Hogwarts' Golden Glory

Lockhart stumbled in, his hair a complete mess, as if he'd been struck by lightning.

He was holding a ruby ​​quill pen in his hand—the tip of which was wildly spewing pink sparks.

"Severus! Emergency! This pen—"

"Get out." Snape's voice was colder than liquid nitrogen.

"But it wrote eighty love letters in the middle of the night! To my female fans!"

Lockhart brandished his quill, and a spark flew into Neville's cauldron, instantly turning the potion into fluorescent powder.

A dangerous spark flew from the tip of Snape's wand: "I'll count to three. One..."

Lockhart knocked over Crabbe's stool as he backed away.

As he fled the cellar in panic, the quill pen suddenly broke free from his hand and flew towards Snape's podium, where it scribbled in the scorebook: "Giddon Lockhart loves Severus Snape forever."

A terrible silence fell over the entire classroom.

Snape's face turned a purplish-red color that Harry had never seen before.

When the bell rang, the students rushed to the door like prisoners escaping from jail.

Harry overheard the most unbelievable rumor in the hallway—Lockhart stormed into the headmaster's office demanding severe punishment for the twins.

Suddenly, the quill in his hand flew out and began writing a sonnet on Dumbledore's lemon jar.

At lunchtime, the auditorium was filled with a joyful atmosphere.

Fred and George were surrounded by a group of students who were excitedly describing Lockhart's disheveled state that morning.

Even Professor McGonagall, sitting in the faculty seat, was unusually pursing her lips, and Snape's seat was empty—he was said to have gone to brew a powerful potion of forgetfulness.

Oliver Wood stood in the center of the Gryffindor common room, clutching a roll of parchment tightly in his hand.

Her expression was even more serious than when Professor McGonagall discovered that someone had turned a Transfiguration assignment into a singing teapot.

"Listen, guys," he said in a deep, firm voice, his brown eyes burning with determination.

"Losing to Slytherin last time was a disgrace. But this time—" he slammed the parchment down, "—we will definitely win!"

Harry Potter sat in the armchair by the fireplace, feeling a familiar tension creep up his spine.

Ron Weasley, standing next to her, was trying to stuff the last piece of chocolate frog into his mouth, while Hermione frowned as she flipped through "Quidditch Tactics," muttering to herself.

"Training will begin after dinner tonight," Wood announced, his gaze sweeping over each team member. "Everyone must be present, without exception. We will practice until the moon is up to the top of the Astronomical Tower."

Fred and George exchanged a glance, and George pretended to faint on the sofa. "Oh, Wood, you're so cruel! We just drove Lockhart away, shouldn't we celebrate?"

Wood remained unmoved. "We can celebrate after we win. Now, grab your brooms, see you at the Quidditch pitch in an hour."

Night had fallen as Harry and his teammates walked through the castle toward the pitch.

The evening breeze still carried a slight chill, ruffling Harry's short black hair.

He subconsciously touched the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, a gesture that always occurred unconsciously when he was nervous.

"Don't worry, Harry," Angelina Jensen patted him on the shoulder, her long, fiery red hair fluttering in the wind, "Your flying skills are far superior to those Slytherin guys."

“Exactly,” Arya Spinnet chimed in, “Malfoy knows nothing but how to show off the latest broom his dad bought him.”

Harry managed a weak smile, but he had genuinely lost the last match!

The Quidditch pitch looked exceptionally empty under the moonlight.

Wood was already waiting there, with several magic lanterns floating around him, illuminating the center of the field.

There was a large wooden box at his feet, filled with training balls and Quaffles.

"Alright, guys," Wood clapped his hands, "tonight we'll focus on practicing counter-attacking tactics. Fred, George, you're in charge of simulating Slytherin's attack patterns with the Bludger. Angelina, Arya, you'll practice passing the Quaffle at high speed. Harry—"

Wood turned to Harry, his expression softening slightly. "You need to practice finding the Golden Snitch under interference. I'll have Katie Bell play the Seeker for Slytherin to distract you."

Harry nodded and gripped his Nimbus 2000 tightly.

This is one of his most treasured possessions, and although more advanced models have been released since, this broom has accompanied him through many important competitions.

Training has begun.

Harry rose high into the air, his eyes scanning the stadium, searching for the simulated Golden Snitch that Wood had released—a magical golden butterfly that flew fast and cunningly.

"To the left, Harry!" Katie Bell called out, as she deliberately swerved in front of Harry on her Seven Sweepers, trying to distract him.

Harry leaned forward and accelerated, the Nimbus 2000 emitting a pleasant whistling sound.

He felt the wind whistling past his ears, his heartbeat merging with the vibrations of the broom. Just as he was about to catch the golden butterfly—

"Harry! Harry Potter!"

A sharp sound came from the edge of the field.

Harry was distracted for a moment, and the golden butterfly slipped from his fingertip.

He turned his head and saw a short figure waving his arms frantically, with a camera that was obviously too big hanging on his chest.

"It's Colin Creevey," Katie said, landing next to Harry. "That first-year student, he's just—"

"Harry! Can I take a picture of you? Just one!"

Colin's voice echoed throughout the entire stadium.

Wood blew the whistle to signal a halt, his face so dark it could drip water. "Mr. Crevy!"

Of course they remembered Colin; that guy was always trying to take pictures of Harry!

He strode to the sidelines, announcing, "We're having a closed training session!"

But Colin seemed immune to Wood's anger.

His eyes were fixed on Harry, his round face filled with adoration. "I just want to take one picture of Harry flying, sir! I promise I won't bother you for long!"

Harry landed awkwardly on the ground, feeling all his teammates' eyes on him.

Colin rushed over immediately, his camera flashing incessantly.

"Harry! Can you strike a pose like you've caught the Golden Snitch? Or—or point to your scar? My dad says it's a really cool scar!"

Ron rolled his eyes and whispered to Hermione, "Here we go again. This is the third time this week."

Hermione sighed, but with a hint of sympathy in her eyes. "He just idolizes Harry too much."

Harry felt a heat creep up his cheeks.

He was used to people's gazes, but Colin's undisguised adoration still made him feel overwhelmed. "Uh, Colin, we're really training right now..."