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HRA# Chapter 65: Harry's Righteous Victory Over the Slytherin Team
🕑 Added 2025-03-12 18:50:22 +0000 UTCProfessor McGonagall let out a low feline growl.
As a commentator, Lee Jordan was supposed to remain fair and impartial, but to be honest, that was proving to be quite difficult.
Even Professor McGonagall herself, no matter how hard she pressed her lips together, couldn’t completely hide the excitement on her face.
The Slytherin team was down to six players, while Gryffindor still had a full seven. Seven against six! The advantage was ours!
The Quidditch Cup was within reach!
"Alright, alright, I'm not that thrilled— I mean, the match continues!" Lee Jordan's words tumbled out at lightning speed. "It's obvious that after Harry knocked Montague off his broom just now, he's become the number one target for the entire Slytherin team. Look! Marcus Flint is charging straight at Harry! He’s speeding up!!"
A collective gasp swept through the Gryffindor stands, making the already chilly November air feel even colder.
"That's a foul!!" Lee Jordan furiously swung his right fist through the air, as if he himself had just punched Flint in the face. "Slytherin’s captain, Marcus Flint, deliberately rammed into Harry! But luckily, Harry’s reflexes are incredible— textbook Sloth Grip Roll! He’s so agile, he doesn’t even seem like a bull!"
A wave of angry shouts erupted from the Gryffindor stands, while the Slytherin side responded with loud whistles.
"Anyway, thank goodness Flint’s despicable and disgusting tactics didn’t work—"
"Jordan!"
"I mean, it was an attempted—"
"Jordan, I’m warning you—"
"Alright, Professor, what I meant was that Harry’s sheer skill helped him dodge a potentially lethal attack. Our Gryffin-Taur has been provoked! He’s suddenly accelerating! Look at that! Harry is speeding straight for the Bludger—ROLL!"
Lee Jordan suddenly cursed, yanking the microphone just out of Professor McGonagall’s reach as he roared:
"THIS IS ATTEMPTED MURDER!!! Slytherin Beater Lucian Bole just swung his bat directly at Harry’s head! He should pay for this!!"
"Madam Hooch blows the whistle! Yes! Gryffindor gets a penalty, but honestly, that’s nowhere near enough!!"
Lee Jordan was simply voicing what every Gryffindor student was thinking. Their angry shouts blended together, and Dean Thomas was even demanding that Bole be given a red card and sent off.
Unfortunately, Quidditch had no such thing as a red card.
Even Harry himself was a little stunned. A bat swung right at someone’s head, clear as day. And yet, judging by the cheers from the Slytherin stands, this kind of play was perfectly acceptable to them.
That whole "friendship first, competition second" motto? Completely fake. Slytherin had no interest in that nonsense. No matter who they were playing against, victory belonged to Slytherin and Slytherin alone. Winning ugly? Winning by any means necessary? Who cared? As far as Slytherin was concerned, the only thing worthy of respect was victory!
"Gryffindor scores the penalty! Now Slytherin has possession—Flint takes the Quaffle—passes to Alecto—passes to Bell—AH-HA! Fred sends a Bludger their way! HIT! Wish it broke his nose—just kidding, Professor—OH! HARRY SUDDENLY ACCELERATES! IS HE PUNCHING?! NO! IT’S A TRANSYLVANIAN FAKE!!"
"Bell is down! HAHAHA! He couldn’t hold onto his broom! Hahahaha!!" Lee Jordan burst into laughter, clutching the microphone to his chest and turning away from Professor McGonagall to keep her from confiscating it. "Sorry, Professor! I feel really guilty right now, can you see my guilt? Ahahahahaha!!"
He just couldn’t hold it in.
Following Montague, Bell plummeted like a broken kite. First, he took a Bludger from Fred square in the face. Then, as his vision blurred, he caught sight of Harry’s fake-out, panicked, lost control of his broom, and tumbled off.
"I was wrong! Professor McGonagall, please let me keep commentating! It’s my life's calling!" Clutching the microphone with all his strength, Lee Jordan wailed, "My grandma appeared in my dreams last night and told me I had to finish calling this match! I beg you!!"
Maybe it was the dream message from his grandma, or maybe it was just because he was howling so pitifully, but in the end, after issuing one last serious warning, Professor McGonagall allowed him to keep the microphone.
