Christmas had passed, and school was back in session.
Malfoy's days returned to their predictable rhythm — dining hall, library, dormitory, classroom — a calm and uneventful routine.
Harry, however, was not having an easy time. Oliver Wood, Gryffindor's Quidditch captain, had become stricter than ever. Even after the snow melted into steady drizzle, his fiery enthusiasm didn't cool in the slightest. The Weasley twins complained constantly, yet still pushed through. Harry, more determined than anyone, endured it all.
If they won this match, Gryffindor could finally end Slytherin's seven-year streak of the House Cup.
When a goal feels impossible, most people give up — but when victory seems just within reach, they grit their teeth and persevere. That was the Gryffindor team now.
During practice, the Weasley twins started their usual antics, diving and chasing each other, pretending to fall from their broomsticks. Eventually, Wood blew his whistle in frustration, only to deliver worse news.
"Snape will be refereeing the game."
The announcement hit like a curse. Faces fell instantly. The goal that had seemed almost achievable now looked utterly hopeless. Morale collapsed, and practice ended in gloomy silence. No one believed they stood a chance.
After training, teammates whispered bitterly about how Snape would sabotage them. Harry ignored the chatter and headed to the common room, hoping Hermione and Ron could help. He suspected Snape would target him again.
"Don't play," Hermione said at once.
"Say you're sick," Ron added.
"Pretend you broke your leg," Hermione suggested.
"Actually break your leg," Ron muttered.
Harry groaned, rubbing his forehead. "I'm the only Seeker on the team. If I don't play, we can't compete."
That silenced them both. They knew Harry's sense of responsibility too well — he'd never jeopardize the team for his own safety. Still, it exposed how unreasonable the arrangement was. How could a major sport not have a substitute Seeker?
"Damn it," Malfoy muttered the next morning, biting irritably into his buttered toast. He looked tired and irritable.
"My dear, can't we just ignore games that don't involve our house? Do you know what time I went to bed last night?" he complained dramatically.
"I must see Gryffindor lose," Pansy declared, her eyes gleaming with vengeance. The memory of their last defeat still burned. She clenched her fist with determination.
"I hate female Quidditch fans," Malfoy mumbled under his breath. "But fine — today's match should be a quick victory. Maybe I can get back to sleep afterward." The thought cheered him slightly.
"Our Head of House is refereeing," Pansy said with satisfaction. "Gryffindor's doomed."
Malfoy sighed and rubbed his temple. "Is it really okay to be so happy about an unfair referee?"
Soon they reached the Quidditch pitch. The crowd's energy was electric; cheers and shouts filled the air even before kickoff. Gryffindor fans were especially loud — this game meant everything — but their enthusiasm dimmed when they saw Snape in the referee's robes. The stands erupted in boos.
"Ron, look — Professor Dumbledore!" Hermione pointed toward the headmaster, who was walking slowly into the stadium, his long robes trailing behind.
"Thank goodness," Ron breathed. "Now we can relax. Snape won't dare pull anything with Dumbledore watching."
"That's not quite right," Hermione frowned. "Dumbledore was there last time too."
"Then why didn't he help Harry?" Ron said, incredulous.
"I don't know," she admitted, gripping her wand tighter. "So we still can't let our guard down. Remember — Petrificus Totalus," she reminded him.
"I know, I know," Ron replied impatiently. "Still, I doubt he'd try anything in broad daylight."
Hermione wasn't so sure. The last time, their intervention had been too slow, and this time she was determined to be ready.
On the pitch, both teams assembled at the center circle. As always, Madam Hooch delivered her brief lecture on fair play, then blew the whistle to start the game.
"Hufflepuff penalty!" Snape's cold voice rang out.
Barely a few minutes in, he awarded Hufflepuff a penalty, claiming George Weasley had aimed a Bludger at him, interfering with the referee.
Harry, circling high above like a hawk, focused on one thought — find the Snitch fast. The sooner he ended the match, the less time Snape would have to meddle.
