January flew by, and February arrived, bringing with it the most anticipated event: the Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw Quidditch match. This match was crucial, as the winner would face Slytherin in the finals to claim the glory of the Quidditch Cup.
The next morning at breakfast, the Gryffindor table became the center of attention. Many Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students gathered around to take a look. On the table sat a sleek, beautiful broomstick—the Firebolt. Even Augustus, who wasn't particularly interested in the sport, could sense the broomstick's immense popularity and unparalleled performance. With this new broom, Harry was sure to become an even greater force on the field, combining his sharp talent with the power of this extraordinary equipment. It would undoubtedly spell nightmares for many Seekers.
"Oh no, this doesn't look good for our house," Lillian said with mock concern as she sipped her pumpkin juice. "It's obvious how this will play out: Gryffindor defeats Ravenclaw, rides that momentum to beat Slytherin, and then crowns themselves champions under the cheers of the entire school. If nothing unexpected happens, this year's Quidditch season seems pretty predictable."
"How can you talk like that, boosting others' morale while lowering our own?" Malfoy exclaimed, standing up angrily. "What's so great about the Firebolt? They only have one! Our entire team is equipped with Nimbus 2001s, courtesy of my father. Sure, they might not be on the same level as the Firebolt, but external tools are just accessories. True Quidditch is about the spirit of competition—never giving up or backing down. Those idiotic Gryffindor lions could never understand that!"
Malfoy's indignant speech earned scattered applause from the Slytherin table.
"Well said!" Sol agreed, nodding in approval. "Whether it's a duel or Quidditch, until the last second, how can you talk about giving up? If someone is intimidated by their opponent's equipment, no matter how talented they are, they're nothing but a failure!"
"Tch, always preaching about noble ideals," Loki interjected with a sneer. "As a Slytherin, you should assess the situation and plan every step carefully. 'Never giving up' is nonsense. Rushing into a match without calculating every factor is just recklessness. People like that are nothing but fools."
"Ha, battles rely on instinct and intuition. No matter how much you calculate, in the heat of combat, you'll just end up following your opponent's lead. The rhythm of a battle can't be predicted through analysis. Controlling the battlefield comes from experience and subconscious reactions during the fight. Do you really think you have time for precise calculations in the midst of an intense clash? What a joke," Sol said, his piercing blue eyes flashing with a wild intensity.
"A defeated opponent dares lecture me about dueling?" Loki retorted, casting Sol a casual glance. "If your understanding of dueling wasn't so pathetic, you wouldn't have lost so miserably last time. How much do you really understand about the essence of dueling? Fighting purely on instinct makes you nothing but a brute. A mage fights with their mind—get it?"
In truth, both Loki and Sol had valid points, each reflecting their own understanding. Neither approach was inherently right or wrong. Battles are ever-changing and cannot be summed up in a single method. Whether relying on precise calculations or instinctual combat, true victory lies in finding one's own rhythm. Their differing combat styles were simply extensions of their personalities.
Malfoy, uninterested in the debate, yawned. To him, discussions about combat were tedious. He was merely an observer in these matters. Spotting Harry showing off his Firebolt in the distance, Malfoy seemed to find a new target for entertainment.
"Think you can handle that broomstick, Potter?" Malfoy's cold, drawling voice interrupted.
Draco Malfoy approached for a closer look, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.
"Yeah, I think so," Harry replied casually.
"Lots of features on this broom, huh?" Malfoy remarked, his eyes glinting with malice. "Too bad it doesn't come with a parachute—in case you get too close to a Dementor."
Pansy Parkinson let out a giggle, and many of the Slytherins joined in with mocking laughter.
"Shame you can't grow another arm, Malfoy," Harry shot back, "so you could finally catch the Golden Snitch yourself." The Gryffindor team roared with laughter.
"Ah, you seem pretty relaxed about your big friend," Malfoy sneered, narrowing his eyes. "What, hasn't he been crying himself to sleep these past few days? That disgusting beast of his is about to leave this world—what a touching story. I must've done everyone a favor by getting rid of it. After all, one less dangerous beast is good for everyone, right?" Malfoy's smug expression made it clear he was baiting Harry into a reaction.
But Harry didn't seem upset at all. Instead, he gave Malfoy an odd smile. "Malfoy, well done. You've done a great service to everyone. When the day comes, I'm sure all of Hogwarts will celebrate your accomplishment. Truly, you're the pride of Slytherin—an inspiration to us all." Harry's exaggeratedly humble tone only made Ron's grin widen.
Malfoy clearly disliked the feeling of being out of control, especially when it seemed like someone else knew something he didn't. This sense of ignorance frustrated him deeply. "Potter, just wait! When your big, ugly friend is gone, don't cry about it. Maybe your Dementor brothers will comfort you with a kiss. Mark my words!" Malfoy shot Ron a venomous glare before stalking off.
At 10:45, the Gryffindor team headed to the locker room. The weather was vastly different from their match against Hufflepuff. It was a cool, sunny day with little wind. Visibility wouldn't be an issue this time. Despite his nerves, Harry felt a surge of excitement that only a Quidditch match could bring.
They could hear the school crowd filing into the stands around the pitch. As they walked onto the field, they were greeted by thunderous applause. Ravenclaw's team, dressed in their blue uniforms, was already standing in the center of the field.
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