The stadium erupted in thunderous cheers as Gryffindor and Slytherin players burst from the broom shed, soaring into formation around the pitch.
Professor McGonagall's voice crackled through the magical amplification system, professional composure barely containing her excitement.
"Today's match sees Slytherin face Gryffindor—both houses known for their... robust playing style. I do hope our players will exercise appropriate caution to avoid serious injury."
"This marks our final match of the term. Students, enjoy the spectacle..."
Surveying Slytherin's menacing formation, Oliver Wood hovered in mid-air, casting a helpless glance at the supremely confident Lee Jordan.
"Jordan, remember what we discussed—the instant your Shield Charm fails, you get off that pitch. No heroics."
"Bloody hell, Wood!" Lee Jordan made an exaggerated show of cleaning his ears. "You've said that so many times I'm developing calluses."
"I'm not here to run away like some scared first-year. Look at me—I'm twice as strong as any of those Slytherin gits."
He swung his Beater's bat with theatrical flourish, the wood cutting through air with a satisfying whoosh.
"Just watch—I'll swat them down one by one like the flies they are..."
Harry had no intention of commenting on Lee's bravado. Slytherin's true brutality only revealed itself once the whistle blew.
In the Slytherin stands, Tiger observed Lee Jordan with cool detachment, his lips moving in barely audible whispers.
Whatever he said sent predatory grins spreading across Marcus Flint and his teammates' faces.
Catching this exchange, Harry felt his scalp prickle with foreboding.
His mind drifted to the previous week's match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff—a genuine display of tactical brilliance and sporting courage. That had been Quidditch.
This felt more like preparing for war.
Professor Snape strode to the pitch's center, whistle dangling unused from his fingers like a forgotten prop. His cold gaze swept the hovering players with tangible menace, sending involuntary shivers through even the most seasoned competitors.
Marcus and Wood quickly marshaled their teams into neat formations at midfield.
"I trust..." Snape began, his voice carrying the silky menace of a drawn blade, "that certain individuals understand Quidditch isn't some celebrity showcase where reputation alone ensures victory."
His obsidian eyes found Harry with laser precision. "Perhaps the boasts echoing through our corridors will become obituaries in tomorrow's Daily Prophet..."
Snape kicked the ball crate open with casual violence. The Golden Snitch and Bludgers immediately took flight, eager for chaos.
Marcus and his teammates exchanged low, mocking laughter while Harry's grip on his Firebolt tightened until the wood creaked ominously. Behind his glasses, emerald eyes blazed with barely contained fury.
The Potions Master hefted the Quaffle, fixing Harry with one final warning glare before hurling it skyward.
"Let the match... commence."
The moment the Quaffle left Snape's hands, chaos erupted.
Lee Jordan dove with impressive speed, snatching the scarlet ball against his chest with triumphant satisfaction.
"Got it! Now let's see what these snakes can—"
CRACK.
Slytherin Beaters' bats connected with Lee's skull in perfect synchronization. His Shield Charm exploded into glittering fragments as two emerald blurs streaked past his flanks.
Before the crowd could process what had happened, Adrian Pucey materialized above the stunned Chaser, driving his broom's reinforced handle into Lee's sternum with bone-crushing force.
Lee Jordan's world went black. He plummeted from his broom like a stone, hitting the pitch with a sickening thud that silenced half the stadium.
Two seconds. The match had lasted exactly two seconds, and Professor Snape hadn't even mounted his broom.
"Oh, Jordan!" Professor McGonagall's voice carried genuine alarm through the speakers.
Snape turned to observe the clearly broken figure behind him, his eye twitching with what might have been regret.
Now he understood why Madam Hooch had categorically refused to referee Slytherin matches.
"Harry Potter has caught the Golden Snitch!"
"Match concluded—two hundred eighty points to two hundred ninety. Victory to... Slytherin!"
Professor McGonagall's announcement carried resigned acceptance while the Slytherin stands exploded in savage celebration.
"BRILLIANT!"
