Like Fire and Moonlight - Chapter 5: Broomsticks

Harry woke to the faint light of dawn filtering through the red curtains around his bed, the muffled sounds of his dormmates shifting in their beds and the hurried footsteps echoing from the corridor outside. He blinked a few times, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light, his heart already beating faster with the anticipation of what the day held.

It would be his nineteenth game as Gryffindor’s Seeker, yet the familiar wave of anxiety still hit him with full force, as if it were his very first. It wasn’t just the first game of the season – it was the first game of his final year. An opportunity to leave his mark as a true Potter, someone who would do justice to the legacy his parents and godfather had left behind.

He sat up in bed, the muscles in his back still tense from the restless night. The conversation with Daphne still echoed in his mind, her sharp words repeating like an irritating echo he couldn’t shake.

You broke my trust, Potter.

He ran his hands over his face, trying to push the thoughts away. He didn’t need this right now. He needed to be focused, to make sure Gryffindor started the season with a crushing victory over Hufflepuff.

As he got up, he reached over and gave Ron a nudge in the bed next to his. Ron mumbled something unintelligible and rolled over, pulling the covers over his head. Harry rolled his eyes and gave his friend a light slap on the back of the head.

“Ron, wake up. I don’t want to have to drag you out of bed on the day of our first match.”

Ron groaned and slowly turned over, his eyes still half-closed as he looked at Harry with an expression of pure irritation.

“I’m already awake,” he muttered, his red hair sticking up as if he’d just come out of a tornado.

Harry just chuckled and grabbed the towel hanging beside his bed, his bare feet touching the cold stone floor as he made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the tap and let the hot water cascade over his body, feeling his muscles gradually loosen as the steam filled the small space. At least the physical exhaustion from the previous night’s patrol seemed to be dissipating, but his mind was still a chaotic mess.

Why did he care so much about what Daphne thought? They weren’t friends, and, frankly, he had never cared about her opinion before. But something about the way she had looked at him, those cold, disappointed eyes, had taken root in his mind, like a thorn he couldn’t pull out.

“This is madness,” he muttered to himself, running his hands through his wet hair as he turned off the tap and wrapped the towel around his waist. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by this now.

He returned to the dormitory and pulled out some random clothes from his wardrobe, dressing quickly. He would leave his Quidditch uniform for when he reached the locker room, where the adrenaline of his teammates and the familiar smell of worn leather and polished wood always helped him get into the right mindset for the game.

As he opened his wardrobe, Harry’s eyes landed on his Firebolt, the broomstick still gleaming despite years of use. Sirius’ gift from his third year – a symbol not just of freedom, but also of trust, something he had always valued deeply. He found himself smiling at the memory of unwrapping the broom for the first time, his heart racing with the anticipation of flying faster than he had ever imagined.

The dormitory around him was in typical game-day chaos – crumpled trousers, knee pads scattered on the floor, and red robes thrown carelessly over beds. Ron was already dressed in his goalkeeper uniform, adjusting his gloves with a tense expression as he muttered to himself, probably repeating confidence mantras. Neville, who never missed a chance to support his friends, was trying to offer some words of encouragement, though his own face showed pure anxiety.

Harry pulled on his own red robe, feeling the familiar weight of the fabric on his shoulders as he took a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves that always appeared before a game.

Harry leaned over to grab the Firebolt and gave Ron a light pat on the shoulder, his friend still struggling to fix his tie as he yawned.

“See you at breakfast,” he murmured, his voice steadier than he actually felt.

He made his way down the stairs to the common room, his steps quick and determined as he adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. As he stepped through the portrait hole of the Fat Lady, he was immediately surrounded by his housemates, who greeted him with excited smiles and hearty claps on the back, wishing him luck for the game.

“Smash them, Potter!” a third-year boy shouted, his eyes shining with admiration.

“Show them how it’s really done!” added a fifth-year girl, her curly hair bouncing as she watched him with an encouraging smile.

Harry waved back at them, his chest swelling slightly with the pride he always felt before a game. He pushed open the heavy doors leading to the main corridor, his mind finally starting to focus on the match, on the strategies he had planned with Ginny and Ron, on the maneuvers he would need to execute to secure the win.

For a brief moment, he forgot about Daphne, about Amelia, and all the complications that had been following him lately.

Just him, the open sky, and the Quidditch pitch waiting for him.

