The young witches and wizards who witnessed it all froze on the spot, as if they'd been hit by a Full Body-Bind Curse, eyes wide with fear.
Especially Fred, the one who'd handed Harry the bat—his mouth hung open. He hadn't expected Harry to have such ruthless decisiveness. With one swing, Harry had robbed a Slytherin player of the ability to keep fighting.
Higgs was no exception. He'd only just been shaken off by Harry and still hadn't fully recovered. Now, after seeing that, his eyes bulged and the color drained from his face until he was pale as paper. He didn't dare fly in close to Harry again, much less keep pestering him.
The miserable sight of that player who'd been struck by a Bludger—bones broken in multiple places—was still vivid in his mind. He had no desire to become the next one.
Sure, healing potions could mend injuries, but without a highly skilled healer brewing a high-grade Life Potion, a student smashed by a Bludger and left with multiple fractures would probably spend an entire month barely able to move.
And that would already be bad enough. The most important part was: a whole month without Quidditch training.
The season had only just started—every single day mattered.
Thinking of that, Higgs's expression darkened even further.
Wait.
A fact flashed through his mind, and despair sank in.
In the wizarding world right now, the most effective healing draught—the Life Potion—was actually invented by Harry.
Fine. He couldn't beat him on the pitch, and he couldn't beat him off it either.
Forget it. Whoever wanted to block that freak could go ahead. Higgs didn't want to end up with broken bones.
So he decisively gave up intercepting Harry. Taking advantage of the moment Harry was acting as a Beater and couldn't split his attention, Higgs continued searching for the Golden Snitch.
He had a feeling—catching the Snitch was Slytherin's only chance!
Just then, George's shout exploded in Harry's ear. "Watch out!"
In the blink of an eye, Harry sensed a round object closing in fast. He tilted his head slightly, and a Bludger streaked past, grazing the air right beside his cheek.
It was moving so quickly that the wind it kicked up slapped across Harry's face, whipping his fringe into a flutter.
Harry looked back—and the sneak attacker was none other than Slytherin captain Marcus Flint.
When Flint saw his attack casually avoided, his face sank even darker.
He glared at Harry viciously, lips curling into a cold sneer. His prominent buck teeth showed without any attempt to hide them, and in that moment he looked exactly like a crafty, savage weasel.
His lips moved, barely more than a mutter. From the shapes, Harry read a few words:
Lucky you.
Then Flint turned and shot a look at another Slytherin player beside him.
The teammate understood immediately. The two of them spurred their broomsticks at the same time, flying straight toward Harry.
Their intent couldn't have been clearer—they were planning to repeat the dirty trick they'd used on Angelina, this time on Harry.
On the other side of the pitch, Fred and George noticed the movement at once and flew over to help, shouting as loudly as they could:
"Harry, careful!"
And Harry… seemed as if he'd been frightened stiff.
He hovered there, motionless—perfectly positioned to be squeezed between Flint and Pucey, forced toward a pillar ahead as if he were about to smash into it.
"Ahhh—Harry!" Not only Hermione; students across the stands cried out in alarm. Even some of Slytherin's first-years looked worried too.
Hearing the waves of gasps rising from the crowd, jealousy flared in Flint's chest like fire.
He envied Harry's popularity. Even as Slytherin's captain, he'd never once had anything close to that kind of support.
He spoke in a low, cruel voice. "Heh. A so-called savior with nothing but a name. Quidditch isn't your little potion-brewing game. Out here, fame won't save you.
"Today, I'll send you off the pitch so you can get a proper taste of failure. I hope you spend your time in the hospital wing reflecting—until you finally understand that Quidditch isn't something you can coast through on reputation alone!"
As Flint spoke, Harry's expression turned oddly strange, like he'd heard that speech somewhere before.
Snape.
On their very first Potions lesson, Professor Snape had spoken with that same sarcasm and disdain, saying something eerily similar.
Harry smiled, amused, and said lightly, "I don't feel like getting taken out right now. Are you sure you can really make me leave the match?"
Flint's face twisted. "That's not up to you!"
Wind howled past their ears as the three broomsticks picked up more and more speed.
What surprised Flint was that Harry didn't slow down at all—he flew faster, and faster, and faster.
Flint couldn't help mocking him inwardly. What a stupid savior.
In an instant, they were right in front of the pillar, closing the remaining distance rapidly.
When they were only a few meters away, Flint and Pucey exchanged a look and understood each other perfectly. At the same time, they yanked hard on their broomsticks, preparing to veer away.
Not only that—they planned to shove Harry viciously as they broke off, just like they'd done to Angelina.
But things didn't go the way they expected.
Harry suddenly drove hard to the right—slamming straight into Pucey.
