It had been a month since tryouts, and Oliver Wood had been an unrelenting storm of enthusiasm. His obsession with Quidditch strategy had reached new heights, and to my dismay, I was his favorite sounding board. He tried—repeatedly—to convince me to join the starting lineup. But I refused. Angelina, Katie, and Alicia had chemistry built from at least a year of playing together.
Their coordination was seamless, their communication near telepathic. I told him, plainly, that my value was as a change-up—a player who could alter the tempo of the game, confuse our opponents, and give us control when we needed it most. Oliver's eyes lit up like it was the best idea he'd ever heard, and from that point on, he treated me like I was the tactical genius of Gryffindor Quidditch. Great. Just great.
That month of training was agony. I'd rather have been experimenting, reading, or even scrubbing cauldrons than listening to Wood's endless speeches about Quaffle angles, Bludger trajectories, and Snitch patterns. But the day finally came—Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. The stands shook with excitement, scarlet and green banners whipping in the wind. The air crackled with anticipation as I mounted my Silver Arrow Limited Edition Vintage, hovering at the edge of the pitch, eyes sharp.
The game started like any other. The Quaffle soared through the air, Chasers darted back and forth, and Bludgers rocketed between players. I stayed on standby, watching the flow, the rhythm of the match. But it didn't take long for the familiar pattern to shatter.
Draco sneered at Harry as he passed. "All right there, Scarhead?" he jeered. But the taunt was lost in the chaos as a Bludger whizzed past Harry's head, missing by inches.
"Watch yourself, Harry!" Oliver bellowed from above. But this Bludger wasn't right. It turned mid-air, locked on Harry like a guided missile, and tore after him again.
"Wood, look out!" Harry called as the Bludger clipped Oliver's broom, sending him spinning.
The Bludger hounded Harry relentlessly, forcing him into dives, rolls, and hair-raising maneuvers that had the crowd gasping. Hagrid lowered his binoculars, face pale. "Blimey, Harry's got himself a rogue Bludger. That's been tampered with, that has."
Ron raised his wand, ready to act. "I'll stop it!"
"No!" Hermione hissed, pushing his wand down. "It's too risky. You could hit Harry."
Oliver called a timeout, and we gathered mid-pitch, breathless. His face was taut with frustration. "The Bludger was normal when we started. We can't call for an investigation mid-game without forfeiting."
"And your solution?" I asked, though I knew.
"Harry just needs to catch the Snitch. Quickly."
We all stared at him in disbelief. I sighed and stepped forward. "I may have an idea."
I requested to sub in as Beater. Fred and George, catching on, grinned and agreed without hesitation. Oliver, trusting my judgment, approved the swap eagerly. I mounted up, Silver Arrow gleaming, and joined the fray as the whistle blew.
Draco smirked. "Training for the ballet, Potter?"
The Bludger shot toward Harry, the second play resumed. I flew ahead, shielding him. "Stick close!" I shouted, directing him toward Malfoy. As the Bludger closed in, I intercepted, smashing it square into Draco's chest. His smirk vanished as he tumbled, air knocked from his lungs.
"Circle the pitch, Harry!" I called. He obeyed, the Bludger trailing him. I dove, catching Malfoy moments before he hit the ground, pulling up in a tight Wronski feint, and set him down gently before rocketing back up.
Beside Harry again, I outlined my plan: use the Bludger like a homing missile to pick off Slytherins.
First target—the Beaters. Harry stayed behind me as I lined up and struck, sending the Bludger curving unnaturally into the first Beater's side, catching him with a brutal liver shot and knocking him clean off his broom. I winced and muttered, "Oof, that has GOT to hurt."
The second Beater, wary now, countered and aimed it at me. I charged, swung, and the Bludger shot back at him like a cannonball, catching him square in the chest and flattening him with a look of pure shock.
Next was the Keeper. One solid hit and he crumpled, falling like a sack of potatoes. With the Slytherin defense in shambles, Angelina, Katie, and Alicia had a field day, scoring goal after goal with ease, their coordination flawless as they tore through the open lanes. Fred joined in, picking off Chasers one by one. The Slytherin team fell apart under our assault.
Flint, fuming, called a timeout and stormed toward us. "They're cheating!" he barked.
I pulled a rule-book from my gear bag—one Wood had forced on me since day one to memorize all the rules—and tossed it to him. "Find a rule we broke. We asked for an investigation—you refused. Now live with it."
Madam Hooch, arms crossed, backed me up. Flint, out of options, forfeited. Gryffindor: two hundred thirty to ten. No Snitch needed.
As we celebrated, the rogue Bludger that was responsible for this mess broke free from a staff member who was in the middle of putting it back into its proper spot in the Quidditch supply chest, shot toward Harry, and smashed into his arm, breaking it. Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid rushed in.
"Finite Incantatem!" Hermione cried.
"Depulso!" I shouted, blasting the Bludger into fragments, ending its chaos at last.
looked at Hermione with a dumbfounded look.
"Really, Hermione? Finite Incantatem?" in slight exasperated tone. "That is a common counter spell meant to undo most spells and enchantments, NOT momentum. At the rate of speed it was going, even if it wasn't targeting Harry anymore, were you just gonna stand there and catch the flying iron ball of death?"
Hermione just gave me a sheepish grin.
"I panicked okay?"
"Famous last words."