~HP~

The Great Hall was already a chaotic scene when Harry entered, the sound of animated conversations and laughter echoing off the stone walls, blending with the clatter of cutlery and the occasional flutter of owls swooping over the tables. The long Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables were particularly lively, students dressed in their vibrant house colors – red and gold on one side, yellow and black on the other – exchanging taunts and shouts of encouragement.

Harry made his way to the Gryffindor table, his eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces. He noticed that the Ravenclaws were beginning to arrive as well, many still with damp hair and half-closed eyes from a hurried morning routine, while the Slytherins, as usual, kept a cautious distance, some casting evaluative glances at the players already seated at the Gryffindor table.

He dropped onto an empty bench, feeling the muscles in his back protest slightly from the tension of the previous night. He wasn’t one to eat much before games – the last thing he needed was to feel queasy mid-match, even if that was a remote possibility. He reached for a steaming pot of coffee, pouring himself a cup as his teammates around him discussed strategies and exchanged jokes to ease the pre-game tension.

As he brought the cup to his lips, the strong aroma pulling him slowly into the alert state he so desperately needed, Harry remembered that his parents and Sirius would be in the stands today. He had exchanged letters with them over the past few weeks, a rare occurrence for him, and had carefully avoided mentioning anything about Daphne Greengrass.

The last thing he needed was for James and Sirius to start making the same teasing comments Ron had been throwing his way since the start of the year – insinuations that he and Daphne were "clearly destined to fall in love" and that the constant bickering between them was just a twisted form of flirting.

He huffed in irritation, his fingers tightening slightly around the handle of his cup as Ron’s words echoed in his mind. His friend never missed a chance to compare him to himself and Hermione, always reminding Harry that the two of them had also started out by bickering and arguing before finally admitting their feelings.

But Harry knew he wasn’t like Ron, and Daphne was definitely nothing like Hermione. He couldn’t imagine a world where they stopped sniping at each other and became something more. The idea was, at the very least, absurd.

Before he could get lost in these thoughts, a familiar voice cut through the noise around him.

“Good morning,” announced Hermione, dropping onto the bench beside him, her brown hair still slightly damp from her morning shower. She was holding hands with Ron, who sat down on Harry’s other side with a confident expression and a determined gleam in his eyes.

“Morning,” Harry replied, forcing a smile as he put down his cup and began piling his plate with toast and fruit. On any other day, he might have waited for the two to join him for breakfast, but on game days, everything was different. He needed a moment alone to focus, to prepare his mind for the adrenaline rush he knew was coming.

“Ready to crush them?” Ron asked, already serving himself a generous helping of scrambled eggs and bacon, his eyes gleaming with anticipation for the match.

Harry just nodded, his teeth sinking into a slice of apple. He needed to stay focused – the Quidditch pitch wasn’t a place for sentimental distractions.

Hermione shot him a quick glance, her eyebrows raising slightly as if she could sense the tension radiating from him. “You seem quieter than usual,” she remarked, reaching for a cup of tea. “Everything alright?”

Harry forced another smile, trying to sound nonchalant. “Yeah, just thinking about today’s plays.”

Ron let out a short laugh, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You mean thinking about Greengrass?”

Harry nearly choked on the piece of apple he was chewing, his head snapping towards his friend. “Don’t start, Ron.”

Hermione gave Ron a light slap on the shoulder, rolling her eyes as she took a sip of her tea. “Leave him alone, Ron. Harry needs to focus on the match.”

Ron pulled a face but shrugged, turning his attention back to his food.

Harry let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he reached for another slice of toast. He needed to forget about Daphne, at least for a few hours. When he had climbed through the portrait hole of the Fat Lady that morning, he had decided that today would be only about Quidditch, about flying and feeling the wind in his face – no distractions, no drama.

And, at least for now, he was determined to keep that promise.

~HP~

As Harry approached the stadium, he began to hear the growing roar of the stands, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the ground and rise up his legs like an electric current. The red and gold Gryffindor flags were already fluttering atop the towers, and the air was charged with the raw energy that always preceded a big match.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh scent of freshly cut grass and the polished leather of broomsticks being prepped in the locker rooms. The crisp Scottish morning air sent a chill through his skin, but he knew that in a few minutes he would be sweating as he soared high above, the wind cutting across his face and the whole world reduced to the single, golden glint of the Snitch.

