Time passed quickly. After November arrived, the weather turned very cold. The mountains around the school were grey and covered with ice and snow, and the lake was as cold and hard as quenched steel. Every morning, frost lay thick upon the ground.
At the dining table, Draco could not help yawning. He had stayed up late reading the night before because he knew that today's Quidditch match meant a school-wide holiday with no lessons, so he allowed himself to sit up longer than usual. Unexpectedly, he had been forcibly dragged out of bed by Pansy that morning.
"First, why can girls go into the boys' dormitory at will? Second, why is everyone so enthusiastic about this match?" Draco mechanically stuffed bread into his mouth, with dark circles under his eyes. He could not help complaining inwardly.
"Today is the most crucial day. If we lose, Gryffindor will really catch up with us," Pansy analysed the Quidditch standings and their impact on the House Cup beside Draco.
"In any case, Dumbledore will give this year's House Cup to Gryffindor to build Harry's reputation," Draco knew this well, but he would not say it aloud.
"With his protagonist's luck, the Golden Snitch practically flies into his mouth. How are we meant to win?" Naturally, he would not say that to Pansy either. Draco could only reply perfunctorily, "With Gryffindor's build, our team will overwhelm them. Don't worry."
"By the way, I heard the so-called Saviour is Gryffindor's Seeker. Their captain even said he's some kind of secret weapon. What can a first-year possibly do? Isn't that unfair?" Pansy said, spreading jam over two slices of bread.
"Miss, when people speak of unfair advantages, they usually think of our House first," Draco nearly laughed. Slytherin's so-called unfairness was often simply strategic roughness, but their reputation was not exactly spotless.
"You should go," Pansy looked at Draco expectantly. "Crush their arrogance."
"Absolutely not. I'm not interested. If you hadn't dragged me here, I wouldn't even be watching," Draco refused immediately.
"Not interested? That means you're very good, doesn't it?" Pansy seemed to catch the implication in his tone.
"Don't talk while eating." Draco pushed a piece of bread into Pansy's mouth. She could only make a muffled protest, glaring at him angrily.
"Are you trying to murder me?" The bread was rather large. Pansy took some time to swallow it, then drank a long gulp of honeyed tea.
"You're trying to murder me by forcing me into these activities. You know…"
"Time is life," Pansy said in a strange tone. "Are you not insufferable? Even if I were murdering you, you'd still have to go today, whether you like it or not."
"Fine, fine." Draco waved his hand in surrender.
"I'll consider it gathering intelligence on the Dark Lord," Draco tried to persuade himself, giving the day a sense of purpose.
"That's better." Pansy lifted her chin, clearly satisfied.
By eleven o'clock, it seemed that nearly every teacher and student had gathered in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many students brought binoculars. The seats rose high into the air, yet even so, it could still be difficult to follow the action.
Because Pansy had been so enthusiastic, she and Draco arrived early and secured seats nearer the front, though for this kind of match, the difference in viewing was minimal.
"Oh no." Pansy slapped her forehead. "I forgot the binoculars." She then looked at Draco expectantly.
"Don't look at me. Should I attempt a Summoning Charm?"
"Get lost." Draco was joking, of course. The dormitories were far too distant for that to work.
Dumbledore perhaps could manage it.
"Perhaps it's better not to see too clearly," Draco thought.
"Close your eyes," Draco said quietly.
Pansy obeyed at once.
"Not arrogant at all when she needs help," Draco thought with faint amusement.
"Clear Vision," Draco murmured.
For a wizard striving for advancement, creating a spell of one's own marked a dividing line. In a sense, only after creating or refining a spell could one be said to truly enter the halls of magic; otherwise, one merely inherited the wisdom of predecessors.
"Innovation is the driving force," Draco's thoughts wandered again.
"To use my first self-created spell for this…" Draco did not know whether to laugh or sigh. Still, supportive magic had its place.
"You can open your eyes."
"Now I understand why you spend all day in the library." Pansy stared towards the centre of the pitch. She could see every detail of the Slytherin captain's instructions. Even the flecks of spit from Flint's speech were visible.
"Acceptable," Draco replied lightly.
"I also want to hear what they're saying."
"That's beyond me," Draco said with a shrug.
"So useless," Pansy pouted.
"That's hardly fair."
"Be quiet. It's starting."
"As expected, sports fans are unreasonable in any world," Draco thought dryly.
The match began. Madam Hooch stood in the centre of the pitch, broom in hand, waiting for both teams.
The stands buzzed with noise. Some waved banners, some brandished small flags, and others observed intently with binoculars. Some, however, were distracted—Draco among them.
He soon spotted Snape, his expression as gloomy as ever, eyes constantly flicking towards Harry.
Then Draco saw Professor Quirrell in his turban.
"A man unfortunate enough to encounter the Dark Lord by chance, only to become a pawn," Draco thought quietly.
Shifting his gaze higher, he saw Ron and Hermione seated with Seamus Finnigan and others. They held up a bedsheet banner reading 'Potter Must Win', decorated with a lion. Hermione was murmuring a charm, making the letters shimmer.
Both teams assembled in the centre. Madam Hooch raised her voice. "Play fairly."
Her eyes lingered on the Slytherin captain.
"Mount your brooms."
Fifteen broomsticks rose into the air. The match began.
"Equipment disparity makes competition meaningless," Draco observed. Harry's Nimbus 2000 clearly outpaced the others.
The game proceeded back and forth, but Draco found it dull. The Golden Snitch placed the outcome largely in the hands of a single player.
"One day, someone should score two hundred points with the Quaffle and render this rule meaningless," Draco thought.
Lee Jordan's biased commentary rang across the pitch, drawing Draco's silent criticism.
Then Harry's broom began behaving erratically.
"Ron, look!" Hermione cried.
Harry's broom twisted violently, climbing higher.
Hagrid muttered reassurance, until events proved him wrong.
Harry was thrown from the broom and dangled from it by one hand.
"That's the newest Nimbus 2000," Ron said faintly.
"It's Dark magic," Hermione concluded, scanning the stands instead of the pitch.
She hurried away.
Draco watched with interest.
"She's chosen the wrong target," Draco murmured as Hermione confronted Snape.
Quirrell's spell faltered as Hermione's actions disrupted him.
Soon, Harry regained control.
The crowd erupted as Harry caught the Snitch in his mouth.
"Gryffindor wins, 170 to 60!" Lee shouted.
"Ridiculous," Pansy muttered.
"You've been pinching my leg, Miss," Draco said, feeling the ache.
"Never sitting with a Quidditch fanatic again," Draco thought.
"Let's go," Pansy said bitterly, only to stumble as her vision returned to normal.
"Visio Reparatio," Draco murmured.
He helped her up.
"They only won by luck today, didn't they?" Pansy asked suddenly.
"Pure luck," Draco agreed.
"We'll win next year, won't we?"
"Of course."
"You'll help us get revenge, won't you?"
"Yes—" Draco stopped, realising too late.
"Good. I feel much better now." Pansy smiled brightly. "Let's go."
Draco: "..."
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