Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the intellectual property associated with Harry Potter.

Hi all,

Here's the next chapter. Harry continues his first professional Quidditch match, but it doesn't end without conflict.

Chapter 17

MacKenna's pass spiralled through the air. Burke accelerated towards the perfect intercept point, her uniform billowing behind her. The Tornadoes' Chasers scrambled to recover, but the gap in their defence stretched too wide.

Harry banked into a steep dive, and his broom responded instantly. The Quaffle's trajectory intersected perfectly with his path.

He corkscrewed at the last second, bristles clipping the leather ball just enough to send it spinning off-course. Alana pounced on the deflection, snatching it away before Burke could adjust her flight path.

"Potter with the defensive assist!" The announcer's voice carried across the stadium. "Not content to wait for the Snitch, it seems! And what control on that new Tornado racing broom—the crowd getting an early preview of its capabilities!"

Quigley's face twisted with annoyance. The burly Beater signalled to his partner, their coordination evident as they bracketed Harry between them. Quigley's bat connected with vicious precision, sending the Bludger howling through the air like a cannonball.

Harry rolled right, feeling the iron ball's passage ruffle his hair. The move carried him straight into Byrne's trap—the second Bludger curving up from below in a perfect pincer attack.

Without time to dodge normally, Harry kicked his broom into a backwards loop. The world inverted as momentum carried him over both Bludgers. They collided with a thunderous crack, the impact sending them ricocheting away.

The crowd's roar built to a crescendo. Signs waved frantically in the Tornadoes' sections while even neutral spectators stood to applaud the display of aerial acrobatics.

"Look at that control!" The announcer shouted above the noise. "I haven't seen moves like that in a while!"

The Furies seized their opportunity. While the Bats' Beaters recovered from their failed attack, the sisters sliced through the defence. Alana threw the Quaffle to Brenna, who rolled around Walsh's attempted tackle. A behind-the-back pass to Ciara left O'Shea wrong-footed as the Quaffle sailed through the left hoop.

"Thirty-nil to the Tornadoes! The home team is clicking on all cylinders today!"

The match settled into a brutal rhythm. Harry split his attention between scanning for the Snitch and harassing the Bats' plays. Each time Quigley or Byrne targeted him, he turned their aggression against them, leading them into each other's attacks or using their momentum to create openings for his teammates.

The scoreboard ticked steadily upward. They gained a sixty-point lead after a spectacular sequence from the Furies. The Bats rallied briefly, with Walsh and Burke combining for two quick goals. But the Tornadoes responded immediately, pushing their lead to one hundred and twenty-five.

The Bats' Seeker composure cracked more with each passing minute. Sullivan jerked her head between watching Harry and searching independently, her earlier confident demeanour dissolving into visible frustration. The constant direction changes left her drifting slightly behind his movements, perfect for his plan.

A golden flash near the Tornadoes' goalposts caught Harry's eye. He accelerated sharply but deliberately angled his approach too high, letting Sullivan spot his movement. She took the bait instantly, her broom rocketed forward as she pushed to close the gap, determination etched across her features.

Twenty metres from the posts, Harry snapped into a tight barrel roll. Sullivan shot past overhead, committed too fully to alter her course. The real Snitch glinted at the opposite end of the pitch.

"Sullivan's been duped!" The announcer's excitement carried clearly. "Potter's away and—yes! He's after the actual Snitch! The misdirection worked perfectly!"

Harry flattened himself against the broom handle, pushing the broom to its limits. The wind whipped tears from his eyes as Sullivan desperately tried to recover. She banked hard, but the distance expanded with each second.

The Snitch dove suddenly, plummeting towards the pitch. Harry matched its descent instantly, the ground rushing up with terrifying speed. His broom control let him stay tight on the golden ball's tail as it spiralled downward.

At the last possible instant, Harry yanked back on the handle. His toes brushed the grass as he levelled out, fingers closing around the struggling Snitch. The stadium exploded with noise—the crowd's voices merging into a wall of sound that drowned out even the announcer's amplified commentary.

"POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH! A hundred and fifty points to the Tornadoes as we approach halftime! Two hundred and ninety to seventy—a commanding lead for the home team! What a display of flying from the new signing!"

Harry rose slowly, holding the Snitch aloft as his teammates converged around him. Brevis clapped him on the shoulder while the Furies performed victory loops nearby.