Near the entrance to the locker room, Harry spotted three familiar figures – his parents and Sirius, who seemed to be in the middle of an animated conversation. Beside them was Remus Lupin, the renowned researcher known for his groundbreaking work on lycanthropy, his face marked by the scars of countless full moons. Today, however, he looked more excited than usual, his eyes gleaming as if he had just made a remarkable discovery.

Harry quickened his pace, his smile widening as he approached.

“There’s our champion!” James exclaimed, spreading his arms wide to pull his son into a tight hug. “Ready for another game, son? Remember the tips I gave you?”

Harry chuckled, feeling the familiar warmth of comfort and security that always enveloped him in his father’s presence. “Of course,” he replied, returning the hug before stepping back to meet James’s eyes. “You know I wouldn’t miss this game for anything.”

Lily stepped forward, her red hair gleaming in the morning sun, and wrapped her arms around her son in a tight embrace. Harry breathed in the familiar scent of herbs and potions that always clung to her – a smell that reminded him of home, even amidst the chaos of Hogwarts.

“It feels strange to be at home without you,” she murmured, her arms still firmly locked around him.

Harry smiled, returning the hug with equal strength. “I know, Mum. But I’ll be home for the Christmas party. You know that.”

Lily pulled back, her bright green eyes shining slightly as she looked him up and down, as if trying to reassure herself that he hadn’t changed since the last time she saw him.

Harry then turned to Sirius, who already had his arms outstretched, pulling him into a rough, slightly clumsy hug, their shoulders bumping in a gesture that was as much about friendship as it was about family.

“Ready to crush those badgers?” Sirius teased, his eyes sparkling with that mischievous energy that never seemed to leave him. “Or are you going to let them get the better of you like in your second year?”

Harry laughed, feeling his chest swell with pride as he remembered the countless conversations he had had with Sirius about Quidditch, girls, and life in general.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, winking at his godfather. “I won’t let that happen.”

Finally, Harry turned to Remus, who was still smiling as if he had just won the Wizarding Lottery. Harry squinted slightly, puzzled by the unusually cheerful expression on his former professor’s face.

“Unless you’ve finally found a cure for your furry little problem,” Harry joked, reaching out to pull his family friend into a firm hug, “what’s making you so happy?”

The others laughed, and Remus returned the hug just as strongly, his eyes shimmering with something that felt a lot like pride.

“It’s something I heard about recently,” Remus said, giving Harry a light slap on the shoulder as they pulled apart. “Something Tonks mentioned to me.”

Harry grinned, a warm wave of happiness washing over him at the mention of Tonks. She and Remus had married a little over a year ago, something Harry still considered a small miracle, given how much Remus had resisted the idea. First, because he felt too old for Tonks, and second, because of his lycanthropy, which he had always seen as a burden he didn’t want to impose on anyone.

Remus hesitated for a second, his eyes darting quickly to James and Lily, who were smiling as if they already knew what was coming.

“Let’s just say,” Remus continued, his lips curving into a smile he couldn’t seem to hold back, “that you’re going to have someone else to worry about soon.”

Harry blinked once, twice, the words taking a moment to register. When he finally understood what Remus was saying, his face lit up in pure astonishment.

“Are you serious?” he exclaimed, his eyes widening as he turned to his parents, who nodded quickly, their smiles broad and full of pride. “Oh my God, Moony! Congratulations!”

Remus laughed, the sound echoing through the stone corridor as Sirius clapped him hard on the back, the two exchanging glances that said more than any words ever could.

“It’s very serious,” Remus replied, his eyes gleaming with tears he quickly blinked away. “We’re expecting a little Lupin in a few months.”

“Moony, a dad,” Sirius said, still chuckling. “Who would have thought?”

They continued chatting animatedly for a few more minutes, James pulling Harry into another hug while Lily murmured something about how everyone had been shocked when they first got the news.

But as they spoke, Harry felt his mind slowly drifting away from the conversation, his thoughts turning, almost against his will, back to Daphne. He tried to push her out of his mind, but her sharp, cold words still echoed in his head, like a dissonant melody he couldn’t ignore.

Sirius seemed to notice the sudden change in Harry’s expression and stepped closer, leaning in to whisper in his godson’s ear.

“Alright, pup?” he asked, his sharp eyes examining Harry carefully. “Why so quiet? Girl trouble?”

Harry hesitated for a second but then nodded slowly. There was no point in hiding things from Sirius – he knew Harry too well for that to work.

