Ultimately, the secure communication method Hermione had found proved to be remarkably convenient for the organization. Fred and George, of course, immediately saw commercial potential in the Protean Charm for other underhanded purposes, namely, cheating on their upcoming exams.
However, she discovered their secret notes before the plan went too far, putting a strict, final stop to it with a stern lecture. Hermione was not about to allow the twins to risk using her enchanted coins for common mischief and jeopardize the safety of the D.A.
She already knew that her secret supply of 'Murtlap Essence' had indirectly helped Fred and George perfect their Skiving Snackboxes line, curing the accidental, painful boils caused by their prototype Fever Fudge bars.
While the twins were often inventive, brilliant pranksters, academic cheating on an official Ministry exam was a step too far for her morals. The real consequences of being caught by the High Inquisitor, permanent demerits, a month of detentions, or even an immediate expulsion from the castle, were more severe than those for their usual lighthearted classroom antics.
An expulsion would be disastrous for their future business plans. The Weasley twins knew very well that running a successful joke shop in Diagon Alley as brilliant graduates of Hogwarts sounded better to investors than doing so as expelled, low-tier troublemakers. So, at least for now, they kept their heads down.
xxxxxx
October had extinguished itself in a wild rush of howling winds and driving, torrential rain. November had already arrived on the valley, and it had been a brutally cold week, the ground turning as frozen as solid iron, with hard, white frosts covering the lawns every morning and icy drafts that bit sharply at exposed hands and faces inside the corridors.
The grey skies and the enchanted stone ceiling of the Great Hall had turned a pale, pearly gray, the mountains surrounding Hogwarts becoming snow-capped.
The temperature inside the castle dropped so far that many of the younger students wore their thick, protective dragon-skin gloves in-between lessons just to keep their fingers from freezing around their quills.
xxxxxx
The morning of the match had dawned bright and cold, the bitter November frost transforming the rolling lawns of Hogwarts into a sprawling sheets of glittering white.
Lucifer had gotten dressed that morning in a thick, gold-and-scarlet long-sleeved shirt and wrapped his matching red-and-gold scarf securely around his neck; that was the extent of open support he was willing to show that day.
He was obviously wanting to see Gryffindor crush the Slytherin lineup, but his cold pragmatism reminded him that if he had to fill in for whatever reason as reserve Seeker, he wanted to be ready instantly without having to peel off multiple bulky items of civilian winter gear first.
He was already sitting quietly at the Gryffindor table when the Great Hall started to rapidly pack with other shivering students. He turned his face and carefully saw the Slytherin students gathering at their green table, but something was intensely off about their uniform today; every one of them was wearing a matching silver badge pinned to their chests in the distinct shape of a royal crown.
Lucifer enhanced his vision to make out what the engraved words on the badges said, and the moment his eyes registered the mocking insult, a dark fury ripple through his veins; he wanted nothing more than to use his wandless magic to explode the metal pins right there on chests of wearers.
Harry and Ron sat down heavily across from him a little while later.
When Ron had entered the hall, an uproarious wave of cruel laughter erupted from the Slytherin table, the snakes pointing fingers and whispering behind their hands.
"I must have been mental to do this," Ron said in a croaky, terrified whisper across from him, his hands trembling over his empty plate.
"Don't be thick, Ron," Harry said firmly, passing his best friend a choice of cereal boxes to get his focus back. "You're going to be fine up there today."
"I'm rubbish," he croaked again, his face turning an uncomfortably pasty shade of green. "I'm lousy, I can't fly to save my life, what on earth was I thinking when I signed up for trials?"
"Get a grip on yourself," Harry said sternly, leaning forward over the table. "Look at that impossible save you made with your foot during our practice the other day!"
Ron turned his panicked eyes to Harry, and Lucifer saw his expression was pained and filled with misery. "That save was a fluke accident," he whispered miserably, staring down at his spoon. "I didn't mean to do it at all. I slipped right off the handle of my broom when none of you were looking, and I was trying to claw my way back on and I kicked the incoming Quaffle by accident."
