She tilted her head slightly toward Dylan, a small gesture of thanks. "My hat's been scaring a lot of people, so I thought I'd show it to you."
Dylan let out a chuckle. "It's definitely eye-catching. No wonder people get startled, but I think it's pretty cute."
Luna paused, her dreamy eyes flickering with a spark of something sharp.
Then she turned her attention back to the Quidditch pitch.
"Brilliant! Angelina Johnson fakes out Montague! She's charging forward—watch out, Angelina, Bludger on your left!"
Lee Jordan's voice spiked with a thrill of danger.
A loud thump echoed through the speakers.
Clearly, he'd slammed his hand on the table in excitement.
"She dodges it! And she scores! Ten to zero—Gryffindor takes the lead!"
The Gryffindor stands erupted in a tidal wave of cheers.
Students leapt to their feet, waving their scarves wildly.
Even the Gryffindors next to Dylan high-fived each other with unrestrained glee.
Angelina, perched on her broom, gave a proud toss of her chin, soaring a quick loop around the Gryffindor stands to soak in the roars of support.
"Oh no—" a gasp suddenly cut through the air.
Out of nowhere, Marcus Flint, Slytherin's Quidditch captain, shot forward on his broom.
He barreled straight toward Angelina with alarming speed.
The move was so fast and fierce that Angelina, caught off guard, wobbled dangerously, nearly tumbling off her broom.
She reacted just in time, gripping the handle tightly to steady herself.
"Sorry~"
Marcus Flint slowed down, turning to look at Angelina with a nasty smirk, his voice loud enough for those nearby to hear.
"Didn't see you there…"
His apology dripped with insincerity, his eyes gleaming with provocation.
The stands exploded with furious boos.
The Gryffindor students, in particular, shouted in outrage.
Madam Hooch pointed sharply at Flint, her brow furrowed.
It was a clear warning to play fair, but Flint just shrugged, unfazed, and drifted back to his team with a smug look.
That smirk didn't last long.
A sharp pain cracked against the back of his head.
Fred Weasley, acting on pure instinct, had swung his Beater's bat, the tip connecting perfectly with Flint's skull.
The hit was solid, and Flint's vision went dark for a split second. His body lurched forward, his nose smashing hard against the cold, unyielding handle of his broom.
A faint crack sounded, like a twig snapping.
Flint sucked in a sharp breath, pain exploding through his face as stars danced in his vision.
He wobbled, barely managing to steady himself after a moment.
When he touched his nose, his fingertips came away slick with warm, sticky blood.
Lifting his head, he could see his nose bent at an unnatural angle, twin streams of crimson pouring down, trailing over his trembling lips and dripping onto his uniform, staining it with vivid red splotches.
His earlier arrogance was gone, replaced by a glare of pure pain and fury, directed straight at Fred.
"Enough!"
Madam Hooch's shout thundered across the pitch, silencing the chaotic stands.
She zoomed between Fred and Flint on her broom, the tail kicking up a small gust of air.
Her brows were knotted tightly, her stern face now icy with anger as her gaze flicked between the two.
"Fred Weasley, striking another player with your bat for no reason—Gryffindor penalty!"
She paused, then turned to Flint, who was clutching his bleeding nose with a grimace.
"Marcus Flint, deliberately crashing into an opposing Chaser—foul play! Slytherin penalty! Both of you, play by the rules!"
Her final words were practically a roar, carrying an undeniable authority.
Dylan, watching from the stands, took it all in. He let out a soft sigh, a touch of exasperation in his expression.
"This is why I'm not a fan of Quidditch," he muttered, glancing at the tense atmosphere on the pitch and the bickering students in the stands. "If I were up there against Slytherin, I'd make them swear an Unbreakable Vow before the match even started."
Luna tilted her head, her voice as airy as ever.
She spoke slowly, swaying her head so the lion hat on her head—enchanted by Dylan to move—stayed fixed on Flint.
The hat seemed to pick up on her mood, occasionally opening its mouth to let out a deafening roar, its fluffy mane quivering with her movements.
But Luna's own gaze seemed to drift beyond the pitch, landing somewhere far off and unknowable.
The penalty shots began quickly.
For Gryffindor, Alicia Spinnet clutched the Quaffle, taking a deep breath, her eyes locked on Slytherin's goalposts.
She sprinted a few steps, then hurled the Quaffle. It sliced through the air in a clean arc, slipping past the Keeper's outstretched arm.
It sailed through the hoop with a whoosh.
"Great shot!" The Gryffindor stands burst into cheers.
Slytherin's turn came, and Warrington gripped the Quaffle, a hint of menace on his face.
He launched it toward Gryffindor's goal with force.
But Oliver Wood was ready. He leapt, his arm stretching out, and blocked the shot with ease.
"Brilliant, Wood!" The Gryffindor stands roared again with applause and cheers.
The score was now twenty to zero, Gryffindor in the lead.
High above, Harry Potter circled, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of the pitch, never letting his guard down.
The Golden Snitch hadn't appeared yet.
But he knew Draco Malfoy was out there, searching just as hard.
Quidditch rules were clear: catching the Snitch was worth 150 points.
Harry needed Gryffindor to be at least fifty points ahead before he could grab it to secure the win.
The pressure weighed heavily on him, keeping his nerves taut and his flying more cautious than usual.
He occasionally caught glimpses of Malfoy darting in the distance, looking just as anxious.
Then, Lee Jordan's voice blasted through the speakers again, this time laced with anger.
