The chaos on the pitch gave Harry exactly the opening he needed. Through the blur of players, brooms, and startled shouts, he caught the tiniest glimmer of gold near the edge of his vision, flickering like a dropped coin in sunlight. The Golden Snitch darted away at once, but Harry was already diving after it, flattening himself against his broom as the Slytherin Seeker surged in pursuit.
The other boy tried to keep up, but his broom simply could not match Harry's. In seconds, Harry had pulled ahead, chasing the Snitch as it spiraled lower and lower toward the grass. Wind tore at his robes, the ground rushed up beneath him, and the screams from the stands rose into one long, panicked roar.
Harry did not pull up. He skimmed the pitch at a terrifyingly low height, close enough that the tips of his shoes nearly brushed the grass. The Slytherin Seeker lost his nerve first. He wrenched his broom upward, abandoning the chase rather than risk smashing headfirst into the ground.
"Harry!"
The cry rang out from the stands as Harry lunged forward on his broom. A heartbeat later, he hit the grass and rolled hard across the pitch, clutching his stomach as the crowd gasped in horror. Then he coughed, spat something small and golden into his hand, and lifted it high above his head.
"I caught the Golden Snitch!" Harry shouted.
For a moment, the entire stadium seemed to freeze. Then the Gryffindor stands exploded.
"It's Harry! It's Harry!" Lee Jordan leapt to his feet in the commentator's box, practically howling with joy. "Our Seeker, Harry Potter—the youngest Seeker in a century—has caught the Golden Snitch!"
The roar grew even louder as Harry sat up, still breathless and covered in grass stains. Lee's voice carried over it all, stretched out with theatrical delight as he milked every last second of the result.
"He has ended the match in his very first game, and the final score is…" Lee dragged the words out, then shouted over the thunderous cheers from three of the houses, "One hundred and seventy to sixty! Gryffindor wins!"
The stadium erupted. Professor McGonagall rushed down from the stands at once, her face shining with a pride she was not even trying to hide as she hurried over to congratulate Harry. The Slytherins, meanwhile, began filing out of the stands in bitter silence, some muttering curses under their breath while others looked as though they had swallowed something sour.
Marcus Flint refused to let it go. He marched straight over to Madam Hooch, his face flushed with outrage, and jabbed a finger toward Harry.
"Potter didn't actually catch the Snitch," he snapped. "He cheated! He swallowed it!"
Madam Hooch gave him a look sharp enough to slice through leather. "If that counts as a foul, Mr. Flint, then what exactly should I call half the things you did today?"
.....
"We won!" Lee Jordan cheered wildly as he came down from the stands, still drunk on victory. "Those filthy Slytherins couldn't beat us even with their dirty tricks!"
Several Slytherins who had not yet left the pitch turned at once, their faces darkening. If looks could curse, Lee Jordan would have dropped dead on the spot.
"Damn Jordan!" Malfoy shouted toward him, his pale face twisted in fury. The way his voice cracked made him look more ridiculous than intimidating.
"Weak insults only make you sound like a barking Welsh corgi," Roger said lightly.
Malfoy's face flushed crimson. He spun toward Roger, humiliation and anger tangling together in his eyes. "Roger, what is that supposed to mean?"
"Want to fight?" Roger nodded toward Lee Jordan, who was making his way down from the commentary box, and smiled faintly. The calm curve of his mouth only made the challenge feel sharper.
Malfoy followed his gaze and immediately noticed the professors nearby. His expression wavered, though he tried to cover it with a sneer.
"You wouldn't dare hit someone in front of the professors," Malfoy said. He sounded as if he was accusing Roger of bluffing, but there was a trace of uncertainty underneath.
"Just say you're scared," Roger replied with a careless shrug. "Worst case, I get expelled. Hogwarts isn't the only magical school in Europe."
"You…" Malfoy stared after him, frozen for a moment as Roger walked away. Daphne gave a cold little laugh and followed, her expression making it very clear what she thought of Malfoy's courage.
"Let's go," Goyle said nervously, glancing between Malfoy and Roger's retreating back. "Hitting someone in front of the professors has serious consequences."
"I don't believe Roger would really dare do it," Malfoy snapped. He glared at Goyle and Crabbe as though their fear had personally offended him, then hurried after the others.
Across the pitch, Harry was surrounded by Gryffindors. Ron looked at him with open envy and excitement, retelling the last few moments of the match as if Harry had not been there himself. He pointed toward Marcus, who was still pestering Madam Hooch, and said something that made the surrounding Gryffindors burst into laughter.
"Hey, the match is over," Ron said when he saw Roger approaching. His smile vanished at once, and his tone turned unfriendly. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to congratulate Mr. Harry Potter on winning the match for Gryffindor," Roger said, extending his hand with a mild smile. "Mr. Potter, you seem to have inherited your father's talent for Quidditch."
"Thank you," Harry said after a brief pause. He looked into Roger's eyes, found no obvious malice there, and shook his hand.
"Lee Jordan?" Roger turned toward the dreadlocked boy beside them, his tone almost polite. "That is you, correct?"
"That's me," Lee said, lifting his chin. "And if you've got a problem with my commentary, maybe you should reflect on what your team was doing."
"At least you understand what you said," Roger replied.
He nodded once, then stepped forward without warning and drove his fist hard into Lee Jordan's nose.
The surrounding students did not even have time to react. Lee hit the ground with a cry of pain, but Roger did not stop there. He dropped down, seized the front of Lee's robes, and began striking him again and again with brutal precision.
