CHAPTER TEN
The Quidditch Match
Rain clouds bloomed late on Friday, rolling in with a low, ominous grumble. By Saturday morning, Moody woke to the sound of rain pounding against the windows of the dormitory. He stared at the gray light filtering through the panes, the dull roar of the storm matching the churn of his thoughts. Sliding out of bed, he moved with quiet purpose, pulling on his scarlet and gold Quidditch robes. The fabric felt heavier than usual, weighted by the expectations of the day.
He strapped on his arm guards, his fingers fumbling slightly as his nerves tightened. Finally, he reached for his wand, sliding it securely into the sleeve of his robe where it was always within reach. With a steadying breath, he squared his shoulders, trying to ignore the tight knot in his stomach, and made his way downstairs.
In the Great Hall, the stormy sky mirrored the tension inside. Moody sat stiffly, his untouched breakfast reflecting the unease in his gut.
And yet, beneath the weight of the coming match, there was a flicker of something else—hope. Figg's hurried words from the night before echoed faintly in his mind: "I think I've found something about the Chamber of Secrets."
She hadn't said much, just enough to spark the faintest ember of possibility. For the first time in weeks, the overwhelming shadows didn't feel so crushing. Maybe they weren't just stumbling around in the dark. Maybe they had a chance to uncover the truth, to stop whatever was coming.
Moody tightened his grip on his broom as he stepped into the rain-soaked grounds. The storm raged on, but that flicker of hope burned steady in his chest, refusing to be extinguished.
At the edge of the pitch, the rest of the Gryffindor team was already gathered: Kemp, Blythe and, the two chasers Tuttel and Vetch, the Gryffindor seeker Marceline Crimble, and their Keeper, Benedict Longshanks a spotty boy with limbs that seemed to go in every direction at once.
Blythe clapped her hands sharply, cutting through the banter. Her wet hair clung to her face, but her voice was as commanding as ever. "Beaters rattle their chasers and stay ahead. Everyone else - do what we usually do. We've prepared for this."
A chorus of murmured affirmations followed, though Moody caught the flicker of doubt in Kemp's eyes. Blythe gave them one last nod. "We're Gryffindor," she finished, her voice low but fierce. "Let's make sure they don't forget it."
As the team broke apart to ready themselves, Moody turned toward the entrance to the pitch, only to nearly collide with Audrey Potter. She froze mid-step, her face flushing as she looked up at him.
"Moody," she began, her voice quiet and hesitant. "I—uh—I wanted to say sorry."
Moody blinked, caught off guard. "For what?"
"For wearing that stupid badge," she admitted, her cheeks reddening further. "I thought—I don't know what I thought. It was stupid, and I feel like an idiot now."
Moody stared at her for a moment, his first instinct to bark something sarcastic. But the embarrassment in her eyes, the genuine regret in her tone, made him pause. "Yeah," he said gruffly, his voice clipped. "It was stupid."
Audrey winced but nodded, her shoulders slumping. "I know. I just… I'm sorry."
Moody exhaled, his stance relaxing slightly. "Alright. Just… what changed your mind?"
She hesitated, then glanced away, her voice lowering. "The Ravenclaw shouting about the attack—it's all wrong. It made me realise… this isn't about heritage or pride. It's about fear, and it's hurting everyone."
Moody's expression softened, the anger in his chest giving way to a flicker of understanding. "Yeah," he muttered. "It is."
Audrey's gaze dropped briefly, her hands twisting the hem of her cloak. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost trembling. "And what happened to those house-elves… it's horrible. It's not just about the people these maniacs hate. They'll hurt anyone who's in the way, anyone who doesn't fit their sick little world." She looked up, her expression hardening. "They're innocent, Moody. They don't deserve to be dragged into this."
Moody felt his stomach twist. For a moment, he saw the frozen house-elves in the kitchens, their small forms lifeless and their blank eyes staring. His throat tightened, but he nodded. "No, they don't," he said quietly.
Audrey shifted uncomfortably before meeting his gaze again. "Look, I think your mate Hagrid—he was watching us. You need to talk to him."
Moody frowned. "Hagrid? What do you mean?"
"Just talk to him," she insisted, her voice edged with urgency. "Good luck out there."