“It’s Greengrass,” he muttered, his eyes fixing on the entrance to the locker room to avoid his godfather’s intense gaze. “She caught me in the locker room with Amelia. It was nothing, but she seems to have drawn the worst possible conclusions.”

Sirius chuckled, his firm hand resting on Harry’s shoulder. “Ah, Harry, you’ll never understand women,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “They have a logic all their own. And from the looks of it, Miss Greengrass was expecting something from you that you didn’t deliver.”

Harry frowned, his lips tightening slightly. “But I didn’t do anything, Sirius. For Merlin’s sake, I’m not trying to lead Amelia on. The last thing I need is more complications.”

Sirius let out another laugh, his eyes still full of mischief. “Where’s the boy who used to say it wasn’t his fault if girls fell for him?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of a whistle echoing down the corridor – the signal that the game would be starting soon.

He exhaled, trying to clear his mind of all the complicated thoughts. There was a game to win.

After saying his goodbyes to his family, he continued his walk toward the locker room. He needed his head in the here and now. And he needed to win this game.

~HP~

The Gryffindor locker room was buzzing with energy as Harry pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, the scent of leather, sweat, and polished wood instantly filling his nostrils. The sounds of his teammates' voices mingled with the rustle of red and gold robes and the clink of Quidditch bats being adjusted in the nervous hands of the Beaters.

The cold stone floor was littered with scarlet ribbons, good luck charms, and a few old newspaper clippings showcasing Gryffindor’s past victories. The lion crest emblazoned on the walls seemed to roar silently, as if even the castle’s bricks were cheering them on.

Harry moved to the center of the locker room, twirling his Firebolt between his fingers as his eyes quickly scanned each of his players. He always gave a speech before matches—not just to motivate them, but to remind himself of what was at stake, to calm his own nerves before heading out to the pitch.

He took a deep breath, his eyes landing first on the three Chasers huddled beside a pile of kneepads and elbow guards. Ginny, her red hair already tied in a long braid that swayed with each warm-up motion, looked especially fierce, her eyes gleaming with the intensity of someone who lived for the sport. Beside her, Teddy McCarthy, a tall and muscular fourth-year, was clapping his hands together forcefully, a predatory grin on his lips. And next to him, Lexie Butler, a second-year girl who had just joined the team, looked nervous, her fingers drumming against her broomstick as she murmured something to herself—perhaps a good-luck spell or a silent prayer to the ancient gods of Quidditch.

The Beaters were in the opposite corner, checking the straps on their arm guards and exchanging jabs to ease the tension. Joe Fletcher, a fifth-year with strong arms and a booming laugh, spun his bat like it was a natural extension of his body, while Sean Wright, only in his second year but already with reflexes like a cat, kept glancing nervously at the door, as if expecting someone to barge in at any moment.

Finally, Harry looked over at Ron, his best friend and Keeper, who appeared to be mentally reciting the tactics they’d discussed at their last meeting. Ron’s freckled face was serious, his hands gripping the sides of his robes as if preparing for a duel.

Harry cleared his throat, tapping the tip of his Firebolt lightly against the floor to get the team’s attention. The chatter ceased instantly, and all eyes turned to him.

“Alright, everyone,” he began, his gaze flicking quickly from one face to the next. “As you all know, this is my last year at Hogwarts. That means my last year on the team and as captain.”

He paused, letting the words echo through the locker room, the sound of his teammates’ breathing seeming amplified against the stone walls.

“I don’t know who McGonagall’s going to pick as captain next year, or how things will be once I’ve graduated,” he continued, his chest swelling with the emotion that was beginning to rise inside him. “But one thing I do know—we’re Gryffindor. We’re lions. We’ve won for the past few years in a row, and frankly, nobody beats us.”

The locker room exploded in cheers and applause, players slapping their knees and the walls, the sound echoing like thunder.

Harry smiled, feeling the blood pump faster through his veins, adrenaline mixing with the nervous excitement that had been building since the morning.

“We trained hard for this,” he went on, raising his voice over the noise. “We’ve got a strong, fast, determined team. Let’s show the Badgers why we’re the champions. Let’s give them something to remember.”

More cheers erupted, fists pumping in the air as the players exchanged glances, their eyes gleaming with that mix of confidence and fear that always preceded great moments.

Harry took a step back, raising his Firebolt like a general about to lead his troops into battle.

“And one last thing,” he said, his lips curling into a defiant grin. “Have fun. Enjoy every second. This is our year.”

