Harry froze for a split second.
He could see Cho Chang's tightly pressed lips, her messy hair, and her pale cheeks.
She looked like she was biting back pain.
But that pause lasted only half a second.
The Golden Snitch zipped into the sky with a buzz, vanishing in a blink.
"Harry!!"
Oliver Wood's furious roar echoed from the other end of the pitch.
He was clinging to the goalpost, his grip so tight the brass creaked under his hands.
"This isn't the time to play knight! If she's in your way, barrel through! Knock her off her broom!"
Wood's voice was frantic. Watching Harry miss a prime chance to grab the Snitch, sweat dripped down his face despite the cool air. His neatly combed hair from before the match was now a tangled mess.
Up in the stands, Dylan overheard and shook his head, reaching into his pocket for a rose-filled pastry.
He'd swiped it from the breakfast table that morning.
It was a new treat, reminding him of the flower cakes from his past life. He'd tried one, liked it, and grabbed a few more.
Okay, fine—he'd taken the whole plate.
The pastry was still faintly warm.
He took a bite. Sweet, but not cloyingly so—just a gentle, pleasant sweetness.
It was kind of addictive.
He made a mental note to ask Ravenclaw later, back in his suitcase space, to figure out how to recreate it.
Dylan turned to Cedric beside him. "I bet Wood's temper means he's gonna be single forever."
"Look at him. All he cares about is Quidditch. He'd probably be happier marrying that goalpost."
Cedric's mouth twitched, but he didn't reply.
His eyes stayed on the pitch, fingers occasionally tapping the stone railing.
Dylan glanced at him, remembering their earlier chat, and handed over another pastry.
"By the way, Cedric, if it was you against Cho, and she was between you and the Snitch, would you plow through like Wood said?"
Cedric took the pastry, nibbled a bit, and raised an eyebrow. "Absolutely. No hesitation."
He met Dylan's gaze, dead serious.
"Cho's a top-notch Seeker. She'd hate it if someone went easy on her out of pity."
Cedric grinned. "If you let her win, she'd take it as an insult to her skill."
"You sound awfully sure. Got a story?" Dylan raised an eyebrow.
"Last practice match, I slowed down to give her a chance. Afterward, she marched up and jabbed her wand into my chest."
"I thought she was gonna hit me with a Reducto. Took ages to calm her down." Cedric polished off the pastry. "These are the new ones from breakfast, right? You brought them out? I'll grab some next time."
Dylan blinked, shrugged, and turned back to the pitch.
Cho was soaring high on her broom, her blue robes catching the sunlight like a slice of sky.
She shifted her stance now and then, her sharp gaze scanning the field, showing no trace of the moment Harry had hesitated earlier.
Dylan tilted his head, finishing his pastry. "Alright, you Quidditch folks definitely think differently."
He recalled something Harry mentioned last week.
Cho had been injured during training and needed time to recover. She'd only recently gotten back to full strength.
But watching her sharp turns earlier, Dylan couldn't spot any sign of lingering injury.
So what was Harry holding back for?
Dylan also thought about how lucky wizards were with their healing potions.
Take Skele-Gro, for example. Slather it on, wait a bit, and bones mend in three days.
In the Muggle world, a broken bone could keep you bedridden for half a year.
Not just Cho—take Malfoy.
That kick he'd taken?
He'd probably be laid up for a year.
No way he'd recover so fast.
"By the way, Dylan," Cedric said, pausing his tapping on the railing. His gaze, which had been wandering the pitch, landed on Harry, his brow furrowing slightly.
"What?"
"Don't you think Potter's looking at Cho a bit… oddly?"
"Huh?"
Dylan paused, recalling his earlier hunch, and followed Cedric's gaze.
Harry was circling near Cho on his Firebolt.
He wasn't frantically hunting the Snitch like before.
Instead, he kept sneaking glances at her.
That earlier pause when she blocked him? It wasn't so much chivalry as it was a subtle hesitation, like he was afraid of actually knocking her.
Dylan blinked, then looked away, pretending to adjust his sleeve.
"Really? Didn't notice."
But despite his words, he knew exactly what was up.
Since last year's Yule Ball, Harry's glances at Cho had been… different.
Whenever Ravenclaw's Seeker came up, Harry's ears would turn the faintest shade of red.
Only someone like Wood, whose brain was 100% Quidditch, would be clueless about it.
Heck, he might never catch on.
But Cho was already with Cedric.
Even if Harry had a little crush, he probably didn't fully understand it himself yet.
Plus, Harry was a decent guy. No way he'd try to steal someone's girlfriend.
Just then, a gasp rippled through the stands.
Dylan looked up and saw Harry shoot upward like an arrow.
Cho reacted almost instantly, chasing after him on her Comet 260.
Their red and blue streaks arced through the sunlight, diving into the clouds.
The Snitch had reappeared.
The crowd's chatter died down.
Every eye followed the two figures, even Professor McGonagall leaning forward, gripping her wand tightly.
The air above the pitch was still warm and restless.
Gryffindor and Ravenclaw were locked at 80–30, a tense stalemate.