Pucey felt as if a troll had smashed a club into his shoulder. Control vanished from his body in an instant. Like a kite with its string cut, he shot toward the pillar.
Crack—crack—crack…
A string of bone-breaking sounds made everyone's skin crawl. Pucey carved a twisted arc through the air. By the time he hit the ground, a frightening portion of his bones were already broken. He slammed into the pillar and then collapsed like a pile of mud, unconscious.
Slytherin down one more player!
When Flint confidently turned his head, ready to savor Harry's "tragic" fate, all he saw was Pucey sprawled on the sand below, knocked out cold.
For a moment, Flint looked utterly lost.
His gaze flicked back and forth between Harry and Pucey. He stood there as if petrified.
He couldn't understand it. In only a heartbeat, how had everything flipped upside down? It was like Harry and Pucey had switched roles.
Pucey was the one broken and unconscious, while Harry—the one who should've been the victim—hovered in midair without a scratch.
The realization hit, and Flint's rage warped his face.
Before he could even speak, Harry swung his bat and smashed a Bludger that had flown close.
The Bludger tore through the air with a shriek and slammed into Flint's face.
In the next instant, Flint's cheek looked as if an invisible giant hand had grabbed and crushed it—his features twisting visibly out of shape.
Then bright-red blood poured from his nose like a burst dam, spraying into the air in sharp, glaring streaks.
At the same time, the impact knocked him off balance. He slipped from his broom and plunged down, crashing hard into the sandy ground below with a burst of dust—exactly like Wood had earlier.
In the stands, everyone stared, stunned into silence.
For a brief moment, the entire pitch went so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
But then—like a volcano erupting after long pressure—deafening cheers exploded from the crowd and swept across the stadium.
Looking around, aside from the depressed Slytherins, students from every other house were delighted.
After all, in the past, the other houses had all suffered Slytherin's dirty, win-at-any-cost tactics to one degree or another.
Now, watching Harry use their own methods against them—making Slytherin swallow the consequences—felt unbelievably satisfying. Even if they hadn't personally defeated Slytherin, that rush of pleasure was like downing an ice-cold butterbeer on a scorching summer day, a comfort rising straight from the heart.
It felt incredible.
When Harry flew back to the twins, both of them beamed. They raised their thumbs in perfect unison.
"Harry, you're amazing! Slytherin's down three key players—this match is ours!"
And sure enough, the rest of the game became an absolute stomp for Gryffindor.
With fewer players, once Slytherin stopped using "cheating" tactics, they simply couldn't match Gryffindor.
And they didn't dare use those tactics anymore either. Every time the thought flickered through their minds, they remembered there was someone even more brutal than them out there—Harry.
As the match rolled on, the score climbed higher and higher. When it reached 140 to 30, Harry handed the bat back to Fred and returned to his role as Seeker.
Then, under Higgs's bitter, helpless gaze, only a few dozen seconds later, Harry caught the Golden Snitch cleanly.
And just like that, the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match ended at a jaw-dropping 290 to 30.
Lee Jordan was so excited his voice trembled as he shouted through the Amplifying Charm:
"Ladies and gentlemen, this thrilling, heart-stopping Quidditch match has finally come to an end!
"And now, with immense excitement, I announce the result: Gryffindor wins—by the enormous score of 290 to 30!
"In this match, our savior, Harry Potter, played an absolutely vital role. Without Harry Potter, there would be no victory today—so let's all shout the savior's name together—Harry Potter!"
"Harry Potter!"
"Harry Potter!"
"Harry Potter!"
Countless students roared his name. In the stands, Professor McGonagall's eyes quietly reddened.
This season, Gryffindor had defeated Slytherin once again. At last, she had a chance to lift that Quidditch Cup—symbol of the highest honor—one more time.
Christmas crept closer and closer. On a mid-December morning, Hogwarts slowly woke from its slumber.
Overnight, it was as if the entire campus had been enchanted. Several feet of snow had piled everywhere. The lake had frozen into a hard sheet of ice. Under the newborn sunlight, everything glittered with tiny, scattered points of light.
In the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackled warmly in the hearth. Hermione—looking every bit the eager little otter—hurried over to Harry, eyes shining as she asked expectantly, "Harry, it's almost Christmas. Are you going home for the holiday?"
Harry thought for a moment and replied softly, "Yeah. I think I will. While we've got a few days off, it's a good chance to… build some feelings with my aunt's family."
If he didn't go back, wouldn't the magic he was lending the Dursleys be wasted?
Besides, Harry had other plans too.
At Hogwarts, with Dumbledore watching everything closely, certain dangerous experiments simply couldn't be carried out.
If he wanted to finish those experiments, he needed somewhere more hidden—more remote.
The countryside in the Muggle world was perfect.
After all, the Avada Lightning Curse he'd been researching for so long had already reached its final experimental stage!
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