The day of the match had arrived.
Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
Since dawn, the castle had buzzed with electric energy. Banners waved from windows, faces were painted, and the corridors echoed with impromptu chants. Even the ghosts seemed livelier: the Bloody Baron floated about, boasting of Slytherin's glorious championship days, while Nearly Headless Nick raved about Charlie Weasley's Quidditch prowess—though, he added, Harry wasn't half bad either.
In the east tower, Nathael slept soundly, wrapped in magical blankets that generated warmth without burning.
Until Celestia leapt onto his chest.
"Get up!" she yowled, eyes gleaming. "It's the big day!"
Nathael opened one eye.
"Big for whom?"
"For Quidditch!" she said excitedly. "Gryffindor versus Slytherin—the match of the Hogwarts year!"
Nathael sat up, rubbing his face.
"It's not like you're watching the Heidelberg Harriers…"
"I know!" Celestia said. "But it'll surely be entertaining. And…" she lowered her voice, a sly smile forming, "…I already bet Gryffindor will win."
Nathael looked at her, surprised.
"When?"
"Yesterday," she said proudly. "In the Great Hall. Fifty Galleons. Discreetly."
"And how did I not notice?"
"Because my stealth skills are world-class," Celestia said, stretching. "In fact, I should be a Seeker. I'd move through the clouds unseen. And in the blink of an eye… I'd have the Snitch in my paws!"
Nathael laughed and stroked her head.
"You and your ego."
"It's not ego!" she said. "It's talent!"
"Besides…" she added, dropping her voice, "…I don't want to tarnish my image as a compulsive gambler in front of everyone."
"Too late," Nathael said, smiling. "Remember the 5,000 Galleons you lost eight months ago on the Falmouth Falcons versus Montrose Magpies match?"
"That was bad luck!" Celestia snapped. "The Falcons' Seeker broke his arm on a Bludger! Who could've predicted that?"
"You," Nathael said. "And you bet everything on them winning."
Celestia huffed.
"Details."
They stood. Nathael dressed in his classic linen shirt and dark trousers, and Celestia donned her blue cape embroidered with silver-threaded Harriers insignia.
"Let's go!" she said. "I don't want to miss the team entrance!"
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The Quidditch pitch was packed.
The stands vibrated with chants, laughter, and the occasional firework explosion. The air smelled of Cauldron Cakes, butter, and anticipation.
Nathael and Celestia were walking along the path when a voice called out.
"Nathael!"
It was Hermione, seated in the Gryffindor stands between Ron, Seamus, and Dean. Harry, of course, wasn't with them—he was in the locker rooms, preparing.
"Hello!" Nathael said, approaching. "Nervous?"
"A little," Hermione said. "But I know Harry can do it."
Ron muttered something about "Slytherin surely playing dirty," and Seamus and Dean nodded in solemn agreement.
At that moment, Draco emerged from the castle.
He wore his immaculate Slytherin robes and a green-and-silver scarf. Seeing Nathael and Celestia, he smiled.
"I came to invite you to the Slytherin stands," he said. "I've got a reserved spot."
Draco then looked at Hermione, who met his gaze and waved cheerfully.
He also glanced at Ron, whose scowl deepened.
"Competitiveness?" Nathael murmured to Celestia, who observed the curious scene.
"Pure," she said.
"Of course," Nathael told Draco. "I was going to sit with the professors, but… I see no harm in sitting with my student."
They climbed to the Slytherin section.
The students greeted them with respect—even enthusiasm.
"Mr. Grauheim!"
"Celestia!"
"Is it true you once negotiated with a vampire in Transylvania?"
It wasn't just curiosity. It was recognition.
Most Slytherins were half-blood or pureblood, but all knew who Nathael Grauheim was: a treasure hunter, master of ancestral magic, and member of one of Europe's oldest and most prestigious bloodlines. Many no longer remembered the old rumors their parents whispered of the Grauheims. They only saw a powerful, elegant wizard—and, most importantly… pureblood.
Nathael nodded politely and sat beside Draco. Celestia settled onto his lap, eyes fixed on the pitch.
"This place has the spirit of the Harriers," she murmured. "Rough. Determined. Unafraid to break rules."
"Maybe you should've bet on Slytherin?" Nathael asked.
"No way!" Celestia said. "Gryffindor has Potter—believe me, he's talent."
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Then, the teams emerged.
Cheers exploded.
Slytherin in green robes, led by Marcus Flint—a boy who looked more troll than wizard.
Gryffindor in scarlet, with Harry Potter at the center—tiny, nervous… but resolute.
Suddenly, Draco raised his wand.
A jet of light shot out, and fireworks burst in the air, forming a giant serpent that twisted elegantly, opening its mouth in a silent hiss.
Nathael smiled.
"I taught him that a few days ago—a minor celebration charm. Pretty, isn't it?"
But then, from the opposite side, more fireworks erupted.
They formed a giant lion that roared fiercely, its eyes blazing golden fire.
Nathael and Draco looked that way.
It was Hermione.
She looked at them and smiled.
Draco held her gaze for a second. Then nodded—a small tilt of the head. A gesture no one else understood.
"The match begins," Celestia said.
The game was intense.
Gryffindor scored first with a precise throw from their Keeper.
Slytherin retaliated with brute force, knocking two Gryffindor Chasers off their brooms with moves that bordered on illegal.
"Brutality, not technique!" Ron shouted from the stands.
"That's Quidditch!" a Slytherin student cried back.
Celestia, though rooting for Gryffindor because of Harry, couldn't deny Slytherin's edge.
"They've got the Harriers' spirit," she said. "Tough. Direct. No compromises."
But then, something changed.
Mid-game, Harry's broom began moving erratically.
It wasn't mechanical failure.
It was magic.
The broom bucked, spun, and soared uncontrollably. Harry clung on desperately, but the broom tossed him like a ragdoll.
Nathael frowned.
"That's not normal."
He knew modern brooms. They were sealed against ordinary spells. Nothing could disrupt their flight—unless it was potent dark magic.
He scanned the stands.
Saw no one casting spells.
But he felt something.
A subtle pressure.
Dark.
And at the same time… another magic.
Softer. Warmer.
Someone was casting a counter-curse—trying to break the jinx.
Nathael tensed.
"Someone's attacking Harry."
"What?" Celestia said, distracted by the match. "Don't be ridiculous! This is Quidditch, not a war!"
But Nathael was already analyzing.
Who had the power and knowledge to cast such a subtle, deep curse?
And who… had the power to counter it?
He hesitated. Intervene? Break neutrality?
But before he could act…
It stopped.
Harry's broom stabilized.
The dark magic… vanished.
The counter-curse… faded.
Harry, trembling, looked around.
And then… he saw the Snitch.
With one final effort, he dove.
And caught it… with his mouth.
The stadium erupted.
Gryffindor had won.
Celestia leapt in joy.
"I knew it! Potter's a prodigy!"
Nathael didn't celebrate.
He looked toward the professor's box.
From there, a column of smoke rose.
Something in him whispered: in that moment… something else had happened.