Before he could respond, Audrey turned and walked away, leaving Moody rooted to the spot. He tightened his grip on his broom, the rain growing heavier as the pitch loomed ahead. The storm in his head felt quieter now, steadied by the apology and the questions it left behind.
The storm showed no mercy as the Gryffindor team stepped onto the pitch, rain driving into them with relentless force. Moody's fingers gripped his broom tightly, the slick wood cold against his hands. Through the curtain of rain, he could just make out the towering figure of Professor Ledgerwood at the center of the pitch, his wand raised high. The Arithmancy teacher looked as though he were calculating every move before it even began, his sharp eyes glinting beneath the brim of his wide hat.
Moody's gaze shifted, landing on the Ravenclaw team gathered at the opposite end of the pitch. Prewett stood at their center, confident and composed, the rain only seeming to add to his effortless brilliance. Moody's stomach twisted—he wanted to resent him for it, but he couldn't. Prewett wasn't like the others. He didn't sneer or shout hateful slogans in the halls.
Then the memory of Hagrid's barely contained fury and Figg's sharp, bitter words burned in Moody's mind, stoking the fire in his chest. "The Greater Good," the boy had shouted.
It wasn't just a match anymore. It was personal. A battle not only to prove himself but to fight for the people who mattered—to show that the outcasts were stronger than they were given credit for. And yet, beneath that fierce resolve, the part of him that refused to name his feelings for Prewett lingered, quiet but undeniable.
Above the stands, a crackling voice filled the air. "Welcome to the match we've all been waiting for—Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw!" Felicia Sparrow of Hufflepuff announced from the commentator's booth. Even from the pitch, Moody could see her leaning eagerly into the microphone, her curls plastered to her face by the rain. "It's wet, it's wild, and it's going to be unforgettable! Gryffindor, led by Ethel Blythe, looks ready to tear this storm apart, and Ravenclaw's Gideon Prewett is as composed as ever. Who will come out on top? Let's find out!"
Moody swung a leg over his broom and kicked off the ground, the familiar rush of flight cutting through his nerves. He glanced toward the stands, where blurred figures huddled under umbrellas and rain-soaked cloaks. For a brief moment, his eyes landed on a massive silhouette in the Gryffindor section, unmistakable even through the downpour. Hagrid. Moody thought he heard a booming shout—maybe his name, maybe encouragement—but the rain swallowed it before he could be sure.
"And we're off!" Sparrow cried as Professor Ledgerwood released the ball with a sharp whistle. The game exploded into motion, the players weaving through the storm with practiced precision. Blythe surged forward, her determined expression cutting through the chaos as she snatched the Quaffle and darted past two Ravenclaw chasers.
Moody barely had time to register her opening goal before the Bludgers were in play. He tracked one with sharp eyes, swinging his bat and sending it hurtling toward a Ravenclaw chaser closing in on Langley. The chaser swerved, narrowly avoiding the Bludger, but the distraction was enough for Langley to streak away unchallenged.
"Ten points to Gryffindor!" Sparrow called. "And look at Blythe go—this is exactly the energy Gryffindor needed!"
The match quickly devolved into chaos. The rain made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead, and Moody had to rely on instinct to aim his hits. Kemp was beside him, drenched but focused, their rhythm as Beaters tightening with every pass. Together, they kept Ravenclaw's chasers constantly dodging, ruining their formations and stalling their attacks.
Through the rain, Moody's eyes flicked upward. Prewett was circling high above, his movements smooth despite the storm, scanning for the Snitch. Moody grimaced and returned his focus to the chasers below. Kemp shouted something, but the wind tore the words away before Moody could hear. He didn't need to. They both knew the plan—keep Ravenclaw off-balance, no matter what.
Another Bludger careened through the air, and Moody swung hard, sending it streaking toward a Ravenclaw chaser mid-pass. The chaser fumbled, and Langley intercepted the Quaffle with a triumphant yell, passing it to Vetch, who scored another goal seconds later.
"Twenty to zero for Gryffindor!" Sparrow exclaimed. "Ravenclaw's chasers are struggling to keep up with Moody and Kemp—what a display!"