"Well," Harry started, his green eyes blinking as his mind quickly recovered from the unpleasant surprise of the confession. "A few more happy accidents like that during the match, and game is cleanly in the bag for Gryffindor, isn't it?" He asked efficiently as Hermione sat down on Lucifer's right side.
Ginny claiming the seat on her right; they were both wearing thick red-and-gold wool scarves and large rosettes pinned to their lapels, "How are you feeling, Ron?" She asked her brother, her eyes searching his face.
"He's just nervous," Harry answered for him, as the latter seemed like he'd honestly rather attempt to drown himself in the murky dregs of his cereal and cold milk than answer a single question about the sky.
"Well, that is actually a good sign," Hermione said, her voice bright and encouraging as she reached for the teapot. "I never perform nearly as well in my examinations if I'm not a bit nervous beforehand," she said heartily.
"Hello," a vague, dreamy voice said from right behind their bench.
Lucifer turned his head to see Luna Lovegood standing there in the aisle. She was wearing a giant, life-sized lion hat perched precariously on top of her head.
Several surrounding students from the other tables were openly pointing fingers and laughing at the ridiculous accessory, but in true, classic Luna fashion, she didn't let their petty amusement bother her a bit. "I'm supporting Gryffindor today, look what the magic does."
She pulled her wand up to elaborate structure, tapped the side of faux fur, and the hat gave a sudden, extremely realistic, booming lion roar that made most of the students in the immediate vicinity jump out of their skins.
"It's quite good, isn't it?" She asked happily, her silvery eyes gleaming. "I wanted to configure it to chew up a green serpent, you know, to represent.... Gryffindor defeating Slytherin, but there wasn't enough time before the post... anyway, good luck to Gryffindor today!" She then bounded lightly back to the Ravenclaw table.
Angelina Johnson walked up to their corner the moment Luna left, flanked closely by Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell. The latter of the Chasers smiled warmly at Lucifer's profile and offered a small wave of her hand. Beside him, Hermione saw the visual interaction with narrowed, icy eyes; she did not like the other girls acknowledging her property at all.
Lucifer simply smiled and gave a nod back to Katie. He couldn't actually remember the last time he had bothered to wave back at a mortal here, and he wasn't about to start the habit again.
"When you're ready," Angelina said, her jaw tight with a captain's focus, "We're going to go straight down to the Quidditch pitch and check out the turf conditions, then head into the lockers to change."
"We'll be down there in a bit, Angelina," Harry assured her. "Ron's just got to have some breakfast fi--"
He stopped mid-sentence, the words dying in his throat as a sudden, massive commotion at the front of the Great Hall captured everyone's attention. At the head of the room, right where the teachers' high table usually sat, a sprawling, gleaming row of brand-new broomsticks was currently being laid out by several house-elves.
There were thirty of them in total, their polished mahogany handles still glistening with the distinct, rich scent of fresh pine oil.
"My goodness, look at those lines, those are Cleansweep Elevens!"
Someone yelled out down the table as a massive crowd of students immediately abandoned their plates to gather near the display, faces glowing with awe.
"I saw these models at 'Quality Quidditch Supplies' in Diagon Alley over the summer. They're brand-new this year!"
"They're incredible..."
"Are these brooms meant for all the house Quidditch players?"
"Ahem."
A soft, distinct cough cut straight through the loud chatter. The students turned their heads to see Dolores Umbridge standing right beside the display, having slipped into the room unnoticed until now. The sudden sight of her cardigan caused the crowd to scatter quickly, everyone hurrying back to their respective tables, though their intense gazes remained fixed on the brooms, especially Ron, whose eyes widened since he already owned this version and knew its acceleration power.
Umbridge cleared her throat a second time, demanding attention as she stepped forward with her familiar, sickeningly saccharine smile. "Yes, there is no doubt about it, children," she began, her high-pitched voice syrupy with a false, motherly charm. "These premium broomsticks are all yours."
The grand announcement was met with an immediate, thunderous eruption of cheers and applause from three of the house tables. For a fleeting moment, it felt like Christmas had come early to the castle.