"Outstanding work, Marcus!"
"Adrian! Bletchley! You should spike those bats with iron nails next time!"
"Damn it all—why didn't you flatten Potter too?"
Draco Malfoy's face twisted with frustration as Harry landed smoothly, Golden Snitch clutched in his fist.
During the match's brutal middle phase, when Bludgers had shattered the Weasley twins' protective charms, forcing their angry retreat and substitution, Draco had strutted to the Gryffindor stands for some therapeutic gloating.
Ron, pushed beyond endurance, had launched himself at the Slytherin prince with admirable fury but deplorable technique. His rugby training proved utterly inadequate—Draco pinned him effortlessly, leaving Ron red-faced and nearly apoplectic with rage.
The situation only resolved when Hermione donned brass knuckles and dropped Crabbe with a precision liver shot, then produced a butterfly knife that sent Goyle fleeing with suspiciously damp robes.
"That wasn't Quidditch!" Wood raged in the broom shed, his team slumped in defeat around him. "That was organized violence!"
He punctuated his fury by kicking the wooden panels, each impact echoing his frustration.
After his Shield Charm had failed, only lightning-fast reflexes had saved his teeth from Marcus's follow-up swing.
"But they bled more than we did," Harry observed quietly.
The simple statement cut through Wood's tirade like a blade. If Gryffindor had lost embarrassingly, Slytherin had won at horrific cost—their emerald robes were painted crimson with their own blood.
Wood swallowed hard, remembering the mutual destruction when Angelina and Slytherin's Keeper had collided mid-air.
Those maniacs hadn't even bothered with Shield Charms.
How had they found such courage?
"Easy, Wood," George Weasley said, draping a fraternal arm around the Captain's shoulders. His grin had returned, undiminished by defeat. "We lost fair and square. No dirty tricks, no cheating—they were just more willing to bleed for victory."
Fred massaged his grotesquely swollen cheek, somehow still managing to smile. "Honestly? I'm starting to respect the bastards."
He'd witnessed Bletchley deliberately intercept a Bludger meant for Adrian, shoving his teammate aside and absorbing the bone-shattering impact himself. The Keeper had endured it with gritted teeth and manic laughter, blood seeping through his jersey in heart-stopping patterns.
As the Beater who'd sent that Bludger, Fred had seen everything.
If this had been actual warfare, every Slytherin player would have earned his absolute trust.
The cowering snakes of previous years had transformed into apex predators—wild, proud, and utterly fearless.
Following post-match tradition, Tiger led his Slytherin underclassmen into the hospital wing bearing gifts for all casualties, regardless of house affiliation.
This was sport, not vendetta.
His dramatic personality shift from pre-match intimidation to post-match magnanimity left Angelina and the other Gryffindors torn between annoyance and grudging amusement. The Weasley twins shared their conflicted feelings.
Long-standing house rivalries prevented genuine warmth, and physical pain combined with stinging defeat made smiles impossible anyway.
Until Tiger reached Lee Jordan's bed.
The young man lay unconscious, his torso wrapped in pristine white bandages that couldn't quite hide the severity of his injuries. Tiger studied him with uncharacteristic silence.
This one was personal. No question.
Wood and the others remembered Tiger's openly expressed racial prejudices from before term began...
"Bursed," Tiger called to a nearby Slytherin prefect. "Fetch Madam Pomfrey immediately."
"He requires additional treatment."
Wood and his teammates exchanged startled glances.
Was the Slytherin actually experiencing guilt?
Tiger distributed his remaining gifts to the younger Slytherins, then fixed the prefect with deadly seriousness.
"His entire leg has gone necrotic—amputation is the only option. We can't simply ignore gangrenous tissue..."
Wood and company: "..."
The Gryffindors stared in speechless horror.
Please tell us you're joking.
🔥 Want to read the next 30 chapters RIGHT NOW?
💎 Patreon members get instant access!
⚡ Limited-time offer currently running...
👉 [Join on - patreon.com/DarkGolds]