Chapter 41: Who plays Quidditch without armor?

Harry wasn’t in a rush to find Hagrid. After all, the Quidditch match was just around the corner.

For years, he’d only heard about Quidditch but had never had the chance to play it himself.

Blame Black! Harry thought. But thanks to Hogwarts, he could finally fulfill his dream.

The next day dawned sunny and cold. Despite the bright sunlight, the chill in the air lingered, untouched by the sun’s warmth.

Harry grabbed a plate of roasted sausages and a serving of baked beans in tomato sauce. Sitting at the Gryffindor table, he ate slowly and gracefully.

Classic English breakfast—simple yet satisfying.

“Have you noticed? No matter when, Harry always eats so elegantly,” Neville said, his voice tinged with admiration.

Harry smiled and nodded at Neville, thinking, Wait until you get beaten with a stick for holding your fork wrong. Then you’ll understand the importance of elegance.

At that moment, the chatter at the Gryffindor table fell silent.

Because Snape had arrived.

Harry didn’t know when Snape had drifted over to him, but by the time he looked up, the Potions Master was already standing there, peering down at him with that familiar disdain.

“Good luck, Potter,” Snape said with a forced smile. “Since you managed to handle a troll, surely a little Quidditch match should be no problem, even if your opponent is Slytherin.”

With that, Snape slapped a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages onto the table beside Harry.

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry replied politely.

But his thanks were premature. Snape’s expression darkened as he furrowed his brow for no apparent reason.

“Yesterday, you trespassed in the staff lounge. Gryffindor will lose two points for your troll-like recklessness. I suppose if Mr. Potter’s brain weren’t filled with baked beans, he’d remember that today is Saturday.”

Saturday. Which meant Harry was supposed to serve detention in Snape’s office.

Watching Snape’s limping figure disappear into the distance, Harry felt an inexplicable urge to pull out his wand.

“He really finds every excuse to deduct points from Gryffindor, doesn’t he?” Ron shrugged.

Though the Gryffindors overheard Snape docking points because of Harry, none of them blamed him. Instead, they looked at him with sympathy.

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When it was time for the Quidditch match, the students left the Great Hall and made their way to the Quidditch pitch.

Nearly the entire school had turned out, along with a few wizarding parents. They filled the stands surrounding the pitch to capacity.

After changing into their red Gryffindor uniforms, Harry and his teammates gathered. The captain, Oliver Wood, approached Harry.

“Nervous, Potter?” he asked.

Harry shook his head. Of course, he wasn’t nervous. He was more than prepared.

“Nervous is good. I was the same way my first time,” Wood said, as if reading from a well-rehearsed script. “But—”

“Captain, he said he’s not nervous,” Fred interrupted.

“Neither are we,” George chimed in.

“All right, lads—” Wood cleared his throat awkwardly.

“And ladies,” Angelina Johnson interjected.

“Right, and ladies,” Wood agreed.

Before he could continue, Fred interrupted again, “This is the important moment.”

“The moment we’ve all been waiting for,” George added.

Their interruptions dissolved the tension in the room, and everyone laughed.

Even Harry couldn’t help but smile at the infectious atmosphere.

“That was Oliver’s speech from last year,” Fred told Harry. “I heard from Charlie that he gave the same one the year before. Seems it’s his go-to script every year.”

“Shut it, you two,” Wood snapped, glaring at the twins. “This year is different. We’ve got Potter now, and we’re going to win!”

Madam Hooch’s whistle blew, and Wood turned to the team. “Time’s up, folks. Let’s kick Slytherin’s butts!”

“Kick their butts!” everyone shouted in unison.

Though Harry wasn’t nervous, he was a little excited. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and followed Angelina onto the pitch.

“Look, Potter,” Angelina suddenly pointed towards the Gryffindor stands. “See that?”

Harry followed her gaze. Ron, Hermione, Seamus, and Neville were holding up a massive banner that read, Potter for the Win!

The banner featured a large Gryffindor lion, likely drawn by Dean Thomas, whose artistic skills were well-known. Hermione had enchanted it to shimmer with vibrant colors, making it particularly eye-catching.

When Harry turned to look, his friends cupped their hands around their mouths and shouted his name enthusiastically.

Harry waved back at them, a warm glow spreading through him.

Friendship is wonderful, he thought.

“Listen, I want a fair and honest game,” Madam Hooch said, her sharp gaze fixed on Marcus Flint, the Slytherin captain, as if addressing him specifically.

Harry couldn’t help but notice Flint’s troll-like appearance—jagged teeth and a perpetually unintelligent expression.

Flint bared his crooked teeth in a provocative grin at Wood.

Wood responded with a calm, dignified smile.

“Watch out for Flint,” Angelina whispered. “Slytherin’s notorious for dirty play and zero sportsmanship.”

Winning by any means necessary. Harry understood that all too well.

Although he didn’t know much about Quidditch, he knew Slytherins.

That’s why, just yesterday, he’d ventured into the dungeons and retrieved a sturdy suit of armor. After resizing it with magic, he wore it beneath his uniform.

Harry had never understood why the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower housed a collection of knight’s armor, but that didn’t stop him from putting it to good use.

Bring it on, Harry thought. Let’s see who outlasts whom.

Marcus Flint, meanwhile, had noticed the small Gryffindor Seeker.

Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.

Flint decided it was time to teach the famous boy a lesson—that Quidditch wasn’t a game you could win on fame alone.

Noticing Harry looking back at him, Flint flashed a menacing grin, baring his crooked teeth.

But what he didn’t expect was for Harry to return an even more ferocious smile.

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