Umbridge had to manually amplify her voice with a Sonorus charm to cut through the noise. "As the Hogwarts High Inquisitor, I have observed during my audits that the school's standard broomsticks are nearly thirty years old."
"The 'Ministry for Magic' has determined that the increasing number of severe injuries during Hogwarts' annual Quidditch tournaments is primarily due to the poor condition and structural decay of the old broomsticks."
"Therefore, the Ministry has chosen to replace the school's entire stock with these new, superior broomsticks. They will be utilized not only for the house Quidditch teams but also for the first-years' flying lessons."
Another loud wave of cheers swept through the hall, with hundreds of students shouting their approval and praise for the Ministry's generosity. Umbridge, clearly basking in the adoration, turned her face toward the faculty table to savor her moment of triumph. Her bulging eyes settled smugly on Professor McGonagall, fully expecting to see irritation, jealousy, or a loss of composure.
To her immense discomfort, McGonagall looked utterly unbothered, even quietly pleased by the development. She gave a polite nod of her head in acknowledgment, her expression perfectly neutral but radiating a quiet, dangerous confidence.
The total lack of a negative reaction unsettled Umbridge, but she quickly masked her political discomfort with a twitch of her fingers.
"Did you have something to do with this order?" Hermione whispered fiercely on his right, her amber eyes locking onto her boyfriend with suspicion. She found it unlikely that the corrupt Ministry for Magic would spend such a considerable sum of gold out of a sudden concern for student safety.
And Umbridge, of all people, hardly seemed the type to care about reducing student injuries.
"Well..." Lucifer murmured, leaning closer as he gave her a sly, wicked wink. "Let's just say I indirectly made a compelling suggestion to Director Bones regarding her audit lines."
The first official Quidditch match of the year, coupled with the sudden debut of brand-new broomsticks, had brought two surprises in quick succession, and the intense excitement showed zero signs of waning as the breakfast period came to an end.
It became very much clear that Ron was now physically incapable of eating anything more, his stomach churning with nerves, so both him and Harry stood up from the bench to go join the rest of the team in the changing rooms.
xxxxxx
Hermione turned her face to Lucifer again, looking perplexed by the rapid deployment of the new broomsticks and sudden Ministry safety measures. "What do you think of this?"
He remained seated, waiting for the crowd of shifting students to die down before he finally stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He let out a long, heavy sigh. "The Cleansweeps are not jinxed, pet, but I think Weasley is going to have a very hard time out there today... and I have no intention of helping him. He will simply have to learn to get used to the Slytherins' toxic conduct..."
"Yeah, why Dumbledore doesn't do something to ban psychological intimidation from stands, I'll never know. Well, we better get going before the staircases shift," She said, wrapping her red-and-gold scarf tighter.
They walked together down the lawn toward the wooden stadium, finding seats in the mid positions Gryffindor section that gave an excellent view of the turf field, the grey sky, and the opposite end of seating area.
Right below them, a tight group of Hufflepuffs were chattering excitedly over the match variables.
"I really don't know who is going to win this time," Rolf Scamander said excitedly to Susan Bones, his eyes fixed intently on the empty grass field, "Although from a friend's perspective, I hope it's Gryffindor, it would actually be better for our house standings if Slytherin wins today."
The Hufflepuff team had taken on several new players over the autumn, which had weakened their defensive roster to some extent, especially since they had to train a new Seeker after Cedric Diggory's tragic death last June.
Harry's Firebolt still loomed as a dangerous threat to the entire tournament, even with the rest of the players receiving the new Cleansweeps. From a friend's perspective and as a dedicated member of the D.A., Rolf naturally wanted the Gryffindors to crush the snakes.
But as a tactical team player whose family had been deeply rooted in Hufflepuff for generations, both Leo and Newt Scamander having flown for the house, he preferred Gryffindor not to score too many points early in the season. The complex conflict of interest had left him torn for days.
