Any wizard familiar with Quidditch would instantly recognize what it meant for the opposing team to be holding identical Nimbus 2000s.
The performance of the Nimbus series far surpassed that of the amateur-grade Comet or Cleansweep series.
Simply put, with all seven players on Slytherin equipped with Nimbus 2000s, they completely outclassed Gryffindor in terms of broomstick performance...
"Wood, looks like this match just got a lot tougher."
"Let me guess, it's that Malfoy guy?"
"Yeah, only someone from the Malfoy family could afford something like this."
In reality, these Nimbus 2000s had nothing to do with Draco.
Except for the one in Draco's own hand, the entire team had been outfitted with the best gear, all arranged by none other than that little princess Parkinson—who hadn't given Draco any room to refuse.
In a way, Draco was also riding on the little princess's coattails...
...
In any case.
As the referee stepped into the center of the pitch, Wood and the others had no time left to strategize around this unexpected development.
"Listen up! I expect everyone to play fair and honest!"
Madam Hooch, their flying instructor, was also the official referee for all Quidditch matches.
However, Draco noticed that she seemed to be looking directly at their side when she said that.
It felt less like a reminder, and more like a warning...
Not that he could blame her. Slytherin had always been known for pushing—or outright breaking—the rules.
"Now, everyone, mount your brooms!"
At her command, both Slytherin and Gryffindor players straddled their broomsticks, waiting for everyone to be airborne before the match could begin.
"Let's go! Quidditch isn't just about broom performance!"
Leading the charge into the air was Oliver Wood from Gryffindor.
"Harry, no pressure, alright?"
"Idiot. George, saying that just makes him feel more pressure!"
"No, no, I'm Fred!"
"..."
Unlike the tense and quiet atmosphere surrounding Slytherin, Harry Potter's team was far more relaxed.
It really did seem like the seven Nimbus 2000s hadn't made any impact at all.
Once the entire Gryffindor team had taken off, Draco merely adjusted his posture in silence, making no move to ascend right away.
And with Draco staying grounded, the rest of his team showed no intention of taking off first either.
In that moment, it was clear—Draco had already established a surprising amount of authority in a very short time...
As Draco finished his preparations, he caught the nervous expressions of his teammates behind him out of the corner of his eye.
He looked up at the Gryffindor team hovering above, then turned to glance at his own teammates. It wasn't hard to figure out what they were hesitating about.
"So that's it."
Of course they were uneasy. A sudden change in captain, a departure from the familiar winning formula—these players who had grown used to bending the rules were bound to feel uncertain and lost.
Draco's gaze swept across each of their faces...
"What do you see right now, on this Quidditch pitch?"
Draco's question made them all freeze.
"Huh?"
"What do you mean?"
"What are you trying to say, Captain?"
His words left the team puzzled, confusion written across their faces as they tried to make sense of the question.
Draco gave the strap on his glove a sharp tug and let out a cold laugh.
"Have you all been blinded by the illusion of victory for too long?"
"Look closely. Listen carefully. The entire stadium is filled with contempt, hatred, curses, and disgust—for Slytherin."
"Is that the treatment a championship team deserves?"
"Is that the kind of 'victory' you're so proud of?"
His open disdain, paired with the harsh truth he laid bare, made anger and embarrassment flicker across their faces.
After all, they were his upperclassmen.
But wary of Draco's status and his overwhelming strength, none of them dared speak up.
Seeing their silent frustration, Draco simply rolled his shoulders.
"If that fake version of victory is all you care about, then fine—I've got nothing else to say. But..."
Swoosh!
With a powerful kick, Draco shot into the air, his green robes billowing behind him in the wind.
Bathed in sunlight, his figure seemed to dazzle those still standing below.
"If there's even a shred of Slytherin pride left in you—then follow me!"
His words struck hard. The stunned players widened their eyes as a long-simmering fire ignited into something more.
All of them—hadn't they always wanted not just to win, but to win with pride? To earn the cheers of the crowd and the respect of their rivals?
Their eyes locked onto the green figure rising in the sky. Gripping their broomsticks tightly, they kicked off the ground in silence, one after another, flying after Draco.
Slytherins might be cunning and self-preserving, but that didn't mean they lacked fire—especially these Quidditch players, still full of youth and ambition.
In the end, pushed by Draco's words and his undeniable strength, they chose to believe in him—just this once...
'If the one who crushed Marcus Flint with sheer power—if that Draco, our captain, leads us... maybe he really can take us to a true victory.'
Feeling the blazing determination behind him, a bright, youthful smile spread across Draco's face.
They carried their pride—and a burning thirst for glory...
They're Slytherins!