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Fred and George didn't win this time.
To everyone's expectation, Cedric Diggory lived up to his reputation, securing first place in the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam for third years. His skill and dedication earned him the coveted spooky wooden amulet that Professor Dracula had randomly crafted, an artifact rumored to hold mysterious enchantments.
Among the second years, it was Autumn Zhang, a sharp and observant Ravenclaw, who claimed the top spot.
But the real surprise lay elsewhere.
The moment the results were posted, murmurs spread like wildfire across the Great Hall. It wasn't Hermione Granger who had taken first place in Defense Against the Dark Arts among the first years.
Hermione, who had dominated every other subject with an unshakable grasp of theory and precision, had somehow fallen short.
The champion of first-year Defense Against the Dark Arts was none other than—
Harry Potter.
That night, in the Gryffindor common room, Fred and George cornered Harry, draping an arm over each of his shoulders.
"Harry, do you think we treat you well?" Fred asked solemnly.
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Uh… yes? I mean, you always look out for me, whether it's in the common room or on the Quidditch pitch. You two have been great."
He hesitated, sensing something unusual in their tone. "Why? Did I… do something wrong?"
George sighed dramatically. "No, Harry. You did nothing wrong—"
"But you've caused us serious harm!" Fred declared, his voice heavy with mock sorrow.
Harry stiffened. "What? What did I do?" A flicker of guilt crossed his face. Had he unknowingly upset them?
Fred placed a firm hand on Harry's shoulder. "Harry… how could you steal Hermione's first place in Defense Against the Dark Arts?"
Harry's mouth fell open in shock. "I—what?"
For a moment, panic struck him. He instinctively clutched his schoolbag tighter, his mind flashing to the diary tutoring sessions he had been having in secret. Had someone found out?
But George's next words dashed that concern—and replaced it with exasperation.
"The two of us made a bet with those stupidly rich Slytherins that Hermione would win Professor Dracula's amulet," he lamented, shaking his head.
"Do you know how those pureblood elitists think? They were absolutely convinced that a Muggle-born would never take first place. So, naturally, they bet against her."
Fred flung his hands in the air. "It was easy money, Harry! A sure thing! We bet ten whole galleons!"
"That's Dad's entire week's salary!" George added, his voice rising in distress.
"Everything was going perfectly, but then you had to go and—"
"Win."
Fred and George both collapsed onto the couch in exaggerated despair.
Harry, who had been listening intently, felt something strange stir inside him.
A pulse of heat flickered behind his eyes.
The room seemed to darken, shadows stretching unnaturally for just a fleeting second.
And then—he snapped.
"Fred, George, you need to stop gambling!"
His voice rang louder than he had intended, his words sharp and charged with emotion. The sudden intensity startled the twins, making them recoil slightly.
"You know that ten galleons is your dad's salary, yet you still made that bet! Have you ever thought about what would happen if you lost more? If it wasn't just ten galleons but twenty, or thirty, or a hundred?"
His fists clenched. "Those Slytherins can afford to lose—all they'll get is a lecture from their parents. But you two? If you keep doing this, if you lose more than you can handle, it's not just you who'll suffer—it's your entire family!"
Fred and George exchanged an uncertain glance.
For once, they were completely speechless.
They had never seen Harry like this before—not even when facing down a troll, or playing against Slytherin in Quidditch.
"Blimey, mate, we get it," George said, raising his hands in surrender. "No need to scare us to death!"
Harry blinked, his mind clearing.
His glasses had slipped down his nose from his sudden outburst. He pushed them back up hurriedly, a faint pang of regret settling in.
"S-sorry," he muttered, clutching his bag. "I… I didn't mean to yell at you."
Without another word, he turned on his heel and rushed off.
Fred and George sat frozen, staring at each other in confusion.
"Was that really Harry just now?" Fred whispered.
"He's never yelled at anyone like that before," George murmured, still in shock.
Fred exhaled, rubbing his chin. "Do you think… winning Defense Against the Dark Arts changed him?"
"I don't know," George muttered, watching Harry disappear up the boys' dormitory stairs. "But something definitely felt off."
