The Day After Tomorrow…
It was officially announced that Professor Line's death stemmed from old injuries sustained during his Auror career. After an investigation by the Ministry of Magic, the conclusion was clear—or so they claimed. The Ministry stated that Line had likely been cursed by a Dark wizard years ago, but because he had refused treatment at St. Mungo's and allowed the wounds to fester, complications eventually led to his death.
The final straw? Eating chocolate during the Halloween feast.
Naturally, the students didn't buy a single word of that nonsense. The idea that a seasoned Auror dropped dead because of cursed chocolate sounded absurd—even by Hogwarts standards. But with no other official explanation, the matter was closed. Life moved on, as it always did at Hogwarts.
Dumbledore and, occasionally, Snape filled in for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, but it wasn't long before the castle's focus shifted to more pressing matters—the arrival of Quidditch season.
Quidditch Season Begins
The air around the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch crackled with tension. Scarves whipped in the wind, enchanted banners blazed with red, gold, green, and silver, and the stands rumbled beneath the roar of eager students already on their feet.
The first match of the season:
Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
And no one—absolutely no one—pretended it was just a friendly game.
Breakfast in the Great Hall was more nerves than nourishment. Plates sat barely touched as Gryffindors anxiously muttered about tactics, broom conditions, and Slytherin fouls. Today wasn't just any game—it was the clash of rivals, and for the first time in years, both teams were led by fresh-faced captains. A new generation of players, ready to set the tone for the seasons to come.
At the Gryffindor table, Angelina Johnson sat pale and tense, staring at her untouched breakfast.
"Come on, eat something," Cael Vale told her, nudging a plate of toast toward her. "You'll fall off your broom in your first match if you pass out from hunger."
"Thanks for the encouragement," Angelina muttered, rolling her eyes. "Really makes me feel confident—implying I'm about to faceplant mid-air."
Beside her, Alicia Spinnet looked no better—nibbling at a piece of toast, eyes distant. The only ones unfazed were Fred and George Weasley, stuffing their faces with sausages, laughing as though it were any other morning.
That's when Lee Jordan burst in, excitement blazing in his eyes.
"Oi! Guess what?" he grinned.
Everyone turned.
"After practically begging Professor McGonagall for weeks, she finally caved—I'm the official Quidditch commentator!"
Cheers erupted from the table as Lee beamed, and with that, the Gryffindor players gathered themselves, nerves steeling as they headed down to the pitch.
The Gryffindor Changing Room
Storm clouds churned above the stadium, the November sky a swirling mass of grey. The pitch below gleamed with damp grass, the towering hoops looming like silent sentinels.
Cael stood with Fred and George in the Gryffindor changing room, the distant murmur of the crowd filtering through the walls.
"Remind me again," George muttered, tightening the straps on his battered broom, "how we got stuck playing Slytherin first?"
"Tradition," Fred replied darkly, adjusting his gloves. "Start the season with blood, broken bones, and, if you're lucky, a few intact teeth."
Cael glanced out onto the pitch, the Gryffindor team gathered, faces grim, eyes sharp with determination.
Oliver Wood, the fourth-year Keeper, paced like a caged animal, barking last-minute instructions, his broom spinning beneath his clenched fists.
The Chasers—Alicia Spinnet, fierce and focused; Angelina Johnson, tall, broad-shouldered, eyes blazing with fire; and Samuel Vance, the wiry second-year with lightning-fast reflexes—readied themselves.
Fred and George mounted their brooms, Beater bats gleaming ominously in the faint light.
High above, Mira Hopkins—the team's Seeker—hovered like a hawk, her slender frame cutting through the clouds, eyes sharp for any trace of gold.
Then came the opposition.
The Slytherins.
Gliding onto the pitch, they were met with a chorus of boos and jeers from the Gryffindor stands.
Marcus Flint led them—a brute of a fourth-year with fists like stone and a face that promised violence.
His Chasers—Cassius Warrington, Miles Bletchley, and Imogen Rosier—circled like vultures, green robes snapping in the wind.
The Beaters, Adrian Pucey and Terence Higgs, twirled their clubs with predatory grins, eyes scanning for targets.
And finally, the Slytherin Seeker: Sylas Mulciber. Pale, lean, and cold as winter steel, his eyes locked on the skies with unsettling focus.
Lee Jordan's voice crackled through the stadium:
"Welcome to Hogwarts' finest tradition—Quidditch with a side of chaos!"
