run like a scared rabbit?"
Fred Weasley swung his Beater's bat with homicidal fury.
Adrian ducked beneath the strike, snatching the Quaffle from behind while ignoring Fred's verbal assault.
Peripheral vision caught Lisa's signal.
He yanked upward sharply—seemingly escaping encirclement, actually magnetizing every gaze to his airborne form.
Including Madam Hooch's.
"Come then, Weasley!"
"Let's discover who's truly spineless!"
Reaching altitude limits, Adrian'sQuaffle slipped with theatrical timing.
Before gloating commentary could erupt, he reversed trajectory and plummeted earthward.
This apparent ball-rescue transformed into high-velocity train collision—two locomotives meeting in catastrophic, unforeseeable impact.
Fred Weasley, pursuing relentlessly, registered zero reaction time before agony flooded his nervous system like tsunamis.
Darkness consumed both players' vision progressively.
In final, blurred light fragments, Fred glimpsed the savage grin twisting Adrian's features.
Bone-snapping sounds reached Madam Hooch's ears. High-altitude plummeting despair triggered stadium-wide screaming—every spectator experiencing collision trauma vicariously.
"FRED!"
Ron's complexion drained to corpse-white. Hagrid pounded his thighs anxiously from behind while Hermione fixed Tiger with laser focus, cheeks inflating like balloons.
Madam Hooch cushioned both falling figures, settling them gently onto grass.
"MAGNIFICENT!"
Draco Malfoy and companions celebrated with raised fists, composed facades shattering into pure satisfaction.
"Excessive, certainly."
"But maximum efficiency methodology."
"This isn't traditional Slytherin style, though."
"Peculiar..."
Ravenclaw eagles frowned collectively. This match defied all predictions entirely.
Beyond Adrian's collision with the Weasley twins, Marcus and teammates conducted aerial warfare with unprecedented savagery.
Annoying, headache-inducing dirty tricks vanished completely—technique deteriorating into crude brutality.
During these ten minutes, Beaters' bats missed Bludgers entirely, nearly connecting with Gryffindor skulls repeatedly.
Chasers abandoned passing, charging goal posts solo with Quaffles—colliding with Gryffindor counterparts in bone-jarring tangles, impact thuds inducing dental sensitivity.
They're orchestrating this deliberately.
Roger Davies compressed his lips into thin lines.
As Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, his tactical analysis of House playing styles could fill volumes. Marcus, Adrian, and company were utterly predictable quantities.
Historical precedent suggested Gryffindor would destabilize under Slytherin's escalating psychological warfare—ultimately trapped in endless confrontational quagmires, surrendering match rhythm and self-control.
Current reality presented complete role reversal, leaving observers speechless.
Under Oliver Wood's constant restraint, Gryffindor players maintained exceptional composure.
Slytherin appeared emotionally unhinged—metamorphosing from opportunistic striking serpents into blood-drunk beasts, ferocious and suicidally reckless.
"Absolute lunatics... complete madmen."
"This is merely a match..."
"What's possessed them?"
"Feels like watching rugby, honestly."
Hufflepuff stands buzzed with incredulous discussion. Little badgers exchanged glances harboring genuine fear and concern.
Cedric crossed his arms, warm sunshine smile vanishing entirely—replaced by profound worry.
He recognized the implications clearly. This playing style represented Hufflepuff's worst nightmare scenario.
Little badgers pursued victory minimally, prioritizing enjoyment above competition.
They never initiated confrontation.
But they couldn't withstand being confronted.
Beater's bat impacts induced scalp-crawling terror. Slytherin wasn't playing Quidditch—they were assaulting people.
"Albus..."
Professor McGonagall sensed atmospheric shift, whirling toward Dumbledore with match-stopping intent.
Unexpectedly, the headmaster's weathered features bloomed like chrysanthemums.
"Simply observe quietly, Minerva."
"What!"
Professor McGonagall stared with absolute disbelief.
Every Slytherin player resembled mutual-destruction assassins, and he wanted passive observation?
Dumbledore sighed with nostalgic longing.
"Do you comprehend what this evokes?"
Profound, wise eyes seemed transcending temporal boundaries, radiating indescribable luminescence.
"The England Lions from fifty years past..."
That World Cup remained unforgettable—not solely due to England's national team ferocity, but because a foolish companion had accompanied him through the entire spectacle.
Professor McGonagall appeared stunned.
She remembered that match vividly.
England Lions' death-defying methodology completely shattered Germany's steel-forged spirit.
Contemporary Quidditch regulations lacked current refinement—by conclusion, only England's substitute players survived.
"Minerva, courage's precious nature isn't exclusively displayed during difficulties and desperate circumstances."
"It represents starlight in darkness—guiding confused, helpless youth to break free from constraints and emerge from wilderness."
"Regardless of future paths, they've ultimately chosen alternative routes, haven't they?"
Rather than that immediately visible dead end.
Dumbledore smiled with relieved satisfaction toward Slytherin—as if witnessing something's birth.
However, the following second, amid tsunami-like exclamations, his kindly aged smile froze absolutely.
"This path... proves genuinely wicked."
Observing Harry Potter's mid-air descent, Professor McGonagall sank into profound silence.
Joining her speechlessness was the dumbfounded Professor Quirrell.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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