Chapter 279: Slytherin's Dirty Tricks
She tilted her head slightly toward Dylan, acknowledging his help. "My hat scared a lot of people, so I wanted to show it to you."
Dylan laughed. "It certainly is vivid. It's normal for people to be startled, but I think it's quite charming."
Luna paused, a flicker of light in her dreamy eyes.
Then she refocused her attention on the pitch.
"Beautiful! Angelina Johnson flies beautifully past Montague! She's racing for the goal—look out! Angelina, Bludger on your left!"
Lee Jordan's voice suddenly climbed, laced with alarm.
Immediately following, a muffled "thump" came through the loudspeaker.
He had clearly slammed his hand down on the table in his excitement.
"She dodged it! And she scored! Ten to zero—Gryffindor is in the lead!"
The Gryffindor stands instantly erupted in a wave of cheers.
Students jumped up, waving their scarves. Even the Gryffindor students beside Dylan excitedly high-fived each other.
Angelina smugly lifted her chin on her broom, gliding a short distance around the Gryffindor stands to accept the cheers of her peers.
"Ouch—" a startled cry suddenly rang out.
Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch Captain, darted out of nowhere.
He flew his broom straight into Angelina, colliding with her.
His move was fast and violent. Angelina was caught off guard and was knocked sideways, nearly falling off her broom.
Fortunately, she reacted quickly, clutching the handle tightly to steady herself.
"Sorry~"
Marcus Flint slowed down and turned back to Angelina, a nasty grin plastered on his face. His voice was loud enough for everyone around to hear.
"Didn't see you there..."
His apology was utterly insincere, and his eyes were full of provocation.
A chorus of angry boos immediately rose from the stands.
Gryffindor students, especially, began shouting curses.
Madam Hooch frowned and pointed in Marcus Flint's direction.
She was clearly warning him to behave, but Marcus merely shrugged, riding his broom back to his team without a care.
The malicious grin hadn't completely faded from Flint's face when a solid, blunt impact struck the back of his head.
It was Fred Weasley, who had swung his Beater's bat purely by instinct, the club head connecting precisely with the back of Flint's skull.
The force was considerable. Flint's vision went black. His body lurched forward uncontrollably, his nose smashing squarely against the cold, hard broomstick handle.
A faint crack was heard, like a tiny twig breaking.
Flint gasped in pain, his eyes immediately seeing stars.
He swayed dizzily and struggled for a while before managing to regain his balance.
He raised a hand to his nose, and his fingers were instantly covered in a warm, sticky fluid.
When he dazedly looked up, he could clearly see that his nose was bent at an odd angle. Two streams of bright red blood gushed out, tracing a path down his philtrum, past his trembling lips, and dripping onto the front of his uniform, blooming into a patch of glaring red.
His previously arrogant eyes were now filled with blinding pain and fury. He glared murderously at Fred, as if he wanted to spew fire.
"Enough!"
Madam Hooch's enraged shout was like a sudden clap of thunder, instantly overpowering the noise in the stands.
She zoomed her broom between Fred and Flint, the tail end kicking up a small current of air.
Her brows were knitted. Her already stern face was now frosted with anger. Her gaze darted between the two boys, her voice furious.
"Fred Weasley, unprovoked use of a bat against an opponent! Penalty shot for Gryffindor!"
She paused, then turned to the grimacing Flint, who was clutching his nose.
"Marcus Flint, deliberate collision with the opposing Chaser, egregious conduct! Penalty shot for Slytherin!—Both of you, get yourselves under control!"
The last few words were practically screamed, carrying undeniable authority.
Dylan, standing in the stands, witnessed the entire exchange. He let out a soft sigh, a flicker of helplessness in his eyes.
"That's why I don't like Quidditch," he said under his breath, his gaze sweeping over the tense atmosphere on the pitch and the students in the stands who were arguing with each other.
"If I were up there playing Slytherin, I'd make them take an Unbreakable Vow before the match even started."
Luna turned her head, her voice still airy.
