The match was intense—Gryffindor and Slytherin players chased and clashed fiercely, their scores gradually widening apart.
Slytherin was in the lead.
It wasn't that Gryffindor was weaker—they were just as skilled.
But Slytherin's dirty tactics were relentless, completely shameless.
Every time they saw the frustration and helplessness on Gryffindor's players' faces, they would laugh out loud, gloating.
High Above the Pitch
Harry hovered in the sky, watching everything unfold below.
Everyone thought he was looking for the Golden Snitch—but in reality?
He was keeping an eye on Slytherin's every move.
His full attention was on them—he couldn't care less about the Snitch right now.
He came here to play, not to be played.
Quidditch? Screw that.
A Dangerous Play
The Quaffle was knocked aside.
Wood rushed forward to intercept—at the same time, Flint chased after it.
Both players flew side by side, elbowing and shoving, refusing to back down.
Then, Flint suddenly grinned—a wicked, scheming smile.
Wood's instincts screamed danger—he tried to pull away.
Too late.
Flint slammed into him hard.
Wood was thrown off course—Flint seized the Quaffle.
Now, Flint was charging ahead—he reached Gryffindor's goalposts.
And he already knew what he was going to do.
He wasn't going to score.
No—he was going to hurl the Quaffle straight at the Keeper, knocking them out of play.
With no Keeper left, his teammates would easily pick up the ball and score.
That was his plan.
And he had done it before—many times.
Ten Seconds Earlier…
Harry had watched it all unfold.
He saw the Quaffle struggle in midair.
He saw Wood and Flint rush toward it.
He saw Flint cheat—again.
He saw Flint charging at the goalpost, ready to strike.
And at that moment—
Harry made his move.
A Meteor Falling From the Sky
Harry had been watching Flint for a while—but Flint was always buried in the crowd, making it hard to strike.
Even though Harry was the best flyer at Hogwarts, there was always a risk—if he rushed in carelessly, he might crash into a teammate.
But this was revenge.
Harry tilted his broom straight down.
Gravity took over.
He began free-falling—headfirst.
His speed exploded.
The wind roared in his ears, his long hair whipped backward, his body slicing through the air like a missile.
To the audience below—
He looked like a meteor crashing toward the Earth.
His speed hit the limit—but he didn't slow down.
He barreled forward with full force.
Even when Flint hit him earlier, it had been calculated—Flint had still held back, using just momentum to knock him aside.
Because if Flint had gone full force, it would have ended in disaster.
But Harry wasn't holding back.
He wasn't stopping.
He wasn't slowing down.
And as he plummeted toward the field, a phrase flashed through his mind—
"Have you ever heard of the Falling Palm Strike?"
The two figures drew closer and closer.
Suddenly, Flint felt something above him—a dark shadow loomed overhead.
Instinctively, he looked up.
What he saw was Harry's sharp, cold eyes and his determined face.
There was no time for fear.
The Impact
CRASH!
They collided head-on—
But there was no deafening explosion, no shattering of the earth.
Only a brief moment of impact—just enough to halt Harry's descent.
In that split-second collision, Flint's body twisted violently, his eyes bulging wide like a frog's.
His entire form curled up, as if he had just taken the full force of a Bludger to the gut.
And Harry?
He didn't stop.
Even after the collision, he kept pushing forward, his broom pressing Flint downward, like a warrior making the ultimate sacrifice.
The Crash
BOOM!
They hit the ground.
The Quidditch pitch was covered in sand, but it barely softened the blow.
The sheer force of Harry's impact in the air, combined with the brutal crash against the ground, sent waves of agony rippling through Flint's body.
A low, painful groan escaped him.
His body curled up tightly, like a shrimp thrown into boiling water.
Sweat poured from his forehead.
His face turned ghostly pale—even paler than Snape's usual complexion.
The Crowd Reacts
"WHOA!"
The entire stadium rose to their feet.
They weren't angry at Harry—no one shouted about fouls or cheating.
They were just in complete shock.
Had they really just witnessed that?
But it wasn't over.
"Is this enough?" Harry asked himself.
Of course not.
The Final Strike
As the crowd was still processing what had happened, Harry made his next move.
While Flint lay groaning on the ground, Harry shot back up into the sky.
Then—
He dived again.
One hit wasn't enough.
"Right, Flint?"
"You must be in so much pain right now."
"Let me end that suffering for you."
He plummeted like a missile.
Flint, his body broken and disoriented, could only watch in horror.
His vision blurred.
Darkness crept into his sight.
Then—
He blacked out.
Silence
The entire stadium froze.
Mouths hung open in disbelief.
The first dive was shocking—but it made sense.
Flint deserved it.
Nobody was sympathetic toward Slytherin's dirty tactics.
But the second dive?
The crowd didn't even know what to say anymore.
A strange silence fell over the entire pitch.
Medical Response
Madam Pomfrey rushed onto the field with two medics.
She examined Flint.
"He's just unconscious," she stated calmly.
Her assistants carried Flint away.
Then, she turned to Harry.
"Do you need medical attention?"
Harry had taken hits too.
Twice.
But unlike Flint, he had used Flint as a meat shield.
His body ached, but it was manageable.
So—he refused to go to the hospital wing.
Slytherin's Rage
On the field, Slytherin players fumed with anger.
Each of them glared daggers at Harry, itching to charge at him and settle the score with fists.
But Harry?
Completely calm.
Now they realized things weren't in their favor?
Too late.
They protested to Madam Hooch.
But she only gave Harry a brief scolding and awarded Slytherin a free shot.
Slytherin's Outrage
Slytherin players were outraged.
Their captain was literally in the hospital, and all Harry got was a minor penalty?
How was that fair?!
But Madam Hooch remained unfazed.
She coolly replied:
"I punished both sides the same way. Are you saying the penalty I gave you earlier was too light?"
Slytherin swallowed their complaints.
There was nothing they could do.
Gryffindor's Shock
Gryffindor players were stunned.
They never expected this side of Harry.
In training, he had always been polite and composed.
But this?
Still, while they were a little surprised, their excitement only grew.
The Game Resumes
Higgins glared at Harry with burning hatred.
He had completely underestimated him.
But—his desire to teach Harry a lesson hadn't faded at all.
Just wait—he was going to make him pay.
But wait... what is he doing?!
Another Target
Wells, another Slytherin player, was flying at the back of the formation.
He was lost in thought, worried about their captain's absence and how to turn the game around.
Suddenly—
A shout echoed through the field:
"Watch out!"
It was his teammate's voice.
But before Wells could turn around—
BAM!
Another One Down
Wells crashed hard onto the sandy field.
His vision spun, his mind blank.
He didn't even understand what had happened—
Until he saw Harry flying off.
Then, the pain hit.
Slytherin was given another penalty shot—
But with one more player down, they were completely at a disadvantage.
Even losing ten points was a small price to pay.
Harry's Satisfaction
Harry soared back into the sky, feeling completely satisfied.
This was what he called a game.
.
.
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