The aftermath of Allen's speech was visible in the way the Ravenclaws moved the next morning. There was no more flighty whispering or jittery pacing. Instead, a heavy, concentrated silence had settled over the blue-and-bronze table, a suffocating sense of pressure that felt like the split second of stillness before a lightning strike.
When the team finally stood up to head toward the Great Hall for the pre-match meal, the rest of the house rose as one, following them in a silent, disciplined procession.
As they crossed the threshold of the Great Hall, the expected roar of noise didn't happen. Instead, a wave of rhythmic, steady applause broke out. It wasn't just the Ravenclaws; students from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were standing on their benches, clapping with a fervor that bordered on desperation. They weren't just rooting for a team; they were rooting for the downfall of the Slytherin hegemony and, more importantly, for the spectacle of Malfoy's humiliating wager.
The Slytherins, for their part, responded with a cacophony of venomous hisses. Allen glanced toward the green table and saw Draco. The boy looked like he hadn't slept a wink; his skin was a waxy, sickly pale, and his fingers were drumming a frantic, uneven beat against the wood of the table.
The Ravenclaw team was treated like royalty. Younger students had stayed up late to ensure the center seats were vacant, and as the players sat down, people leaned away, giving them a wide berth to enjoy their breakfast in peace. No one dared to interrupt their focus with idle chatter.
After fueling up on porridge and energy-dense kippers, the team stood to leave for the pitch. The hall erupted again, a thunderous sound that followed them out into the crisp morning air.
Right outside the oak doors, Allen practically walked into the Golden Trio. Harry and Ron looked like they were enduring a slow-motion car crash. The "crush" joke from the previous day had clearly taken on a life of its own.
"You really had to do it, didn't you, Allen?" Harry muttered, his face turning a shade of red that matched his tie. Since the news of the wager had hit the rumor mill, Harry couldn't walk five feet without someone giving him a knowing wink or a sympathetic pat on the back. It was his worst nightmare.
Ron looked even worse. His expression was a sour mix of indignation and bewilderment. He looked at Allen as if he were a particularly difficult riddle he couldn't solve. "I don't get it," Ron grumbled, his voice thick with annoyance. "Why does everyone think it's funny? It's mental. The whole thing is mental."
"Good luck today, Allen!" Hermione interrupted, her voice bright and clear. She was slightly out of breath, her cheeks flushed pink from jogging to catch them. She ignored Ron's grumbling entirely, her eyes locked onto Allen's with a sincere, unwavering intensity. "I know you've prepared for this. Just... be careful out there. The Slytherins won't just play for the Snitch; they'll play for blood."
"Thanks, Hermione," Allen said, flashing her a gentle, reassuring smile. "We've factored 'blood' into the strategy."
Harry noticed the way Hermione was looking at Allen and let out a small, suppressed snicker. Ron's face darkened further. He suddenly found the dirt on his shoes incredibly interesting, feeling a strange, prickly irritation at the sight of Allen's calm confidence.
The Quidditch pitch was a masterpiece of morning light.
"The wind is negligible... sun's at a thirty-degree angle, it'll be a nightmare for the Keepers once we swap sides... the turf is firm, perfect for a high-velocity launch..."
Roger Davies was in full 'General' mode. He paced the length of the pitch, his eyes scanning for every possible variable. The rest of the team followed him like a shadow, absorbing his intensity.
Finally, the castle gates groaned open, and a tide of color poured out onto the lawns. The entire school was coming.
"Locker room. Now," Roger commanded.
Inside the cramped, wooden space, the air smelled of broom wax and nervous sweat. Roger stood in the center, his shadow cast long against the lockers.
"Team, listen up. In exactly three minutes, we step out into the most significant match this house has seen in a decade. This isn't just about points anymore. It's about who we are."
He looked at each of them—truly looked at them. "Look at the person sitting next to you. In a few minutes, when a Bludger is screaming toward your head or a Slytherin is trying to elbow you off your broom, that person is the only thing that matters. We win as a unit, or we fall as individuals. I've seen you all sweat for this. I've seen you bleed for this. Don't let that effort go to waste because of a moment's hesitation."