Applause rang out again, some players banging their bats against the floor with such force it seemed like sparks flew from the stone.

One by one, they began to march toward the door, their steps resolute and their breaths quickening as they prepared to take the field. Harry watched them go, his chest still full of the collective energy they had created in the cramped locker room.

When he was finally alone, he took a deep breath, gripping the Firebolt tighter as he turned to follow his teammates.

He knew they were going to win. Not just because they had trained hard, but because they were Gryffindor—and in that moment, there was no force in the world that could stop them.

With one final glance at the locker room walls, where old memories of past victories seemed to whisper words of encouragement, Harry stepped through the door and let the distant roar of the crowd fill him with the energy he so desperately needed.

~HP~

Being in the sky always had an almost therapeutic effect on Harry, even during the most intense matches. The wind cut across his face, the sound of the stands erupting around him as he sped across the field, his muscles tense but his thoughts incredibly clear. It was as if the world shrank to the space between him and the Golden Snitch, everything else blurring at the edges of his vision.

But at that moment, even the sky didn’t seem enough to calm his nerves. The match had been underway for at least half an hour, and he still hadn’t managed to catch the Snitch. He scanned every corner of the field, his eyes sweeping across the packed stands and floating goal hoops, but the tiny golden sphere continued to elude him.

The scoreboard, as of the last update, read 60 for Gryffindor to 80 for Hufflepuff. A small difference, but enough to make him uneasy. He knew his team was better—Ginny had already scored two spectacular goals, and Lexie seemed to have finally shaken off her initial nerves, moving with the agility of a bird hunting in the wind. But for some reason, Hufflepuff was managing to stay ahead, their Chasers working with surprising synchronicity and their Beaters playing with a ferocity Harry hadn’t anticipated.

He rose quickly, the Firebolt responding precisely to his touch as he positioned himself above Gryffindor’s goalposts, his eyes darting from side to side. Below him, Ginny dove to avoid a Bludger that whizzed dangerously close to her head, while Teddy shot toward the left hoop and scored another goal, sending the Gryffindor crowd into an eruption of applause.

“Seventy for Gryffindor, eighty for Hufflepuff!” echoed Lee Jordan’s voice, amplified by the sound system floating magically over the field.

Harry narrowed his eyes, moving toward the edge of the pitch, his fingers gripping the Firebolt's handle as his eyes searched for the golden glint of the Snitch. He dived to avoid a Bludger coming his way, the wind whistling in his ears as he veered sharply to the left, his heart pounding faster with the adrenaline.

Finally, he spotted it—a small golden sphere hovering near the stands, its wings fluttering rapidly as it zigzagged to evade the approaching Seekers.

Harry leaned forward, muscles coiling as he launched himself toward the Snitch, the Firebolt surging beneath him with a burst of speed. He felt the cold wind lash his face, the stands blurring around him as he closed in on the small golden dot glinting under the morning sun.

But then, something caught his attention—a flash of blonde in the Slytherin stands.

Harry blinked quickly, his heart giving an unexpected jolt in his chest. He recognized the slender figure and the blonde hair lightly stirred by the wind—Daphne Greengrass.

For a brief second, he wondered what she was doing there. He had never seen her at a match that wasn’t her own house’s, and frankly, he never expected her to care enough to watch a Gryffindor game.

That distraction was enough.

He didn’t hear the Bludger coming—he only felt the crushing impact against his temple, a wave of sharp pain radiating across the right side of his skull. His ear rang violently, vision going dark for a second as he instinctively clutched the Firebolt to keep from falling out of the sky.

The world around him seemed to slow, the roar of the crowd becoming a distant hum as he tried to regain his balance, the blood pulsing in his ears like a desperate drumbeat. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision as his fingertips tingled and his face burned with the sting of the impact.

He managed to raise his left arm, signaling time-out to Madam Hooch who, thankfully, seemed to catch the gesture immediately, her whistle shrieking sharply across the field as the players slowly backed away, worried expressions on their faces as they looked at him.

Harry took a deep breath, his lungs burning as the ringing in his ear began to fade, though the throbbing pain still pounded against his skull like someone was hammering inside his head.

He knew he had to recover quickly—Gryffindor couldn’t afford to lose this match.

But even as he descended slowly toward the pitch, one hand still pressed against his aching temple, he couldn’t shake the image of Daphne Greengrass from his mind—the blonde blur that had distracted him at the most crucial moment of the game.

