Snape's inconsistent reactions had already struck Draco as odd.
Right now, the most pressing question was how the incident had happened—it was clearly an attempted murder.
So, after confirming that Harry Potter was safe and waiting for Madam Pomfrey to arrive from the infirmary, Professor McGonagall decided to inspect Harry Potter's broomstick...
"Where is Mr. Potter's Nimbus 2000?"
"I have it, Professor."
It was George Weasley who replied, holding a broomstick snapped clean in two.
No one could tell whether it had broken from the fall, or if Draco had kicked it apart.
Clearly, figuring out whether it was a malfunction would take some time.
"Severus, do you see anything?"
"Don't ask me. If you want answers, go ask—"
For some reason, Snape's face darkened. He didn't finish his sentence. With a sweep of his black robe, he turned and left in a hurry, as if something urgent had come up.
His abrupt exit didn’t embarrass or anger Professor McGonagall. On the contrary, she seemed to understand and let out a soft sigh before turning to Hermione, who still looked a bit stunned.
"Dear, you must have been frightened. Let Madam Pomfrey check you over, then go back and get some rest."
"Yes, Professor."
After seeing Hermione nod quietly, McGonagall's expression returned to its usual sternness. She turned to the Quidditch players who were gradually gathering on the platform.
"Even with what just happened, the paused match still has to continue."
Her words may have sounded harsh to the Gryffindor team, who had just lost Harry, but there was no way around it.
Since Quidditch didn’t have a rule that forced a team to forfeit due to a lack of players, Oliver Wood and the others had no choice but to grit their teeth and finish the match, even without their most vital Seeker.
Of course, if Draco hadn’t managed to save Harry in the end, whether the match would even continue would be a different story.
In short, the decision practically guaranteed Gryffindor’s defeat...
...
With a 100-point lead, Harry Potter out of the game, and Draco utterly unstoppable, even the most loyal Gryffindor fans could no longer fool themselves by claiming the match wasn’t over.
The outcome was already clear...
Beep!
The whistle blew.
But it wasn’t the signal to resume play—it was the end of the game.
Oliver Wood let out a furious roar, and most of the Gryffindor students couldn’t bear to stay any longer. They filed out of the stands, leaving behind only a few determined lions still cheering half-heartedly.
But the despair on the field and the tears of frustration already said it all—Gryffindor had given up on winning...
“We won?”
Seeing his teammate finally clutch the Golden Snitch and hearing the whistle that marked the match’s end, Draco slowed his broom and rolled his neck.
He had to admit, today’s Quidditch match had been one wild ride—but it was finally over.
Just as Draco drifted in thought and flew past the Slytherin stands, the deafening cheer that swept across the pitch made him freeze.
"That was amazing!"
"Draco Malfoy!"
"Slytherin!"
"Draco!"
"Draco!"
"Draco!"
What started as a mix of cheers quickly merged into one unified chant, echoing a single name throughout the stadium—Draco.
Maybe it had begun with Pansy shouting alone, but it spread across Slytherin, then gradually swept through the entire Quidditch pitch.
Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, even a few remaining Gryffindors—everyone was now cheering for Draco as he soared overhead in his victory lap.
At this moment, house loyalties and personal rivalries were set aside. Everyone was electrified by Draco’s dazzling performance.
They loved Quidditch. And they loved players who played brilliantly.
Overwhelmed by the scene, Draco subconsciously placed a hand over his chest.
“So... this is Quidditch?”
His chest felt warm, and a rush of unfamiliar emotion stirred inside him, making his eyes flicker.
Being the one everyone cheered for... even just witnessing such a moment could move a person to tears.
And Draco, at the center of it all, couldn't maintain his usual composure. A smile tugged at the corners of his normally stoic face.
Who said Slytherins were cold-blooded?
And perhaps it was that faint smile that pushed the crowd's excitement into a frenzy.
‘Maybe Quidditch isn’t as dull as I thought.’
As the thought crossed his mind, Draco raised his right fist and gave a wave toward Pansy, who was screaming with joy.
The match was over.
The victor... was Slytherin!!!