Harry Potter: Archmage of Another World

The late autumn sky was gray and somber, the heavy, lead-colored clouds pressing low against the horizon. Red and blue figures darted through the layers of dark clouds above. With no annoying singing to distract him, Ron performed quite well—managing to block most of Slytherin's scoring attempts. For a first-time Keeper, his save rate was rather commendable.

A sudden gasp rippled through the crowd. Following their gazes, Harry spotted it: the tiny, glimmering Golden Snitch hovering just a few feet above the Slytherin side of the pitch.

He dove for it. In an instant, Malfoy shot out from Harry's left, a streak of silver and green on his broomstick. The Snitch darted around the base of a goal hoop and flew toward the opposite stands, a move that favored Malfoy, who was closer. Harry twisted his Firebolt, and now the two were neck and neck. Just a few feet from the ground, Harry released his grip on the broomstick with his right hand, reaching for the Snitch. Beside him, Malfoy also stretched out his arm, fingers grasping.

In the howling wind, in a heartbeat, it was over—Harry's fingers closed around the struggling, golden ball. Malfoy's fingernails scraped Harry's hand in desperation, but it was too late. Harry jerked his broom upward, soaring into the air with the writhing Snitch in his fist. Cheers erupted from the Gryffindor supporters. They were saved. No one would remember how many goals Ron had let in—as long as Gryffindor won, it didn't matter.

Behind him, Harry heard a cold laugh. He turned, still clutching the Snitch. Draco Malfoy had landed nearby, his face pale with fury, though his lips still curled in a sneer.

"Saved Weasley's skin, didn't you?" Malfoy jeered. "That song was quite catchy, wasn't it? How does a Keeper that pathetic even make the team? Gryffindor must be desperate. Though if the song called him fat and ugly, it'd probably be more accurate—though not quite as lyrical. Maybe they should've included his mother in it, just for rhyme's sake."

"Sour grapes," Angelina muttered with disdain, glaring at Malfoy. "A person like you doesn't even deserve to be taken in by Mr. Augustus."

Malfoy flushed slightly but ignored Angelina, turning his mockery back to Harry. "But you like the Weasleys, don't you, Potter? Even spend holidays with them, don't you? I don't know how you stand the stench, though. Then again, raised by Muggles, I suppose the Weasley pigsty must smell like home to you—"

Fred and George, who had just been shaking Harry's hand, froze, their smiles vanishing.

"Don't listen to him," Angelina said quickly, grabbing Fred's arm. "Don't lose your temper. He's just bitter about losing and trying to stir you up. Ignore people like him; it's not worth it. Especially with the assembly coming up in two days. A scene like this would only play into the hands of petty individuals."

Fred nodded reluctantly, loosening his grip and pulling George away.

"Or maybe," Malfoy's gray-blue eyes gleamed with disdain, "you're just used to the smell from your mother's side of the family. The Weasley pigsty must remind you of—"

Harry didn't realize he had let go of George. The next thing he knew, he and George were lunging at Malfoy together. He forgot about the watching teachers, forgot everything except the burning desire to make Malfoy hurt. There was no time to draw wands—Harry swung his fist, still clutching the Snitch, with all his might into Malfoy's stomach.

Malfoy hadn't expected them to act so brazenly in front of everyone. He barely had time to react before he was knocked to the ground.

"Harry! Harry! George! Stop!"

He heard a girl's scream, Malfoy's groans, George's curses, and the shouts of the surrounding crowd, but he paid no attention.

A powerful force suddenly burst between them, flinging Harry, George, and Fred onto the pitch. Not far away, Augustus and his group were approaching.

"What's going on here?" Augustus looked at Malfoy, curled on the ground, clutching his nose, blood streaming down his face. Then he turned to Harry, who was shakily getting to his feet. "A Muggle boxing match?"

"Mr. Augustus," Malfoy struggled to his feet, his glare at Harry full of venom. "They started it."

Augustus waved a hand dismissively. "I didn't witness it, so I can't judge right or wrong. This is still the Quidditch pitch, though, and everything here falls under Madam Hooch's authority."

Madam Hooch nodded curtly at Augustus before turning to Harry and the others, her voice sharp. "Back to the castle! You three are coming with me straight to your Head of House's office!"

After checking on Malfoy and dispersing the onlookers, Madam Hooch marched Harry, Fred, and George off the pitch.

Malfoy followed Augustus in silence, his head bowed.

"What's wrong? Feeling wronged?" Augustus asked calmly.

"No, I was at fault too," Malfoy muttered. "Besides, I insulted their parents. That wasn't right."

"Oh? So you do know it's wrong to insult someone's parents?" Augustus said, feigning surprise. "I thought other people's parents existed solely for your ridicule."

"What's the point of petty insults? Losing a match and resorting to mocking others only shows how small-minded and ill-mannered you are. Do you think it accomplishes anything?" Augustus's tone was sharp.

"Setting aside that you're all part of the same Julius Corps and will have to work together in the future, even if it were a stranger, behaving like this only makes enemies everywhere you go. Think carefully before you speak. Acting on impulse over trivial words—there's no strategy in that, only recklessness."

With that, Augustus stepped into the castle, leaving Malfoy standing at the entrance, head bowed in thought.

Madam Hooch brought Harry and the others to Professor McGonagall's office.

"Inside!" she ordered sternly.

McGonagall, seated at her desk, looked up at them with confusion.

After Madam Hooch explained, McGonagall threw her Gryffindor scarf onto the floor, shaking with anger.

"Well done, indeed," she said, her voice trembling. "Three against one! Explain yourselves!"

"Malfoy provoked us," Harry said stiffly.

"Provoked you?" McGonagall roared, slamming her fist on the desk. Her biscuit tin toppled to the floor, scattering ginger newts everywhere.

"Do you have any idea—"

"Hem, hem."

Harry and George turned to see Dolores Umbridge standing in the doorway, wrapped in a green tweed cloak that made her look even more like a large toad.

"Need any help, Professor McGonagall?" Umbridge asked in her sickly sweet voice.

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