Gryffindor had also prepared cheering banners, but they looked rather pitiful in comparison.
Seamus, the resident explosion enthusiast, donated an old bedsheet, which they painted into a huge banner reading "Potter Will Win," complete with a small lion drawing.
Hermione then helped by adding magic so that the letters on the banner shimmered in different colors.
Students from other years only managed a few magical fireworks that briefly spelled out letters before fading away.
It was nothing like Slytherin's display—lavish banners stitched together to form the players' names, and their iconic giant serpent brought to life in all its menacing glory.
There's nothing worse than a side-by-side comparison—and in the cheering department, Gryffindor lost miserably this time.
"Hermione, what does this have to do with money?" Ron asked, baffled.
Hermione pursed her lips and reluctantly revealed the truth:
"All those things were sold to Slytherin… by Wayne."
"What?!" Ron's voice shot up in pitch. "Why—why would Wayne help Slytherin?
If it were Ravenclaw I could at least understand—Cho Chang's on their team—but Slytherin?!"
Hermione clenched her fists.
Ever since the troll incident, she and Ron could be considered friends. But no matter the situation, Ron's big mouth always found a way to get under her skin.
Quite a few people nearby overheard their exchange and instantly showed angry expressions.
Hermione quickly explained, "Slytherin bought them from Wayne's shop. They paid hundreds of Galleons for it—not exactly a free favor.
If you had the money, you could buy them too. Wayne isn't targeting anyone specifically."
He'd take anyone's Galleons.
She thought about how even when she asked Wayne for tutoring, she still had to hand over a few Sickles as a token payment, and felt a sudden tightness in her chest.
Once the Gryffindors heard the staggering price, they were left speechless.
Hundreds of Galleons… For that much money, never mind Wayne—if they could pull it off, they'd sell to Slytherin themselves.
Hermione quietly observed the whole scene, cold and detached.
She suddenly recalled Wayne's earlier assessment of Gryffindor and found it painfully accurate:
Blindly loyal, impulsive, and far too easily misled or tempted.
With the right leader, they could become the most zealous supporters imaginable. But even so, the simplest bit of provocation could spark conflict among them.
Sigh.
The little witch let out a breath.
If it weren't for Professor McGonagall being the head of Gryffindor House, and Dumbledore himself having come from Gryffindor, she might have regretted her choice already.
On the opposite stands, the Slytherin side had turned into a sea of joy, with Malfoy grinning like a smug little white ferret.
After all, he'd chipped in quite a bit toward those few hundred Galleons.
Those penniless lions—could they even afford that kind of money?
Clutching the quaffle in his hand, Malfoy's excitement grew. Once the match started, he had an even bigger "surprise" for Potter.
The time had come.
The players from both teams walked out of the locker rooms, through the tunnel, and into the roaring stadium.
Even Wayne's heart was pounding with excitement.
That was the charm of sports—when you were there in person, it was almost impossible not to get swept up in the fevered atmosphere.
Madam Hooch, serving as referee, was wearing a pair of windproof goggles.
Standing in the center of the pitch, she gave a warning:
"I expect everyone to play fair and watch your fouls."
Marcus Flint only smiled, completely unconcerned.
Toot!
Madam Hooch blew the silver whistle, and both teams shot into the air. The cheers became deafening.
Bang!
A huge puff of smoke exploded again, followed by laughter all around. Harry instinctively looked over—and there, on the Slytherin stands, the words "Potter Stinks" writhed before finally morphing into an image of Harry with tears streaming down his face.
Malfoy was laughing happily beneath the words, and when he saw Harry looking his way, his grin widened even further. He even made a throat-slitting gesture.
On the Hufflepuff stands, Cedric twitched the corner of his mouth and nudged Wayne with his elbow.
"I thought you and Potter got along?"
Wayne nodded. "We do, more or less. That's why he won't mind if I make a bit of money off him, right?"
"At worst, I'll toss him a few Sickles."
"How much did Malfoy pay for that?"
"Twenty Galleons."
Cedric was speechless.
Still, Gryffindor wasn't completely helpless—they had the best "eighth man" off the pitch.
As the commentator, Lee Jordan quipped:
"We can all see how terrified Slytherin is of Potter, resorting to such low, off-field tricks—"
"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall reminded him sharply from the side.
"Oh, right. Who told us to have such an excessively fair-minded head of house? Let's get back to the game."
"Alicia Spinnet's got the quaffle—she's a talent spotted by Wood. Oh, and just look at that beautiful golden hair of hers—"
"Jordan!" McGonagall snapped. "This is a Quidditch match, not a beauty pageant! Talk about the game, not the girls!"
As the most passionate Quidditch fan, she hated nothing more than idle chatter during a match.
After being warned twice in quick succession, Lee Jordan finally behaved himself, giving a proper commentary—though he still couldn't help leaning toward Gryffindor in his tone.
It was then Wayne noticed that all three of Gryffindor's Chasers were dashing young women.
Slytherin's Beaters, however, were true "equality fighters"—they didn't hold back in the slightest.
Swinging their bats with all their might, they sent a bludger hurtling toward Katie Bell with bone-rattling force.
Not a single bat was wielded gently.
"Oh! Angelina scores! Gryffindor takes the lead!"
The little lions' cheers echoed in the cold air, and a few young wizards shot fireworks from their wands to celebrate.
Marcus Flint's face darkened as he flew over to mutter something to his teammates.
From then on, the match became downright brutal.
Using their size advantage, Slytherin seemed to be hitting people first and playing Quidditch second. The score quickly shifted to 30–10.
"Filthy," Wayne commented.
Cedric nodded in agreement.
"It's all down to Potter now. If he can catch the Snitch before the rest of his team gets knocked unconscious, Gryffindor can still win."
On the pitch, Harry had realized the same thing. He kept climbing higher, trying to get a better view of the field to spot the Golden Snitch.
Then—after dodging a bludger—something strange happened. His Nimbus gave a sudden, violent shudder, almost throwing him off.
A string of dangerous jerks followed, as if the broom itself was trying to buck him off.
Gasps rippled through the stands—everyone could see Harry spinning and twisting in the air, clinging to his broom like a sloth, all four limbs wrapped around it.
"What's going on?!" Ron shouted in alarm.
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