The game raged on, the storm growing fiercer with every minute. The thunder drowned out Sparrow's voice, and Moody's arms ached from the relentless swings. Hagrid's familiar bellow steadied Moody as he sent a Bludger toward Fortescue, forcing the Chaser into a desperate dive.
By the time the score reached 150 to 20, frustration began to ripple through the opposing stands. Moody could hear jeers from the Slytherin section, their voices rising above the storm. Suddenly, a sharp flash of silver sparks shot into the air from the Slytherin side, arcing toward the Gryffindor chasers. Langley barely dodged, the sparks sizzling out just inches from her broom. Moody's heart lurched as he gripped his bat tighter, his eyes darting to the stands.
"Hold it!" Professor Ledgerwood's voice boomed across the pitch, amplified by magic. The referee stood tall at the center of the field, his wand raised high to signal a pause. The players stopped midair, hovering as the crowd murmured in confusion.
Ledgerwood's sharp gaze swept the Slytherin section, rain streaming off the brim of his wide hat. "There will be no interference from the stands," he barked, his tone cutting through the storm. "One more spark, and the guilty party will be removed—and Gryffindor awarded a penalty shot."
The Slytherin section fell silent, though Moody could still feel the tension radiating from them. Ledgerwood glanced at the players, nodded briskly, and signaled for the game to resume.
The match restarted, but the sense of unease lingered. Just minutes later, a sharp, silver streak erupted from the Ravenclaw stands. It streaked upward, cutting through the rain with unnerving speed and precision, aimed directly at Blythe, the Chaser weaving through the storm with the Quaffle in hand.
She spotted it at the last moment, her instincts kicking in as she veered sharply to the right. The sparks edged past her shoulder, so close she felt their searing heat. Her breath hitched, and she clutched the Quaffle tighter, swerving wildly as the silver streak continued its upward trajectory.
Before anyone could react, the sparks exploded high above the pitch, bursting into an eerie display. The light spread outward, coalescing into glowing, brilliant letters etched into the roiling storm clouds: "For the Greater Good."
The ominous words shimmered against the darkened sky, their unnatural glow casting an eerie pall over the stadium. The players below froze, their eyes drawn to the fiery message hanging above. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the stands, the storm momentarily forgotten as the meaning of the words sank in.
Prewett, hovering high above, went rigid. His calm demeanor shattered, replaced by visible fury. Without a word, he dived toward the commentator's booth, his broom slicing through the rain with deadly precision. He landed with a thud on the platform, his boots splashing water onto Felicia Sparrow, who recoiled in shock. Her voice faltered mid-sentence. "What's—what's going on?"
"Enough!" Prewett's voice boomed over the storm, commanding attention. His wet hair clung to his face, and his eyes burned with frustration. "If this doesn't stop, I'll forfeit the game. I don't care who's ahead."
As the crowd erupted into a mixture of shock and confusion, Moody darted forward on his broom, his wand already drawn. He pointed it toward the glowing words and muttered a sharp incantation. The letters trembled and began to dissolve, the silver light fading into the storm until nothing remained but the roiling clouds.
Prewett climbed back onto his broom, his jaw set, and shot into the sky. The game resumed, but for Moody, something had changed. The fire in his gut felt different now—less rage, more... something he couldn't name. Shaking his head, he refocused on the match as the storm raged on.
By the time the score reached 230 to 40, the Gryffindor chasers were unstoppable. Blythe led charge after charge, her fierce determination slicing through Ravenclaw's defenses like a blade. Langley and Vetch darted around her in perfect sync, weaving passes through the storm as if the rain didn't exist. Longshanks, despite his gangly frame and his tendency to slip at the worst moments, was a wall at the goalposts, swatting Quaffles aside with an almost reckless grin that stood out even in the downpour.
Moody's muscles burned with every swing of his bat, but he barely noticed. The relentless rhythm of the game had consumed him, leaving room for nothing else. Until he saw Prewett dive.
The moment seemed to stretch. Prewett's silhouette was sharp against the storm, his broom cutting through the air with the grace of a hawk on the hunt. Moody's gaze locked onto the golden glimmer streaking below him—the Snitch. Crimble was right behind, her smaller frame fighting through the rain and wind with relentless determination, her hand outstretched as she closed the gap.
