Chapter 100
Compared to the charged atmosphere in Gryffindor Tower, the Slytherin common room was strikingly calm.
The fireplace in the corner glowed a deep, muted red, keeping the room comfortably warm.
"Play steadily," Malfoy said casually, seated at the long wooden table. He swept his gaze over the team before speaking. "That's all."
He had no grand expectations for the first match. If nothing unexpected happened, the Dementors would make their appearance—and Slytherin would win. The only variable was whether the so-called saviour managed to end the match within a few minutes.
And besides, Pansy had only just grasped the Patronus Charm. There was nothing to worry about.
There was no need for dramatic speeches either. Slytherins had always been resistant to empty motivation. Their desire for victory spoke for itself. Compared to lofty ideals, they preferred tangible rewards.
"If we win," Malfoy added, lifting his teacup, "dinner's on me."
"Crush those Gryffindor idiots!" one of the larger players roared.
The rest stood at once, draining their cups in unison. They had seen Malfoy's generosity before—and it only sharpened their hunger for Saturday's victory.
---
Match day arrived.
The sky was a roiling mass of black clouds. Thunder rolled overhead, wind slammed violently into the castle walls, and the distant crack of trees snapping echoed from the Forbidden Forest. In both team lounges, students discussed tactics in low, tense voices.
Soon, it was time to take the field.
Gryffindor marched out in scarlet robes, immediately battered by the gale. The wind was so strong they could barely keep their footing. Thunder swallowed the cheers of the crowd entirely. They tried to look spirited, but rain blurred their vision and mud clung to their trousers.
"This weather's atrocious," one of the Gryffindor girls muttered, stuffing her hair under her hood. Leaving it loose would've been impossible.
"Slytherin will struggle more than we do," Wood said firmly, trying to steady his team.
But when the teams lined up on the pitch, the truth was obvious.
Slytherin looked far more composed than expected.
The captains stepped forward to shake hands. Marcus Flint flashed Wood a mocking grin.
"Poor Gryffindor," Flint drawled. "Can't even afford proper waterproof robes? If you like, we could sponsor a few for next year."
He glanced back at his team as though seriously considering it.
"Oh—right," Flint added with exaggerated realization. "You're graduating next year, aren't you? Shame. Looks like you won't get the chance."
Laughter rippled behind him.
"I hear you haven't won the Cup in seven years," Flint continued, jabbing a finger into Wood's chest. "Let me tell you—this year will make it eight."
A sharp, continuous whistle cut through the storm.
Madam Hooch glared at them, face stern. The warning was unmistakable. She had no intention of letting this devolve into a brawl.
"I hope you play as well as you talk," Wood shot back coldly, ignoring her glare. Days of pent-up frustration finally found an outlet.
Another short whistle sounded—preparation.
All players gripped their brooms. Even Madam Hooch seemed to recognize that mediation was pointless now.
"Mount your brooms!"
Her voice was almost lost to the howling wind.
The starting whistle screamed.
The match began.
Shapes streaked across the sky, blurred by sheets of rain. It wasn't speed creating the afterimages—it was the weather. Even the commentator struggled to track the action.
Visibility was dreadful.
Two Slytherin players nearly collided midair, one swerving at the last moment to avoid disaster. Gryffindor fared no better, their players buffeted violently, swaying as though they might be torn from their brooms at any second. Bludgers whirled unpredictably through the storm.
Rain soaked their jerseys. Cold bit deep. Still, they endured.
Harry's glasses were a liability. Water streamed down the lenses, distorting everything. Worse still, Pansy Parkinson clung relentlessly to his side, mirroring every move. Even when a flash of gold flickered at the edge of his vision, her pursuit forced him to stay focused on evasion.
In these conditions, scoring was difficult enough.
Finding the Snitch felt almost impossible.
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the stadium in stark white—then plunging it back into darkness.
Moments later, the players descended.
A timeout had been called.
"I did!" Wood shouted over the storm. "Down here—now!"
They crowded beneath a massive umbrella at the edge of the pitch. Harry yanked off his glasses, wiping them frantically against his robes.
"What's the score?" he asked.
"Zero–zero," Wood replied, breathing hard. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him. "Those brutes aren't even trying to score—they're just harassing us. With this weather… Merlin above, are we supposed to play until nightfall?"
Then he fixed his gaze on Harry.
"You're our only chance. Catch the Snitch, and we win."
Harry lifted his dripping glasses, frustration plain on his face.
"I can't do anything like this," he said quietly.