[Golden Snitch!!!]
Harry Potter keenly caught a dazzling streak of brilliance. The chaos and clamor beneath his broomstick seemed instantly severed from reality.
The Weasley brothers assigned to protect him had already been carted off to the hospital wing. He simply wanted to seize the Golden Snitch as quickly as possible—ending this catastrophically dangerous match that resembled a motorway pile-up.
Oliver Wood had never mentioned that Quidditch required wagering your bloody life!
"Merlin's beard, this is terrifying..."
Harry gritted his teeth, streaking toward that brilliant gleam above. Lisa followed his trajectory, spotting the Snitch simultaneously—her broom igniting with acceleration.
However, she wasn't pursuing the Golden Snitch. Her broomstick's wooden handle aimed diagonally below the Snitch—precisely where she predicted Harry Potter would momentarily hover.
Trace potion quantities in her cookies had lightened her body considerably while sharpening her senses.
Such behavior was prohibited in official Quidditch matches, but this was merely inter-House competition—their Head of House couldn't be bothered with inspections.
Just as Harry Potter prepared to accelerate and snatch the Golden Snitch—
His Nimbus 2000 suddenly convulsed and twisted beneath him, forcing desperate grip on the handle.
Sharp wind-whistle erupted from behind. Harry Potter instinctively twisted backward.
Behind wire-rimmed spectacles, confused and terrified eyes met Lisa's startled, innocent gaze directly.
The rounded, solid broomstick handle didn't shatter Harry Potter's ribs and knock him from the Nimbus 2000 as Lisa had calculated—instead striking straight toward the boy's skull.
Screams pierced the air.
Harry Potter's consciousness plunged into absolute darkness, tumbling cleanly from mid-air—form helpless and desperate.
Lisa delicately covered her mouth, blinking with self-reproach painted across her features, lengthy lashes misted with moisture.
"Terribly sorry, Mr. Potter."
"That must be excruciating..."
Beneath pale palms, exquisite lips curved into exaggerated crescents.
(°д°)
Professor Snape erupted from his seat, gloomy, profound features displaying rare shock and fury.
Professor Quirrell's lips parted slightly, blinking as if processing hadn't occurred.
Fortunately, Dumbledore intervened promptly—Harry Potter descended gently onto grass.
Madam Hooch and Gryffindor teammates converged while Madam Pomfrey delivered potions.
Megaphone cacophony died completely.
Slytherin players suspended mid-air, coldly observing Gryffindor stands. Except for Lisa, every visage was blood-stained.
Beyond Slytherin stands, deathly silence reigned.
They declined scoring during this intermission or capturing the Golden Snitch to conclude the match.
Instead, they fixed predatory gazes on Oliver Wood and company—eyes blazing with hunger and avarice.
Gryffindor players bore universal injuries. Of eight teammates, excluding Oliver Wood and Angelina Johnson, all had been replaced with substitutes.
Facing Raven Burke's substitution reminder, Marcus Flint and company slowly declined, refusing replacements.
Devouring prey proved addictive. Gryffindor's trembling fury intoxicated them.
How could they surrender such feasting to others?
Adrian Pucey, already ejected, materialized beside Tiger.
Adrenaline surges and Father's approving gaze rendered him incapable of stillness—thin, frail frame continuously broadcasting combat signals.
After Harry Potter's stretcher departure, Oliver Wood led nervous substitutes skyward.
Whistle-blast echoed across the pitch.
"Match... match resumes..."
"Current score: eighty to one hundred twenty... appears... Slytherin..."
"Is going... to lose..."
Megaphone commentary carried uncertain tremors.
Tiger gazed expressionlessly toward Lee Jordan. Sensing scrutiny, Lee turned reflexively. Tiger raised his thumb, slowly drawing it across his throat with savage smile.
Green light flashed.
Male roars, female screams, infant cries—all instantly silenced.
After wandering darkness eternally, weak, hazy illumination seeped into consciousness while external noise gradually clarified.
"What... happened..."
Harry Potter attempted lifting his eyelids.
Body and consciousness heaviness rendered even trembling arduous.
"It was Tiger!"
"Ron, listen to me..."
"I witnessed everything!"
"That bastard made throat-slitting gestures at Lee Jordan—barbaric and cruel! Slytherin truly has no..."
BANG.
Ron's furious roar ceased abruptly, followed by aggrieved, pained whimpering.
"Sorry, Ron..."
Hermione froze momentarily, dropping her Herbology textbook to assist trembling Ron from the floor.
"Don't touch me..."
"Wuu... you should join Slytherin too... let them taste book-battering..." Ron covered his cheek, tears and snot streaming.
Weasley twins laughed heartlessly from adjacent beds despite bandage-wrapped skulls.
"Ron... Her... mione..."
Weak vocalization emerged. Whimpering froze as Ron and Hermione rushed bedside.
"Harry! Are you feeling alright?"
"How are you!"
"I'm... fine..."
Harry Potter trembled, squinting barely open.
Vision blurred—friends' outlines merging through gossamer mist.
Mist dissipated rapidly.
Sight sharpened progressively—Ron and Hermione's worried expressions materializing.
"Perfect timing—my prediction proved accurate."
"Poor child."
"Consume this potion immediately."
Hurried footsteps announced Madam Pomfrey's entrance with freshly brewed remedy.
Before Harry could speak, indescribable bitterness and viscosity invaded his mouth.
Warming sensation spread from stomach throughout his body—heavy skull lightening with therapeutic heat.
Witnessing healthy coloration return to Harry Potter's complexion, Madam Pomfrey relaxed considerably, kindly gaze shifting toward Ron and Hermione with mild sternness.
"He requires additional rest."
"You..."
Before completion, Ron and Hermione clasped hands together, drooping faces pleading desperately:
"Madam, we'll remain briefly—just moments before returning."
"We're terribly worried about Harry—please."
Madam Pomfrey paused, sighing with resignation: "Very well, momentarily."
"Don't force me to chase you out..."
She departed. Ron and Hermione exhaled relief.
Sensing strength restoration, Harry Potter sat partially upright, positioning pillows behind his back.
"How did... the match conclude?"
He retrieved spectacles from the bedside table, still shaken remembering pre-unconsciousness events.
"Well..."
Ron's expression soured, seemingly reluctant to elaborate. Unable to withstand earnestness and anxiety in Harry's gaze, he gritted his teeth:
"Draw."
"One hundred fifty to one hundred fifty."
"Draw?!" Harry's eyes widened incredulously: "How could it be a draw?"
In Quidditch, without Golden Snitch capture, matches never concluded. History's longest Quidditch match lasted three complete months.
"When players are nearly all 'deceased,' how can competition continue?"
Oliver Wood's voice erupted with grinding teeth. Everyone observed.
The Quidditch captain's chest was bandage-wrapped like incomplete mummification.
"If you're dissatisfied, we can arrange another match."
"Next time I'll fracture all four limbs..."
Icy grunt emerged from the opposite end—tone saturated with unsatisfied viciousness and contempt.
Harry stared blankly.
A figure in Slytherin team robes—entire head bandage-wrapped, one leg suspended with splinting apparatus.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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