The Bats emerged for the second half. MacKenna and Burke followed, their expressions grim as fresh substitutes took their places. The reserve Keeper, Patrick Donnelly, cut an imposing figure as he strapped on his protective gear.

The change in momentum hit like a thunderbolt. Walsh seized the Quaffle immediately after the restart, orchestrating a brilliant passing sequence that left the Tornadoes scrambling. The reserves moved with explosive energy, determination evident in every acceleration.

"The Bats' new lineup is pressing hard!" The announcer's voice carried over the crowd's buzz. "Walsh leads a three-pronged attack—beautiful passing sequence—SCORE! They're not going quietly, folks! Donnelly is already making his presence felt between the hoops!"

Now that the Snitch was out of play, Harry slotted seamlessly into the Tornadoes' defensive formations. Each time the Bats' Chasers set up an attack, he materialised in their passing lanes like a ghost.

Alana broke free down the right side, Quaffle tucked securely as she lined up her shot. The whistle of approaching iron made Harry's head snap around—Quigley had sent a Bludger screaming towards her exposed back. Without hesitation, Harry cut across her flight path.

The impact drove the air from his lungs as the Bludger crashed into his shoulder. His broom spun violently, but he maintained enough control to watch Alana's shot sail past Donnelly's outstretched fingers.

"Three hundred and ten to a hundred and twenty! The Bats closed the gap, but are still trailing significantly with four hours to go! And what sacrifice from Potter to ensure that goal!"

Fireworks exploded without warning in the upper stands, emerald sparks cascading through the air. More explosions followed in rapid succession, the blasts echoing off the stadium walls like artillery fire.

Panic erupted instantly. "Attack! We're under attack!"

The crowd surged in blind terror, thousands of bodies pressing against each other as people fought to escape. The stadium security tried to maintain order but found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the panic.

Movement in the VIP box caught Harry's attention—a surge of black and red scarves pouring down from the upper sections. Dozens of Bats supporters tumbled into the exclusive seating area as the crowd shifted like a tidal wave. More fans poured in from above, pushed forward by the press of bodies behind them. The mob mentality spread like wildfire, drawing in more people with each passing second.

His friends drew their wands as McGonagall stepped in front of them protectively. They were caught in the crush of panicked humanity as the crowd tried to force its way to the exits.

The first spell flew as stadium security rushed to respond. A Blasting Curse shattered the barrier between sections. McGonagall deflected a nasty purple hex while Hermione's Shield Charm protected those behind her.

Harry abandoned the play, his broom screaming as he pushed it to maximum acceleration. A curse struck an elderly wizard, sending him tumbling down the stairs. More security wizards apparated into the stadium but found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer number of people.

His eyes blazed azure blue. He thrust out his hand, compressed air slamming into three attackers who had broken through Hermione's shield. The men flew backwards, crashing into their companions like bowling pins. Another gesture created a barrier of swirling wind that deflected a curse aimed at McGonagall's back.

Harry landed between his friends and the mob. Waves of wind pulsed outward, knocking wands from hands and pushing the attackers back. Those still standing were trapped in localised whirlwinds that lifted them off their feet.

"I could crush you all with a thought," Harry's voice carried clearly through the noisy commotion. "Care to test how much restraint I have left?"

Several attackers thrashed in their aerial prisons while others scrambled backwards, finally recognising the threat before them. Stadium security seized their chance, stunning and binding the immobilised troublemakers.

"Everyone alright?" Harry asked.

"We're alright. There are some with minor injuries," Hermione said. "Nothing the medics can't handle. We've got this under control now—go finish your match."

Harry hesitated, watching as several Aurors apparated into the stadium to support the security team.

"If you're sure—"

"Quite certain, Mr Potter," McGonagall interrupted. Her eyes narrowed at the destruction around them. "What a bunch of Numpties."

Harry released his captives into the Aurors' custody before remounting his broom. He cast one last look at his friends before he rejoined the match. The incident had brought down the stadium and the team's mood. His debut match ended with an anti-climactic win for the Tornadoes.

The Tornadoes dominated with a final score of four hundred and fifty points to two hundred and thirty. The decisive victory secured them three points—two for the win plus a bonus point for the two-hundred-plus margin. The point system incentivised aggressive play, rewarding teams who built insurmountable leads rather than sitting back and defending after gaining an advantage. While winning remained paramount, the bonus point structure ensured every match mattered until the final whistle.

