Marcus Flint was ruthless.
He never intended to take out just one Gryffindor.
If Gryffindor couldn't make the hard call—cutting off the arm to save the body—then George, cradled in the arms of Derrick as he plummeted from the sky, would become the perfect emotional bait to lure the others into a trap.
Emotional bait—poisonous not to the body, but to the heart.
Of course, Vaughn would never admit that this strategic maneuver, eerily similar to "besieging Wei to rescue Zhao," had come from his own tactical suggestions.
He was just an ordinary Slytherin player. He followed orders. He wasn't taking the blame.
Fred shot forward like a missile, with Bole right behind him.
At the same time, Vaughn whipped his broom around and raced to intercept.
Up in the announcer's booth, Lee Jordan was practically tearing his vocal cords apart.
"HE'S TURNING! Vaughn's going for Fred! The poor guy's about to get sandwiched—front and back! He tries to dodge—but there's no way out! Vaughn and Bole—WHAM—zip past him in a perfect cross!"
"Too fast! I couldn't even see it clearly! But—Merlin's beard—Fred's falling! He's off his broom! There's no second Harry Potter on this pitch, folks—Fred's out!"
Lee gasped for breath, panicking. "And—oh no—Harry couldn't save George! He grabbed him—he really tried—but Derrick—this lunatic—!"
"JORDAN!" Professor McGonagall's sharp voice cracked across the pitch like a whip.
Lee grumbled under his breath, still glaring at the field. "...Derrick refused to let go of George. He held on like a madman, and in the end, George had to release Harry's hand to stop dragging him down…"
"Oh—Headmaster Dumbledore just stood up and cast a perfect 'Arresto Momentum'! Fred and George landed safely—thank Merlin for him—but I can't say I'm happy about it, because both of them have just been eliminated by those dirty Slytherins!"
This time, McGonagall didn't stop him.
The Deputy Headmistress was furious. Not just at Slytherin for playing so dirty—but because even Gryffindor's strategy wasn't all that clean.
They'd all defiled the sanctity of her beloved Quidditch.
Of course, outside the school, in the professional leagues, these tactics—targeting and disabling key players—were standard procedure. Quidditch in modern times had become much more restrained. In the old days, fouls could be outright murder attempts—transforming enemy players into ferrets, or trying to behead the Keeper.
But the students… they weren't used to it.
Especially the Gryffindors.
The young lions were furious, booing loudly from the stands. Someone even hurled a shoe toward the pitch, clearly hoping to knock a Slytherin out of the sky.
The Slytherins, naturally, retaliated.
Soon, the sky above the stands was a storm of hexed objects, snacks, and exploding joke products.
It might have turned into a full-blown muggle football riot, if Dumbledore hadn't stood up again and boomed a spell-enhanced "ENOUGH!" across the stadium.
Silence fell like a hammer.
Only then did Lee Jordan dare resume commentary.
"We apologize for that interruption—seems the audience got a little too invested. But back to the match: Madam Hooch has handed down her rulings."
"Derrick: disqualified for dangerous conduct. Gryffindor awarded two penalty shots. Bole: broom-to-broom collision—one penalty shot."
"These penalties can't mend our broken hearts," Lee said bitterly, "and they won't help us recover from the crippling loss of Fred and George."
"The worst part? According to the rules, they can't return to the pitch. No second chances… Damn it! Madam Hooch should've thrown Bole out too!"
He was, of course, just venting.
Everyone had seen that moment—the high-speed crossing between Vaughn, Bole, and Fred.
There were no blatant fouls. No grabbing, no kicking.
And now, for the first time in Hogwarts history, there was video evidence.
The camera mounted on Fred's broom had captured the moment Bole clipped Fred's broom handle with the tail of his own.
No physical contact. Just a clean but aggressive broom collision.
It was enough for a foul, but not for a red card.
On the massive projection screen above the pitch, the footage replayed in slow motion.
Ron watched it in disbelief, hoarse from shouting himself raw, and muttered with rage, "Filthy Slytherins. Filthy Vaughn…"
"Ronald!" Hermione snapped. "He was just following Flint's orders. He didn't foul anyone—you saw it on the replay!"
"That's because Bole already got there first! I don't buy that whole 'innocent flower' act. I'd bet anything—if Bole missed, Vaughn would've finished the job!"
