Chapter 43 - Chapter 43: Cyberpunk 2077

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While Slytherin's Bole fixated on Angelina, Hermione crept up from behind.

Just as he wound up for another cheap shot, he noticed someone beside him.

Hermione flashed a crooked grin—pure villain energy.

Bole's instincts screamed danger. He tried to accelerate away—

"MAN!"

Hermione's elbow slammed into his ribs. Bone cracked. He spun through the air like a ragdoll, face-planted into the sand.

"BEAUTIFUL!"

The Weasley twins cheered, not even pretending to hide their glee.

"You—!"

Slytherin captain Marcus Flint watched from across the pitch, jaw slack. Forgot the Quaffle entirely. Alicia swooped in, stole it, scored.

"TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!"

Lee Jordan's voice boomed.

Marcus stood frozen. Is this even Gryffindor anymore? This first-year was more Slytherin than Slytherin.

Did the Sorting Hat screw up?

Two players down in seconds. Slytherin shifted from offense to full defense.

Hermione locked onto her next target.

Marcus's eyes bulged. "LOOK OUT!"

The remaining Slytherins snapped to attention, dodging and weaving like their lives depended on it.

One player juked left, right, up, down—refusing to let Hermione close the gap.

Fine.

Hermione stopped chasing. Raised her bat. Timed it perfectly. CRACK. Sent a Bludger screaming toward him.

He saw it coming. Started to dodge—

Then Hermione's broomstick lit up like a searchlight.

Blinding white. His eyes flooded with tears. He missed the dodge.

WHAM. Bludger to the face. Down he went.

Shit!

"CHEATING!" Marcus roared, jabbing a finger at Hermione. "SHE'S USING MAGIC!"

Madam Hooch shook her head, amplified her voice with a Sonorus Charm. "No wand. No spell signature. PLAY ON!"

Marcus stared at Hermione's empty hands, baffled.

Then he noticed: the front of her broom had something mounted on it. Like a laser flashlight. But way brighter.

Basically a flashbang.

Hermione shrugged. "My eyesight's bad. I installed headlights. Perfectly reasonable."

Before Marcus could respond, she gunned it toward the next victim.

The targeted player saw her coming. Remembered his teammates' fates. Gritted his teeth.

I'm bigger than her. I can take a little girl.

He charged straight at her.

"HONK!!"

The sound hit like a freight train. His eardrums nearly burst. Vision spun. Lost control. Crashed.

Hermione pulled off her earmuffs, glanced back at Marcus.

"I was worried about collisions. Installed a horn to warn people. You're welcome."

Over the next thirty seconds, Hermione deployed the full arsenal: high beams, horn blasts, exhaust smoke. Took out every remaining Slytherin.

Except Marcus.

He was terrified. Winning? Losing? Didn't matter. One thought consumed him:

DO NOT LET HER GET CLOSE.

He bolted. Full throttle. His Nimbus 2000 maxed out—Hermione couldn't catch up.

Same broom. Same top speed.

Hermione pressed a red button on the side of her broomstick.

"Hahaha! NITRO BOOST!"

A gold-and-red module at the tail unfolded. Blue flames erupted—rocket-thruster style.

BOOM.

Red-and-blue neon lights flared along the handle. Hermione's speed exploded. She closed the gap in seconds.

Marcus screamed. "IMPOSSIBLE! WE HAVE THE SAME BROOM! WHY ARE YOU SO FAST?!"

Hermione smirked.

Nimbus 2000? That was the old name.

Now it had a better one:

Cyberpunk 2077.

Red and blue light strobed across Marcus's face. He could only watch as she closed in.

"One. Two. Three..."

"ELBOW DROP!"

SMACK.

Wood stared, speechless.

Hermione flashed a thumbs-up, winked. "Forgot to mention—I'm really good at combat racing."

Marcus lay on the ground, surrounded by groaning teammates. He struggled upright, pointed a trembling finger at Hermione, voice breaking.

"You... you're a monster!"

Then he passed out.

Dead silence.

Even the Gryffindor players had stopped moving. Only Harry—eyes locked on the Golden Snitch—remained oblivious to the carnage.

Hermione shrugged.

Sports get rough. People get hurt.

In 1357, some guy killed the referee mid-match. She was showing restraint.

In the teacher's box, even Quirrell sat slack-jawed. Temporarily forgot his whole "curse Harry off his broom" plan.

Three minutes later, under the silent gaze of the entire stadium, Harry caught the Snitch.

He raised it high, grinning—then noticed the eerie quiet. Everyone stared at him with unreadable expressions.

Slytherin players? All unconscious.

Harry checked the scoreboard. Looked fine.

Wait. I caught the Snitch. We won. Why is no one reacting?

Hermione flew over, clapped his shoulder.

"Congrats! You caught the Snitch. Solo'd 150 points. We won!"

"You're amazing!"

Harry hesitated. "We... actually won?"

"Yep."

"Really?"

"Really."

"But they—"

"Hey. Don't sweat the details."

In the stands, the professors exchanged glances.

Was that a foul?

Didn't seem like it.

No magic. No thrown objects. Just... physical contact. Which happens in Quidditch.

Sure, a bit excessive. But Slytherin started it. If anyone gets penalized, it should be them.

The headlights? For visibility. The horn? Safety feature. The neon lights? Warning signals. The rocket booster? ...Well, the rulebook didn't say you couldn't modify your broom.

Technically legal.

But why does it feel so wrong?

Madam Hooch thought for a moment. Nodded at Lee Jordan.

He got the message.

"HARRY POTTER HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! MATCH OVER! FINAL SCORE: 160-0! GRYFFINDOR WINS! LET'S HEAR IT FOR GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry raised the Snitch, beaming.

Two seconds of silence.

Then the stadium erupted.

"HERMIONE! HERMIONE! HERMIONE!"

Harry: ???

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