In the stands, Cael slipped in beside Katie Bell, settling among the roaring Gryffindor crowd, heart pounding with anticipation.
The Match Begins
Madam Hooch's whistle sliced through the air.
"Mount your brooms!"
Twenty-four boots left the ground in unison, the players launching into the stormy skies, the pitch erupting beneath them.
The Quaffle soared, and chaos reigned.
"Spinnet in possession—fast start for Gryffindor!" Lee's voice echoed as Alicia shot down the field, Imogen Rosier in hot pursuit.
Alicia dipped low, weaving past defenders, before whipping the Quaffle to Angelina. Johnson caught it one-handed, twisting mid-air, leaving Warrington spinning in her wake.
Angelina surged toward the hoops, Fred swatting Bludgers away like angry hornets.
"The beautiful, the brilliant, the unstoppable Johnson closing in—SHE SHOOTS—!"
Bletchley, Slytherin's Keeper, deflected the shot with a vicious backhand, nearly losing his balance in the process.
The game spiraled into brutal rhythm:
Flint barreled through Gryffindor formations, tossing elbows like a drunken troll.
George blocked a Bludger headed straight for Wood's face.
Warrington clipped Vance's broom, sending the young Chaser spiraling out of control.
"Oi, ref—eyes open, would you?" Fred bellowed, circling defensively.
Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked, but the fouls piled up faster than she could call them.
The Fight Escalates
Fifteen minutes in, it barely resembled a game—it was a warzone.
Bludgers roared like cannon fire, tattered robes flapped in the storm winds, and shouts of rage echoed across the stands.
Cael leaned forward, fists clenched.
Alicia Spinnet intercepted a rogue pass, pivoted mid-air, and slammed the Quaffle through the left hoop—
Gryffindor takes the lead—30 to 20!
The Gryffindor crowd erupted.
Slytherin struck back immediately.
Rosier elbowed Angelina hard, nearly knocking her from her broom—no foul called.
Flint seized the Quaffle, bulldozed his way to the hoops, and scored, roaring in triumph.
The score teetered—40 to 40.
Above the fray, Hopkins and Mulciber circled like hawks, their eyes locked in a deadly duel for the Snitch.
The tension climbed:
George deflected a Bludger away from Vance's head, the ball ricocheting wildly into the stands.
Pucey's club caught Fred's shoulder—he hissed but stayed airborne.
Warrington faked a pass, Bletchley scored—Slytherin pulled ahead.
The crowd's energy rippled—a thunderous mix of chants, boos, and frantic cheers.
The Final Chase
An hour of brutal play passed, the teams locked at 170 to 170, battered, bruised, running on fumes.
Then—
A glint of gold by the Ravenclaw stands—the Snitch.
Mira Hopkins dove, a crimson streak slicing the air.
Mulciber followed, broom slicing through the gale, expression ice-cold.
The stadium held its breath.
Hopkins dodged Bludgers, ducked Pucey's swinging bat, robes whipping as she surged forward—fingers grazing the Snitch—
But Mulciber rammed her mid-air with a brutal shoulder check, sending her spiraling off course.
Gasps echoed across the pitch.
Madam Hooch's whistle screamed—but Mulciber's hand snapped shut around the Snitch.
Slytherin victory.
The green and silver stands erupted as Flint whooped, fists pounding the air like a conquering warlord.
Hopkins drifted down, dazed but furious, glaring daggers at Mulciber.
"Filthy play," Fred spat, rage simmering beneath his grin. "Slytherin to the core."
Lee's bitter voice cut through the noise:
"Final score—Slytherin wins, 320 to 170. Questionable sportsmanship—but the record books only care about numbers."
Cael exhaled slowly, watching the Gryffindor team descend, battered but unbowed.
Angelina's jaw tightened, eyes burning.
"Next time," she vowed, "we crush them."
George clapped Cael on the shoulder. "This ain't over, mate."
Watching Mulciber's smug grin as he hoisted the Snitch skyward—Cael believed every word.
Aftermath
In the common room, Wood banged his head dramatically against the table.
"Hurry up—training starts this afternoon!" he groaned.
The team groaned collectively, a few on the verge of tears, until Professor McGonagall swept in.
"That's enough, Mr. Wood. Let them rest—there's an entire season ahead of us."
The fire crackled, the storm outside raged on—but in their eyes, the fight wasn't over.
The season had only just begun.