Lee howled, trying uselessly to shield his face. Blood splattered across the grass, and Malfoy swallowed hard as he watched. Roger had not been exaggerating after all. He had come here to fight.
"Stop!" Angelina Johnson shouted, rushing forward.
Daphne's wand was in her hand before Angelina could get close. She pointed it straight at the Gryffindor girl, her eyes cold and steady.
Goyle trembled visibly. "Malfoy, should we leave?"
"Hmph. Stop them," Malfoy said, though his voice was not nearly as steady as he wanted it to be. He drew his wand and moved in front of Harry, forcing himself to stand tall. "If anything happens, Roger and I will handle it."
In the middle of the pitch, several players faced off in tense silence. Wands were half-raised, tempers were flaring, and no one dared move first. Only Roger continued beating Lee Jordan, crouched low with his fists falling like heavy rain until Lee curled in on himself like a shrimp.
"What are you doing?" Professor McGonagall's voice cut across the pitch like a whip.
She hurried over, shocked and furious, with several other professors close behind her. Her eyes fixed on Roger in disbelief, as though she could not reconcile the calm, well-mannered student she knew with the boy kneeling over another student and beating him bloody.
"Roger, stop at once!"
Roger rose smoothly to his feet. "Professor, hello."
He smiled gently, as if someone else had been throwing the punches. Angelina immediately helped Lee sit up, her face pale with worry. His nose was broken, his face was smeared with blood, and his eyes were already swelling.
"Jordan, are you all right?" Angelina asked anxiously.
"Roger Travis," Professor McGonagall said sternly, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Why did you attack a fellow student?"
"Just a small warning," Roger replied calmly. He accepted a white handkerchief from Daphne and began wiping the blood from his knuckles. "I held back. There is not even much bruising on his face."
"You held back?" Professor McGonagall's voice rose dangerously. "Explain yourself at once, or I will have no choice but to consider expulsion. That attack was vicious and completely unacceptable."
"Professor, you should ask him," Roger said.
His voice hardened, and his sharp gaze settled on Lee Jordan. Lee, who had just taken a savage beating, flinched and could not force out a word.
"Lee Jordan," Roger continued, his tone heavy and controlled, "you may dislike Slytherin's methods. You may not approve of how we play, how we speak, or how we conduct ourselves. But that does not give you the right to insult our entire house."
"Roger, you're just making excuses," someone muttered.
"Is that so?" Roger took one step forward.
Lee shrank back instinctively, and the muttering stopped.
"You said 'filthy Slytherins,' did you not?" Roger asked coldly.
"Jordan?" Professor McGonagall frowned.
During the match, she had repeatedly warned Lee to watch his commentary. She had expected bias, perhaps even recklessness, but not something like that the moment he stepped down from the box. The surrounding students fell quiet, and even the Gryffindors looked uncomfortable.
"Noble men have their epitaphs, and base men have their passports," Roger said, turning his eyes across the professors and students gathered around him. His voice carried easily over the pitch, confident and unshaken. "You may criticize Slytherin for being ruthless. You may call us ambitious, cunning, selfish, or dishonorable. That is your judgment, and you are free to make it."
Then his voice sharpened.
"But for a wizard, filthy is one of the ugliest insults you can use." His gaze swept over the crowd, cold and direct. "Gryffindor is always so proud of opposing the word Mudblood. So why is it suddenly acceptable to use the same kind of insult against us?"
No one answered.
"Thankfully, this is not the Middle Ages," Roger said. "Otherwise, I would have thrown down my glove already. Of course, if any of you would prefer a proper magical duel, I would be happy to oblige."
He leaned forward slightly, his stare aggressive enough to make Lee lower his eyes.
"You are a third-year, so I will be generous," Roger said. "One against two. How about it?"
No one accepted.
Roger gave a soft, mocking smile. Then he dropped the bloodstained handkerchief onto the grass, turned, and walked away.
No professor stopped him. No one demanded he be dragged to the headmaster's office. No one even called him back.
By dinner, the story had already spread through the entire school. Roger Travis had beaten a Gryffindor student bloody in front of several professors, then walked away without receiving any punishment at all.
At the Slytherin table, nearly everyone raised a toast to him. Their Quidditch loss still stung, but Roger's fists had wiped away much of the humiliation.
"Roger, if it weren't for Madam Hooch's favoritism…" Marcus was still brooding over the result of the match. Even with a plate of food in front of him, he could not stop complaining.
"Favoritism?" Roger raised an eyebrow. "I do not think so. At least she did not punish you for exploiting loopholes in the rules."
Marcus paused, then gave a crooked grin and nodded.
The first-years around them looked at Roger with undisguised admiration. Among the Slytherins, at least, his standing had risen higher than ever. He had charisma, he kept his word, and even when he acted violently, he gave a reason that sounded calm, logical, and difficult to refute.
Without realizing it, many of them began imitating him. They sat straighter, spoke less, and ate with a quieter elegance than usual, as though every movement at the table had suddenly become part of what it meant to be a proper wizard.
Under his influence, the Slytherin table was unusually quiet that evening. Everyone sat upright and enjoyed their meal in near silence.
The other houses kept glancing over in surprise. What had happened to Slytherin? They had only lost one Quidditch match.
At the Gryffindor table, Lee Jordan's face was wrapped in gauze. His eyes were swollen nearly shut, and every movement made him wince. If not for Madam Pomfrey's superb healing skills, his nose might never have been properly put back together.
.....
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