"Prewett's seen the Snitch!" Sparrow's voice pierced the storm, barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "Crimble's on his tail—it's a race to the finish!"
But the crowd wasn't just roaring in excitement. Below, the stands were alive with chaos. Moody's eyes flickered downward, catching flashes of movement—students shoving each other, arguments spilling over into physical confrontations. Slytherin supporters were squaring off with a group of Gryffindors, a snarl of green and scarlet cloaks as insults turned to pushes. To the right, a Ravenclaw prefect was trying—and failing—to separate a scuffle between a pair of Ravenclaws and a drenched Hufflepuff who was shouting furiously about fairness.
Amidst the chaos, Moody saw Hagrid's towering silhouette charging through the Gryffindor section, his massive hands pulling apart two students locked in a shouting match. Moody thought he heard Hagrid's bellow, something fierce and protective, but the rain and storm swallowed the words. The sight made Moody's grip on his bat tighten. This wasn't just a match anymore—it felt like a battle for pride, for defiance, for everything.
And then, another flash of movement caught his eye. Prewett dived faster, his broom cutting downward through the storm. Time seemed to slow as Crimble surged forward, her fingers brushing the Snitch's fluttering wings. For a heartbeat, Moody thought she might reach it.
But Prewett was faster.
With a final burst of speed, Prewett's hand closed around the Snitch. Its golden wings struggled furiously against his grip, but the match was decided.
"Prewett catches the Snitch!" Sparrow's voice rang out. "Ravenclaw scores 150 points, but Gryffindor takes the win—230 to 180!"
The pitch exploded with cheers and groans, the storm swallowing the roar of the crowd. Gryffindor's team crashed together in a jubilant, rain-soaked huddle, their shouts of triumph barely audible over the downpour. Moody lingered above them, the ache in his arms and the weight of his soaked robes no match for the fierce pride swelling in his chest.
He descended slowly, his broom resting heavily against his shoulder as the storm continued unabated. The tension in the air seemed to linger, amplified by the heated scuffles Merrythought was already breaking up near the stands. Yet, despite the chaos, Moody felt steadier than he had in weeks—his confidence buoyed by the hard-fought victory.
As he turned toward the changing rooms, Prewett's calm, deliberate movements caught his eye. The Ravenclaw captain strode through the rain like he belonged there, his hair plastered to his forehead, but his grin as steady as ever. Moody stiffened, gripping his broom tighter as Prewett stopped beside him.
"Well played, Moody," Prewett said smoothly, his grin cutting through the storm like it was nothing. "That last Bludger? A thing of beauty."
Moody shot him a sharp look, his voice low. "What're you doing here?"
Prewett shrugged, rain dripping from the ends of his hair. "Just congratulating you. You earned it."
Moody's jaw tightened, his irritation flickering. "Why'd you catch it, Prewett?" he asked abruptly, his tone harsher than intended. "You handed us the match. Ravenclaw was close enough to turn it around."
Prewett's grin softened, his voice calm. "Because it was the right thing to do," he said simply. "The game was getting dangerous. That storm wasn't going to let up, and neither was the crowd. It wasn't about points anymore."
Moody frowned, thrown off by the certainty in Prewett's tone. "The right thing," he muttered, almost to himself. His grip loosened slightly on his broom.
Prewett's gaze held his. "Sometimes, Moody, it's not about pushing through just to win. It's about knowing when to stop."
Before Moody could respond, Blythe's voice carried across the pitch. "Moody! There you are, hero of the hour!" The Gryffindor team was thundering toward him, Blythe leading the charge with a grin that lit up the stormy night.
Prewett took a small step back, his grin tilting into something more playful. "By the way," he said quietly, his tone so low only Moody could hear, "next Hogsmeade trip—meet me by the Herbology greenhouses. Ten o'clock. It's a date."
Moody blinked, caught off guard. "Hogsmeade?" he repeated.
Prewett just nodded, his confidence unwavering. "Don't keep me waiting."
Before Moody could reply, Prewett turned and strode back toward the Ravenclaw section. Moments later, Blythe and the Gryffindor team collided with him, their cheers ringing louder than the rain, but Moody's mind was elsewhere.