Down near the wide canvas entrance of the changing rooms, Lucifer saw Dolores Umbridge standing conspicuously, making an immense public show of hand-delivering the new Ministry-funded broomsticks for everyone to see. Angelina, Alicia, and George each stepped forward to receive one, eagerly replacing their old Cleansweep Fives, which were woefully outdated and frayed compared to the aerodynamic parameters of the Cleansweep Eleven.
Fred and George seemed to be in exceptionally high spirits despite the cold gales, offering the High Inquisitor exaggeratedly sincere, wide smiles and saying something sweet to her face, likely flat-out flattery to grease the wheels of their snackbox business.
Whatever jokes they cracked distracted her enough that she handed over the polished wood without her usual bureaucratic fuss or paperwork.
Harry, however, didn't even bother to glance in her direction as he cleared the threshold. He walked straight past her podium, ignoring the offered 'Cleansweep Eleven' entirely as his fingers held his own broom. His Firebolt was leagues ahead in quality and acceleration, it didn't need replacement from a Ministry budget.
The Slytherin team, emerging from the opposite tunnel, also rigidly stuck with their own Nimbus 2001s.
Although the models were a few years old now, the Nimbus line remained vastly superior to the Cleansweep Eleven in handling, prestige, and turning velocity.
The moment the teams took to the turf, Umbridge chose to sit directly within the green-clad Slytherin stands as opposed to the neutral teachers' VIP area, her pink cardigan contrasting sharply against their dark winter cloaks. Instantly, the Slytherin section filled the entire stadium with a loud, rhythmic singing.
Lucifer tried his best to just tune out the loud noise, eyes tracking the players. When the Gryffindor team started to take their final aerial positions, the singing was temporarily drowned out by the thunderous cheering and whistling of the three other houses, a celebration that he did not actively partake in, keeping his arms crossed. "Slytherin has put two new Beaters onto the field today," he murmured to Hermione. "But other than being physically strong, the idiots know next to nothing about the real mechanics of Quidditch."
"Who are they?" Hermione asked curiously, waving a tiny Gryffindor pom-pom that made a sharp, shuffling bell sound against her wrist.
"Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle," he replied, deeply amused by the tactical error.
"The two Slytherin gorillas?" She blurted out, her jaw dropping. "Can either of them even tell the basic difference between a flying Quaffle and an iron Bludger?"
"Who knows?" Lucifer shook his head with a dry chuckle. "The last time I saw them practicing down here, they couldn't even manage the simplest turns without nearly falling off their tails."
"Figures," Hermione scoffed, her nose wrinkling. "What on earth was their captain, Marcus Montague, thinking when he signed off them? If Quidditch were an aerial wrestling match, those two would be perfect."
"It's not impossible that wrestling is what they intend to do," Lucifer said, his eyes narrowing as he glanced toward the Slytherin stands. "Our players will have to be careful with their spacing today. If those apes charge at our Chasers recklessly, damage might force us to forfeit the game."
"Deliberately charging someone mid-air... that's--" She frowned deeply, her eyes scanning the pitch. "Surely, even the Slytherins wouldn't go that far right in front of Madam Hooch."
"Are you certain of that, pet?" Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "Why else would Montague recruit two oversized thugs who barely know the rules of the game if not to use them as physical battering rams?"
Hermione fell completely silent for a moment, the gravity of the match sinking in.
"Captains, shake hands!" Madam Hooch's magically amplified voice barked out across the turf after the initial cheering had died down. The Slytherin singing could still be heard echoing from the opposite stands, albeit it was muffled as they tried to get their collective rhythm going.
Hooch placed her silver whistle securely between her lips and blew a sharp, piercing blast.
The heavy iron latches snapped open, the four balls released into the air, and fourteen individual broomsticks instantly shot skyward into the freezing wind.
Ron flew straight for the golden Gryffindor hoops, his posture rigid with nerves, while an iron Bludger immediately targeted Harry, who deftly evaded the black ball with an effortless, fluid dive.