The Decisive Match
Three days after the final exams, the most crucial Quidditch match of the year arrived.
The outcome of Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw would decide not only the Quidditch Cup but also the House Cup.
Currently, Slytherin led the standings with 442 points, thanks in no small part to Professor Snape's tireless efforts to award them every possible advantage.
Ravenclaw trailed with 426 points, while Gryffindor sat at 412—a mere 30 points behind Slytherin.
Victory was within reach.
If Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup, they would earn fifty points, overtaking Slytherin and claiming both trophies.
As the match began, the air crackled with tension.
The Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang, was fast. Blindingly fast.
But Harry was faster.
His reflexes were sharper than ever, his movements almost inhumanly precise.
Within an hour, he spotted the Golden Snitch—and in a burst of speed that left the entire stadium breathless, he caught it.
The stadium erupted in thunderous cheers.
Gryffindor had won.
Their house points soared to 462, surpassing Slytherin by a mere 20 points.
That night, Gryffindor Tower exploded into wild celebration.
The students hoisted Harry onto their shoulders, cheering and chanting his name.
Yet, amidst the revelry, Harry couldn't shake an uneasy feeling.
Something within him was… changing.
And soon, everyone else would notice it too.
A Sudden Collapse
They had forgotten that there were still three days left until the year-end banquet officially began.
Snape wasn't sure whether he truly wanted Slytherin to maintain its lead in the House Cup or if he simply wanted Harry to turn his gratitude into resentment—or perhaps both.
In the final three days, he seemed almost possessed, deducting points from Gryffindor day and night. Any minor infraction, no matter how small, cost them five or ten points. Soon, Gryffindor's score was nearly identical to Slytherin's.
And so, on the last afternoon of his first year, Harry stormed into Snape's office for a heated confrontation.
"Professor Snape, why are you doing this?" Harry demanded, his face contorted with frustration. "You could be a good person—why do you insist on making me hate you?"
On one hand, Snape's usual demeanor was undeniably unpleasant—especially to the Gryffindors, who despised him. Harry had once been no different. But on the other hand, Snape had saved his life twice in a row. Now, Harry found himself unable to muster any hatred toward him.
Snape continued organizing his potion ingredients with deliberate indifference, as though he hadn't heard the question.
But if one looked closely, they would notice his expression was unnaturally stiff, his hands mechanically snapping herbs apart without thought.
"You're overthinking things, Potter," he said after a long silence. "Is it so unusual for me to want my own House to win the House Cup? Or do you believe I should hand Gryffindor the trophy instead, just so I can meet your definition of a 'good person'?"
He turned to face Harry fully, his voice dripping with disdain. "Don't be so self-centered, Potter. The world does not revolve around you."
Harry's face flushed red at the biting remark.
A flicker of something hot and angry flashed through his eyes, his emotions flaring uncontrollably.
"You just want me to hate you, don't you?!" he shouted. "Fine! Deduct points from me! I was an idiot to be grateful to you in the first place!"
Snape halted for a moment, then smirked coldly.
"As expected. The Potter family has always been foolish, arrogant, and self-righteous." His voice was icy. "Very well—if that's what you wish…"
"For arguing with a professor—Gryffindor loses fifty points."
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That night, Harry left Snape's office, his heart heavy, and climbed the spiral staircase leading to the Great Hall for the end-of-year banquet.
By the time he arrived, the hall was already packed.
Green and silver banners adorned the walls, celebrating Slytherin's seventh consecutive House Cup victory. A massive serpent emblem hung behind the head table in triumphant display.
As soon as Harry stepped inside, Ron and Hermione pulled him toward the Gryffindor table.
"Harry, did you hear? Gryffindor just lost fifty points!" Ron fumed. "Now, even if we win another Quidditch Cup, we won't be able to catch up to Slytherin!"
"Yeah! I don't know who gave Snape the chance to pull something like this," Hermione grumbled, slamming her book onto the table, too angry to focus on studying.
Harry hesitated, his mood sinking even further.
"That person… was me," he admitted softly.
Ron and Hermione fell silent, staring at him in shock.
