It was the weekend, and Harry had originally planned to visit Hagrid with Hermione and Ron. But before dawn, he was shaken awake by Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain. He had hoped to sleep a few more hours, yet now there was no escape—Wood had scheduled morning practice.
Still half-asleep, Harry dragged himself out of bed, rubbed his eyes, and squinted toward the window. A pale pink-and-gold sky was just brightening through a thin veil of mist. Birds were chirping so noisily outside that he wondered how they hadn't woken him earlier.
He scribbled a quick note for Ron, grabbed his Nimbus 2000, and headed down to the common room—only to be intercepted by his overeager admirer, Colin Creevey. It took several minutes of polite excuses before Harry managed to slip away.
By the time he reached the changing room, most of the Gryffindor team was already there. They changed sluggishly, yawning and stretching, and finally made their way onto the Quidditch pitch, where the morning sun had already climbed high above the towers.
Wood suddenly stopped dead, his voice rising in disbelief.
"I booked the pitch for today!" he shouted.
Harry moved closer and saw what had startled him. The Quidditch field was already occupied. A group of students in green robes were swooping through the air, their broomsticks glinting sharply in the sunlight.
"Flint!" Wood bellowed at the Slytherin captain. "This is our practice time! We got up early for this! Get off the pitch!"
Marcus Flint turned, smirking. "Oh, really? But I've got special permission." He held up a piece of parchment. "'I, Professor Severus Snape, hereby grant the Slytherin team permission to train on the Quidditch pitch today to prepare their new Seeker.'"
Wood blinked, his anger momentarily forgotten. "A new Seeker? Where?"
Harry's stomach gave a small jolt. At the end of the Slytherin line, a flash of platinum-blond hair caught his eye. Draco Malfoy. Harry thought of Malfoy's skill with spells and his top-of-the-class grades, and unease prickled through him. Was Malfoy really joining the team?
"Miss Pansy Parkinson," Flint announced with a flourish. The Slytherin players parted, revealing Pansy standing shyly behind Malfoy. For some reason Harry felt a faint sense of relief.
"You're letting a second-year girl be Seeker?" Wood snapped. "And why is Draco here too? You've got an extra player!"
Flint's smirk widened. "Draco worked at Gringotts over the summer. He helped the goblins with some tricky problems, and they rewarded him generously. He decided to share his good fortune with his team."
At his signal, the Slytherin players lifted their brooms. Seven gleaming Nimbus 2001s, shining gold in the morning light, nearly blinded the Gryffindor players.
"Some people are just different," Flint said mockingly, eyeing Fred and George. "Not everyone's father earns enough to buy new brooms every year. Some folks have to make do with Cleansweep Fives—more suited to sweeping corridors than playing Quidditch."
The Weasley twins' faces turned crimson, but they said nothing. The rest of the team stood tight-lipped behind them.
"Draco doesn't actually want to play," Flint went on smugly. "He's given Pansy the position and will serve as our technical advisor instead. Still, if he ever decided to join, victory would be guaranteed."
"Let's go," Wood muttered. He clearly didn't want to argue further. Snape's written note gave Slytherin official grounds, and nothing short of Dumbledore could overrule that.
Harry followed his captain off the pitch, bitterness rising in his chest. When they reached the stands, Ron and Hermione were waiting.
"Why are you back already?" Ron asked, frowning.
Harry explained the situation. Ron's expression darkened by the second.
"That slimy git used that trick?" he burst out. Hermione glanced at him sideways; she could hear the jealousy hidden in his tone.
"Harry, don't let it get to you," she said calmly. "They have every right to choose their players, and Professor Snape's bias is nothing new. Just focus on doing your best."
Harry nodded, gripping his broom a little tighter. Even so, the thought of facing Slytherin's new brooms weighed on him. The pitch was one thing, but superior equipment—that was another battle entirely.
The Slytherin Practice
Meanwhile, the Slytherins continued training under the clear morning sun.
Though Pansy had ridden brooms before, this was her first time on the Quidditch team. Her cheeks glowed with excitement, like a fan suddenly invited to play in the World Cup. Even if it was only a school match, it was enough to thrill her.
"Attention, everyone," Malfoy called from the ground, holding a magically-amplified microphone. The players hovering in midair steadied their brooms and looked down attentively. Pansy quickly pulled up beside them, eager not to fall behind.