He huffed. Stupid girls. Why couldn't they see Vaughn for what he really was?
To his irritation, plenty of other stupid girls disagreed. Like Lavender Brown, who was currently arguing with Seamus Finnigan:
"Vaughn's way too good-looking to be evil! He's clearly the kind of guy who loves his brothers and respects his mentors!"
Ron gagged.
He was going to be sick.
The whistle blew again.
Lee Jordan tried to rally.
"Okay! That's the end of the penalties. Madam Hooch blows her whistle again—let's hope Gryffindor can pull themselves together…"
Back in the air, the remaining Gryffindor players looked grim.
There was no fire left in them—just cold anger and exhaustion.
Even Harry looked defeated, his red-rimmed eyes locked on Vaughn.
No one had expected this.
Months of preparation, and now their grand strategy lay in ruins.
Harry couldn't stop replaying that moment—George slipping from Derrick's grasp, and his own hands just… too slow.
If he'd been just a little faster… Could he have intercepted Derrick? Could he have caught George?
But there were no "what-ifs" in Quidditch.
Their entire strategy—the one he'd helped design with Wood—was worthless the moment he'd instinctively rushed to save George.
That moment had revealed the weakness Flint had been banking on.
Vaughn had baited him by circling overhead—not a threat to the game, but a threat to Harry, the Seeker. The heart of Gryffindor's game plan.
It was deliberate.
Even now, Vaughn hesitated midair, watching Harry's expression.
Did I just make the Boy Who Lived cry?
Flint, you absolute monster…
Below them, Marcus Flint was grinning like a goblin who'd won the lottery. No wonder Vaughn liked using him as a scapegoat—he looked like a walking liability.
But his dirty grin lit a fire in Gryffindor's hearts.
Madam Hooch raised her whistle.
Gryffindor's three remaining players—Angelina, Alicia, and Harry—lined up to take their penalty shots.
They had no choice. Only they and Oliver Wood were left.
Fueled by rage, each of them launched their Quaffles like cannonballs.
Three clean goals.
Gryffindor 30 – Slytherin 10
But Lee Jordan didn't sound hopeful.
"Gryffindor's got nothing left in the tank. We were at a disadvantage already, but now—two Beaters down? That's suicide. There's no one to protect the Seeker, no offense left."
"Our only chance now is Harry catching the Snitch."
Harry knew it too.
He clenched his fists, eyes scanning the field.
He had to end it.
But the match had changed.
With two players down, the difference was overwhelming.
Bole was on him the entire time—tailing him like a curse, whacking Bludgers toward him whenever he tried to maneuver.
Angelina and Alicia were forced to play defense. No one could help him.
Thirty minutes later, Harry saw the Snitch.
But he couldn't reach it.
Bole was still on him. He couldn't shake him.
Across the pitch, Vaughn slipped through the crumbling Gryffindor defense like a hot knife through butter. Another goal for Flint.
Only then did Vaughn dive for the Snitch.
No interference. No pressure.
He caught it.
Final score: Slytherin 260 – Gryffindor 30
A crushing defeat.
No—an annihilation.
For Gryffindor, it was the most humiliating loss in recent memory.
They could only watch as Slytherin turned their defense into a joke. One goal after another. Flint looked like a superstar. Vaughn, unstoppable.
Even Wood—brilliant, desperate Wood—couldn't stop the flood.
Angelina and Alicia were exhausted, playing Keeper 2 and 3 instead of Chasers.
And Harry…
Harry had never felt more helpless.
When Madam Hooch blew the final whistle, he nearly collapsed off his broom.
The Gryffindor stands groaned in despair.
Slytherin erupted in celebration.
Someone in the crowd shouted, "Vaughn! Vaughn! Vaughn!"
Others joined in—Slytherin first, then Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.
Under their cheers, Vaughn flew calmly to Harry and extended a hand.
"You okay?"
If it had been anyone else, Harry would've turned away.
But with Vaughn…
He couldn't muster hatred. Just… fatigue.
The months of hope, tension, pressure—it all vanished in that moment.
He took Vaughn's hand weakly. "Yeah… I'm okay."
He wanted to be gracious, to say something noble.
"Congratulations."
But instead—
He burst into tears.
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