Although most of his focus was on the Golden Snitch that had vanished somewhere, Harry could still tell how quickly the situation was spiraling.
After hearing Lee Jordan’s commentary, his expression hardened, and he gripped his broomstick tightly.
“Gryffindor just scored, but the gap is already 100 points! If this keeps up, there’ll be no chance to even the score—it might just keep widening! Facing the unstoppable Draco Malfoy, does Gryffindor have any hope left?!”
Hope?
Even after deploying their most coordinated duo—the Weasley twins—to try and disrupt the other side, Draco continued scoring with ruthless precision. Oliver Wood could only stare on in despair.
If they committed more players to shutting Draco down, they’d have to give up on offense altogether.
And just getting that last goal had already cost them their final trump card.
With morale plummeting and the team falling apart, Oliver Wood, who had never experienced such a crushing defeat before, was at a complete loss.
What’s worse—Slytherin hadn’t even resorted to dirty tactics.
Wood silently watched that streak of green dart across the pitch. How had Slytherin produced such a monster?
Still, when it came to raw talent, one name immediately came to mind—his own Seeker.
Harry was his last hope.
Lee Jordan, with his seasoned commentator’s eye, had seen the same thing.
“If Gryffindor wants to win now, their only shot is for their Seeker to catch the Golden Snitch—right now. That’s the only way to end the game despite the score gap. And honestly, it’s not out of the question.”
Harry had clearly been dominating his matchup, and he was riding a Nimbus 2000 too—so the prediction wasn’t unreasonable.
Suddenly, the dejected little lions who had practically written the game off sat up straighter, eyes locked on Harry Potter.
Would Harry Potter catch the Golden Snitch and end the game here?
Or would Draco push Slytherin’s lead to 160 points?
That tension, that unpredictability—maybe that’s the true magic of Quidditch...
…
The higher the expectations, the heavier the pressure.
That’s what it means to carry responsibility.
Harry suddenly realized just how much more Draco had to shoulder as a captain—far more than him.
‘How is he doing it?’
Gritting his teeth, Harry tried to steady his racing heart and calm his trembling hands.
His rough childhood had left him prone to pessimism.
He worried he wouldn't be able to live up to everyone's trust.
He even wondered if, should he lose, the team might kick him off.
But that anxiety vanished a second later—Harry had no time left to dwell on it...
“What just happened?! Harry Potter’s lost control! Is it nerves? No—wait, is his broom malfunctioning?!”
Lee Jordan’s shout was followed by a chorus of gasps from the crowd.
Something was clearly wrong. Harry’s flying was completely off.
“Harry! Land! You have to stop!”
“No, George—I can’t control it!”
“Merlin! His broom’s gone haywire!”
Harry’s broomstick wasn't responding at all, veering wildly in the air. His face had gone pale—he could feel it clearly. The broom was trying to throw him off.
With a Nimbus 2000 flying at full throttle, it wasn’t just about catching up—no one could even get close. A collision could be deadly.
All the Gryffindor players could do was circle anxiously beneath him, hoping to catch him if he fell.
The sudden turn of events left the entire audience in stunned confusion.
And slowly, everyone began to realize—today’s match might really be over...
...
Though it pained him, Oliver Wood couldn’t stand by and watch Harry crash. He had no choice but to call a timeout.
Under these circumstances, continuing the game was impossible.
In fact, if Wood hadn’t stopped the match now, he would have no right to be captain. Letting it go on would tear the team apart.
So the moment Harry’s condition was noticed, Gryffindor called for an immediate timeout.
Draco, who had the Quaffle in hand, halted his uncontested advance and turned his gaze toward the figure flailing wildly in the air.
But unlike the others, who assumed it was a malfunction, Draco frowned—he had noticed something else.
“Who’s casting a spell on the broom? And it’s not just one person?”
Casting magic leaves behind magical traces, though most wizards can’t sense them. In fact, detection spells like this are strictly banned.
Only the Ministry’s Trace, which monitors underage wizards, works that way—but that’s limited to those too young to protect themselves.
Draco, however, was born with a rare affinity for magic, a natural sensitivity to magical fluctuations.
Still, his ability only let him sense those fluctuations—he couldn’t track them back to the caster. Which meant that even if he knew someone had cursed Harry, he couldn’t identify the perpetrator...
“Malice... and interference? Someone’s trying to protect Harry Potter. Judging by the pull between forces, it looks like they’re locked in a standoff. But... who is it?”
“To influence things without exposing themselves... This jinx is impressively subtle.”
Muttering to himself, Draco analyzed what he was seeing as he watched Harry spiral out of control.
Fully immersed in his deduction—treating the so-called Chosen One like an experimental subject—Draco failed to notice a burning, incredulous stare from the sidelines.
That stare came from Hermione Granger—the girl who had once witnessed Draco casting Dark Magic...