Moody didn't have time to stew over the conversation before Blythe and the rest of the Gryffindor team descended upon him in a chaotic swarm. Before he could say a word, they hoisted him onto their shoulders, their cheers ringing out even over the pounding rain.
"There he is—the man of the match!" Blythe shouted, her grin splitting her face. "That strategy was perfect! Ravenclaw didn't stand a chance with you out there!"
Moody groaned in protest, but the team's infectious energy drowned out any resistance he might have offered. As they carried him triumphantly toward the castle, Blythe's excited chatter filled the air.
The annoyance lingered, but as Moody was swept into the team's celebration, he pushed it aside. Hogsmeade was weeks away—plenty of time to figure out how to handle Prewett's infuriating charm. For now, Gryffindor's victory was enough. Tomorrow could handle itself.
The Gryffindor common room buzzed with energy, the party in full swing. Blythe stood by the fire, animatedly recounting the match with wild gestures, while Tuttel and Longshanks clumsily reenacted their best moves, drawing peals of laughter from the younger students.
Moody leaned against the wall, allowing himself to soak in the warmth of the celebration. For once, the heavy weight of the past weeks felt a little lighter. But the flicker of unease from Prewett's quick words stayed with him, uninvited.
Glancing toward the window, Moody spotted Hagrid hunched over, his massive frame unusually still. Audrey Potter's words crept back into his mind: Hagrid was watching us. You need to talk to him.
Sighing, Moody made his way over. "Hagrid," he said quietly, "what's going on? Potter said you were watching us earlier. What did she mean?"
Hagrid flinched, his large hands gripping his butterbeer mug tightly. "Dunno what she's talkin' about," he muttered, avoiding Moody's gaze.
"Hagrid," Moody pressed, his tone sharper. "If there's something I need to know, you'd better tell me."
"Nothin' to tell you."
"Hagrid," Moody said sharply, "you're not the best liar but a long shot."
Hagrid hesitated, his shoulders tense. After a long pause, he leaned closer, his voice low. "Not here. Too many ears." He nodded toward Figg, who was surrounded by a group of laughing students. "Get Figg to stir things up, and I'll show yeh."
Moody frowned but nodded. He motioned for Figg, who joined him with a quizzical look. "What's going on?" she asked.
"We need a distraction," Moody said. "Hagrid wants to show us something, but we need to slip out without anyone noticing."
Figg grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Leave it to me."
She turned on her heel and strolled back toward the fireplace, her wand already in hand. "Oi, Tuttel!" she called loudly, drawing every eye in the room. "You ever seen real fireworks indoors? Watch this!"
Before anyone could respond, she flicked her wand, sending a cascade of colourful sparks shooting into the air. The sparks twisted and spun, morphing into dazzling shapes—dragons, phoenixes, and broomsticks—all crackling and bursting in a riot of colour.
The room erupted in cheers and laughter as the fireworks popped and sizzled, some of them zooming perilously close to the ceiling. "Figg, are you mad?" Tuttel shouted, ducking as a particularly large spark shot past his head.
"Only a little!" Figg called back, cackling as she set off another burst of whizzing firecrackers that spiralled through the air in a chaotic dance. The students crowded around, their attention entirely consumed by the impromptu display.
Moments later, Figg slipped through the portrait hole where Moody and Hagrid were waiting. Her face was smeared with soot, and her hair was slightly singed at the edges, but her grin was triumphant.
She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, looking immensely pleased with herself. "That should keep them busy," she said smugly. "Now, let's see what this big secret is."
Moody cast Disillusionment Charms on the three of them, and they crept through the darkened corridors. Hagrid led the way, his steps unusually quiet for someone of his size. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Those seventh years I've been followin'—well, they were meetin' in the Hog's Head. Dead dodgy place, that," Hagrid muttered, his tone laced with disgust. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, his voice low but intense. "They were talkin' about smugglin' a creature into Hogwarts."
Moody and Figg exchanged uneasy glances, a creeping tension settling between them. "What kind of creature?" Moody asked warily, his grip tightening on his wand.
"Dunno," Hagrid admitted, his tone darkening, a scowl etched into his face. "But it wasn't somethin' good, I'll tell yeh that. They weren't plannin' on keepin' it as a pet. It was meant to hurt people—students."