"And it's Johnson!" Lee Jordan's booming commentary rang cleanly through the stadium speakers. "Angelina Johnson with the Quaffle! What a spectacular player that girl is, I've been saying it for years, everyone, but she still flatly won't go out with me—"
"JORDAN!" came the distinct, furious voice of Professor McGonagall echoing from the commentator's box.
"Just a fun, educational fact, Professor! Adds a bit of human interest to the match!" Lee defended himself rapidly before returning to the play. "And she has ducked Warrington, passes straight under Montague, doing a flawless Sloth-Grip Roll along the baseline! She's—ouch! She has almost been hit by a Bludger launched by Crabbe, but thanks to that new Cleansweep Eleven, her sudden agility saved her from a broken rib! There is no way she could have pulled off that tight of a turn on her old Cleansweep Five!"
In the crowded Gryffindor stands, the audience collectively exhaled a breath of relief as Angelina evaded the near-miss.
"...Montague catches the dropped Quaffle, heading right back up the center of the pitch and—nice Bludger intercept there from George Weasley! That's a direct iron bludger straight to the head for Montague! He drops the Quaffle instantly, which is caught cleanly by Katie Bell! Katie reverse-passes it through her legs to Alicia Spinnet, and Spinnet's away down the wing—!'
Lee's rapid-fire commentary rang beautifully through the stadium, and it was always a treat to listen to his descriptions.
"Why the serious face, pet?" Lucifer asked, noticing Hermione's fingers twisting her scarf tight as she stared at the sky.
"I was just thinking," She murmured, her voice fragile against the wind. "You probably didn't notice it from down here, Lucifer, but Umbridge looked unhappy when Harry walked right past her podium without taking the Cleansweep broom she offered him."
"So what if she's annoyed?"
"Do you think she might eventually use her High Inquisitor powers to pass a decree forcing 'everyone' on the house teams to use the new Ministry-approved broomsticks?" she asked in a low, anxious voice. "The other houses wouldn't care too much since they're all getting free upgrades, but your and Harry's primary broom is a Firebolt. Losing that speed advantage would be devastating."
Lucifer let out a rich laugh at her anxiety, brushing the concern off with a lazy wave of his hand. "What real difference would that make to the tournament, pet? Don't forget, Potter is still an exceptionally talented Seeker on his worst day. If every player in the sky is forced onto a basic Cleansweep, our team's advantage actually increases because his skill outclasses Malfoy's wallet."
She still looked worried, so he leaned closer with a wicked grin. "Look at it this way, if Umbridge actually goes through with a stupid decree like that, it would practically clear the enemy Seeker's obstacle from our path to championship. Honestly, we might owe the woman a formal 'thank-you' note."
xxxxxxx
Lucifer's calculations were right: the Slytherin team was likely the only squad thoroughly unhappy about the arrival of the new Ministry broomsticks. Their single greatest historical advantage over the other houses, the superior, expensive performance of their matching Nimbus 2001s, had been nullified by the widespread upgrades, while Gryffindor seemed to grow stronger and faster with each passing play.
The match had barely begun, and Gryffindor was already twenty points ahead.
Desperate to turn the legal tide of the game, Slytherin's captain, Marcus Montague, frantically signaled Crabbe from across the pitch, instructing him to try knocking Angelina Johnson straight off her broomstick.
If they could successfully eliminate Gryffindor's most dangerous, agile Chaser from the sky, their chances of a comeback would improve exponentially.
However, Crabbe's clumsy intentions were far too obvious to track.
Angelina deftly twisted her Cleansweep Eleven, avoiding his heavy form with inches to spare and staying well out of his reaching grip. Adding to the Slytherins' mounting woes, Madam Hooch immediately noticed the blatant, illegal foul attempt from her position and awarded Gryffindor a penalty shot.
Angelina stepped up for the shot, her confidence completely unwavering as she faced the hoops. With a quick, deceptive feint of her shoulders, she fooled the Slytherin Keeper into diving completely the wrong way, then raised her arm and sent the Quaffle sailing cleanly through the left goalpost.
30 : 0
The entire Gryffindor section erupted into sea of cheers and applause, their collective excitement reverberating through the wooden stands.