"Back to the game! We can see Madam Hooch has escorted Bell off the field—good riddance!" Lee Jordan’s voice was hoarse with excitement as he shouted, "I have serious reason to believe Harry has memorized an entire book of Quidditch tactics because that move was completely legal!"
"For our first-year friends, let me explain! The Transylvanian Fake-Out first appeared in the 1473 World Cup. It’s a feint where a player pretends to aim for the opponent’s nose while at high speed—but as long as they don’t actually make contact, it’s not a foul!"
"And honestly, when both players are moving that fast, actually hitting the opponent’s nose would be pretty difficult." Lee Jordan grinned. "Slytherin is now down to five players! My goodness, let’s all congratulate Gryffindor on completely dominating the pitch—SCORE UPDATE: Gryffindor leads 70 to 20!"
The atmosphere in the stadium was beyond electric. Only the Slytherin stands remained eerily silent, while even the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff sections joined in the cheers.
Part of it was because Slytherin’s dirty tactics had never been well-liked. After all, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had to play them too.
But more importantly, this match was absolutely thrilling—far more exciting than any Quidditch game in recent years.
So intense. So exhilarating.
Marcus Flint's face was turning an alarming shade of blue as he watched, helpless, while Harry delivered a powerful strike to a Bludger—sending it rocketing straight into Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs’ skull.
Poor Higgs didn’t even make a sound before he dropped off his broom. And for Slytherin, that was the final nail in the coffin.
As for the stands… they had erupted into chaos.
Students weren’t even sitting anymore. They were on their feet, shouting at the top of their lungs, wave after wave of deafening cheers.
Lee Jordan laughed recklessly, smacking his own head—on the bull horns attached to it. The next second, a deep, mixed roar of a bull and a lion blasted through the speakers, some kind of crazy sound effect Fred and George had rigged up.
Now that was a true Gryffin-Taur.
Slytherin’s defeat was inevitable. Their only chance of turning the game around had been the 150 points from catching the Snitch, but their Seeker had already been sent to the Hospital Wing.
The rest of the game turned into a celebration for the other three Houses. The four remaining Slytherin players stood no chance against Gryffindor’s onslaught.
Even George Weasley wasn’t in a hurry to catch the Snitch—he was having too much fun watching his teammates score over and over, while Harry and Fred herded the remaining Slytherins around the field with Bludgers.
And when George finally dove and caught the Snitch, sealing the win, the entire stadium erupted, the crowd roaring Harry’s name.
"...This is beyond what a student should be capable of!" Lee Jordan bellowed. "Harry should be representing Hogwarts in the professional leagues! He’d shake the entire wizarding world!!"
Whether or not it would shock the world was uncertain, but one thing was for sure—Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room as a hero. In fact, from the moment he dismounted his broom, his feet never even touched the ground—he was carried all the way by the cheering crowd.
It seemed the other houses at Hogwarts had long endured Slytherin's dominance, and after witnessing such a resounding victory against them, even students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff joined in, helping lift Harry along the way as they made their way back to the castle.
Some of the fastest Gryffindor students had already rushed ahead, waiting in the common room, where they had even used magic to decorate the entire space in a brilliant mix of gold and red.
The moment Harry was carried through the entrance, he looked up—only to see, right in the center of the Gryffindor common room, a massive… bedsheet.
Uh… Whose bedsheet was this? No one knew. But on that white sheet, an enchanted looping image played over and over—Harry executing a Transylvanian Tackle against Slytherin’s Chaser, Bell, causing Bell to tumble off his broom. The final frames even included a shot of Harry smirking as he watched Bell fall, casually twirling his bat in a little flourish.
Honestly, if he hadn't seen this replay himself, Harry might have been able to brush it off. But seeing it loop infinitely in the Gryffindor common room? Now that was downright embarrassing—especially with the whole room erupting in cheers that sounded suspiciously like a chorus of mooing, with the occasional twin-enhanced blend of lion roars and bull bellows mixed in.
As for Harry… Well, he had long since given up trying to rein in Ron’s two audacious brothers. Let them do whatever they wanted.
Besides, after today, Harry doubted he could stop these enthusiastic Gryffindors even if he tried.
Fine, let them moo all they wanted. At this point, everyone was a tauren. It was all in good fun.