After the game ended, his friends returned to Grimmauld Place for a quiet celebration, while Harry dealt with the post-match press conference. Minerva had also left to return to Hogwarts, telling Harry to make sure the Greengrass girls returned to Hogwarts on time.

The arrangement with Hogwarts had changed significantly for some. Daphne and Astoria weren't the only students who flooed in daily for classes; Hermione and Ron also used this option. The castle's appeal as a boarding school had diminished after the war, with many families preferring to keep their children close. McGonagall had adapted, setting up floo connections for students while maintaining the traditional boarding option for those who wanted it.

The press conference dragged on for an hour. Reporters fixated on Harry's intervention during the panic, barely acknowledging the Tornadoes' commanding victory or the tactics they'd displayed. The source of the incident had been identified—some kids playing with modified fireworks. The questions became increasingly repetitive and accusatory, forcing Iggy to eventually call an end to the session.

Harry pushed through the stadium's main doors, breathing in the cool evening air. The incident bothered him more than he'd admitted during the press conference. One poorly timed prank had nearly caused a riot—proof that the public's wounds remained raw despite the war being over. Fear still bubbled beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.

If people didn't feel safe attending matches, the entire season could collapse. Ticket sales would plummet, sponsorships would dry up, and the league's ambitious changes would fail before they had a chance to show their merits.

As part-owner of the Tornadoes, the financial impact would hit him directly. But more than money, his reputation was at stake. An incident like this happening in his team's stadium in the first match of the season sent the wrong message entirely.

He'd invested heavily in upgrading the facilities, including security measures that had fallen short. The press would have a field day if similar incidents followed—Harry Potter's team couldn't keep their fans safe. He needed to address this quickly before fear and rumour could take root.

"Mr Potter." Senior Auror Ewan Ward emerged from the shadows."Might I have a word?"

Harry nodded. He had only met the man once but had liked what he had seen. The veteran investigator's reputation for thoroughness preceded him. He'd served the Auror corps in both wizarding wars and emerged relatively unscathed. His achievements only feel short of Alastor Moody's.

Harry studied Ward's drawn expression, noting the tension in the older man's broad shoulders. "What can I do for you, Auror Ward?"

"Call me Ewan. We're both adults now."

"Then I will offer the same courtesy."

"I'm here to discuss the fireworks incident." Ward glanced around before responding. "Something's off about the whole business."

"How so?"

Ward lowered his voice. "We questioned the lads involved. Bright kids, actually—one's headed for Hogwarts next year. They told me someone in a Bats' mask handed over the fireworks during halftime. Claimed to be promoting a new joke shop in Hogsmeade."

Harry's brow furrowed. "So, was it deliberate?"

Ward produced a bag containing the charred fragments. "These aren't standard merchandise. The enchantment work is too sophisticated—designed for maximum panic with minimal casualties. Whoever modified these knows their craft."

"A test run?"

"Precisely." Ward's expression darkened. "I'm afraid they may be planning something even bigger."

Regina's face flashed through Harry's mind. The timing felt too convenient to be a coincidence.

"Keep me in the loop?" He asked, rubbing his temples.

"Of course." Ward hesitated, his stern demeanour softening slightly. "The incident aside—that was some bloody brilliant flying today, lad."

Harry managed a weak smile, but his thoughts had already turned to darker possibilities. If Regina was behind this incident, what larger scheme was she orchestrating?

Harry stepped into Grimmauld Place's sitting room, stopping short at the sight before him. Empty Firewhisky bottles littered the coffee table while his friends sprawled across various furniture pieces in various states of inebriation. Ron's snoring filled the room from where he'd collapsed in an armchair.

"Our champion arrives!" Hermione's voice carried the slight slur of someone trying very hard to sound sober. She raised her glass in a wobbly salute.

"Started without me?" Harry asked, dropping onto the sofa.

"Needed something to calm our nerves after that riot," Daphne said, pressing a fresh glass into his hand.

She settled beside him while Ayano claimed his other side.

Several drinks later, Harry's head swam pleasantly as the room's edges softened. The conversation flowed easily, though he struggled to follow exactly what anyone said. His awareness had narrowed to the feeling of Daphne's head resting against his shoulder and Ayano's fingers absently playing with his hair.

"Just kiss them already," Hermione stage-whispered from across the room. "We're tired of watching you three dance around each other."

The Firewhisky's courage surged through his veins. He turned to Daphne first, capturing her lips in a kiss that tasted of whisky and promise. When they broke apart, Ayano's hand caught his chin, turning him towards her passionate embrace.