As she spoke, she slowly rocked her head, keeping the lion-head hat constantly facing Flint.
The hat, animated by Dylan's charm, seemed to sense its owner's emotion.
It occasionally opened its mouth, letting out a deafening roar, its fluffy mane subtly moving with Luna's gestures.
Luna's own eyes, however, seemed to look past the field, fixed on a distant, unknown place.
The penalty shots began quickly.
For Gryffindor, Alicia Spinnet held the Quaffle, took a deep breath, and focused intently on the Slytherin goal.
She darted forward a few steps and threw the ball hard. The Quaffle drew a straight arc in the air, narrowly avoiding the Keeper's outstretched arm.
Whoosh! It zipped through the goal hoop.
"Great shot!" The Gryffindor students immediately cheered.
When it was Slytherin's turn, Warrington clutched the Quaffle, a fierce look on his face.
He threw the ball hard toward the Gryffindor goal.
Wood was ready, though. He leaped gracefully, stretched out his long arm, and firmly blocked the ball from entering the goal.
"Magnificent, Wood!" The Gryffindor stands erupted once more in enthusiastic applause and cheers.
The score was now twenty to zero, with Gryffindor temporarily in the lead.
Harry Potter continued to circle high above, his gaze sharply sweeping every corner of the pitch, daring not to relax.
The Golden Snitch hadn't appeared yet.
But he knew Malfoy was searching somewhere, too.
According to Quidditch rules, catching the Snitch was worth one hundred and fifty points.
Therefore, he had to wait until Gryffindor was at least fifty points ahead before catching it to ensure the team won.
This pressure weighed heavily on his mind, keeping his nerves constantly taut. Even his flying movements were more cautious than usual.
He occasionally caught a glimpse of Malfoy in the distance, the Slytherin Seeker also anxiously looking around.
Just then, Lee Jordan's excited voice came through the loudspeaker again, but with an obvious undercurrent of anger.
"...Look! It's Katie Bell! Good girl! Gryffindor's Katie Bell has the Quaffle—she's flying fast—that's deliberate!"
No sooner had he spoken than a huge "thump" came from the loudspeaker, clearly the sound of him hitting the table again.
On the field, all eyes were on Katie Bell.
She was flying quickly with the Quaffle, moving at high speed.
Slytherin Chaser Montague had somehow circled in front of her. He didn't go for the Quaffle; instead, he stretched out his arm, aiming directly for Katie's head, his motion swift and vicious.
In the nick of time, Katie performed a sideways somersault in mid-air, her body nearly parallel to her broom.
Her maneuver was incredibly risky; her long hair fanned out and fell back down.
She managed to steady herself just barely, avoiding a fall from her broom.
But the Quaffle slipped from her grasp, tumbling toward the edge of the pitch.
The stands instantly erupted in thunderous shouts and boos. Gryffindor students were red-faced with anger, standing up and yelling at Montague.
The Slytherin stands were silent, with only a few students wearing nasty smiles.
Luna, seeing this, instantly focused her previously dreamy gaze.
She suddenly threw her hands out, slamming them forcefully onto the railing in front of her with a sharp smack.
Simultaneously, the lion-head hat on her head opened its mouth and let out a deafening roar, its amber eyes glaring furiously in Montague's direction.
"That's awful! Sneaky!" Luna shouted along with her hat.
She tried hard to frown, attempting to make a fierce expression.
But her eyes, which always held a hint of confusion, made her anger look less menacing and more like a childlike sincerity.
Dylan stood beside her, his mouth twitching slightly at Luna's display.
He quickly pressed his lips together, stopping the smile from escaping.
"It's not funny."
Luna, as if she had eyes in the back of her head, suddenly turned and looked at Dylan with a serious expression.
Her voice was soft, but her eyes looked directly into his.
The smile instantly vanished from Dylan's face.
He nodded, his expression becoming serious.
He looked at Montague on the field. The Slytherin Chaser was brazenly shaking his empty hand, a look of disappointment that he hadn't succeeded on his face.
