Like that, the weekend came, and with it the Quidditch match.
The grounds were packed. The stands had filled long before the teams even stepped onto the pitch, every house section loud in its own way, colors everywhere, voices overlapping into a constant noise that didn't settle.
Gryffindor red on one side.
Slytherin green on the other.
Everyone shouting like it would somehow affect the outcome.
Ron was already on his feet.
"Go Harry!" he yelled, leaning forward like the match had already started.
Victor glanced at the pitch, still empty.
"Go where, Ron?" he said calmly. "The match hasn't even begun."
Ron shot him a look.
"You need some enthusiasm to enjoy this," he said. "Not stand there like you're attending a funeral. Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen you excited about anything. You just walk around with that same cold expression."
Victor looked at him, unimpressed.
"I do smile," he said.
Ron snorted.
"Yeah, you do," he replied. "That's the problem. It's unsettling."
Hermione, standing beside them, didn't argue.
She didn't fully agree either—but she didn't correct him.
Victor noticed that.
"…interesting," he said quietly, then looked back at Ron.
"Did I ever mention that your face annoys me?" he asked, tone still even.
Ron blinked.
"No?"
Victor nodded once.
"Exactly," he said. "I don't say it out loud. You might consider trying that approach."
Ron frowned.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Victor continued, "if I start commenting on everything I find irritating, you won't enjoy it."
Ron folded his arms.
"Go on then," Ron said, folding his arms like he meant it. "Try."
Victor looked at him for a moment, not annoyed, just considering whether it was worth the effort.
"Do you really want that, Ron?" he asked. "Because once I start, it won't stop quickly. You didn't forget what my Animagus form is, did you?"
Ron's confidence lasted about half a second.
The image came back immediately—a massive black snake, far too large to ignore, the kind of thing you don't argue with unless you've lost all sense of self-preservation.
He shifted.
"Right," Ron said, much less enthusiastic now. "Maybe not."
Victor gave a small nod, as if that settled it.
"Good choice."
Hermione glanced between them, not commenting, though the look on her face suggested she understood exactly why Ron backed down.
The noise in the stadium swelled at that moment, cutting off any further exchange as the players flew onto the pitch, brooms rising into position.
At the center, Madam Hooch stepped forward, holding the Quaffle. She gave a sharp whistle, the sound carrying across the entire stadium, and released the balls into play.
The match began instantly.
Players shot upward, the air filling with motion as both teams moved to take control, the crowd reacting all at once, shouting, cheering, and completely losing whatever restraint they had left.
Most followed the Quaffle, shouting whenever a Chaser broke through or a Beater sent a Bludger flying across the pitch. But above all that movement, higher and quieter, the real tension was building.
Both Seekers had already pulled away from the rest of the match, keeping to open air where the Snitch might show itself.
"You know, Potter," Draco said, glancing sideways while keeping pace, "this time I'll be the one catching the Snitch."
Harry didn't take his eyes off the sky.
"This is my third year playing," he replied, voice steady. "And the last time you tried, you lost badly. I remember it clearly."
Draco's expression tightened for a moment, but he held it.
"Last year doesn't count," he said. "I'm prepared now."
Then something moved.
Small. Fast.
Right behind Draco.
Harry saw it immediately, his focus snapping to it without hesitation.
The Snitch hovered for a brief second, wings beating rapidly just over Draco's shoulder.
Draco didn't see it.
He was still looking at Harry.
Still talking.
Harry didn't answer him this time. His broom angled sharply, cutting across Draco's line in a clean, sudden burst of speed.
Draco reacted a second too late, turning just as Harry shot past him.
"What—?"
The weather shifted mid-match.
The sunlight didn't fade gradually. It cut off, clouds rolling in fast, and within seconds rain started falling hard enough to soak the pitch.
In the stands, Rubeus Hagrid looked up, frowning at the sky like something wasn't adding up.
"That's strange," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
No one left.
Students pulled out umbrellas, some casting quick spells to keep the rain off, others ignoring it completely. The noise didn't drop. If anything, it got louder.
Up in the air, it changed the game.
Harry pushed higher, still tracking the Snitch, but the rain hit his face hard, forcing him to squint. Water blurred his vision, streaking past his eyes as he flew.
Then the temperature dropped.
Sharp enough that he felt it immediately, the cold cutting through his robes. His hands tightened slightly on the broom as the handle felt colder than it should.
Even the air felt heavier.
*****
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