"What happened, Harry?" Ron asked. "I thought you and Snape had made peace?"
Harry gave a bitter smile. "I don't think we'll ever be able to in this lifetime." His voice was laced with sadness. "I went to talk to him about the points he was taking from Gryffindor… but I lost control of my emotions, and we ended up fighting."
Hermione looked as if she wanted to ask more, but at that moment, Dumbledore entered the Great Hall.
He strode toward the head table, beaming, and waved cheerfully at the students. The noise in the hall gradually subsided. Hermione, sensing the moment had passed, chose not to press Harry further.
"Another year has passed!" Dumbledore announced, standing before his seat with a twinkle in his eye. "Before we indulge in tonight's feast, I must trouble you all with a few words from an old man…"
Unlike the long-winded speeches given by Muggle school principals, Dumbledore's promise of "a few words" was quite literal.
After delivering his brief remarks, he moved on to the moment Slytherins had eagerly awaited—and Gryffindors had dreaded—the House Cup ceremony.
"Now, let's review the current standings. In fourth place, Hufflepuff, with 352 points. In third place, Gryffindor, with 387 points. Ravenclaw takes second place with 426 points, and Slytherin leads with 442 points."
The Slytherin table erupted into cheers, pounding the tables in triumph. Draco Malfoy banged his goblet against the surface repeatedly, producing a sharp ding, ding, ding sound.
At the same time, over at the professors' table, Dracula sipped leisurely from his goblet of deep red wine.
Hearing Slytherin's deafening celebration, he glanced over just in time to see Draco hammering his cup against the table.
With a flicker of annoyance, Dracula snapped his fingers.
Instantly, every single goblet at the Slytherin table vanished into thin air.
A second later, the celebrating Slytherins, their throats hoarse from cheering, tried to take a sip—only to suck in empty air.
For a brief, stunned moment, silence fell over their table. Then, their victorious shouts turned into a chorus of startled coughing.
The students from the other three Houses erupted into laughter, their joy filling the Great Hall.
"Yes, yes, Slytherin performed very well," Dumbledore said, barely suppressing his amusement. "However, there are a few additional matters to consider before finalizing the results."
The hall grew quiet as the students exchanged uncertain glances. Even the Slytherins, still bewildered by their missing goblets, turned their attention toward Dumbledore.
He cleared his throat. "I still have some final points to award. Let's see… Ah, yes. First—Mr. Ron Weasley!"
Ron's face turned a shade of red rivaling his hair.
"For displaying exceptional strategic thinking in the most thrilling chess match Hogwarts has seen in years, I award Gryffindor fifty points."
The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers, shaking the enchanted ceiling above them.
With this sudden fifty-point increase, they had climbed from third to second place—just five points behind Slytherin!
The smarter Gryffindors turned expectantly to Hermione and Harry.
They knew these three had acted together. If Ron had earned fifty points, surely Hermione and Harry had as well.
Dumbledore smiled. "Secondly—Miss Hermione Granger. For remaining calm under pressure and using logic to overcome great danger, I award Gryffindor another fifty points."
The cheers grew even louder as Gryffindor surged into first place once more.
"And finally—Harry Potter."
Though Gryffindor was already leading, the students still listened eagerly, wanting to see how many points Harry would receive.
"For demonstrating remarkable courage and bravery, I award Gryffindor… sixty points!"
The Great Hall exploded into celebration.
Amidst the cheers, Dumbledore awarded Neville an additional ten points, bringing Gryffindor's final total to 557 points, surpassing Slytherin by over a hundred.
The Gryffindor table roared with triumph, embracing one another in celebration. Even the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs joined in—after all, seeing Slytherin and Snape finally defeated was a joy shared by many.
Even Professor McGonagall, usually strict about maintaining order, simply glanced smugly at Snape before stepping forward to shake his hand.
Snape's expression was like thunder—his face dark with suppressed fury. Yet, forced to maintain his composure, he managed only a stiff, awkward smile.
Dumbledore clapped his hands, changing the green and silver decorations into Gryffindor's red and gold.
Draco Malfoy scowled at the scene before him, then muttered bitterly—
"This is a complete sham!"