Hogwarts’ John Wick

158: A King and A King

By Muggle standards, it was like two top-tier race cars revving their engines.

As their eyes met, they became like red and green arrows in the sky.

Without hesitation, they pressed forward on their broomsticks, and the Firebolts shot out.

They had only one target: the glimmering Golden Snitch.

The current score was 30 to 80, with Slytherin in the lead.

Even though Wood seemed to have the spirit of a gatekeeper, the six Nimbus 2001s, combined with training as rigorous as Gryffindor's, had transformed Slytherin.

They had one focus in their eyes: victory!

Slytherin Beater Derrick aimed the Bludger and smashed it in Harry's direction.

The Bludger, under his control, flew straight toward Harry.

Harry spun his broom, dodging the hit, and in his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of the figure chasing him.

Refusing to be outdone, he picked up speed, trying to put some distance between himself and Malfoy.

The Golden Snitch was the key. In this intense game, if he caught it, Gryffindor would win.

Wood, now in his seventh year, loved Quidditch so much. Harry didn't want him to leave with any regrets—he had to win the cup for Gryffindor.

With this thought, Harry accelerated and maneuvered deftly in the sky.

Increased speed also meant increased control difficulty.

The Golden Snitch darted through the Gryffindor stands, and Harry pulled up sharply to keep his momentum.

'Almost got it.'

He thought, eyes fixed intensely on the Snitch.

As he closed in, a split second later, his body was struck by brute force.

"Urk.."

His face darkened, about to shout at Malfoy for playing dirty, but then he saw that Malfoy hadn't even looked his way.

Malfoy's eyes were locked solely on the Golden Snitch.

His hair was plastered back by the fierce wind, but he didn't care.

He urged his Firebolt forward, recklessly accelerating, and Harry matched him.

The two left blurred trails in the air, and the Snitch suddenly dived downward.

Chasing beneath the familiar stands, both of them held their breath.

The rickety wooden structures loomed as obstacles, but Harry, with his exceptional talent, managed to avoid each one at the last possible moment with his incredible flying skills.

Sweat beaded on Malfoy's forehead, but he didn't dare let go of the broom handle to wipe it away.

Now the sweat beads, slowly shifting in the wind, edged ever closer to Malfoy's eyes.

Flying at this speed beneath the stand filled with obstacles, the sight drew gasps from the watching students.

They couldn't see the riders, but they could see the cloth panels below billowing as the two streaked by.

Two figures, one right behind the other, separated by barely half a body length.

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Harry realized he was slowing down. He grew furious, convinced Malfoy was pulling some trick again.

But in the next instant, platinum blonde flashed into his view.

He hadn't slowed down—Malfoy had sped up!

Malfoy was still accelerating, racing through this perilous course.

Refusing to be outdone, Harry sped up too.

Neither of them slowed; instead, they kept gaining speed as they flew beneath the stands.

The Golden Snitch shot out, with only the faintest blurs trailing in pursuit.

Marcus Flint saw this and remembered the countless hours of training.

In those moments, it was as if Malfoy had turned into someone else, utterly relentless. No matter how grueling or exhausting, while others groaned, he never gave up.

Gradually, Malfoy had taken on the responsibilities of captain, inspiring the entire team to persevere.

Seeing Malfoy like this, how could Flint possibly lose?

With reddened eyes and a shout that tore through his throat, Marcus Flint roared, "We are Slytherin!!!"

It was rare for him to act this way in a match; usually, he relied on sly tactics.

But that shout jolted every player awake.

They yelled back, "Noble Slytherin, sworn to defend our honor to the death!"

The six of them let out a fierce battle cry, embodying a fearlessness far from the Gryffindors' usual view of Slytherins as cunning and underhanded.

Katie, caught off guard, lost control of the Quaffle, allowing Montague to steal it and score.

The Slytherin stands erupted in cheers.

John watched this unfold.

"We rise from the mire,
We crave power,
We are full of ambition,
We are strong and composed,
We are graceful and poised,
We have no regrets,
We are Slytherin."

The voice echoed clearly across the Quidditch pitch, and the once-boisterous stands fell silent.

He continued:

"We pursue glory,
We defend glory,
We witness glory,
We… are glory."

In that moment, every Slytherin's eyes shone with a fervor.

As if witnessing a king, they clenched their fists.

No one knew who started it, but soon a single word was on every Slytherin's lips.

