Chapter 160: The Quidditch Match
Cedric Diggory conjured a pitch-black banner. With a light tap of his wand, Russell painted an image onto it.
Against the dark cloth appeared a stark white portrait of Wednesday.
She sat astride a broomstick, staring coldly ahead, and perched upon her shoulder was a black raven. The white figure stood out strikingly against the dark background.
"Perfect charm work, Russell. If this were a Charms lesson, I would award you five points."
A thin, cheerful voice drifted into Russell's ears.
"Unfortunately… this is a Quidditch match."
Russell froze for a moment and looked around. Sure enough, not far away stood Filius Flitwick.
When Flitwick noticed Russell looking over, he waved and gave him a playful wink.
"Enjoy the fun of Quidditch," he said.
Then he turned away and conjured a chair much taller than the surrounding seats before climbing onto it and sitting down.
Russell hadn't expected Professor Flitwick to be interested in Quidditch. Though it might sound a little rude, Russell suspected the professor liked the sport partly because he himself would probably never have been selected for a Quidditch team.
After all, people often long for the things they can't have.
Take wizard dueling, for instance. Flitwick was still extremely passionate about it—but that was because he was a dueling master.
If someone lost every duel in the first round, Russell doubted they would grow to love the sport very much.
---
"Is this really okay?" Cho Chang asked worriedly. "Isn't it a bit too flashy?"
"That's nothing. Look over there," Russell said, pointing across the stands.
On the opposite side, the Gryffindor students—led by Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger—were waving a massive banner.
It read "POTTER FOR THE WIN!"
Beneath the words was an enormous Gryffindor lion, and the paint shimmered with constantly changing colors.
"Well… you've got a point," Cho admitted, clicking her tongue.
If someone made a banner like that for her during a match, she wouldn't feel reassured—she'd probably feel even more nervous.
Russell seemed to read her thoughts and teased,
"Next time you play, Cedric and I will make a banner like that for you too. It'll say Cho Chang for the win. How about it?"
Before Cho could respond, Cedric immediately jumped in.
"Great idea! It's settled then. Cho, I'll design an even more beautiful banner for you!"
"Please don't—seriously, don't!" Cho said with a pained expression, clasping her hands together in mock prayer.
"I'm begging you both. If you do that, I might not even dare to play the match."
---
While they were chatting, the weather suddenly turned.
A light drizzle began to fall from the gray sky.
---
Inside the Slytherin locker room, Marcus Flint stood before the team, delivering a fierce pre-match speech.
Wednesday, however, seemed lost in her own thoughts. Her eyes were fixed on a half-open locker door.
She had the strange feeling that Flint had spent quite a bit of time preparing today's speech—perhaps even asking someone else to write it for him.
Seeing the team looking distracted, Flint slammed the handle of his broom hard against a metal locker.
The clang echoed through the room, making the green-and-silver banners tremble.
His massive frame blocked the doorway, his shadow casting the team into dimness.
"Listen up!" he barked, his rough voice like sandpaper scraping across dragon hide.
"If that scar-headed brat gets his hands on the Golden—"
Flint deliberately paused, grinding the last few threatening words between his protruding yellow teeth. Nearby, Chaser Adrian Pucey slammed his gilded elbow guard against the bench, producing a harsh scraping sound.
Cyrian spun the bat in his hand—its surface carved with serpentine patterns—and sneered.
"I heard Potter's broom is some antique from the Weasley family?"
Apparently, he still didn't know that Harry Potter was flying a Nimbus 2000.
Draco Malfoy had never told the others.
Malfoy was waiting for them to see Harry's flying skill first—perhaps then the team would make an exception and allow him to join.
"So what?" Marcus Flint suddenly grabbed Cyrian's green-and-silver tie and yanked him forward until their noses were only three inches apart.
"Even if he's riding a mop, make sure he breaks his neck—Bole!"
He turned toward another Chaser.
"Miss another Quaffle, and I'll stuff you into the mascot costume myself!"
A faint clanking of chains came from the corner as Flint untied his broom. A strange, sharp smell seeped from it.
"Let those Mudbloods see what real flying looks like," he growled.
"Maybe their blood will add a bit more red to our house flag."
Outside the locker room, cheers from Gryffindor thundered through the stadium.
Flint bared his teeth in a predator's grin.
It was obvious—he was already planning to play dirty.
---
Inside the Gryffindor locker room, the team captain Oliver Wood wasn't much calmer. He looked like an enraged bull ready to fling any teammate who didn't play seriously straight into the sky.
Harry took a deep breath and followed the red-haired twins out of the dim locker room.
The roar of the crowd crashed over him like ocean waves.
He silently prayed that his trembling legs wouldn't suddenly feel like they'd been hit with a softening charm.
At the center of the pitch stood Madam Rolanda Hooch, upright as a spear. The silver chain of her whistle glinted coldly against her dark green robes.
"Remember this," she said sharply as both teams gathered in a semicircle. Her eyes swept over Flint.
"This is a regulated sporting match, not a troll wrestling pit."
Harry stared at Flint's thick, bull-like neck and suddenly understood why people joked that the Flint family might have intermarried with trolls.
---
High above in the stands, a burst of red-and-gold light exploded.
The glowing words "POTTER FOR THE WIN!" blazed through the drizzle.
Harry's fingers brushed the familiar wooden handle of his Nimbus 2000. A strange warmth rose from his stomach to his tight throat.
"Mount your brooms!"
Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked through the cloudy sky.
Fifteen broomsticks shot upward at once, streaking through the damp air like a meteor shower toward the gray heavens.
As Harry dove forward, he heard George Weasley shout through the wind:
"Don't let them near the Bludger!"
---
"The Quaffle is immediately seized by Gryffindor's Angelina Johnson—what a brilliant Chaser she is! And quite attractive too—"
"Jordan!"
"Sorry, Professor."
The commentator, Lee Jordan, a close friend of the Weasley twins, continued his narration under the watchful supervision of Minerva McGonagall.
---
Harry had barely reached twenty feet in the air when a dark blur shot past his Nimbus 2000.
Cyrian's bat smashed a Bludger toward him, the ball screaming past his ear.
"Dirty snake!"
Lee Jordan's voice boomed across the stadium through magical amplification.
"A Slytherin Beater aiming directly at our Seeker—but look at that!"
The Bludger suddenly changed direction midair after a powerful return hit from Fred Weasley.
It flew straight into the back of Flint's head.
"Direct hit! Now that is what you call instant karma!"