"Fine, Flint—I'd like to see whose neck snaps this time..."
Oliver Wood's teeth-grinding was audible, but witnessing his teammates' injuries, the fury and frustration in his eyes ultimately dissolved into silent resignation.
The second half had been utterly barbaric—Slytherin players maintaining relentless one-on-one pressure throughout.
Movement amplitude so exaggerated, flying speeds so perilous, even he felt his blood run cold watching.
Gryffindor could contest possession—provided they protected their skulls.
Beater's bats generated wind-whistle that raised every hair on end.
After Marcus Flint directly tackled him from his broomstick, both plummeting from altitude together, Gryffindor substitutes refused approaching Bludgers. Despite Angelina's constant roaring, that mutual-destruction methodology proved terrifying beyond contemplation.
Had these lunatics lost their minds completely?
Within the hospital wing, Gryffindor players observed opposing Slytherin teammates—eyes saturated with incredulity and wariness.
This transcended courage. Any rational person would decline death-matches with madmen.
Hagrid cautiously poked his massive head through the doorway, apparently checking for Madam Pomfrey's presence.
Discovering Harry Potter and company had awakened, he entered cheerfully, placing fruit beside Harry's bed while lowering his voice:
"Are you alright, Harry?"
"You terrified us all when you fell—Professor Snape even had a tremendous row with Dumbledore."
"What?!"
Though Hagrid's voice was extremely subdued by his standards, it remained quite audible.
Everyone stared at the gamekeeper incredulously, especially Slytherin team members.
"Perhaps..."
Harry commented with peculiar expression: "Perhaps he was preventing my rescue."
He could envision Snape's elation witnessing his fall.
Precisely!
At these words, everyone displayed expressions of absolute certainty.
Including Slytherin teammates.
Their Head of House'sPotter antipathy had been broadcast throughout the school by Draco Malfoy—they'd observed it firsthand.
"Don't speak nonsense, Harry."
"Snape would never behave thus." Hagrid shook his head rapidly, thick beard trembling. "He's always opposed your Seeker position, but Professor McGonagall truly believes in you..."
"I knew it—Slytherin contains no decent people." Ron curled his lip, interrupting Hagrid's explanation.
For him, anyone preventing Quidditch participation qualified as ultimate villainy.
"Ron!!!"
Hermione instinctively glared. Ron reflexively covered his nose.
Nevertheless, he declared indignantly:
"Even if you shatter my nose, I must say—all Slytherins are executioners."
"Tiger issues the commands!"
"He's Slytherin's most evil dark wizard—he leads Flint and the others!"
Hearing this, Oliver Wood frowned, tugging Ron's clothing.
Executioner, dark wizard—hardly complimentary terms for self-proclaimed noble purebloods.
Equivalent to indicating Muggle-born wizards while shouting "Mudblood."
Ordinarily, both Houses might erupt into violence over such vocabulary.
Observing righteously indignant Ron showing zero reaction, Oliver Wood turned toward the opposition.
Marcus and company nodded silently, eyes flickering with lingering satisfaction.
Oliver Wood: ???
They remained immersed in unprecedented fervor and fulfillment. Terrorizing enemies proved more addictive than victory itself.
Ron glared with bulging eyes, grinding teeth as he continued: "I witnessed everything personally!"
"He instructed Flint somehow, causing George and Fred's broomstick ejection!"
"He intended murdering Harry!"
"You're still defending him—absolutely incomprehensible! Are your eyes clogged with Flobberworms?!"
Facing Ron's furious accusations, Hermione silently lowered her Herbology textbook.
Not because she couldn't observe.
But because she understood Tiger—if Tiger genuinely wanted eliminating someone, he wouldn't delay until now.
"No! Hermione! Please!"
Under Harry's pleading gaze, she seized the Nimbus 2000 beside the bed, swinging it violently toward Ron.
Fortunately, Hagrid stood adjacent.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa—calm down, child!"
"Friends shouldn't fight..."
Hagrid intercepted Hermione with his broad palm.
Ron, nearly struck like a Bludger, stared shock-frozen at the broomstick handle inches from his face—pupils contracting slowly, forehead perspiration dripping.
"Brilliant..."
"She should become a Beater."
"Absolutely—far more vicious than Adrian's strike on me. Poor little Ronnie..."
Weasley twins applauded and cheered theatrically while everyone regarded them speechlessly.
"Appears you're all in excellent spirits." Tiger entered carrying consolation gifts.
His savage, fierce, imposing presence made Oliver Wood and company tremble involuntarily.
Behind spectacles, profound eyes seemed swirling with menacing energy—spine-chilling.
Slytherins following raised their chins slightly, observing Oliver Wood and others with pure contempt.
"Mate, I don't know what you accomplished, but observe Fred—this isn't finished!"
George Weasley stared seriously at Tiger, despite his placement of numerous sweets and treats on tables.
Fred Weasley, previously spirited, now covered his forehead while lying limply—adopting the appearance of impending demise, constantly emitting weak groans.
Tiger shrugged.
"Actually tolerable. Once Marcus and company accumulate experience, you won't suffer so extensively."
Experience?
What experience?
Weasley twins' expressions darkened as Tiger grinned wickedly.
"Ageing Potion or Polyjuice Potion—choose one."
He approached Hagrid—the lioness's pitiful expression appearing genuinely pathetic.
"I want..."
Before George could speak, Fred Weasley suddenly bounced upright, speaking first:
"Both! Double portions!"
Such matches proved troublesome—mentally and physically.
But within their unrestrained personalities blazed adventurous desire for transformation.
Abandoning past irritating tricks, they preferred this ferocious, direct methodology.
However, since Beater's bats were no longer single-purpose, never underestimate Weasley vindictiveness.
"Deal!"
Tiger waved decisively, simultaneously extracting Hermione from Hagrid's embrace.
"Girls shouldn't fight with broomsticks."
Under Harry's grateful gaze, Tiger confiscated the Nimbus 2000 from Hermione's hands, returning it to him.
"You should use this."
Tiger produced brass knuckles from his pocket—treasures from his smaller-bodied days.
Ninth birthday gift from big brother Arthur.
Perfect tactile sensation.
Gleaming brass knuckles featured sharp serrated edges—like tiger tongue barbs. One ordinary punch could scrape away substantial flesh.
"No, Tiger, I..."
Hermione regarded Tiger with indescribable expression.
What should she say—thank this gangster heir for not providing large-caliber revolvers?
"Dislike them?"
Tiger raised an eyebrow.
Completely missing Hermione's implications, he nevertheless pressed the brass knuckles into her hands.
"This suffices."
"Next time I'll get you a pink one."
What does color matter?!
Imagining Hermione wearing brass knuckles, Ron's complexion immediately paled. Harry secretly conveyed a "you're on your own" expression.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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