About two weeks had passed since the incident with Astoria, and the team's morale remained as low as ever.
We were technically still in the lead on points, so it was not quite a foregone conclusion or full-on funeral mode, but it was also true that the Firebolt's overwhelming performance in the Ravenclaw match had left everyone shaken. There was an unmistakable sense of hesitation throughout the team.
Despite the Cup being on the line, our strategy was a rather passive one: "focus entirely on interfering with Gryffindor."
Of course, playing cautiously out of wariness toward the Firebolt was not inherently a bad thing.
However, excessive caution and fear dulled judgment, and perhaps combined with the pressure of so many spectators cheering for the opposing team, we simply could not fully concentrate on our play.
And during a match, that lack of focus was fatal.
"Now Gryffindor is on the attack. Alicia Spinnet takes the Quaffle and charges straight for the Slytherin goal! Oh no, she loses it. The Quaffle is stolen by Elaina Celestaria!"
Listening to the commentary, I decided not to rely on my absent-minded seniors and charged straight toward the goal myself. Floating in front of Gryffindor's goal, teeth clenched, was Oliver Wood.
Last year, I had left almost everything to Senior Pusey, one way or another. This year, however, I had been steadily practicing my shots. After a full year, I had undeniably grown stronger than I was last year.
The problem was…
"After all, Wood is a truly magnificent Keeper! Magnificent! It's hard to get past him, and… he did it! I can't believe it! He stopped the goal from Elaina's shot!"
Wood's clock had also advanced by one year.
Effort is always rewarded in absolute terms, but not necessarily in relative ones. Over the past year, I had worked hard and become unquestionably stronger than I was last year, but Wood, who had also grown stronger compared to last year, had surpassed me by an even greater margin.
(Perhaps Wood, too, had been putting himself through blood, sweat, and tears ahead of his retirement match…)
From that point on, the flow of the game could only be described as disastrous.
Once Gryffindor quickly took the lead, our seniors, already on edge, immediately resorted to tactics that spared no means in their attempts to seize the Quaffle.
"Crash! A brilliant Bludger strike by George Weasley knocks the Quaffle loose from Pusey! Johnson picks it up, and Gryffindor attacks again! He dodges Montague's Bludger nicely, and… goal! Gryffindor scores!"
As Angelina struck a triumphant victory pose, an irritated Flint grabbed her head and tried to knock her off her broom, drawing a chorus of boos from the stands.
Madam Hooch's whistle rang out sharply.
"Penalty goal for Gryffindor!"
As the stadium fell into sudden silence, Alicia broke past the Keeper and scored.
"Gryffindor continues their attack. Go, Alicia! A Bludger from Warrington, dodge it! Oh, and here she passes the Quaffle to Katie Bell. Bell is flying across the pitch like an arrow… that bastard Montague did it on purpose!"
Instead of throwing the Bludger at Bell, Beater Montague hurled his club straight at the side of her head. Bell stumbled, crashed into her broom handle, and started bleeding from the nose.
Once again, Madam Hooch's whistle pierced the air. After scolding Montague, Bell broke past the Keeper and successfully converted the penalty.
Then an even angrier Beater, Warrington, deliberately targeted Wood with a Bludger, resulting in yet another penalty goal for Gryffindor.
"Forty to zero! Serves you right for playing dirty, you cheats!"
"Jordan, if you cannot provide fair and neutral commentary…"
"I'm just telling it like it is, Professor."
I had expected as much, but our seniors were clearly losing their composure. Between the reckless fouls and the resulting penalty goals, we had completely entered a self-destructive spiral.
Although Keeper Miles Bletchley and Adrian Pusey were not directly joining in the rough play, their actual gameplay had become overly passive.
(This is bad…)
Slytherin had a notorious reputation for rough play, but roughness did not necessarily stem from a desperate desire to win.
In the end, for the Slytherin team, Quidditch was little more than an extension of a pastime.
When you consider the risk of penalties, their behavior could be seen less as "we want to win the match" and more as an irresponsible tendency to vent impulsive frustration through rough play precisely because it was "just a game."
