Time flew by, and Hogwarts was buzzing with excitement once again. The Quidditch match was about to kick off.
On match day, the sun blazed brightly, the weather perfect, as if promising good things to come. The Hogwarts Quidditch pitch was packed with a sea of cheering heads.
Harry stood by the Gryffindor team's rest area, clutching his broom. His fingers traced the sleek wooden handle of the Firebolt, its smooth curves and cool touch sending his heart racing. After Wood's relentless, almost reckless training sessions, there was no way he could mess this up today.
Around him, the crowd's chatter swelled like a tide. Nearly every eye was glued to the broom in his hands—after all, a price tag of thousands of Galleons was enough to make most wizards' jaws drop.
"Oi, Potter, let me have a gander at that fancy new broom of yours! Finally upgraded, have you?" Draco Malfoy's snide voice cut through the noise as he pushed through the crowd, Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind.
His gaze lingered on the Firebolt for a moment before he sneered. "Tch, all flash and no substance, I bet. You won't even catch a glimpse of the Snitch! A broom's only as good as its rider, you know."
Harry looked up, his eyes glinting. "Better than someone wobbling on a broom that's falling apart. Who was it that crashed into a pumpkin patch during practice? Oh, right—did that kick to the head in Care of Magical Creatures knock something loose? Still not recovered?"
Harry remembered it vividly. During a recent Slytherin practice, Malfoy, eager to show off after returning to training, had nearly fallen off his broom. Only Crabbe's quick spell had saved him from a proper tumble.
"What did you say?" Malfoy's face paled with fury, but he couldn't muster a comeback. Harry's Quidditch record spoke for itself—Malfoy had never beaten him.
"My broom's the latest model! Falling apart? You've lost it!" Malfoy sputtered.
Harry, channeling a bit of Dylan's occasional eye-rolls at Ron, flicked his eyes upward. "Oh, so it's not the broom that's the problem? Well, then, no hope for you. Like you said, a broom's only as good as its rider."
Malfoy's face cycled through shades of white and green, but he had nothing left to say. With a frustrated "Hmph!" he stormed off to the Slytherin stands, his lackeys in tow.
Meanwhile, on the stone steps leading to the mixed Gryffindor-Hufflepuff stands, Dylan and Cedric were climbing side by side. Cedric's eyes were still on Harry's Firebolt, and he couldn't help but comment again. "That broom's balance looks unreal. I saw it sitting on the ground earlier—not even a breeze could budge it. It's the real deal."
Dylan nodded absently, his gaze drifting past the crowd to the Ravenclaw rest area. There, Cho Chang was adjusting her Beater gloves, a thin bandage wrapped around her wrist. According to Cedric, she'd been hit by a rogue Bludger during practice last week and had only removed the bandage yesterday.
"Speaking of," Dylan said, pausing to lean against the stone railing and glance down, "is Cho's injury really okay? I heard she could barely grip her broom in practice yesterday. Haven't Ravenclaw thought about swapping in another Seeker?"
Cedric stopped, turning to Dylan with a wary look. "She tested it this morning and said she's fine."
He paused, his brow furrowing as he eyed Dylan suspiciously. "Why're you asking? You seem awfully concerned about Cho—and why're you calling her so casually? You two close or something?"
"Merlin's beard, mate," Dylan said, rolling his eyes. Cedric was the one who kept bringing up Cho every other day. Ever since Cho had mentioned that Dylan had given them all those date ideas, and she'd half-joked about feeling like she was dating Dylan instead of Cedric, Cedric had been on edge around him.
Dylan was tempted to give him a playful smack—couldn't reach his face, but a tap on the head would do.
He pulled a string of grapes from his pocket, their purple-red skins still glistening with dew. "You should probably tell Cho to sit this one out. Even if Ravenclaw threw in a few extra Beaters, Gryffindor's got this in the bag."
"How're you so sure?" Cedric pressed, unconvinced. "Don't tell me you divined it or something."
Dylan didn't answer, just popped a grape into his mouth. The skin burst, sweet juice flooding his tongue. "Just watch," he mumbled.
Cedric studied Dylan's confident demeanor and felt a pang of worry for Cho. If this guy was so certain, he'd probably peeked into the future with Divination again. Bloke's practically cheating with that skill, Cedric thought, half-admiring, half-annoyed. He'd been looking forward to seeing his girlfriend dominate the pitch, but now he was mentally drafting how to console her later—should he praise her steady flying or blame Harry's broom for being too good?
Soon, both teams lined up at the center of the pitch. Gryffindor's red robes and Ravenclaw's blue ones stood out vividly under the sun. When the captains shook hands, Oliver Wood gripped the Ravenclaw captain's hand so hard it looked like he might crush it. Harry and Cho exchanged a glance and a nod—rivals, but familiar enough not to make it as tense as their captains.
Then—
Tweet!
Madam Hooch's silver whistle sliced through the air. Every broom shot upward with a whoosh, rocketing into the sky.
Harry clamped his legs around the Firebolt's handle, and the broom launched like an arrow. He surged ahead, leaving the other players in his dust. The wind roared past his ears, nearly twice as fast as any broom he'd flown before. With a slight lean, the Firebolt banked smoothly. It wasn't quite as nimble as the broom Dylan had gifted him, but the speed was unreal.