“Are you okay?” Ron asked as soon as Harry landed awkwardly on the grass, his feet touching the soft ground as he let go of the Firebolt and pressed the side of his head with his free hand. His ear still throbbed violently, the distant noise of the stands blending with the irritating ringing that seemed to pierce his brain.

“A Bludger,” Harry replied, his voice coming out rougher than he expected, as if the words had to force their way through a dry throat. “Hit me on the temple.”

Ron stepped closer, his blue eyes wide with concern as he studied his friend closely. “Are you okay to keep going?”

Harry blinked a few times, his vision finally stabilizing as the throbbing in his head slowly dulled to a constant but bearable ache. He exhaled sharply, his shoulders straightening as he nodded.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, trying to sound more confident than he actually felt. “What’s happening?”

Ginny landed beside them, her red hair tied in a braid that was starting to come undone in the wind, her face flushed with effort but her eyes still burning with determination.

“Their team seems to know our tactics,” she said quickly, pointing toward the Hufflepuff players who were regrouping on the far side of the field, their faces tense and shoulders squared as if already ready for another clash. “They’re better organized than we expected, but we can still turn this around.”

Harry nodded, his hand still pressed to the side of his head as he forced himself to stay focused. “And the score?”

“Ninety for Hufflepuff, seventy for us,” Ginny answered, her teeth clenched as she looked at the hoops swaying slightly in the wind. “But if you catch the Snitch, we win.”

Harry took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as adrenaline began to rise again, pushing the pain to the back of his mind. “I’ll do my best.”

Madam Hooch blew a sharp whistle, her voice echoing across the pitch as the players returned to position.

“Let’s give it our all,” said Ron, giving Harry a firm slap on the shoulder before jogging back to take his place as Keeper. Ginny gave Harry a quick pat on the back—a small gesture, but full of confidence.

Harry gripped the Firebolt tightly, the familiar, solid handle firm in his hands as he drew in one more deep breath. He leaned slightly forward, eyes already scanning the sky as he prepared to launch himself into the air again.

When the whistle blew, he shot upward like an arrow, the Firebolt responding precisely to his touch as he climbed quickly, the wind cutting across his face and his eyes watering from the force of his ascent.

He rolled slightly to the right, dodging a Hufflepuff Beater who tried to block his path, the bat swinging dangerously close to his shoulder. He dove toward the center of the pitch, eyes moving rapidly as he searched for the Snitch.

Then, finally, he saw it—a tiny golden sphere hovering near the base of the Ravenclaw stands, its wings fluttering rapidly as it moved up and down as if taunting the players who approached.

Harry leaned forward, muscles tightening as he pushed the Firebolt to accelerate, the wind whistling in his ears as he closed in fast. He could hear the crowd screaming, the stands shaking with the energy of the spectators as he dove toward the Snitch.

The Hufflepuff Seeker seemed to notice and launched himself toward it too, the two of them flying side by side as they neared the Snitch, their shoulders almost touching as both reached out for the frantic little golden dot ahead.

Harry felt the blood pounding in his ears, his heart thudding like a drum in his chest as he forced his body to lean even farther forward, his fingers stretching as far as they could.

The Snitch made an unexpected sharp turn to the left, and Harry reacted instinctively, yanking the Firebolt hard to the side, the muscles in his arms tightening with the effort as he threw himself into the turn, his shoulder nearly colliding with the Hufflepuff Seeker’s.

For a brief second, he saw the other boy’s face—jaw clenched, eyes wide with determination as he stretched to reach the Snitch.

But Harry was faster.

He closed the final inches, his fingers finally wrapping around the golden sphere, its wings beating frantically against his palm as he gripped it tightly.

The world seemed to explode around him—the Gryffindor stands erupting with cheers, red and gold flags fluttering like flames in the wind, and the enthusiastic voice of the new commentator echoing from the enchanted loudspeakers, narrating every move with the fiery passion typical of Gryffindors.

“POTTER’S GOT THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS! TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY TO NINETY!”

Harry allowed himself a second of pure relief, his lungs filling with air as he rose again, arms raised in victory while the crowd roared below him.

He turned slightly in the air, eyes sweeping over the stands as he soaked in the wave of triumph flooding through his body.

And for a brief moment, he thought he saw a flash of blonde in the Slytherin stands, blue eyes following him with an intensity that made his heart beat even faster.

But he didn’t let himself dwell on it for long.

Gryffindor had won, and for now, that was all that mattered.