Harry circled on his Firebolt, his peripheral vision fixed on Cho nearby.
Since she'd blocked his path to the Snitch earlier, he'd figured out her strategy.
Any move he made, she'd shadow him instantly, using her Comet 260's agility to throw him off.
Harry's fingers tapped the Firebolt's handle, a plan forming.
He shifted his posture casually, glancing toward Ravenclaw's goal area.
Then he slammed the broom's handle down. The Firebolt's nose dipped, plunging toward the ground like a stone.
Wind roared in his ears, the broom's surface warming from the friction.
He was low enough to see the chaotic footprints players had left in the grass.
Right on cue, he heard the sharp whoosh of a broom behind him.
Harry didn't need to look to know Cho had taken the bait.
He could picture her—brow furrowed, hands gripping her broom, blue robes flapping in the wind.
With the ground just ten feet away, Harry yanked the handle up.
The Firebolt froze mid-dive, inertia straining against the sudden halt.
Then it shot upward at a near-vertical angle.
The wooden handle dug into his palm, his arm muscles burning from the effort.
But Harry didn't waver.
A startled yelp came from behind—Cho's Comet 260 couldn't match the Firebolt's sharp turn.
She fell back by at least three broom-lengths.
Cho steadied herself midair, watching Harry's Firebolt streak away like red lightning. She bit her lip.
It wasn't her skill.
The Comet 260 just couldn't compete with the Firebolt's speed or agility.
Her broom had groaned in protest during that turn, and her old wrist injury throbbed faintly.
But she took a deep breath, refusing to give up, and swung around to pursue.
Harry didn't glance back at the gap.
His focus locked on a faint golden glimmer ahead.
Brighter than before, the Snitch hovered atop Ravenclaw's goalpost, its wings slowing like it was resting.
Now!
Harry's heart raced. He nudged his legs, and the Firebolt surged toward the glimmer.
Just as his fingers brushed the Snitch, a sharp cry came from behind.
Cho's voice, tinged with panic.
Harry instinctively turned, following her pointing finger.
In the shadows of the stands, three figures in black cloaks stood motionless.
Their robes dragged on the grass, hoods hiding their faces, sleeves revealing only darkness.
The air around them seemed to chill, the sunlight dimming in their presence.
Dementors!
Harry's pupils shrank, a cold dread crawling up his spine.
Memories of the last time Dementors crashed a Quidditch match flooded back—crushing despair, suffocating pressure, his parents' dying screams…
On instinct, his right hand yanked his wand from his robe, knuckles white.
"Expecto Patronum!"
The spell rang out clearly.
A burst of silver-white light erupted from his wand.
It coalesced in the air, forming a majestic stag.
Its antlers gleamed softly in the sun.
The stag tossed its head, let out a clear cry, and charged toward the Dementors.
Its silver hooves left shimmering trails in the air.
Satisfied his Patronus was on course, Harry snapped his focus back to the Snitch, still perched on the goalpost.
The delay had it fidgeting, wings fluttering, ready to bolt.
Not this time!
Harry leaned forward, pushing the Firebolt to its limit. The wind stung his cheeks.
He was close enough to see the Snitch's delicate golden fuzz.
Now!
As it started to dart away, Harry lunged with his wand-hand, fingers clawing.
Cold metal grazed his fingertips. The Snitch thrashed, its wings buzzing against his knuckles.
But Harry's grip clamped shut like a vice, trapping the game-deciding ball.
At that moment, Madam Hooch's piercing whistle cut through the noise.
Gryffindor's stands exploded in deafening cheers.
Lee Jordan's voice boomed through the magical megaphone.
"Caught! Haha, Harry Potter's nabbed the Golden Snitch!! Gryffindor wins—280 to 30!"
As the match ended, Harry opened his hand, watching the Snitch go still. A wide grin spread across his face.
He swung his broom toward his Gryffindor teammates.
Wood was the first to reach him, throwing an arm around his shoulders so hard he nearly fell off. Sweat dripped from Wood's face onto Harry's hair, mixed with his ecstatic shouts.
"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, Harry! I knew you could do it!"
In the stands, Cedric clapped enthusiastically.
"Congrats, Gryffindor's moving on to fight for the Cup," he said to Dylan, his tone full of genuine admiration.
"But Ravenclaw's out, and my girlfriend's probably not thrilled, so I'll skip the celebration. Catch you later!"
Without waiting for a reply, he hurried down the stands toward the Ravenclaw team.
Cho was sitting alone by her broom, head down, lost in thought.
Dylan watched Cedric's retreating figure and rolled his eyes.
Then he turned to the pitch, where Harry was mobbed by teammates.
He didn't join the crowd.
Too many Gryffindors were already swarming down there.
No way he was wading into that chaos.
His attention shifted to a commotion nearby.
Professor McGonagall's furious voice carried across the distance, her anger practically crackling.
"How dare you! This is outrageous! How could you do something so reckless?!"
Her robes fluttered with her fury.
She was pointing at three writhing black cloaks on the ground, her voice dripping with scorn and reprimand.