The Gryffindor team soared through the air, basking in the roaring cheers from below.
Each of them was overwhelmed with emotion—it had been so long since they had last beaten Slytherin.
And to win in such a dominant, crushing fashion?
They all knew the reason.
It was because of Harry.
George grinned. "Harry, you really are the Savior—Gryffindor's own personal hero!"
The rest of the team laughed and nodded in agreement.
With Harry on their side, they were invincible!
Because—
Harry was the most shameless of them all.
Harry narrowed his eyes, glancing at them.
"…Are you guys thinking something rude about me?"
Sweat poured down their backs.
They frantically shook their heads.
"Of course not!" they said, grinning nervously.
Just then, Harry's broom jerked violently.
He almost lost his grip.
It lurched up and down, swerved left and right—like a crazed bull in the middle of a fight.
Harry's eyes flashed.
Right.
This was supposed to happen.
Through the chaos, he cast a quick glance at the faculty stands.
There.
Quirrell.
Eyes locked onto him. Not blinking.
This was *Dark Magic—*a curse.
But Harry wasn't worried.
Not this time.
This wasn't Quirrell casting a direct spell at him—that would be too risky.
Instead, he was using a curse to wrestle control over the broom, forcing it out of Harry's grasp.
If this were the original Harry Potter, he'd be doomed.
But this Harry?
His mental strength was overwhelming.
Harry stretched out his mind, reaching into the broom itself.
And there—he felt it.
A sinister, foreign presence.
It was crawling over the broom, twisting its magic, fighting against his control.
But Harry didn't hesitate.
He followed the disturbance—tracked it back to its source—
And attacked.
A surge of raw spiritual energy crashed into the invading presence.
It reeled back.
Fled.
Instantly, the broom stabilized.
For a brief moment—just beneath the deafening cheers—
Harry swore he heard a faint, pained scream.
A mere whisper.
Like a pebble vanishing beneath the ocean waves.
Harry smirked.
Serves you right.
In the stands, Snape's expression subtly changed.
Moments ago, he had been silently muttering under his breath, wand subtly ready—
But then—he stopped.
Because the broom had already steadied itself.
Someone else had countered the curse.
But who?
Was there another protector watching over Harry?
Or…
Could it have been Harry himself?
Snape's dark eyes narrowed.
Meanwhile, no one else had noticed anything unusual.
To the crowd, it simply looked like Harry was celebrating his victory with some flashy aerial maneuvers—
Much like the many Quidditch players before him who had expressed their excitement after a win.
From the stands, Hagrid scratched his beard.
"…What in Merlin's beard was he doin' just now?"
But when he saw Harry calmly return to normal, he simply shook his head and let it go.
And so, amid a sea of cheers and regretful sighs, the Quidditch match came to an end.
But—
Harry's legend had only just begun.
Soon, his feats today would spread throughout the school—
And with every retelling, his performance would become even more mythical.
As the students gradually left the Quidditch pitch, the once-lively stadium grew eerily empty.
The stark contrast between the roaring excitement just moments ago and the now-vacant stands left a lingering sense of melancholy.
Wood and the rest of the Gryffindor team had already flown off on their brooms.
The crowd surged toward the exits, tightly packed together.
Cho Chang found herself caught in the flow, lips pressed together in frustration.
She turned her head, glancing back—her gaze landed on Harry, still lingering at the back.
She hesitated.
A sudden impulse urged her to push against the tide, to walk toward him.
To see him.
But then…
What would she say?
Should she ask why he hadn't been coming to the library lately?
Or—should she ask if he still remembered her?
A flood of thoughts filled her mind.
She imagined greeting him, striking up a conversation that both of them would enjoy.
But before she could take a step—
Her face paled.
Her feet refused to move.
And then—the surging crowd swept her away.
By the time she regained her footing, Harry was gone.
Meanwhile—
Hermione came rushing over, beaming.
She had squeezed through the crowd, and in the process, her hair had become an absolute mess.
"Congratulations, Hogwarts' youngest Seeker!" she exclaimed, eyes sparkling.