"Hufflepuff penalty!" Snape called again, this time for no reason at all.
The Gryffindor stands exploded in protest. Boos and whistles pierced the air. Even the usually mild Hufflepuff fans looked uneasy — their honest nature couldn't stomach such blatant bias, even when it favored them.
"Well done!" Pansy shouted gleefully, clapping her hands.
"Why aren't you cheering?" she asked, nudging Malfoy. "Our side scored again!"
"Oh, yay!" Malfoy said stiffly, forcing a cheer. "Well done!" he added without enthusiasm.
The words had barely left his mouth when thunderous applause erupted — everywhere except the Slytherin section, which fell into stunned silence.
Pansy blinked, realizing she had missed something crucial. The commentator's excited voice boomed across the field:
"Oh my goodness! Did you all see that? Even I nearly missed it! Gryffindor's Harry Potter just made a breathtaking dive — so fast I thought he'd crash! The referee thought so too — Professor Snape had already mounted his broom to rescue him — but Harry pulled up just in time! He's caught the Golden Snitch! He's holding it high — Gryffindor wins!"
The crowd erupted. Cheers shook the stadium.
Ron, still catching his breath, muttered, "He was obviously just waiting for a chance to kick Harry when he was down." His tone had changed now; seeing Snape actually mount his broom had shaken him.
"Yeah," Hermione agreed. "But Harry didn't give him the chance." She smiled proudly.
"Well done," said a gentle voice behind Harry. He turned to see Dumbledore's familiar, warm smile.
"I'm glad to see you're not thinking about that Mirror of Erised all day anymore," Dumbledore said softly, so only Harry could hear. "It's good to see you living fully."
Behind him, Snape spat on the ground, his expression dark.
Harry thought it might be the happiest moment of his life. For once, his victory was his own — not luck, not fame, but effort. The night air had never felt so sweet.
He walked across the damp grass, the evening light glinting off puddles, the cheers still echoing faintly. Scenes from the past hour replayed in his mind — the Gryffindor team hoisting him on their shoulders, Ron and Hermione jumping up and down, Ron's nose bleeding from excitement.
At last, he reached the broom shed. Leaning against the wooden door, he looked up toward the castle, its windows glowing red in the setting sun. Gryffindor was in the lead. He had succeeded.
Some were rejoicing — others, not so much.
A sharp pain in Malfoy's foot snapped him from thought — Pansy had stepped on him. Her face was flushed, trembling with anger, eyes wet with frustration.
I told you not to come, he thought miserably. But you insisted on taking the blow yourself. Saying it aloud would only make things worse, so he stayed silent, searching for a way to comfort her.
Then, suddenly, an idea struck. "Who am I? I'm a rich kid," he reminded himself under his breath. Aloud, he said smoothly, "Gryffindor's win wasn't honorable. Harry Potter's broom is the newest Nimbus 2000. Professor McGonagall seems fair, but she clearly favors her own."
Pansy's eyes widened, and she nodded fiercely. "You're right! But this can't go on next year. I'll ask my father to sponsor the Slytherin team. We'll have Nimbus 2001s — even faster than theirs!"
"Really? You think that's possible?" Malfoy asked, feigning doubt.
"For the honor of our house," Pansy said with conviction, "what's a few Galleons?"
Malfoy almost smiled at her earnestness. "For house honor — of course," he said solemnly.
Pansy stared at him for a moment, then suddenly laughed. "Come on, you're the least honorable person in Slytherin. I practically have to drag you to every game."
"Uh…" Malfoy faltered, unsure how to respond.
"But I know you're doing it for me." Her voice softened, the anger in her cheeks replaced by a gentle blush. "Thank you," she whispered, and before he could react, she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek — light as a dragonfly touching water — then turned and ran off.
Malfoy stood frozen, fingers brushing the spot she had kissed. "Evil capitalism," he murmured with a wry smile. Then, quieter still: "But I like .
For more chapters
patreon.com/Jackssparrow