Figg's breath hitched, her eyes narrowing. "They were smuggling in a creature to hurt people?" she echoed, incredulous.
"Exactly," Hagrid growled, his massive hands clenching into fists. "Made me sick to me stomach, it did. Hogwarts is meant to be a safe place, not somewhere for people like them to mess about."
His voice grew sharper, tinged with anger. "And yeh know why they were doin' it? Cause of that nonsense about 'purity.' Cause yeh argued with Audrey Potter and stirred it all up. She's wearin' those badges like a fool, an' now others are takin' it further—tryin' to make a point, no matter who they hurt."
Moody felt the weight of Hagrid's words settle heavily on his shoulders. His jaw tightened, and he glanced at Figg, who looked equally disturbed.
"What happened next?" Moody pressed, his voice clipped.
Hagrid's scowl deepened, his broad shoulders tensing. "I stopped 'em, of course," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Told 'em I'd report the lot of 'em to Dippet if they didn't hand it over. They tried to Stun me." He gave a grim chuckle, the sound low and hollow. "Didn't work, though. Stuns don't do much to me—giant's blood, see."
Moody swallowed, his discomfort growing as Hagrid continued. "I told 'em they had two choices: give me whatever it was they were sneakin' in, or I'd drag the whole lot of 'em to Dippet meself. Didn't say another word after that—they just handed it over and scarpered."
Hagrid trailed off, his voice growing softer but no less intense. "Still can't believe anyone'd bring somethin' like that into Hogwarts. And all 'cause o' that stupid argument—cause people like Audrey think they've got somethin' to prove."
Moody shifted uneasily, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine. For the first time, Hagrid's size and quiet intensity felt genuinely intimidating. In the dim light of the corridor, his massive frame seemed to loom larger than usual, and his fists, still clenched at his sides, looked as though they could crush stone.
Even Figg, usually quick with a sharp comment, moved a little closer to Moody, her expression guarded. "So... what is it?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
"You'll see," Hagrid said, his tone softening slightly. He turned and pushed open the door to an abandoned classroom, the hinges creaking loudly in the silence.
Inside, the room was dark and cold, moonlight filtering through cracked windows and casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. The faint smell of damp and dust hung in the air. Then a sound broke the stillness—a faint scuffling noise coming from a cupboard in the corner.
Moody's heart quickened as he exchanged a wary glance with Figg. "What's that?" he asked sharply.
Hagrid's expression brightened, a startling contrast to his earlier anger. "That's him," he said softly, moving toward the cupboard with surprising gentleness. He knelt before it, his massive hands reaching out to carefully unfasten the latch.
"'Him'?" Figg repeated, her brows furrowing. "Hagrid, what exactly did you—"
The cupboard creaked open, and something small and spindly scuttled forward into the light. It was no larger than a teacup, with eight long, trembling legs and glossy black eyes that gleamed in the moonlight. Its tiny mandibles clicked faintly as it adjusted to the open air.
Moody recoiled, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand. Figg let out a sharp breath, stepping back as the creature shifted its weight, its movements unsettlingly deliberate.
"Hagrid," Moody said slowly, his voice thick with disbelief, "is that a... spider?"
"I think he's an acromantula," Hagrid said defensively, cupping the tiny creature in his massive hands. His earlier anger was replaced with pure adoration as he cradled the spindly creature.
Figg's face twisted in horror. "Hagrid, you can't be serious! You can't keep that thing in the castle—it's—it's—"
"A baby," Hagrid interrupted firmly, as though that solved everything. "He was only an egg when I found him. No one was takin' care of 'im. He'd've died if I hadn't stepped in."
Moody stared at Hagrid, his stomach twisting. "Hagrid, this is madness. That thing is going to grow, and when it does—"
"He'll be fine," Hagrid said, grinning as he gently stroked one of the spider's trembling legs. "I'll look after 'im, keep 'im safe. He won't hurt no one."
Moody opened his mouth to argue but stopped when he saw the way Hagrid's face lit up with pride. "Hagrid..." he began, his voice trailing off.
Hagrid beamed, oblivious to their protests. "His name's Aragog," he said again, his voice full of affection.