Flint and his team, seeing the seven Nimbus 2001s in the Gryffindors' hands, were all struck dumb.
Draco's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "How could you afford Nimbus 2001s!"
"Seven of them!"
"You're right, you little bed-wetter." Fred leaned on his broom, grinning. "It was a friendly sponsorship for the Gryffindor team, from His Majesty the Lion King."
Hearing this, Draco's heart leaped. Seven Nimbus 2001s... that's over ten thousand Galleons. That Scarhead... is that rich?!
"Alright, that's enough chatting." Madam Hooch, acting as referee, blew her whistle. "Now, I want a clean flight! Mount your brooms!"
As the players rose into the air, she gave the crate a hard kick. The lid flew open. The Golden Snitch shot skyward, followed by the two iron-like Bludgers.
Madam Hooch grabbed the Quaffle and threw it high. The announcer, Lee Jordan, roared, "And the match has officially begun!"
The Quaffle flew, and several red and green figures shot after it like arrows.
Draco, knowing his eyes were slow and his hands clumsy, was no match for the Snitch. He just locked his broom onto Harry's tail, waiting for a chance to intercept.
He followed Harry, crisscrossing the sky, but he saw Harry wasn't even looking for the Snitch. Suddenly, Harry let out a great roar.
"Beaters, where are you! Quickly, defend the left flank!"
Draco was startled. He looked up and saw George, his bat held back, come rolling in. With one mighty swing, he sent a Bludger smashing toward the Slytherin Chasers.
The blow was like a meteor falling into a nest of snakes. The Slytherin Chasers were thrown into chaos.
Katie Bell saw her opening, snatched the Quaffle, and dove for the Slytherin hoops.
The two Slytherin Beaters saw her. They raised their bats and flew side-by-side to block her.
Harry saw it all. He gave a sharp whistle. Two figures shot in from the flanks: Angelina and Alieya.
Both had been training their bodies hard with Harry. They slammed their shoulders into the Beaters, sending them reeling, nearly falling from their brooms.
Katie shot through the opening. A red streak flew, and the Quaffle sailed through the hoop.
In the commentary box, Lee Jordan leaped to his feet. "GRYFFINDOR SCORES!"
Draco, having seen the entire play unfold, was stunned, as if hit by a Petrification curse.
That Scarhead... he's also the Gryffindor coach?!
Wait... does that mean he's too busy to look for the Snitch?
A flash of gold at the corner of his eye. He was about to lunge for it when a red shadow tore past him. The wind nearly knocked him off his broom.
When he looked again, who else could it be but Harry?
(A poem for the occasion):
The Lion banner waves, the team is set,
Harry sits firm, the strategist.
He commands the field without delay,
And still has time the Snitch to chase.
In just a few minutes, Gryffindor had scored repeatedly. Flint's face was ashen. His team, overconfident in their new brooms, had slacked off on training. They hadn't expected Gryffindor to have Nimbus 2001s, nor for every player to be so ferocious. They couldn't keep up.
As the saying goes: All's fair in war. Flint, seeing they couldn't score, rolled his eyes and made three strange sounds in his throat. His team, all veteran scoundrels, understood immediately.
The two Slytherin Beaters, abandoning their duty, circled as if playing, but their thieving eyes were locked on Harry.
When they were close, one let out a roar, his bat whistling as he aimed for Harry's chest. The other, bellowing like an ox, swung his bat in a wide arc at Harry's spine.
The two bats struck Harry's front and back simultaneously.
THUD! THUD!
The bats struck Harry, but he did not move an inch, as solid as Mount Tai.
Lee Jordan screamed, "FOUL! A BLATANT, DISGUSTING FOUL!"
"YOU TWO BASTARDS SHOULD BE IN AZKABAN!"
The crowd booed. Ron and Hermione were screaming curses. Even Professor McGonagall, forgetting house unity, looked furious.
"Listen to me!" Wood's eyes were red, panting with rage. "Winning doesn't matter anymore. I want you to swat every one of those Slytherins out of the sky like flies!"
He was indebted to Harry for the brooms. To see his brother ambushed with such viciousness was more than he could bear.
If not for Harry's body, which was forged like copper and iron, he'd be in the hospital wing.
Fred and George's eyes were murderous. They nodded, saying nothing.
Harry had been insulted. How could they not repay the debt?
Madam Hooch blew her whistle and flew over, furious. "Derrick! Bole!"
"What do you think you're doing?!"
Derrick feigned panic. "Oh, sorry, Madam Hooch. I just mistook Potter's head for a Bludger."
Bole chimed in, "That's right! You know, I'm near-sighted. How about we just let Potter hit us back, and we'll call it even?"
Seeing their lack of remorse, Madam Hooch was enraged. But Harry called out:
"Since you two have said so, this one will strike each of you one palm. And we will call the matter done. How about it?"
Derrick and Bole looked at each other and quickly agreed. "You said it, Potter! Don't back out!"
They were both fourth-years, a head taller than Harry. What harm could one slap do?
Madam Hooch wanted to punish them by the book, but seeing they all wanted to settle it privately, she relented. "Fine. If you insist."
Bole flew up to Harry, crossing his arms. "Come on, Potter. Don't say I didn't give you a ch—"
Before he finished, Harry's five fingers had splayed open and shot forward. The slap felt like a white-browed tiger swiping its steel claws, like a demon bear licking with its thorny tongue. It nearly tore the skin from his face.
SMACK!
The scoundrel didn't even have time to scream. A spray of blood erupted, and he fell from his broom like a broken kite.
Derrick's jaw dropped.
That's a second-year wizard?! I'd believe it if you told me a troll just slapped him!
Harry turned to him. Derrick's face went white. "No, wait, Harry! We can talk about this!"
"Talk about what birds!" Harry grabbed the front of his robes, raised his palm, and roared, "Now, taste this one's palm!"
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