Autumn had all but surrendered to winter. Frost kissed the windows of the castle, and a biting wind curled through the stone corridors of Hogwarts. But inside the walls, the atmosphere was electric—not from cold, but from anticipation. The first Quidditch match of the season was upon them.
Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
Every year, it carried weight. Bragging rights, house points, pride. But this year, it was different. This year, it was personal.
---
Lennon stood in the changing room, rolling her shoulders as she adjusted her crimson robes. Fred and George cracked jokes to lighten the tension, though their eyes glinted with focused intensity. Oliver was pacing, barking strategy like a general on the eve of war.
And Harry—wide-eyed, jittery, the weight of expectations pressing heavily on his eleven-year-old shoulders—stood near Lennon, gripping his Nimbus Two Thousand like a lifeline.
"You alright?" she asked, crouching a bit to meet his eye.
Harry looked up at her. "What if I fall? Or mess up? Or can't find the Snitch?"
"You will," she said firmly. "You're fast, focused, and you've got instincts I've never seen in a first-year. Trust yourself, Harry. We'll have your back."
Fred popped his head in. "Game time!"
---
The roar of the crowd was deafening as they stepped onto the pitch. House colors blurred together—scarlet and gold against green and silver. Banners waved, scarves fluttered, and the entire student body buzzed with excitement.
High up in the stands, Mattheo, Theodore, and Lorenzo watched the field with sharp eyes. Mattheo leaned on the railing, his arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Your girl's got fire," Lorenzo murmured, smirking as he tracked Lennon's form in the sky.
"She's not 'my girl,'" Mattheo said automatically, though his jaw tensed.
"She flies like she owns the air," Theodore added. "You'd think she's been playing for years."
"She has," Mattheo said softly.
---
Madam Hooch's whistle pierced the air.
The balls were released, and the players surged upward in a blur of movement.
Lennon immediately felt that familiar freedom—wind in her hair, the creak of wood under her fingers, the thrum of magic in every gust. She locked eyes with Fred, then George, and they veered into formation.
From below, Ron and Hermione watched Harry shoot upward with an astonished laugh. Hagrid, already weeping with pride, had both hands clasped around a pair of binoculars.
"Look at him go!" Ron shouted. "He's brilliant!"
"Keep an eye on the Slytherin Beaters," Hermione muttered. "They're already gunning for him."
---
It started out as a clean game. Fast, competitive, full of back-and-forth goals. Lennon scored twice early, weaving between bludgers and dodging a particularly nasty elbow from a Slytherin Chaser. The cheers of Gryffindor House echoed across the pitch.
Then things changed.
The Bludger.
It came screaming out of nowhere—not just rogue, but deliberate. Wild. Not obeying the laws of flight, not turning after the nearest player, but instead, locking onto Harry like a predator.
Lennon saw it curve midair, arching back toward him a second time.
Her heart dropped.
She dove.
"Harry! Look out!"
The first pass grazed his leg. The second came within inches of his head.
Fred tried to intercept it with his bat, but the Bludger rebounded unnaturally, spiraling higher, faster. George shouted something, but it was drowned by the crowd.
Up in the stands, Mattheo stood.
"That Bludger's cursed," he said aloud.
Lorenzo narrowed his eyes. "It's tracking him."
Theodore scowled. "Someone tampered with it. Maybe someone who doesn't want the Boy Who Lived to stay alive."
---
Below, Lennon had positioned herself between Harry and the Bludger, trying to draw its path. But the thing was relentless.
She saw Harry's broom twitch under him, as though something else—something invisible—were pulling it.
Then she saw Snape.
His lips were moving. Eyes locked on Harry.
Hermione saw it too. She didn't hesitate. Pushing past startled spectators, she slipped through benches and darted toward the Slytherin stand.
"Snape's jinxing the broom!" Ron cried, standing.
She stopped behind Quirrell—knocking into him in a clumsy stumble that sent his turban askew. In that instant, Harry's broom steadied.
The Bludger faltered.
Harry dove.
The Snitch gleamed just above the Slytherin goalposts. With a roar, Harry surged after it, cutting through the wind like a flame. Slytherin's Seeker tried to intercept, but Harry was smaller, quicker.
He caught it.
Nearly swallowed it in the process.
The pitch exploded in cheers.
Gryffindor had won.
---
In the common room that night, Fred and George put on an exaggerated reenactment of Harry's 'daring snitch dive,' using Ron as a very reluctant prop.
Percy even let out a whoop. Oliver sat beside the fire, glassy-eyed with pride.
But Lennon's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She watched Harry across the room, surrounded by celebration, but she couldn't stop replaying the look on Snape's face—or the eerie precision of the Bludger.
Later, in the corridor outside the common room, Mattheo appeared from the shadows.
"I saw what you did," he said.
She didn't turn.
"You protected him like he was your brother."
"He's more than that," she whispered. "He's... hope."
Mattheo was quiet. Then: "That wasn't just a game. Someone wants him gone."
"I know."
"We need to find out who."
"And fast."
From the other end of the hall, Theodore and Lorenzo emerged, their expressions grim.
"Looks like the war's starting early," Theodore muttered.
Lennon nodded. "Then we'd better start preparing."
The wind outside howled against the stone.
But inside, alliances were forming.
And the game—whatever it truly was—had only just begun.