If anyone's emotions were the most complicated at this moment, it would be the Slytherin players on the field, Snape with his dark expression in the stands, and the young Slytherins seated high above.
They all shared the same identity.
They were Slytherins.
"Were we wrong?"
"It's too late to regret it now."
"But…"
"More importantly, this wasn't something we could decide, was it?"
"…No. It wasn't."
The seventh-year Slytherin Prefect watched as more and more little snakes quietly left the stands. Without changing his expression, he stopped his companion from saying anything further.
He knew the reason.
There was nothing to salvage, and nothing to complain about.
After all, this had been their choice.
Their families had chosen neutrality and observation, and that choice had led to today's outcome.
And if they were honest, that so-called neutrality had already implied something else. It meant they believed the faction led by Lucius was no match for the Dark Lord. That was why they had decided to distance themselves from anyone connected to the Malfoy name.
The first to bear the brunt of that distance was, naturally, Draco Malfoy.
Given how they had treated him recently, this result was both correct and inevitable.
The only thing the Prefects had not expected was how easily Draco had given up the Slytherin team.
Even serpents, however, have hot blood in their veins.
Especially after experiencing the Slytherin team under Draco's leadership, they had come to understand what Slytherin glory truly looked like.
A streak of pale gold cutting across the pitch like sunlight.
A figure that shone like the sun itself.
Silver-gray eyes that carried victory with them.
If that glory had a color, it would have been platinum.
So when they watched their current team being completely overwhelmed by Gryffindor, pressed down and dominated without resistance, they realized they had overestimated their own composure.
That was why, before the match was even halfway through, more than half of the Slytherin section had emptied.
They left because they could not bear to watch.
At this point, aside from the Prefects who forced themselves to remain calm, only true Quidditch fans and a few confused first-years were still seated in the stands.
Their quiet prayers did nothing to change the outcome. They could only watch, dejected, as the hoops were breached again and again.
In the end, the hastily assembled Slytherin team on the field had been pushed into this situation by Draco and the others.
What no one knew, however, was that this slightly childish act of retaliation had not been Draco's decision at all.
In the eyes of Goyle and Crabbe, it was Pansy, the so-called little devil, who had made the call.
It had to be said, Pansy did love Quidditch.
But when anything involving Draco was concerned, absolutely anything could happen.
…
On the pitch.
Even though their opponents were performing so poorly, the Gryffindor players had no intention of showing mercy.
They played with ruthless intensity, as if venting the frustration of being suppressed for years.
More importantly, no one knew whether Slytherin's ace would ever return to the field. At the very least, they had to seize this rare chance to secure a decisive victory while he was absent.
It might not have been the most honorable win, but few would refuse victory when it came so easily.
And yet, even with Draco gone, his shadow still loomed over the pitch.
That, more than anything, was why Gryffindor pushed so hard.
However, immersed in their one-sided domination, they failed to notice that something about the atmosphere felt wrong.
Just as Penelope had observed, apart from Gryffindor's cheers and applause, there was no real passion in the stands.
It was as if something was missing.
Gradually, the first to sense something off was Harry Potter, flying high above the pitch.
As Seeker, he needed the widest possible view of the field. From that vantage point, he began to notice the reactions of the crowd.
"What… is going on?"
One-sided matches were not unheard of. In fact, whenever Draco had been on the field, the result had often seemed predetermined.
But this felt different.
Before Harry could make sense of what the spectators were thinking, a sudden shout rang out.
"We… need Draco!"
"..."
"..."
An eerie silence fell over the Quidditch Pitch.
No Amplifying Charm had been cast, yet somehow everyone heard it clearly.
Harry, knowing it was no illusion, turned in disbelief toward the Ravenclaw stands.
"What are they—"
Before he could finish, that single cry spread like an explosion in still water.
First Slytherin.
Then Ravenclaw.
Then Hufflepuff.
A foot lifted.
A foot came down.
Thud.
"Draco!"
Thud.
"Draco!"
Thud.
"Draco!"
At first it was uneven, chaotic.
Then, gradually, it grew synchronized.
The scene felt eerily familiar, like the Triwizard Tournament all over again.
It stirred up memories Harry would rather forget.
One by one, the players who had been racing across the sky slowed and came to a halt midair.
Madam Hooch, unsure whether to blow her whistle, glanced toward Professor McGonagall at the commentator's podium.
But Professor McGonagall herself looked stunned, a rare expression of shock and uncertainty crossing her face.
Beside her, Lee Jordan had already joined the chanting.
In this moment, he was not a commentator.
He was simply another one of Draco's supporters.
Compared to the excitement and fervor of the crowd, Harry Potter hovered frozen in the air.
His eyes widened behind his glasses.
His expression twisted.
He wanted to shout at them.
How could they admire that Death Eater so openly?
Perhaps this was something the still-growing Chosen One could not yet understand.
That intangible thing called charisma.
...
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