"Glory!"

"Glory!"

"Glory!"

...

It was madness, as if everything had spiraled into a frenzy.

The unified chant of "Glory" from one house alone drowned out the noise of the other three houses combined.

The Quidditch pitch was engulfed in glory, that sea of green gathered into a terrifying force.

Every Slytherin felt as if an endless power surged within them, making the six Slytherin players seem even stronger.

The score gap widened quickly, and Wood grew anxious as he dared not glance toward Harry's side of the field.

Since that first chant of "glory," the Slytherin team seemed as if they'd been injected with pure adrenaline.

He even saw Warrington—usually a bit of a wimp—take a Bludger to the nose without so much as a whimper. They looked like fervent devotees, with "glory" as their creed.

Malfoy, still chasing the Golden Snitch, heard that rallying call, and scenes of grueling training flashed through his mind.

What was all that for?

For glory!

So why wait?

Malfoy cranked his speed to the max as the Snitch suddenly plummeted toward the ground.

How familiar this scene was, and without hesitation, Malfoy dove after it.

"Ugh.. gotta keep up.." Harry aligned himself with Malfoy, plunging rapidly toward the earth.

Everyone's hearts leaped to their throats; Hermione and Ron stood up, watching with intense anxiety.

The old Malfoy had once given up. The Malfoy of today would not!

Malfoy roared, "Get over here you slimy snitch!"

Both hands lunged for the Golden Snitch almost simultaneously.

Boom!

Gasp!

They crashed off their broomsticks, skidding across the ground in two parallel drag marks, forming a "V" shape.

Everyone stood up, watching with bated breath. Ron, nervously muttering under his breath, whispered, "Please let it be Harry… please let it be Harry…"

Hermione watched anxiously; she could tell from Harry's fall that it must've hurt badly.

All the students from the four Houses fixed their gaze on the tightly clenched hands—Harry's right hand and Malfoy's left.

Harry, finally shaking off the dizziness from the fall, clenched his fist.

In the next moment—

A smile broke out on Harry's face as he opened his right hand and raised it high; the Golden Snitch rested in his palm.

"I caught it!"

The Gryffindor stands erupted in deafening cheers, while Slytherin's spirits dropped as if in mourning.

Madam Hooch blew the final whistle.

"The match is over."

"Slytherin wins!"

The smiles froze, and the Gryffindor students were stunned. Ron glared furiously at Ernie Macmillan, who had made the announcement.

Professor McGonagall looked shocked, her face pale, while Snape's lips curved in a smile.

"Heh~"

The scoreboard locked in place.

180 to 190.

That ten-point difference had come from Montague, who'd thrown the Quaffle through the hoop, breaking his nose in the process from a Bludger hit. Blood streamed steadily from his nose.

No one had anticipated such a dramatic turn.

Harry had caught the Golden Snitch, yet Gryffindor had lost the match.

Malfoy sat on the ground, his gaze dazed, but upon hearing the announcement, a light rekindled in his eyes.

Stumbling to his feet, he looked at Harry, opened his mouth as if to say something, his expression complex.

Finally, he said, "You beat me, but you'll never beat Slytherin."

According to the law of conservation of energy, smiles don't disappear; they merely transfer to someone else.

In the Slytherin stands, the cheers were deafening.

The players rushed to Montague, each one leaping onto him in jubilant celebration.

Malfoy looked momentarily forlorn, but in the next instant, he was pressed to the ground under the weight of five or six teammates celebrating on top of him.

"We did it, Draco, we defended our honor!"

"You flew incredibly!"

"When you dropped from the Firebolt, I was terrified."

Unlike the last time they'd lost to Gryffindor, this time Malfoy was buried under cheers.

"Yes.. we .. we won," Malfoy murmured, slowly realizing it.

A grin stretched uncontrollably across his face, growing into a triumphant laugh.

Gryffindor's king was Harry Potter.

Then Slytherin was the king among all the houses.

The new king failed to rise; Slytherin had defended its honor.

We are honor!

Honor to Slytherin!

…

Dumbledore was responsible for the award ceremony. This was Slytherin's eighth championship.

But this time, a complex look flashed in Dumbledore's eyes.

He watched the boy standing and cheering with the others, the one who had forged Slytherin from sand into a green glass.

And he would be Slytherin's king.

John Wick.

__________

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