"About bloody time," someone muttered as Harry lost himself in the moment. The world narrowed to just the three of them, trading increasingly heated kisses until exhaustion finally pulled him under.

"Wake up, lover boy."

Harry's eyes cracked open to find both witches still curled against him, using his chest as a pillow. Kaze's translucent form hovered in front of him, radiating smugness.

"What time is it?" Harry asked.

"Four in the morning."

"Why are you bothering me this early?"

"There's a massive wildfire threatening homes in Australia. Just heard it on the radio."

Harry frowned, unconsciously tightening his hold on the sleeping women. Over the past few months, he'd learned hard lessons about being selective with his interventions. The weight of global expectations had nearly crushed him at first. He'd stretched himself thin, racing from emergency to emergency until exhaustion had forced him to reassess his approach.

His thoughts drifted to the operations centre he'd set up next door after buying out his neighbour's property. The house's complete lack of magic allowed technology to function. Whether it was the television or the radio, it gave him a clearer picture of developing crises. It also allowed him to keep in touch with people from the mundane world. He'd even purchased a bulky mobile phone and carried it around with him.

Hermione had insisted on adding a computer to the house, which had proved surprisingly popular with the wind spirits. They enjoyed the variety of games she installed on the computer and mastered the keyboard controls with remarkable speed.

"I have a proposition," Kaze said, interrupting Harry's meandering thoughts. "Let me handle this one."

"You're serious?"

"I have enough power to manage most emergencies. It would cure my boredom and give you more time with your companions."

Harry ignored the innuendo. "How exactly would that work? Planning to wear my Tempest disguise?"

Kaze nodded. "I can maintain the illusion well enough. Though we really should update that horrible uniform."

"And how exactly do you plan to travel to emergencies when they're on the other side of the globe? You can't use Portkeys."

"There's an ability I've been meaning to teach you." Kaze's form rippled with amusement. "Trust me, reaching Australia quickly won't be an issue."

Harry rubbed his face. "Fine. Consider this a trial run. Handle this emergency successfully and you can play the hero as much as you like."

"Excellent." Kaze's smugness intensified. "Now, perhaps you should take your lovely companions to the bedroom and sort out this relationship properly."

The spirit vanished before Harry could respond. He glanced down to find both witches watching him with identical knowing smirks, clearly having been awake for the entire conversation.

"Bloody wind," Harry muttered.

Daphne's fingers traced patterns on his chest. "So... about sorting out this relationship?"

"We should definitely discuss that," Ayano agreed, her breath warm against his neck.

Harry swallowed hard. Whatever happened next would change everything—but looking at their beautiful faces, he couldn't bring himself to care.

The Monday morning sun hadn't risen when Harry arrived at practice. He joined his teammates in their punishing warm-up routine—sprints around the pitch, strength training, and agility drills that left them gasping for breath. They would start tactical training tomorrow, preparing for their clash with the Montrose Magpies on the weekend.

His mind wandered back to yesterday. The shifting dynamic between himself, Daphne and Ayano bordered on the unbelievable. They'd sprawled across his bed for hours, mapping out the complexities of their unconventional arrangement between heated kisses and roaming hands. Daphne's pragmatic nature had emerged as she outlined clear boundaries, while Ayano's passionate suggestions kept derailing their attempts at serious discussion.

The competitive tension between the girls had transformed into something electric—each touch and kiss building on the last until Harry struggled to remember why taking things slowly had seemed so important. The memory of Daphne's soft sighs mixing with Ayano's breathy moans sent heat coursing through his veins. Their compromise surprised him most—the way they'd set aside their rivalry to explore this new relationship together.

"Potter! Focus!" Brevis's shout snapped him back to reality. "Save the daydreaming for later."

After practice, the team gathered in the strategy room. The standings projected onto the wall showed the Tornadoes tied for first with the Holyhead Harpies at three points each, though the Harpies' massacre of the Chudley Cannons gave them the points differential edge.

The British and Irish League's regular season stretched from September through April, with thirteen teams battling for supremacy. Every team faced each other twice—once at home and once away—for a total of twenty-four matches. The uneven number of teams meant they had bye weeks, which also gave teams time to recover from the gruelling schedule.

Come May, the top eight sides advanced to the knockout stages. The quarter-finals paired teams based on their final league position—first versus eighth, second against seventh, and so on. This format meant every point mattered during the regular season. Teams fought not just to make the top eight, but to secure the highest possible seed. A first-place finish brought the theoretical advantage of facing the lowest-ranked qualifier, though recent seasons had seen their share of upsets.