Roger's voice rose to a roar. "We are the Eagles! We fly higher, we think faster, and today, we show them that intelligence is the deadliest weapon on this pitch! Now, what are we going to do?"
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
The locker room walls seemed to shake with the force of their shout. The sheer battle intent in the room was palpable, a physical heat that burned away any lingering nerves.
They marched out of the tunnel, and the noise of the crowd hit them like a physical blow. Three-quarters of the stands were a sea of sapphire blue. Bronze flags with the Ravenclaw raven snapped in the wind, and banners reading 'THE EAGLES TAKE THE CUP' and 'FIRE AND FLIGHT' were being waved frantically.
Behind the Slytherin goalposts, a block of two hundred students in emerald green hissed and jeered. Professor Snape sat in the front row, a silver serpent pin gleaming on his lapel, his face set in a mask of grim anticipation.
"The Ravenclaw team takes the field!" Lee Jordan's voice amplified across the stadium. "They look focused! They look dangerous! And let's talk about the elephant in the sky—Allen Harris is rumored to be bringing out a Firebolt today! Wait... wait a second! Look at the formation!"
A confused murmur rippled through the stands.
"I don't believe it! The one carrying the Firebolt... it's not Harris! It's Cho Chang! The Ravenclaw Seeker is mounting the world's fastest broom!"
The stadium erupted in a mix of shock and cheers. It was a tactical masterstroke. By giving the Firebolt to the Seeker instead of the star Chaser, Ravenclaw had shifted the entire win-condition of the game.
"Jordan! Focus on the players, not the equipment!" Professor McGonagall's voice rang out, followed by the sound of her poking Lee in the ribs with her wand.
"Ow! Professor, watch the aim! I'm just saying, Harris is either the most selfless teammate in history or he's got something even better up his sleeve!"
"The Slytherin team is out!" Lee continued hastily. "Led by Marcus Flint. It looks like he's gone for the 'Battering Ram' strategy—his players are built like trolls. Except for Malfoy, who looks like he's trying to disappear into his robes."
"Captains, shake hands!" Madam Hooch barked.
Flint and Roger stepped forward. The handshake was less of a greeting and more of a test of bone density. Neither man flinched, their eyes locked in a silent promise of violence.
"Mount your brooms!" Hooch raised her whistle. "Three... two... one..."
TWEEEEEET!
Fourteen shadows shot into the air. Malfoy zipped past Allen, throwing a provocative, sneering grin his way. It was the kind of face that practically begged for a Bludger.
"And they're off! Cho Chang is already a blur on that Firebolt—good luck catching a glimpse of her! The Firebolt features a diamond-polished handle and a charm-stabilized tail that—"
"JORDAN!"
"Right! Ravenclaw in possession! Roger Davies has the Quaffle, he's weaving through the Slytherin defense like they're standing still! He passes to Chambers, back to Davies—SHOOT AND SCORE!"
The Ravenclaw stands went wild. The change in tactics had caught Slytherin completely off guard. Roger, usually a Beater, was playing Chaser with a predatory aggression that Flint hadn't prepared for.
But the celebration was short-lived.
High above the chaos, Malfoy's eyes snapped to something shimmering near the ground, hovering just beside the boundary fence. The Golden Snitch.
Without a word of warning, Malfoy tucked his elbows in and went into a vertical dive. He was a silver streak against the green turf, his face twisted into a look of manic triumph.
The cheers in the Ravenclaw section died instantly. A horrific, heavy silence fell over the blue stands. Penelope Clearwater bit her lip so hard she drew blood, her hands gripping the railing until her knuckles turned white.
Had it really ended this quickly? Was the Firebolt gambit going to fail before it even started? In the stands, the smiles of the young wizards froze, their hearts plummeting into their stomachs. If Malfoy caught that Snitch now, it wouldn't just be a loss—it would be a total, soul-crushing annihilation of the House of Eagle.