For Gryffindor students, today was undoubtedly a day for celebration. It wasn’t long before Fred and George arrived, guiding two floating barrels of Butterbeer into the common room with their wands—so that’s where they had disappeared to! Turns out, those two had snuck off to Hogsmeade through a secret passage.
Some students had even gone down to the Hogwarts kitchens, persuading the house-elves to part with an impressive spread of food—there was roasted meat, fine drinks, and an atmosphere so lively that one had to shout just to be heard by the person next to them.
“Harry! Say a few words! Come on, Harry!” Fred’s voice rang out as he dangled from the chandelier. “Our mighty Lion-Bull King! It has to be you!”
At last, the rowdy common room quieted down as Harry was hoisted onto a table—not that he had much choice in the matter. He glanced around the room.
And nearly lost his composure.
Because standing at the entrance of the common room, holding a cup of Butterbeer, was Professor McGonagall.
The elderly professor was watching him with a subtle yet unmistakable smile.
“I’ll keep it simple,” Harry finally said after a brief pause. “This year’s Quidditch Cup is ours. And right now—drink up, Gryffindor warriors!”
“OH!!!”
The roar that followed was so thunderous it practically shook the entire Gryffindor tower.
Raising his own drink in Professor McGonagall’s direction, Harry figured he had done a pretty decent job with his speech.
A glorious victory.
McGonagall, for her part, made no move to curb the students’ excitement. Instead, she gave Harry a slight nod, then turned and left the common room.
And the moment she stepped out, the students completely let loose. Some older students even dragged out a small oak barrel from the dormitories, insisting that Harry try a drink called Cluckling Firewhiskey, imported straight from America.
This particular drink was considered the lifeblood of American wizards—so much so that not even Prohibition had managed to outlaw it. It was not only incredibly strong but also had the peculiar effect of making the drinker burst into uncontrollable, booming laughter after swallowing.
—Truth be told, Harry rather liked how unique wizarding food and drinks were.
From the end of the match until nightfall, Harry never had a single moment to himself. There was always someone wanting to shake his hand, congratulate him, or simply chat. Lee Jordan’s post-match commentary had ignited a wildfire among the students.
They surrounded Harry, praising his superb flying skills and impeccable accuracy as a Beater. Of course, there was also plenty of Slytherin-bashing, but more than anything, they encouraged him to try out for a professional Quidditch club—specifically for the League Cup, the official Quidditch League tournament.
And who knew? In four years, he might even represent England in the Quidditch World Cup.
Ah, the boundless optimism of youth.
Then again, it wasn’t entirely far-fetched.
After all, one of the most famous names among Quidditch fans—Viktor Krum—had been scouted for the Bulgarian national team while still a student at Durmstrang, Hogwarts’ European rival school. And rumor had it, he would be playing in the next World Cup.
While a World Cup appearance was still far off, the students unanimously agreed on one thing: Harry should definitely join a professional Quidditch club.
Where they disagreed, however, was which club he should join.
“The Kenmare Kestrels, Harry! You have to join the Kestrels!” Seamus Finnigan practically yelled in excitement. “They’re our own Irish team! Darren O’Hare has been Ireland’s national team captain three times, and he invented the Hawkshead Attacking Formation, which every Chaser uses nowadays!”
It was obvious Seamus was a die-hard Kestrels fan.
Ron, however, was not.
“Oh, give me a break, Seamus! Harry has to join the Chudley Cannons!” Ron finally forced his way through the crowd, shouting, “No team has a more glorious history! They’ve won the League Cup twenty-one times!”
“Hah? And the last time was in 1892?” Seamus was quick to retort. When it came to his favorite team, he wasn’t about to back down. “The Chudley Cannons are dead, Ron! They’ve been dead for nearly a century! Their time is over!”
Ron instantly turned red with indignation, but the truth was, the Cannons’ record over the past hundred years was… dismal. So much so that they had even changed their official team slogan from “We shall conquer all” to “Let’s all keep our fingers crossed and stay optimistic.”
Honestly, even Harry had to admit—that was just sad. It sounded less like a battle cry and more like a desperate attempt to keep their spirits up.
Comments
Samuel S.
"a massive… bedsheet." Oh No the trophy of First night 😂
Danny
There is always one team in each major sport that’s like the chudley cannons.