The winners progressed to two-legged semi-finals before the championship match. The victors claimed not only the league trophy but also automatic qualification for the European Champions League for the following season.

A knock interrupted their briefing. A barrel-chested man with salt-and-pepper hair and weathered features stepped into the room. His England coaching jacket stretched tight across broad shoulders that spoke of his playing days.

"Roger!" Iggy clasped the man's hand. "Everyone, meet Roger Belcher, England's head coach."

Roger pumped Harry's hand enthusiastically. "Can't thank you enough for dealing with You-Know-Who."

"Wish it had happened sooner, though," he added under his breath.

Harry sympathised with Roger's bitter tone. The war had forced Scotland, Wales, and England to withdraw from the World Cup, leaving Irish supporters gutted when their team followed suit. The Ministry's ham-fisted attempt to strong-arm the ICW into postponing the tournament had backfired spectacularly.

The international calendar stretched from May through August, giving players scarce time to recover between domestic and national duties. The finals in August saw Malawi lift the trophy after a nail-biting match against Senegal that lasted fifteen hours.

The England team hadn't exactly set the world alight in recent tournaments anyway. Their chances this year, even without You-Know-Who's interference, looked about as promising as the Chudley Cannons winning the league.

"Caught your debut on Saturday," Roger continued. "Impressive showing."

"The whole team was brilliant," Harry said.

"True enough. The Tornadoes have a good chance of winning the league this season. Though you'll need to watch Puddlemere—word is they're trying to sign Krum."

Iggy's head snapped up. "How solid's that intel?"

"Would I mention it if I wasn't sure, old friend?"

While Iggy processed this news, Roger turned back to Harry. "The national team needs a Seeker. Keep performing like Saturday, you might get a training camp invite come January."

"I'm not sure I want to pursue International Quidditch so soon."

"Keep an open mind. Talent like yours shouldn't be wasted, regardless of experience."

"Oi!" Iggy interrupted. "Stop poaching my players right in front of me!"

The two old friends wandered off, bickering good-naturedly. Harry turned to his teammates. "Why's Iggy bothered? Playing for England wouldn't stop me from playing for the Tornadoes."

"It means you'd play fewer club matches," Marcus explained. "The schedule is too much, otherwise."

Harry shrugged. "It's just a possibility anyway, one I'm not sure I want to pursue."

He caught Weed's eye with a predatory grin. "Though training up my backup wouldn't hurt, just in case. Let's return to the pitch."

Weed shuddered. "Take it easy."

Harry drew back his wind bow, the shimmering string materialising beneath his fingers. He breathed out slowly, letting the familiar sensations wash over him—the subtle resistance as he formed the arrow, the slight distortion in the air as wind currents merged into a deadly projectile.

Though his wind abilities granted him near-perfect accuracy, Harry refused to rely solely on his supernatural advantages. Raw talent meant nothing without proper technique underpinning it. Each arrow he loosed without wind assistance helped build the foundations of genuine marksmanship.

He reckoned hitting a target at fifty metres without his powers would make him twice as lethal when he did tap into them. Besides, what if he encountered a situation where his abilities were somehow restricted? Better to master the basics now than wish he had later.

Twenty metres away, three targets stood in a row, each already peppered with clusters of holes around their centres. Harry released the arrow, feeling rather than seeing it split the air. It struck dead centre with surgical precision, the compressed wind dispersing with a sharp crack.

Behind him, Ayano moved through her sword forms with lethal grace. Enraiha blazed in her hands, crimson flames dancing along the sacred blade as she flowed from stance to stance.

Each movement carried a deadly purpose—a diagonal slash that would cleave an opponent in two, a lightning-fast thrust aimed at an imaginary heart, a spinning defence that created a wheel of fire around her body. The heat from her practice singed the grass, leaving dark patterns that traced her footwork across the lawn.

Kaze materialised beside him.

"Did you enjoy playing the hero?" Harry asked.

"Of course," Kaze replied. "Though, I see how it would get old after a while. Are you ready to learn that technique I mentioned?"

"The fast travel one? Go on then."

"The technique is called Wind Walking," Kaze explained. "You create a tunnel of compressed air ahead of you—think of it as carving a frictionless corridor through the sky. Then you use wind to propel yourself along this path."