"…Look! It's Katie Bell! Brilliant girl! Gryffindor's Katie Bell's got the Quaffle—she's speeding down the pitch—that was deliberate!"
A loud thump rang out, Lee clearly slamming the table again.
All eyes turned to Katie Bell.
She was racing forward with the Quaffle, moving at breakneck speed.
Slytherin's Chaser, Montague, had somehow circled ahead of her. Instead of going for the Quaffle, he reached out, his arm aiming straight for Katie's head with a swift, ruthless grab.
At the last second, Katie pulled off a daring barrel roll in midair, her body nearly parallel to her broom.
Her long hair fanned out and fell as she barely held her balance, avoiding a fall.
But the Quaffle slipped from her grip, tumbling to the edge of the pitch.
The stands erupted in a storm of angry shouts and boos. Gryffindor's section was livid, students leaping up to point and yell at Montague.
Slytherin's stands were oddly quiet, save for a few sly smirks.
Luna's usually dreamy gaze sharpened instantly.
She slammed both hands on the railing in front of her with a loud smack.
At the same time, her lion hat opened its jaws, letting out a roaring bellow, its amber eyes glaring furiously at Montague.
"Despicable! Foul!" Luna echoed her hat's roar, her voice rising in anger.
She scrunched her face, trying to look fierce.
But her perpetually hazy eyes made her outrage seem more like earnest, childlike determination than intimidating.
Dylan, standing beside her, caught her expression and felt his lips twitch.
He quickly pressed them together to hide his amusement.
"It's not funny," Luna said suddenly, turning to him with a serious look, as if she had eyes in the back of her head.
Her voice was quiet but firm, her gaze locking onto his.
Dylan's faint smile vanished.
He nodded, his expression sobering.
He looked at Montague, who was casually shaking out his empty hand, a trace of regret on his face for missing his target.
Dylan's eyes flashed with clear disdain. "You're right. That was a low move. Completely out of line."
Watching Slytherin's unapologetic antics and the shared indignation of the other three houses' students, Dylan suddenly understood.
No wonder that morning, as he left the Gryffindor common room, he'd seen so many Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students gathered in the corridors.
The early sunlight had just spilled over the castle's spires.
Hufflepuffs were clutching little yellow-and-black ribboned pom-poms, pressing them into Gryffindor players' hands with smiles.
Near the Fat Friar's portrait, a group of Ravenclaw girls held up a parchment banner that read, "Go Gryffindor!"
Even under Rowena Ravenclaw's statue, usually surrounded by bookish students, a few older Ravenclaws were sketching out tactical gestures for Harry and the team.
Angelina had blushed, scratching her head, saying she hadn't expected so much support.
Wood, ever serious, had muttered that they couldn't afford to lose now.
That kind of scene would never happen for Slytherin.
For Slytherin to have earned such a reputation at Hogwarts was almost impressive.
Whenever they lost a match, the other three houses could practically throw a joint celebration.
Even the house-elves would sneak an extra treacle tart or two onto Gryffindor's table.
Slytherin's Quidditch team had truly earned their infamy.
Tactics were one thing, but Slytherin's approach was something else.
From Seekers to Beaters, they treated fouls like second nature.
They'd aim for an opponent's wrist when crashing into them, knee their lower back during intercepts, or even have their Keeper sneakily trip a player during a penalty shot.
Who could stand that kind of blatant thuggery?
Madam Hooch was clearly fed up.
She hovered in front of Montague, her silver hair practically bristling with anger, her silver whistle creaking in her grip.
"Montague! You think I didn't see that? Grabbing at another player's head? This is Quidditch, not a brawl!"
Her voice carried far over the wind. "Gryffindor gets another penalty shot! One more stunt like that, and you're off the pitch!"
Montague hung his head, his fingers rubbing his broom handle, muttering, "It wasn't on purpose."
But the smirk tugging at his lips was plain to see.
When Katie Bell picked up the Quaffle again, her knuckles were white with tension.
Montague's nails had nearly grazed her cheek, and the thought still sent a shiver through her.
She took a deep breath, tucking her hair behind her ears, her eyes burning with a mix of anger and resolve as she stared down Slytherin's goalposts.
Her footsteps were heavier this time, and when she threw the Quaffle, it whipped through the air with a gust.
The ball grazed the Keeper's fingertips, slamming into the goalpost's inner rim with a clang that shook the frame.
"Thirty to zero! Gryffindor's up by thirty!"
Lee Jordan's voice crackled like a firecracker, reverberating across the pitch.
Dylan could practically see him through the speakers: one foot on the commentary desk, gripping the megaphone, his face flushed with excitement.
"Slytherin, take note of that score! That's what you get for playing dirty, you sneaky, shameless—"
"Jordan," Professor McGonagall's voice cut in, calm but with a faint edge. "If you can't stay impartial—"
"Professor, I'm just telling it like it is!" Lee's voice faltered, then surged louder. "Am I supposed to say 'nice try' to Montague's stunt?"
McGonagall didn't respond.
Dylan caught sight of her at the front of the staff stands, her quill scratching across the scoreboard, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
Then, Harry moved.
On his Firebolt, he dove toward the northwest corner of the pitch like something had yanked him forward.
He was so fast the tail of his broom sent dandelions scattering across the grass.
Slytherin's side erupted into chaos.
Malfoy reacted first.
"I see the Snitch!"
He took off on his broom, black robes billowing as he chased after Harry.
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