Up until now, our superiority over other teams had largely come from the performance advantage of our brooms, thanks to our many upper-class players. In truth, if you judged purely by player skill, we were not that exceptional.
By contrast, Gryffindor had resolved their former handicap of inferior brooms and had become a stronger team than ever.
Confronted so starkly with that difference, and with the oppressive presence of the Firebolt compounded by the pressure of the crowd, our concentration faltered. Our play grew sloppy, which put us at a disadvantage, which led to further panic and reckless despair. It was a textbook vicious cycle.
The current score stood at 60 to 10, and of Gryffindor's 60 points, a staggering 50 had come from penalty goals alone.
* * *
The Quidditch Cup was, without exaggeration, the ugliest, most disgraceful match I, Draco Malfoy, had ever taken part in.
Panicking over Gryffindor's lead, the upperclassmen seemed more focused on crushing Gryffindor's players than on actually winning the game.
For example, Senior Montague tried to beat Alicia Spinnet with his club and then excuse himself by saying he had "mistaken her for a Bludger," while Senior Warrington smashed his elbow straight into George Weasley's face. It was rampaging of the worst kind.
Meanwhile, Gryffindor, buoyed by the fact that they had gained the fifty points needed to secure the Cup thanks to our own self-destruction, were playing better than ever.
"Gryffindor leads 60 to 10! The Quaffle is with Gryffindor…"
When I glanced toward the stands, the Slytherin section was already steeped in resignation.
I did not want to admit it, but in the Seeker duel, their broom and their skill were superior. Even in the Chaser game, which we had been counting on, once we allowed the opening score, the momentum flowed completely to Gryffindor. Given that, the crowd's reaction was only natural.
(Damn it…!)
Whether it was the result of Oliver Wood's brutal training regime or not, Gryffindor's momentum was overwhelming. As a fellow player, it was a match that forced me to confront just how relentlessly Gryffindor had trained.
Even Elaina and Senior Pusey had most of their attack patterns shut down and were being marked completely. There were occasional shots, but the offense never really continued. Little by little, the gap in fundamental strength was becoming apparent.
So this is what people mean by a losing battle.
I could somehow feel that atmosphere on my skin.
Our attacks were crushed one after another, far more than I had expected, while our defense was breached with ease. No matter what we did, it felt pointless, as if we had been confronted with an insurmountable wall.
As a Seeker, I could barely maintain my composure, but the pressure, impatience, and irritation weighing on the other members must have been on an entirely different level.
That was probably why, even knowing it would only tighten the noose around their own necks, they felt tempted to escape into rough play just to vent their anxiety.
Perhaps Astoria had been fighting these same feelings all along.
I cast a quick glance toward Elaina.
While the upperclassmen were losing their cool, Elaina wore an uncharacteristically serious expression, enduring the pressure as she searched for a chance to turn the tables.
She calmly observed the players' movements and positions, seized advantageous spots by catching the opponents off guard, and blocked their Quaffle runs. At other times, she precisely calculated the angles of incoming Bludgers to evade them, then connected accurate passes.
Despite being a player herself, it was as if she were surveying the entire battlefield from above.
Because I am a Seeker who can overlook the whole pitch from a high vantage point, there are things I can see. One of them is that, despite being a losing battle, our Quaffle possession rate is relatively high.
The one behind that is Elaina.
We are behind on points, the upperclassmen have lost their composure, and Gryffindor is riding high.
Even so, the reason this has ended up being only this much of a losing battle is because she is supporting the entire team on the brink of sinking through her understated yet flawlessly precise control.
(Well then, as the one who started this, I can't afford to lose either…)
All things considered, I am not that stupid. I can usually come up with an answer that earns a passing grade right away. In studying, in sports, probably even in romance or work. I thought that was what being smart meant.
But enduring things like Astoria did, or thinking things through like Elaina does, and then going even further beyond that.
There must be something incredibly beautiful waiting there.
(End of chapter)
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