Harry's first attempt went spectacularly wrong. He compressed the air too tightly, creating a solid wall he promptly smashed into face-first. The garden wall broke his momentum with an undignified thud, leaving him sprawled in Kreacher's flower beds. Ayano's laughter echoed across the yard.

"Fucking embarrassing," Harry groaned.

"Less compression, more finesse," Kaze sighed. "You're not trying to build a brick wall. Picture it like diving into a flowing river—the air should guide you, not stop you."

His second attempt overcompensated dramatically. The tunnel shot straight up, launching Harry like a cork from a champagne bottle. He pinwheeled through the air, arms windmilling frantically before his wind powers caught him.

"Well done!" Ayano called, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. "You've mastered the art of being a human firework."

Each subsequent attempt produced increasingly creative disasters. The worst saw him accidentally generate a localised whirlwind that created a disturbance across three London boroughs.

"For Merlin's sake, focus!" Kaze thundered, his form darkening like storm clouds. "Right now, you look like a drunken hippogriff attempting the waltz!"

Three hours and countless bruises later, something finally clicked. The air compressed perfectly ahead of him, forming an invisible highway through the atmosphere. The resistance vanished, and Harry shot forward, breaking the sound barrier with a thunderous crack as the wind propelled him faster than he'd ever moved before.

"About bloody time," Kaze muttered.

Harry grinned. "Time for a proper test."

Harry rocketed eastward, the wind tunnel stretching before him like an invisible motorway through the sky. The English Channel vanished beneath him in seconds, its choppy waters blending into a grey-green blur. The European continent rushed past—France, Germany, Poland, and Belarus, merging into streaks of colour as cities and countryside disappeared behind him.

Russia's vast expanse stretched endlessly below, its terrain shifting from dense forests to rolling steppes. Mongolia's grasslands flowed into northern China. The Korean peninsula flashed past, and then Japan's volcanic archipelago dotted the sea below.

The Pacific Ocean opened up like a vast obsidian mirror, its seemingly endless expanse broken only by the occasional cargo ship that appeared as a tiny dot on the dark water. Each wind tunnel fed perfectly into the next, requiring minimal power now that he'd mastered the technique.

The American continent approached—first Alaska's rugged coastline, then Canada's forests stretching to the horizon. The Great Lakes appeared in the distance as he crossed into the United States, the Atlantic soon replacing the landscape below.

The familiar British coastline emerged from the darkness as he completed his circuit. He touched down in the garden as Kreacher set out dinner plates, his hair windswept but feeling surprisingly energised from the journey.

"Show off," Ayano said as he slid into his seat.

"While you were circumnavigating the globe," Daphne said. "Mother sent another letter demanding we return home."

"Need me to help?" Harry asked between bites.

Astoria perked up. "Ooh, yes! You should go all scary wind lord on her. That would shut her up."

"Don't encourage him," Daphne said.

A crack announced Kreacher's arrival.

"Letter for Master." The elf handed over an envelope.

Harry broke the Malfoy seal, eyebrows rising as he read:

Potter,

Don't mistake this for friendship, but I feel obligated to warn you about Saturday's incident. Certain parties who supported the Dark Lord's ideology are attempting to destabilise things. They see your involvement in the league as an insult to pureblood traditions.

I've heard whispers of planned disruptions at future matches. Can't say more in writing —you understand why. Just watch your back.

- D.M.

P.S. Your flying wasn't completely awful. For a half-blood.

"Charming as ever," Harry muttered, passing the letter to Daphne. For Malfoy to risk reaching out, the threat had to be significant.

"Classic Draco," Daphne agreed. "But he'd never stick his neck out unless something truly worried him. After everything his family's lost, he wouldn't risk what little standing he has left."

Harry pushed his untouched dinner around his plate, the food having lost all appeal. Regina's calculated malice made her dangerous enough. Now, Death Eater sympathisers threatened to turn every Quidditch match into a potential disaster. The combination left his stomach churning.

Had Regina engineered the incident at the Tornadoes stadium? Or were Voldemort's remaining supporters exploiting lingering fears, stoking chaos to advance their agenda? Either way, innocent people would suffer unless he acted quickly.

His jaw tightened as he reached the inevitable conclusion. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he couldn't ignore the warning. He'd have to do something he'd sworn never to do—walk through the gates of Malfoy Manor and speak to Draco.

So, what do you think? In the next chapter, Harry visits Draco to obtain information on the new threat, and the Quidditch season continues.

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