Chapter 60
Chapter 60
On the day of the match, Suer joined Hermione and Ron outside the changing room to wish Harry good luck. Harry stood in his Quidditch robes with his Nimbus 2000 in hand, looking grim.
“I know what you’re worried about, Harry. Believe me, Gryffindor will win today.” As Harry prepared to enter the players’ room, Suer patted his shoulder and spoke quietly.
“Oh, thank you, Suer.” Harry plainly took the words as consolation.
But Suer was not consoling him. Badgers always repaid a grudge. Every debt had its debtor, and vengeance came when its hour arrived.
Today appeared to be the hour.
Whether Slytherin’s captain would even reach the match remained uncertain.
Suer narrowed his eyes, remembering the prefects whispering beside the common-room fireplace the previous evening.
They had barely attempted to conceal their plan. From the edge of the group, Suer had caught a few scattered words.
“Marcus… Draught of Living Death… sack…”
Oh, it sounded thrilling.
“The incantation is Locomotor Mortis. Remember it, and don’t forget.” Hermione kept her voice low. “Suer. Suer!”
“Hm?” Suer looked at her blankly.
“Did you hear me? If Professor Snape shows any sign of hurting Harry, use the spell to stop him.”
People said Gryffindors were brave. They truly were. Even the normally rational Hermione had become…
“Hermione, is it possible your spell wouldn’t hit Snape in the first place?” Suer murmured. “And even if Snape genuinely wished to harm Harry, do you think he would have the chance in front of Headmaster Dumbledore?”
“Dumbledore?” Hermione looked up in bewilderment and searched the stands. “Dumbledore is here?”
“Good heavens.” There was no mistaking that handsome silver-white beard. Hermione sighed with relief.
The three found seats in the stands, coincidentally beside Neville.
“Something seems to have happened,” Neville said. “Snape went into Slytherin’s changing room a moment ago. He looked furious when he came out.”
“Naturally. Dumbledore came to watch the match,” Hermione replied casually.
“Headmaster Dumbledore?” Neville asked. “What has he got to do with it?”
“The match is starting,” said Ron, whose presence had gone almost unnoticed.
The players filed out holding their brooms. Strangely, the Slytherin team’s expressions were dark and, perhaps, a little panicked.
They had every reason to panic. Suer borrowed a pair of binoculars and examined them closely.
Oh, the prefects had succeeded. Slytherin’s beloved captain, Marcus Flint, was nowhere on the pitch.
“Care to wager on how long Harry Potter stays on his broom this time?” Malfoy called loudly from nearby. “Come on, Longbottom. Want to bet?”
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Ron said angrily.
Snape had just awarded Slytherin a penalty because George sent a Bludger towards him. Anything could happen in Quidditch, and the decision made no sense.
“Oh, Weasley. Sorry, I didn’t see you.” Malfoy cackled. “Would you like to bet as well?”
“With the few miserable Knuts you call pocket money?”
Ron’s face turned crimson.
Suer dug a finger into his ear and watched Harry fly circuits of the pitch. “Be quiet, Malfoy.”
Malfoy fell silent for a little while. Several minutes later, he leapt up again. Snape had awarded Slytherin another groundless penalty, and they scored.
The decision provoked furious protests from the students. Even Lee Jordan had begun insulting the referee from the commentary box. Snape, flying on his broom, ignored every word. He nimbly dodged a Bludger and immediately awarded Slytherin yet another penalty.
“In Muggle society, a referee like that would have a sack pulled over his head outside the stadium!” an older student exclaimed indignantly. “Shameless cheat!”
On the other side, Malfoy was on the verge of fighting Neville and Ron.
No–they were already fighting. The burly Crabbe and Goyle had Neville pinned beneath the seats, while Ron straddled Malfoy and swung his fists.
The whole section was chaos. Suer drew his wand, preparing to separate them by “force”.
“Harry!” Hermione, whose attention had never left the match, suddenly screamed and jumped onto her seat.
On the pitch, Harry shot towards the ground like a bullet.
He stopped his broom only a few feet above the grass.
“A beautiful Wronski Feint! The Slytherin Seeker fell for it!” Lee Jordan cried. Then Harry raised one hand with a broad smile. “Oh, no! No!”
“Gryffindor Seeker Harry Potter has caught the Golden Snitch! It wasn’t a feint! It wasn’t a feint!”
“The match is over! Gryffindor wins!”
The stands erupted. Without question, it was a new record. No Quidditch match had ever ended so quickly.
Hermione shrieked and bounced up and down on her seat. Then, quite suddenly, she leapt into Suer’s arms.
What was this? Suer stared in confusion and shifted the girl in his embrace.
A gift from heaven?
“Although nobody knows why Slytherin captain Marcus Flint failed to appear in this match,” Lee Jordan continued shouting jubilantly, “the match is over, and Harry has made history!”
“Oh, I see Marcus. He’s here, wearing…”
“Er…” Lee Jordan spluttered. “Pardon me, but have I remembered wrongly? Is Marcus actually an adorable girl?”
Laughter swept across the pitch.
Suer covered his face. He had assumed the prefects’ complete plan involved a sack and a potion that would make Marcus sleep through the match.
He had never imagined they would dress Marcus as a girl as well. Judging by the captain’s bewildered expression as he gripped his broom, he probably believed he was still wearing Quidditch robes.
How utterly ruthless.
Suer almost felt sorry for Marcus Flint. Good heavens. How could anyone remain at school after this?
That was why one should never provoke a badger.
As Suer grumbled inwardly, a startled cry sounded beside his ear and his arms suddenly emptied, leaving him oddly bereft.
Hermione had finally realised what she had done.
Her face blazing, she sprang from Suer’s arms with strength borrowed from some unknown place.
“Everyone has gone down. I’m going to celebrate too.”
Her faint fragrance lingered, but the girl herself had vanished.
On the pitch, Marcus finally understood that the match had ended–and what he was actually wearing.
Merlin’s filthy pants.
Who put me in stockings?!