In contrast to Harry's calm, collected expression, she looked like she was the one who had just won the match.
Harry hummed in thought, then suddenly broke into a bright smile.
"You know," he mused, "winning the match doesn't make me nearly as happy as hearing you congratulate me."
Hermione froze.
Her brain short-circuited.
Where was she again? What was happening? Who was she?!
She had no idea how to respond to that.
Before she could recover, Harry lifted a hand and gently reached toward her hair.
Startled, Hermione instinctively flinched.
"W-What are you doing?" she stammered.
"Hold still," Harry said simply.
"Pft—w-why should I listen to you?" she huffed.
But despite her words, she didn't move an inch.
Her cheeks were flushed pink, glistening with sweat.
Her hair, damp from all the time she had spent cheering for him, clung stubbornly to her skin.
With careful fingers, Harry tucked the loose strands behind her ear.
His touch was light, almost absentminded.
His fingertips brushed against her brow—then traced along her cheek.
Hermione forgot how to breathe.
She stared at the ground, lips pressed together, completely frozen.
Her skin tingled where he had touched her, but she didn't dare say a word.
She could only endure it.
Harry, on the other hand, was starting to have… thoughts.
Dangerous thoughts.
Looking at Hermione's flushed face, her utterly flustered expression—
His mind wandered.
…Wait.
No.
Nope. Stop. Shut it down.
He quickly recited a mental purification mantra.
"One times one is one. One times two is two. One times three is three. One times four is four. One times five is five—"
Yes. Good. Logical thinking. Pure thoughts.
He exhaled.
Crisis averted.
After all—she was still young.
He could wait.
Five years.
…No, four years.
…Maybe three?
…Two?
NO.
Bad.
"One times one is one! One times two is two! One times three is three! One times four is—"
Harry dropped his hand.
And then—
He suddenly felt someone watching him.
Harry turned his head sharply.
But all he caught was a fleeting glimpse of long, black hair disappearing around the corner.
Who was that?
Probably just another admirer, he thought with a smirk.
Hermione took a deep breath and put on a serious expression.
She locked eyes with Harry—but the moment she remembered the awkward, almost intimate moment they had just shared, her gaze quickly darted away.
"You asked me about Professor Snape before," she began hesitantly. "And… I think you might be right."
Harry blinked.
"About what?"
Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes.
"I'm talking about how you said Professor Snape has something against you."
Now that caught his attention.
He raised a curious brow.
"And?"
Hermione glanced around, making sure no one was listening. Then, she leaned in close, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered—
"I think… Professor Snape is trying to harm you!"
Harry's eyes widened.
Of all the things he expected Hermione to say—this definitely wasn't one of them.
For a split second, he was stunned.
Then—he chuckled.
"Are you serious?"
Hermione's cheeks puffed up in frustration.
"Why are you acting like this is nothing?!" she snapped.
"Because it is nothing," Harry replied, amused.
"You don't believe me?" Hermione demanded, crossing her arms. "I saw him! During the match! He was casting a spell on your broomstick!"
She stood triumphantly, waiting for Harry's reaction—
Surely, he'd be shocked! He'd panic! He'd be grateful for her warning!
…
Instead, Harry just looked mildly surprised.
That was it.
No fear. No alarm. No freaking out.
Hermione suddenly felt like she had punched a pillow.
Harry, on the other hand, was genuinely surprised.
Not because he thought Snape was after him—but because Hermione had completely misunderstood what had happened.
She had seen Snape trying to save him… and mistaken it for an attack.
Well.
This was ironic.
He couldn't help but laugh.
"You've got it all wrong," he said.
Hermione frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Harry smiled.
"When my broom went out of control, Snape was casting a spell, yes," he admitted.
"But he wasn't trying to hex me—he was trying to save me."
Hermione's jaw dropped.
She looked utterly bewildered.
"Professor Snape? Saving you?" she repeated, as if the very words didn't make sense.
"That's…" she trailed off, her brain struggling to process the idea.
"That's impossible!"
.
.
.
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