The Quidditch pitch roared with life as the Hogwarts All-Stars clashed against the Beauxbatons School of Magic under a sky streaked with golden clouds.
The crowd was a sea of waving banners—scarlet and gold for Hogwarts, pale blue silk for Beauxbatons—each scream and cheer echoing through the stands. Bludgers rocketed through the air, Chasers darted in elegant formations, and the sharp crack of broomsticks cutting the wind filled the stadium.
High above the chaos, Harry Potter scanned the field with hawk-like focus. His green eyes narrowed behind his glasses, wind whipping through his ssy black hair. Then—a glint. A flicker of gold no bigger than a walnut zipped past the Beauxbatons goalposts. The Golden Snitch.
"There!" Harry shouted to no one but himself, his heart leaping into his throat. He flattened himself against his broom and surged forward with a burst of speed that made the crowd gasp. The Snitch darted upward, a shimring speck against the vast sky, and Harry gave chase, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner of war.
From the Beauxbatons side, their Seeker—a wiry, brown-haired boy, after seeing Harry's movents —spotted it too. His sleek Nimbus 2000 tilted sharply, and he rocketed after the Snitch like a blur. The audience erupted, half rising to their feet, as the two Seekers streaked toward the prize.
"Look at Potter go!" bellowed Lee Jordan's amplified voice over the comntary box. "He's got that Snitch in his sights—and Beauxbaton's seeker's hot on his tail! This is going to be a nail-biter, folks!"
Harry twisted his broom into a steep climb, the Snitch zigzagging wildly as if taunting him. It looped around the Hogwarts stands, and he followed, pulling a hairpin turn that sent a ripple of "Oooohs!" through the crowd. His fingers stretched out, inches from the Snitch's fluttering wings, but it darted sideways at the last second.
His counterpart was gaining, his broom humming with precision, his face set in fierce determination.
The Snitch plunged downward in a stomach-lurching dive, spiraling toward the pitch. Harry didn't hesitate—he flipped the broom into a nosedive, the wind screaming past his ears, the ground rushing up to et him. His opponent did not hesitate either and mirrored him, streaming like a cot.
The stands blurred into a wall of noise—screams, cheers, and gasps blending into a deafening roar.
"He's mad!" soone shouted from the Gryffindor section.
"He'll crash!" shrieked a Beauxbatons supporter, clutching her friend's arm.
Harry's world narrowed to the Snitch, its golden glow a beacon in the chaos. He yanked his broom into a sharp turn, skimming just inches above the grass while his knees brushed slightly against the turf.
The Beauxbatons Seeker hesitated at the last mont, cursing in French as he looped back, but Harry was already climbing again, the Snitch weaving through the goal hoops.
With a sudden burst of speed, Harry rolled his broom mid-air, dodging a Bludger that whizzed past his head. The Snitch veered left—he banked right, anticipating its feint, then pulled into a breathtaking dive.
Again, the Snitch plunged, and again, Harry dove without hesitation toward the pitch. His opponent was only a couple of feets behind shadowing him.
The crowd leaped up, shouting themselves hoarse, and in the VIP box, half the occupants rose, hands on the rail.
"Mon Dieu, Albus!" Mada Maxi bood, her voice rich and unrestrained. "Look at that little daredevil go! Eleven years old, and he's outflying his seniors."
Dumbledore chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling as he watched Harry's reckless dive. "Oh, his father had that sa spark on a broom, you know. Seems the apple didn't fall far."
While he appeared calm on the surface, he was actually quite shocked by Harry's flying skills. This was his first ti seeing the boy fly like this, and the confidence and control he was displaying at just eleven years old made the old headmaster reconsider so of his carefully laid plans.
And sitting just two seats away from him, another headmaster shared his thoughts as well.
"Too much flash," grumbled Volkov, the dean of the Russian magical school. "He flies like he wants a broken neck. No discipline."
The Headmaster's murmured among themselves, the officials engaged in quiet discussions, and behind them, the many occupants of the VIP box shared their thoughts just as eagerly.
In the third row, a couple dressed in aristocratic wizarding finery listened intently to the occupants in the first row. The man was Lucius Malfoy. He had neatly combed blond hair and a cleanly shaved beard and beside him was his wife, Narcissa Malfoy. She looked graceful in her sleek black robes, staying calm despite the commotion below.
Lucius narrowed his eyes as he watched Harry Potter soar, captivating the dignitaries in front of him. The boy's showy display irritated him—a spotlight on a rival family he could never stomach.
