Harry's immediate danger was temporarily resolved—though with several players constantly circling him, he had no chance to break free and confirm the Snitch's position.
At last, Ron Weasley stopped keeping his binoculars locked on Harry alone.
While watching the Quaffle struggle on the other side of the pitch, he suddenly froze.
"Merlin—why is that old bat here?"
Rubeus Hagrid blinked. "Old bat? Who?"
"Professor Severus Snape!"
Hagrid snorted, then straightened his face.
"Ron, don' say that about a professor. Even if he is—well—anyway, Dumbledore trusts him."
"I don't," Ron muttered darkly. "Look at how he's staring at Harry. If he had the chance, I wouldn't be surprised if he cursed him on the spot."
In the air, the pressure on Harry only grew worse.
Fred alone couldn't counter two Slytherins. George rushed in to help—but Marcus Flint and Adrian Pucey were relentless. No matter how the twins provoked them, they refused to leave Harry alone.
The four-player entanglement turned Harry's field of vision into chaos.
Then—something went terribly wrong.
Harry's broom suddenly bucked.
It swerved violently from side to side, as though it no longer wanted to carry him at all.
Harry's face drained of color. He clamped his knees around the handle and gripped it with both hands.
From afar, Vaughan—still dragging a Bludger through Gryffindor's formation—glanced toward Harry, his eyes narrowing.
So Voldemort's finally making his move…
How much hatred does it take to go this far?
As he flew past the stands, Vaughan caught sight of Quirinus Quirrell—and Snape as well.
He couldn't see their mouths clearly at this distance, but he knew exactly what was happening.
They were dueling.
Vaughan didn't know whether Hermione Granger would notice again, or whether another lucky coincidence would break the curse.
He refused to rely on chance.
Then it's time to end this.
He cut across the fierce melee near Slytherin's goalposts and made a series of subtle hand signals. His teammates responded immediately—tightening their play, increasing pressure, dragging Gryffindor's players into brutal scrambles.
Gryffindor was completely tied down.
Vaughan broke formation.
He shot upward, gaining altitude to widen his view—and scanned below.
At the same time, Hermione and Ron realized something was terribly wrong.
Remembering Ron's earlier suspicions, Hermione raised her binoculars and saw Snape staring fixedly at Harry, lips moving.
"Is it really Snape…?"
Without waiting for answers, Hermione sprinted toward the Slytherin stands. Ron, pale with worry, barely noticed she was gone.
Moments later—
Fire erupted in the Slytherin section.
The crowd panicked.
Snape staggered back, furiously shaking his robes as blue magical flames licked at the fabric. He had to focus entirely on extinguishing them.
The counter-curse stopped.
And Harry's situation instantly worsened.
Watching Harry's broom continue to buck wildly, Hermione froze.
If it isn't Snape—then who…?
Before she could search further, the match shifted again.
Without Vaughan's presence, Slytherin's defense collapsed. The Quaffle slipped past Miles Bletchley, and Angelina Johnson slammed it through the hoops.
She roared in triumph—weeks of frustration finally released.
But no one had time to celebrate.
Because Vaughan had spotted the Snitch.
He angled his broom downward and dove.
Silver trim streamed from his dark green cloak like lightning.
"My word! Vaughan Weasley has seen the Snitch—he's diving! Look at that speed! He's a hunting eagle, a falling arrow—where's Harry? Harry—Harry, what's happening?!"
In Lee Jordan's panicked shout, Fred and George finally stopped holding back.
Ignoring fouls entirely, they smashed Flint and Pucey aside.
"Harry!" Fred yelled. "What's wrong?"
"My broom—it's out of control!" Harry cried.
The broom flipped.
Harry lost his grip.
He fell.
Fred lunged for him—but Flint crashed in again, not caring in the slightest whether Harry lived or died.
Fred swung his bat with everything he had.
The Bludger slammed into Flint's skull.
The massive boy went limp, slumped over his broom.
As Harry plummeted, his mind went blank.
The wind roared past his ears.
He heard Lee Jordan shouting frantically:
"Professor—save Harry—wait! Vaughan Weasley isn't going for the Snitch—what is he doing?!"
Two… three seconds.
An eternity.
Harry saw the stands rushing up.
So this is it… I hope it doesn't hurt too much.
Then—
Wind tore past him.
A flash of dark green and silver streaked by, curved sharply—and caught him.
The sideways impact was brutal. Pain exploded through Harry's body.
But he was laughing.
It was Vaughan.
Red hair streamed backward like flame as Vaughan shouted over the wind:
"Harry! Are you alright? Can you stand?"
Harry couldn't speak. He nodded frantically.
Vaughan slowed, lowered him gently to the pitch, hovered just long enough to be sure—
Then shot skyward again.
"MERLIN'S BEARD! Vaughan saved Harry! He didn't go for the Snitch—he saved him! That blasted Sorting Hat must have been wrong—no way a Weasley could be an evil Sly—er—Slytherins can be decent people too—sorry, Professor!"
The crowd erupted.
"LOOK AT THAT SPEED! The Slytherin lightning is back in the sky! A perfect one-eighty turn at full velocity—the Snitch can't escape him!"
"APPLAUD, EVERYONE! VAUGHAN WEASLEY HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! THE MATCH IS OVER—SLYTHERIN WINS!"
On the pitch, Harry looked up.
High above, Vaughan held the Golden Snitch aloft, sunlight glinting off its wings.
Watching him, the tight knot in Harry's chest finally loosened.
After days of tension and fear, he suddenly realized—
Losing… didn't feel that bad after all.
The match was over.
With the Snitch secured, Slytherin gained an additional one hundred and fifty points and claimed a crushing victory.
The entire stadium roared.
Even the disappointed Gryffindors applauded—they had all seen Vaughan choose Harry over the win.
Surrounded by his teammates, Vaughan flew toward the cheering crowd.
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