Obvious disgust showed in Dylan's eyes. He said deeply, "You're right, it's not funny at all. That was a truly vile foul."
Looking at the unashamed demeanor of the Slytherin players and glancing at the uniform indignation on the faces of the students from the other three Houses, Dylan suddenly understood.
No wonder he had seen so many Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students gathered in the corridor when he left the Gryffindor common room that morning.
The morning light had just crested the castle spires.
The Hufflepuff students clutched small embroidered balls tied with yellow and black ribbons, smiling and pressing them into the hands of the Gryffindor players.
A few Ravenclaw girls near the Fat Friar's portrait held up parchment banners that read "Go Gryffindor!"
Even beneath the bronze statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, where students usually pored over books, a few older students were giving Harry and the others tactical hand signs.
Angelina had blushed and scratched her head, saying she hadn't expected so much support.
Wood had grimly replied that it meant they absolutely couldn't lose.
Such a scene would be impossible for Slytherin.
It was a miracle Slytherin had survived at Hogwarts this long.
If they lost a match, the other three Houses would practically throw a joint celebration party.
Even the house-elves would secretly put extra treacle tarts on the Gryffindor table.
—The players of the Slytherin Quidditch teams throughout history truly deserved "credit" for this.
After all, using tactics to counter an opponent in an arena was one thing.
But to have Slytherin players, from the Seeker to the Beaters, treat fouling as routine.
Hitting the opponent's wrist when they held the broom, deliberately kneeing someone in the lower back during an interception.
Even the Keeper daring to secretly trip a player during a penalty shot.
—What House could tolerate such blatant thuggery?
Madam Hooch on the field was clearly losing her temper, too.
She circled in front of Montague on her broom, her silver-grey hair standing on end with fury, the silver whistle in her hand squeaking under her grip.
"Montague! Do you think I'm blind? Reaching out to grab an opponent's head? This is Quidditch, not a wrestling ring!"
Her voice carried far over the wind. "Gryffindor is awarded another penalty shot! If there's a next time, you'll be sent off immediately!"
Montague lowered his head, rubbing his fingers on the broom handle and muttering, "I didn't mean to."
But the unconcerned smirk on his face was visible to everyone.
When Katie Bell picked up the Quaffle again, her knuckles were white.
Montague's fingernails had nearly scraped her cheek, and the thought of it still made her shudder.
She took a deep breath, tucked the stray hair behind her ear, her eyes—filled with a mix of fury and determination—staring intently at the Slytherin goalposts.
Her steps were heavier than before, and the throw itself kicked up a gust of wind.
The Quaffle zipped past the Keeper's fingertips and DONG! slammed against the iron post inside the goal, shaking the hoop.
"Thirty to zero! Gryffindor leads by thirty points!"
Lee Jordan's voice was like a lit firecracker, making the entire stadium buzz.
Dylan could almost visualize him through the loudspeaker: one foot on the wooden announcing stand, the other hand clutching the cone, his face bright red.
"Take note of that score, Slytherins! That's what happens when you cheat! You despicable, shameless—"
"Jordan," Professor McGonagall's voice suddenly cut in, with her usual calm, though tinged with an easily missed tension, "If you cannot provide neutral commentary—"
"Professor, I'm just stating the facts!" Lee Jordan's voice choked for a second, then got louder. "Do you expect me to say 'well done' to Montague for that move?"
Professor McGonagall said nothing more.
Dylan noticed her standing at the front of the faculty section, her quill hovering over the score board, the corner of her mouth seemingly twitching upward just slightly.
Just then, Harry moved.
Riding the Firebolt, he suddenly swooped toward the northwest corner of the pitch, as if pulled by something.
His speed was astonishing; the airflow from his broom swept up dandelions from the grass.
The Slytherin team instantly fell into disarray.
Malfoy was the first to react.
"I see the Snitch!"
Then, he chased after Harry on his own large broom, his black robes billowing in the wind.
(End of Chapter)
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