"He's rather good, isn't he, dear?" Narcissa murmured, her lips curving faintly as she glanced at her husband's furrowed brows. "Reminds of his father…" She knew that scowl—jealousy simring beneath his polished veneer, sparked by a Potter stealing the stage. Lucius was predictable that way, but he was her husband after all.
The man humphed. "Typical Potter flair—more luck than skill."
He would rather vomit than admit it. In fact, he had even tried to change the team selection when it was announced, but unfortunately, everyone gave the sa answer. He was asked to take up any complaints with the new alchemy professor who was overseeing the team, but he didn't have the guts. It was common knowledge that this man wasn't easy to deal with.
Most importantly, he simply didn't want to give a bad impression to soone who seed to have connections everywhere. Mudblood or not, he wasn't foolish enough to offend a master alchemist.
On the field, Harry swooped low, skimming the grass as the Snitch danced just out of reach, taunting him. He narrowed his eyes, heart pounding, and then—a reckless idea took over him.
In a wild move, he pushed himself up and, with a sway, slowly balanced himself on the handle.
The crowd sucked in a sharp, collective breath.
Almost there!
He out stretched his hand, then finally, lunged himself through the air at the Snitch.
The crowd gasped—a sharp, collective "Oh!" rippling through the stands.
Unfortunately, to Harry's disappointnt, the Snitch only grazed his fingers, and he wasn't able to grab hold of it. But then, to his surprise, it darted toward his face. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened involuntarily at the sudden change. Coincidentally, the little golden ball with wings smacked straight into his mouth as he crashed to the ground, tumbling across the grass.
The stadium fell silent for a heartbeat.
Perhaps it was the explosion of adrenaline, but Harry managed to stagger to his feet despite the injuries from that obviously nasty lunge.
Cough.
The Snitch fluttered against his tongue.
Cough.
And finally, with one last cough, he spat it into his hand. A wide grin spread across his face as he gasped for breath and raised it for all to see.
"Did he just…?" a stunned voice murmured from the crowd. Then the pitch exploded.
"POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH!" Lee Jordan shouted. "Jumped off his broom and caught it with his teeth—Hogwarts All-Stars take it, 280 to 30!"
Just after he caught—or rather spat out—the Snitch, the Beauxbatons Seeker who had been right on his tail slowed his broom and descended toward him. He hovered a short distance away, studying the thin, frail-looking boy who had just outmatched him, perhaps searching for what made him so special.
But this wasn't a video ga—he couldn't simply appraise soone and check their talent by staring. In the end, he had to accept the truth: his opponent was monstrously skilled. With a grudging nod of respect, he acknowledged it.
Harry grinned back. No words were needed, as sohow they both understood each others thoughts perfectly.
Just as the Beauxbatons Seeker flew back to his teammates, Harry's own landed around him, leaping off their brooms to swarm him with cheers and claps on the back.
While the Hogwarts team celebrated, taking to the air once again and flying over to the stands where their schoolmates sat, the occupants of the VIP box began congratulating Headmaster Dumbledore and the few Hogwarts staff present on their victory. And Dumbledore, ever so humble, accepted it all with his signature smile while offering so polite praise to the opponents as well.
Lee Jordan was going mad with excitent, loudly calling out Hogwarts' na and praising the players. He even started to declare that they would guarantee the cup, but fortunately, McGonagall stopped him before he got too carried away.
He then officially announced the end of the ga and reminded everyone that tomorrow's match would be between Durmstrang and Koldovstoretz at the sa ti.
The audience began exiting the stadium toward the Floo points, leaving in an orderly manner with the help of the staff.
The sa went for the VIP box. After offering their congratulations to the headmaster, most of the guests departed—except for one half-giant witch who remained behind. She wasn't alone. Maverick and Dumbledore were still there as well, seemingly about to have a private discussion.
As the last person left the box, Maxi snapped her fingers, casting a silencing barrier around them. Maverick raised an eyebrow at her actions. He had been about to leave, but this woman had asked him to stay for a mont to discuss sothing. Dumbledore, being his boss and all, assud she was trying to dig his staff, so he insisted on staying as well.
Neither Maxi nor Maverick minded his presence.
"Well, now that you've made sure no one can hear us, can you tell what's this about?" Maverick asked bluntly. They now sat opposite each other, with Dumbledore beside him like a watchful parent.
Maxi didn't answer right away and instead watched him with an unreadable smile. Just as Maverick was starting to grow annoyed, the witch finally spoke, and what she said threw him off for a second.
"It's been a while... bird boy."
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