"We're going to win this match for sure," Lucifer said with a wide grin, leaning back against the bench. "Montague is no match for Angelina's speed, and his team of hired apes isn't doing his strategy any favors. Now it is simply a matter of time before Harry spots and catches the Golden Snitch."
Hermione nodded her head in eager agreement, but then her ears twitched as a strange drone cut through the cheering. "Wait, Lucifer... is it just my imagination, or does it sound like someone is singing a song?"
"It's definitely not," he replied, his brow furrowing slightly as he turned his face toward the green section.
The sound was unmistakable and growing louder by the second. The singing was originating directly from the Slytherin stands, and soon it was glaringly clear that every house in the stadium could hear the malicious words echoing across the turf:
"Weasley is our King,
Weasley is our King,
He always lets the Quaffle in,
Weasley is our King!
He cannot save a single thing,
He cannot block a single ring,
That's why Slytherins all sing:
Weasley is our King!~"
The entire display was orchestrated. The singing was so uniform, loud, and penetrating that it was clear the Slytherins had practiced the lyrics well in advance of Saturday. They knew very well that the Gryffindor veterans, players with years of pressure tournament experience like Angelina and the twins, would not be rattled by common crowd antics.
So instead, they focused the entirety of their cruel taunts squarely onto Ron Weasley, the team's rookie Keeper, whose deep-seated unease and anxiety had been painfully evident to the tower in the days leading up to the match, as was his total inability to handle Slytherin's personal provocations.
The strategy, cruel and malicious as it was, worked perfectly on his mind.
The mocking, booming chant echoed sharply in his ears, amplifying his baseline nervousness tenfold. Ron's physical movements on his broom instantly grew stiff, panic and sweat clearly setting into his grip.
Seizing upon the sudden psychological opening, Slytherin's Chaser, Warrington, gained immediate possession of the Quaffle and made a rapid, unchecked charge straight toward the Gryffindor hoops.
Ron barely reacted to the threat, his arms hesitatingly outstretched in a state of frozen panic as the red ball sailed cleanly past his fingers and straight through the center hoop.
30 : 10
"That was despicable!" Neville Longbottom shouted furiously from the row below them, his frustration echoing the anger of the surrounding house. "They are targeting him because it's his very first game! If this keeping up, our Keeper's confidence is done for!"
It was true, and everyone in the stadium knew it. Lee Jordan, from his commentator's booth, passionately decried the Slytherins' underhanded tactics over the speakers, calling the song malicious and unsporting.
But there was nothing to be done by the faculty; singing a mocking song wasn't technically against the rules of the Quidditch charter.
Even Professor McGonagall, sitting tensely in her seat with her knuckles white, couldn't legally intervene to stop the crowd. The mere fact that Ron was so heavily affected by the noise only proved to the staff that the boy wasn't mentally prepared for this level of tournament pressure.
The game pressed on relentlessly into the freezing wind, with the cruel Slytherin chant never ceasing for a single second, growing significantly louder and more triumphant whenever their Chasers gained control of the Quaffle.
xxxxxxx
"Weasley cannot save a thing,
He cannot block a single ring,
That's why Slytherins all sing:
Weasley is our King!
Weasley was born in a bin,
He always lets the Quaffle in,
Weasley will make sure we win,
Weasley is our King!"
"Gryffindor needs a new plan," Lucifer said thoughtfully, his eyes tracking the rapid aerial movements. "They can't safely rely on Ron to make any further saves today. The only way forward is to keep Slytherin on defense by attacking constantly and buying enough time for Harry to catch the Snitch."
Down on the pitch, Angelina Johnson seemed to come to same conclusion. She immediately led the Chasers into a tight, aggressive 'Hawkshead Attacking Formation,' charging relentlessly toward Slytherin's hoops.
Fred and George took up strictly defensive roles, focusing their entire energy on targeting the Slytherins with heavy Bludgers. Whenever the enemy managed to regain possession of the Quaffle, the twins immediately launched a rapid counterattack to disrupt their momentum.
