A Bludger shot out from Fred's bat, flying directly at Malfoy. Malfoy, intently focused on pursuing the Golden Snitch, sensed the danger in the wind's whisper. He leaned slightly to one side, adjusting his broomstick's angle just enough for the Bludger to whistle past his ear. Cheers erupted from the Slytherin stands.
Malfoy had no time to acknowledge the audience. Never before had the Golden Snitch been so close. A glint of gold was reflected in his gray-blue eyes as he reached out. The Snitch darted between his fingers, just out of grasp. At that crucial moment, his Nimbus 2001 abruptly slowed down. The Golden Snitch vanished into the sky.
Outrage burst from the stands. Malfoy turned in confusion, only to see Harry lunging forward, hands gripping the tail of the Nimbus 2001, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.
"Foul! Gryffindor penalty! I've never seen such tactics!" Madam Hooch shrieked, soaring toward Harry as he slid back onto his Firebolt.
Lee Jordan yelled into the microphone, "If Draco can use magic on himself and his broom, Harry has every right to use physics to stop him from catching the Snitch. It's only fair!" Boos echoed from the stands as Professor McGonagall gestured for Lee to stop.
"The so-called 'Chosen One' resorts to such dirty tactics?" Loki sneered, a trace of contempt curling his lips. "It seems he's willing to stop at nothing for victory."
"Desperate times call for desperate measures. Even a rabbit will bite when cornered. Poor Harry must have been left with no choice," Lilian chuckled softly.
Slytherin players, enraged by the underhanded tactic, regrouped with the Bludgers, determined to target the audacious Gryffindor Seeker.
A Bludger shot past Harry's right ear, hit by Slytherin's towering Beater Derrick. Another brushed dangerously close as Bole, the other Beater, closed in. Harry glimpsed both players charging toward him with raised bats. At the last moment, he ascended on his Firebolt. Derrick and Bole collided with a sickening crunch.
"Ha!" Lee Jordan exclaimed as the two Slytherins clutched their heads and separated. "You've got to wake up earlier to outplay the Firebolt! And now the Quaffle is with Gryffindor—Johnson has it! Flint is closing in—poke his eye out, Angelina! Just kidding, Professor—just kidding! Oh no—Flint's got the Quaffle! He's heading for the Gryffindor goal—come on, Wood, save it!"
Unfortunately, it was a mere spectacle. Flint's score brought a roar of cheers from the Slytherin side. Lee muttered angrily as Professor McGonagall tried to snatch the microphone from him.
"Sorry, Professor! Sorry! Won't happen again! Anyway, Gryffindor leads 30 to 10, and the Quaffle is back in Gryffindor's possession..."
The game continued, and within half an hour, the score stretched further. Gryffindor now led 50 to 10. Fred and George Weasley hovered protectively near Malfoy, determined to prevent him from spotting the Snitch early. However, with Malfoy's broom enhanced by wind magic, his speed and agility were on a different level. Bludgers sent toward him often veered unpredictably, hitting Gryffindor players instead. For Fred and George, it was the most frustrating match they'd ever played.
Soon, Angelina scored, making it 60 to 10. Fred Weasley struck a Bludger at Warrington, dislodging the Quaffle. Alicia seized it and scored again: 70 to 10.
"The situation looks grim," Lilian said with concern, her wine-red eyes reflecting the green-clad players on the pitch. "Historically, Slytherin has dominated the Quidditch scoreboard. But with Gryffindor's current 70-10 lead, if Harry catches the Snitch, the Quidditch Cup will undoubtedly go to the lions. The game seems to be slipping out of control."
Augustus stroked his chin thoughtfully. "The outcome still hinges on Malfoy. If he can catch the Snitch before Gryffindor hits 100 points, Slytherin might still win."
In the sky, Malfoy darted effortlessly on his broom, navigating the currents of wind as though it were his natural element. The breeze—whether a gentle whisper or a fierce gale—seemed to obey him, making the sky his playground. Every motion above—the players, the balls—was perceptible through the wind's whispers. The sensation of magical omniscience was intoxicating.
Suddenly, a speck of gold shimmered at the far edge of the sky. To Malfoy, even at this distance, the wind made it feel as if the Snitch were within reach. He glanced at Harry, who remained oblivious, and a smile tugged at his lips. He turned, accelerated, and streaked forward like a green comet.
Gasps erupted from the stands, marveling at his speed or sharp observation. By the time Harry noticed, Malfoy was already too far ahead. Harry's face turned pale as he angled his Firebolt in a desperate bid toward the Snitch.
Malfoy glanced back at Harry's frantic pursuit, his expression unreadable—a mixture of relief and self-mockery. From the time he snatched Neville's Remembrall to the fiasco of the Dementor disguise, Malfoy had always viewed himself as a loser. But today, under the vast sky, on this grand stage, he reveled in unrestrained defiance.
Time seemed to freeze as Malfoy's smirk faded. Boldly, he stood atop his broomstick, extending his hand toward the glimmer of gold. He grasped the Snitch tightly, claiming his moment of glory.
The crowd erupted. Holding the Snitch aloft, Malfoy stood triumphant above the roaring spectators. The Golden Snitch fluttered hopelessly in his grasp as he surveyed the sea of cheers below.
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