"Underestimating your opponent means underestimating yourself," Malfoy began, his tone cool but confident. "Gryffindor remains a strong team, no matter what equipment they use."
Each player wore a small headset, enchanted to block out the wind. Hogwarts' strange magnetic field had always interfered with Muggle radios, but Malfoy had tinkered with them until they worked perfectly. Inventing a new spell from scratch would've been harder—this was simply efficient.
He continued, "We may have better brooms, but that alone won't win the match. Harry Potter's Nimbus 2000 isn't much slower than ours, and even the Weasley twins' older Cleansweeps have served them for years. Familiarity counts for a lot. Our new brooms are faster—but faster can also mean harder to control."
The team nodded seriously. Despite Malfoy's age, his calm intelligence and the aura of command around him made the older students listen. His academic record, the rumors about his experiments, and—most importantly—his sponsorship of the new brooms earned their respect.
"Honestly," he went on, "I didn't even want us to train today. If we'd kept our advantage secret, we could have surprised them in the first match. But now, they've seen our brooms and will have time to prepare."
Several players groaned regretfully. Malfoy lifted a hand. "It doesn't matter. You saw the look on Wood's face. They may know what's coming, but the pressure is already on them. Remember—strategically, despise the enemy; tactically, respect the enemy. Do you have confidence?"
"Yes!" the seven voices echoed together, loud and fierce.
"Pre-match motivation—complete," Malfoy murmured under his breath, wiping away a small bead of sweat before resuming his usual composure. Then he began outlining their strategy.
The plan was simple—stall and exhaust.
Pansy's flying skills were far behind Harry's. Realistically, she had no chance of catching the Snitch first. But with her Nimbus 2001, she could at least stay close enough to delay him. Meanwhile, the other Slytherins, all physically larger and now much faster, could dominate possession of the Quaffle. As long as they built a strong enough lead, even Potter's capture of the Snitch wouldn't be enough to close the gap.
"The key," Malfoy explained, "is endurance. Gryffindor will push hard, but we'll outlast them. Patience wins games."
Up in the air, the green-robed players practiced passing and defensive maneuvers, the wind tugging at their sleeves. Pansy wobbled a little on sharp turns, but her excitement never dimmed.
When she swooped down beside Malfoy for advice, she pouted. "You don't trust me at all, do you?"
Malfoy sighed. "Don't forget our agreement," he reminded her quietly.
"I know, I know. You're so annoying," she grumbled, waving him off.
He looked up at the team again. "Spread the formation! You're flying too close together!"
A moment later, as they scattered too far apart, he shouted again, "Not that far! Do you plan to leave the goal wide open?"
The players exchanged amused looks, realizing how quickly Malfoy had slipped into the role of instructor. His sharp eyes caught every mistake, his voice steady and precise. Though the wind bit at their cheeks, the Slytherins felt a fierce determination burning within. Last year's defeat still stung—they would not let Gryffindor win again. The gleam of their new brooms only fueled that fire.
After several exhausting rounds, Malfoy finally called out, "All right, that's enough for today. A steady rhythm is better than overtraining. We're done."
The players descended to the ground, tired but exhilarated. Pansy, clutching her broom, was still buzzing with energy, her face flushed pink.
"Don't get too worked up," Malfoy said lightly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "There'll be plenty more chances. But it's more fun being on the field than just cheering from the stands, isn't it?"
"Yeah," she admitted breathlessly, nodding. Her cheeks were still red—perhaps from excitement, perhaps from something else.
"Then remember our deal," Malfoy said again, half-serious. "Don't forget."
"Yeah," Pansy murmured softly, almost too quiet to hear. Then, blushing furiously, she added under her breath, "Tonight, you can do whatever you want."
For a moment, silence blanketed the field.
Then, as realization sank in, the entire Slytherin team erupted into laughter—raucous, teasing, and utterly unrestrained. Their guffaws echoed across the pitch, drawing curious glances from nearby students in the stands.
Several teammates shot Malfoy knowing winks, their faces twisted into mischievous grins.
Malfoy, standing frozen, felt the blood rush to his head. If he could have, he would have coughed up a mouthful of blood on the spot.
"Brilliant," he muttered darkly. "Absolutely brilliant."
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