But such a high-pressure strategy wasn't foolproof. Slytherin eventually capitalized on a small opening along the left flank. Pucey passed the Quaffle swiftly to Montague, and Goyle intercepted an iron Bludger aimed in his direction, clearing the way for Montague to make unopposed drive toward Gryffindor's goal.
30 : 20
A groan of deep frustration rippled through the Gryffindor supporters, while the Slytherin stands erupted in triumphant cheering.
"That was so underhanded," Hermione said grimly, her pom-pom looking thoroughly disheartened, having lost a few of its red ribbons to the wind, "Gryffindor only has one new player, but the results have gone so terribly bad..."
Lucifer frowned in agreement, his eyes locking onto the green section. "We could always bring some magical loudspeakers next time and drown out their obnoxious singing," he suggested dryly. "Or," he added after a brief beat, a wicked glint in his pupils, "We could simply talk nicely to them. Maybe the snakes will realize this kind of behavior isn't socially acceptable."
She raised a sharp, questioning eyebrow at him. 'Him being nice? Yeah, right.' Could he not remember the purple whipping lines he had left on her bare arse during their private discipline sessions? "That is about all we can do right now... Oh, look!" She pointed abruptly toward the lower field.
Lucifer looked across the crowded stadium and saw someone, probably Pansy Parkinson, standing with their back to the actual game, conducting the entire Slytherin House to chant at this very moment using her wand like she was performing a staged opera:
"THAT'S WHY SLYTHERINS ALL SING,
WEASLEY IS OUR KING!"
Suddenly, Harry and Malfoy were diving at breakneck speed, both locked onto the same target in the freezing air.
"That's the Golden Snitch!" Hermione exclaimed, her fingers digging into Lucifer's arm. "They've both seen it!"
The two Seekers hurtled toward the hard turf at a terrifying, reckless pace, but Harry's Firebolt shot forward like a silver arrow, completely outstripping Malfoy's Nimbus 2001.
With barely five feet left before a catastrophic impact with the ground, Harry came to a sudden halt, his arm outstretched. His fist clenched tight, and a golden glint flickered beautifully between his fingers.
Harry Potter had again caught the Golden Snitch. Madam Hooch's sharp whistle instantly pierced the freezing air, signaling the official end of the match.
180 : 20. Gryffindor wins.
The Gryffindor stands immediately erupted into a sea of wild cheers and laughter, ringing out across the valley as they mocked the Slytherins who had spent the entire game taunting them. Down on the pitch, the players dismounted, their boots crunching loudly against the frosty grass. Ron, however, remained sitting frozen on his broomstick near the hoops, lost in a miserable thought.
Lucifer was smiling, however, as the ginger boy's public suffering was finally over for the day.
Madam Hooch, completely fuming with rage, stormed toward Crabbe, loudly berating him for foul play. The thug had deliberately sent a heavy Bludger flying straight at Harry even after the final whistle had cleanly blown.
"See?" Hermione said with a triumphant smile, nudging her boyfriend's ribs. "That is the best way to handle crowd interference: 'just catch the Snitch as quickly as humanly possible."
"But our team can't always catch it right away, pet," he countered smoothly. "I still think a direct talk with them is a much better idea. After all, Montague and Malfoy don't seem unreasonable when cornered."
She gave him a thoroughly skeptical look. "Reasonable? Are we thinking about the same Montague and Malfoy, Lucifer?"
Lucifer nodded his head confidently. "Yes, and I'm actually quite good at reasoning with people. They usually listen to my terms."
Even though the song had been badly directed toward Ron's fragile ego, Lucifer secretly thought the melody was rather nice, it was at least sounding good to his ears.
She opened her mouth to shoot back a sharp reply, but before she could speak a syllable, a commotion on the pitch interrupted her. A physical fight had suddenly broken out on the grass. An uproar of angry jeers and screams from the Gryffindor stands caused Lucifer to look sharply down at Harry, and he saw that the raven-haired boy was laying flat on the grass on his back. "What happened?"
"It was Crabbe..." Hermione said in a spiteful tone.
xxxxxxx
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