Honestly, the Gryffindor team wasn't particularly worrying. Though Wood had graduated, all the main players remained. The only variable was Ron. His technique was fine, but his psychological defenses were utterly fragile. His biggest weakness was losing confidence the moment he made a mistake—miss one save and he'd become flustered, leading to even more goals.
Most concerning of all, Ron was already acting like a startled bird even before match day, rattled by Slytherin's tactics. The taunts, intimidation, and pre-game trash talk launched a merciless assault on Ron's mind. When Slytherin students whispered in the corridors, "Got your bed reserved in the hospital wing, Weasley?" Ron never laughed or shot back—he just turned green.
When Draco Malfoy secretly mimicked Ron's fumbled saves in Potions, pretending to nearly slide off his broomstick, Ron's ears would burn red and he'd drop whatever he was holding.
October ended in howling wind and rain, and November arrived. Each morning, frost painted thick white layers on the windows, and both the sky and the Great Hall's ceiling turned a pale, hazy blue. The mountaintops around Hogwarts donned white snow caps, and the castle's temperature plummeted. People in shirts and ties nearly vanished—most had dug out their jumpers and thick scarves.
On the morning of the match, the weather was clear but bitterly cold. Hermione and Orli rose early, dressed smartly and in high spirits as they entered the Great Hall. The hall buzzed with excitement, the atmosphere electric, even the laughter louder than usual. When Harry and Ron entered, the Slytherin section erupted in jeers.
Orli shifted over, letting Harry and Ron sit between her and Hermione. Ron sat next to Hermione, Harry next to her.
"How is he?" Orli asked, nodding toward Ron.
Harry shook his head silently. Indeed, Ron looked utterly dejected—vacant stare, pale face, sweat beading on his forehead. He stared down at the full plate Hermione had served him with no appetite, as if he might vomit up slugs at any moment. Orli watched him, reminded of Harry before his first match in first year.
Every Gryffindor offered Harry and Ron enthusiastic welcome and encouragement, but these waves of support didn't boost Ron—they seemed to drain his last bit of strength.
"I must be mad doing this," Ron finally croaked, as if facing his last meal. "Why did I even try out? I can't play at all."
"Don't talk rubbish," Harry said sternly, passing him a bowl of porridge with a large spoonful of cocoa sauce. "You're fine. Being nervous is normal."
"I'm useless," Ron said miserably, hanging his head.
Ginny walked over, giving Hermione and Orli each a gold and red rose garland to wear, and pinning a golden one to Harry's chest pocket.
"Good luck. I'll be watching from the reserves bench—try not to get injured. I don't want to play just because you're badly hurt." She said it cheerfully, then turned to Ron. "How are you feeling?"
Ron stared at his porridge as if seriously considering drowning himself in it.
"He's just a bit nervous," Harry explained, unconsciously fidgeting with the poor yellow flower on his chest.
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