Harry squinted, scanning every corner of the pitch—the shadows of the stands, the tops of the goalposts, even the gaps in the clouds. The Golden Snitch could be anywhere, and he had to be sharper than ever.
"And the match is underway!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed through the magical megaphone from the commentary box. "First things first, we have to talk about the star of the show—Harry Potter's Firebolt! This broom's the top pick for this year's World Cup teams, with a top speed that can—"
"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall's voice exploded through the megaphone, laced with irritation. "You're here to commentate the match, not advertise brooms!"
"Right, right, sorry, Professor," Lee said, his tone sobering—barely. "Let's check in on the players. Gryffindor's Katie Bell's got the Quaffle, heading for the Ravenclaw hoops! Ravenclaw's Chasers are moving to block…"
Cedric chuckled from the stands, nudging Dylan. "Only Fred and George could keep up with Lee's antics. Even our commentator's off the rails."
Dylan was mid-toss, catching a seedless grape in his mouth. He grunted in response, then offered the grape string to Cedric. He'd prepped them that morning with his custom "Seed-Removal Charm," leaving the skins intact but the seeds gone. The spell was a tweak of the botched charm Lockhart had used to vanish Harry's arm bones—now repurposed for fruit, it was a lazy wizard's dream. Stabilizing Lockhart's mess of a spell hadn't been hard, and Ravenclaw deserved most of the credit for the upgrade. Dylan just reaped the rewards.
A few days ago, he'd used the charm to make boneless phoenix claws, which Luna had loved. She was so hooked that Dylan whipped up a batch in every flavor, letting her take most of them to nibble on later.
Cedric plucked a few grapes, chewing thoughtfully as his eyes returned to the pitch. His brow creased. Cho was tailing Harry doggedly, her broom clearly slower, but every time Harry accelerated, she gritted her teeth and kept pace. She knew letting the Firebolt pull ahead would mean losing any shot at the Snitch.
Cedric sighed. All that effort, and the outcome might still disappoint. He wondered how he'd cheer her up after the match.
But as the game wore on, Cedric's hopes flickered. Half an hour in, the score was neck-and-neck. If it stayed this close, it'd come down to who nabbed the Snitch. Despite Dylan's prediction, what if Cho pulled it off?
Gryffindor had scored three goals, with Ravenclaw clawing back two. As Katie Bell lined up for a fourth, a Ravenclaw Beater swung hard. A Bludger rocketed toward Harry with a howling gust.
Harry was scanning a patch of grass below, where something gold had glinted. He was about to dive when he caught the Bludger's shadow in his peripheral vision. With a sharp tug, he yanked the Firebolt upward. The Bludger grazed his boot, smashing into the stands and sparking a chorus of gasps.
"Blimey! That was downright dirty!" George's roar echoed across the pitch. He swung his bat, launching another Bludger like a cannonball at the Ravenclaw Beater who'd taken the cheap shot. Caught off guard, the Beater flipped on their broom to dodge, nearly falling off.
In the next moment, Katie Bell flung the Quaffle, and it sailed through Ravenclaw's hoop with a clang. Lee Jordan slammed the commentary table, making the megaphone hum. His voice crackled with excitement, igniting the Gryffindor stands.
"Goal! Gryffindor scores another ten points! That's eighty to zero—look at that lead! Ravenclaw's Keeper must have jelly arms by now!"
His eyes flicked to Harry's Firebolt, his tone brimming with awe. "Check out Potter! He's weaving low, pushing that Firebolt to its limits. That turn was pinpoint—less than half a foot off! Cho's Comet 260 can't keep up; it's like a cart horse chasing a Thestral—"
"Jordan!" McGonagall's voice cut through like a shard of ice, her authority unmistakable. "Did the Firebolt makers slip you a sack of Galleons? One more word off-topic, and you're out of that commentary box!"
Lee clammed up, but two seconds later, he muttered, "Just telling it like it is…"
The whisper carried through the megaphone, earning a roar of laughter from the Gryffindor stands. Maybe the laughter—or the glaring eighty-to-zero score—lit a fire under Ravenclaw. Their Chasers snapped into action. Captain Roger Davies broke through Gryffindor's defense with the Quaffle, followed by Chambers and Avery. In ten minutes, three Quaffles zipped through Gryffindor's hoops.
Lee's commentary steadied, though tension crept into his voice. "Ravenclaw's back with three goals! It's eighty to thirty now—Gryffindor's lead's down to fifty!"
Harry circled high, his fingers brushing the Firebolt's polished handle, its deep brown sheen catching the sun. Every grain of wood seemed carved for speed. His eyes darted across the pitch. Then, a flicker of gold flashed behind a Ravenclaw Beater—faint, like a speck of molten sunlight, but unmistakable to his Wood-honed instincts.
Harry dipped the broom, and the Firebolt plunged toward the glint like it was pulled by magic. But just as he closed within a few feet, Cho's Comet 260 cut across his path, her broom blocking him from the Snitch. Her blue robes whipped in the wind, and her wrist twitched, the bandage's edge catching the light. The sharp turn must've tugged at her old injury.