Is Someone Playing Tug-of-War with Harry?

The next morning dawned clear and cold—a fine sort of weather for sleeping in.

If he could, Glenn wished he could sleep straight through until noon.

But unfortunately, the commotion outside his door forced him to stir from his sweet dreams.

At times like this, Glenn really wanted to repeat Hogwarts' motto to the students outside—"Sleep, Dragon, Do Not Disturb."

But dragons weren't the only ones entitled to undisturbed rest.

Just a little joke. He wouldn't actually do that—it was merely a bit of morning grumpiness at leaving his warm, soft four-poster bed.

After lounging in bed for a while, Glenn finally got up, washed, and dressed.

"Oh, Glenn, I never expected you to be up this early on a Saturday," Blaise said in surprise, having been deep in conversation with Theodore.

Looking at the massive banners, magical fireworks, and the noisy crowd filling the Slytherin common room, Glenn fell silent.

"Yeah. Never expected it."

"Can't be helped. Today's Slytherin's first Quidditch match of the school year," Theodore Nott picked up the thread.

He was a tall, thin boy with a somewhat cold demeanor, giving off a sickly impression. He didn't talk much usually, nor did he care for socializing.

But perhaps because of today's Quidditch match, he seemed a bit excited too.

Seeing this, Glenn—though still annoyed at being up early on a holiday—didn't want to spoil the mood. He chatted with them for a while, then found an empty chair and sat down.

He had little interest in Quidditch as a sport, but he had to admit that students who loved it made up the vast majority.

The common room right now had never been this lively since the start of term.

Though in theory, this Slytherin common room was meant for all Slytherin students from first to seventh year.

But due to different class schedules, personal habits, and the fact that third-years and above were allowed—and preferred—to visit the wizarding village of Hogsmeade to relax, the Slytherin common room had never held more than half its students at once since the term began.

Today, though, it was no exaggeration to say that over ninety percent of Slytherins had gathered in the common room.

If he'd woken any later, even this chair under him might have been taken.

Glenn poured himself a glass of warm water and swept his gaze across the room.

They roughly fell into three categories: those chatting animatedly with Quidditch players; those talking among themselves, preparing support gear; and the last group, discussing how to make the victory speech as insulting as possible.

If there was an exception, it might be Gemma Farley, the female prefect, sitting by the fireplace reading a book.

She seemed uninterested in the heated Quidditch chatter around her, her expression cool, not even lifting her head.

But if the scene ever descended into unexpected chaos, that would probably be the moment she closed her book.

He had to admit, in a way, the division of labor was clear.

Amid the noise, Malfoy finished his conversation with the current Slytherin Quidditch team captain with a smile.

When his gaze swept over Glenn sitting alone in the corner, Malfoy waved his hand, signaling his two lackeys, Crabbe and Goyle, to leave for a moment, then walked over.

"Looks like you're not all that eager for Slytherin to win?" Glenn said after sizing up Malfoy.

At these startling words, Malfoy frowned, putting on an extremely displeased expression.

But after glancing around and seeing no one paying attention to this corner, he relaxed his brow.

"Just this once," he said quietly, sitting down beside him.

Though sometimes Malfoy felt Glenn stole his thunder and had no goodwill toward this classmate with whom he'd clashed since the start of term, on this matter, Glenn was the only person he could talk to.

After all, currently only Glenn, Professor Snape, and Madam Hooch in all of Slytherin knew that he wanted to join the Quidditch team as a first-year, just like Harry Potter.

And on Madam Hooch's end, Malfoy had already proven his flying skill.

Now all he needed was Professor Snape's approval as Head of Slytherin.

He hated to admit it, but if Gryffindor's secret weapon—Harry Potter—lost this time, then Snape would likely reject his application.

First, because there'd be no need—if they could win, why change players?

Second, if even the "Boy Who Lived" Harry Potter, who according to the books had defeated Voldemort, lost, wouldn't that just prove that letting a first-year join the Quidditch team was pointless?

If there were no hope, Malfoy would genuinely want Slytherin to win and claim their eighth consecutive victory.

But the opportunity was right there in front of him, like setting a juicy steak before someone who'd been starving for a long time—hard not to be tempted.

"Losing one match doesn't matter. Once I'm on the field, I'll win back what Slytherin lost," Malfoy muttered to himself, watching the Quidditch players being fawned over.

By eleven in the morning, nearly the entire school had gathered here except the headmaster. Many held telescopes to see the match clearly, and the stands were packed to bursting.

In the highest row, Gryffindor students had hung a huge banner reading "Potter Will Win," with a lifelike lion painted on it.

Sitting opposite them was Slytherin.

They also hung a banner, emblazoned with bold letters reading "Slytherin's Eighth Consecutive Championship."

And beneath it, the scores from the previous seven matches were recorded—almost every single one had beaten Gryffindor.

In this tense atmosphere, the players took to the field one by one amid cheers, receiving the acclaim of the entire school.

With a silver whistle from Madam Hooch, fifteen broomsticks shot up into the air on the Quidditch pitch, turning into tiny black specks in the blink of an eye.

The students in the stands almost instinctively rose to their feet, craning their necks to watch the sky, straining to identify players from both sides, occasionally gasping with the flow of the match...

But to be honest, whatever the book said about the Transylvanian Feint, the Porskoff Ploy, or the Woollongong Shimmy...

Glenn didn't understand a single one.

He only had one question: since the Seeker catching the Golden Snitch earned a hundred and fifty points and ended the match outright, why not just go straight for the Golden Snitch?

Cough—though it might sound a bit obvious, for Glenn, that was really the case.

While everyone else nervously watched the players' performances, his gaze drifted to a remote little corner in midair.

In Revelio, the world was dim, and a round ball with transparent wings darted across the vast Quidditch pitch like a golden streak of light.

Strikingly conspicuous.

"The Quaffle is immediately seized by Gryffindor's Angelina Johnson—what a brilliant Chaser that girl is, and quite charming too..."

"Jordan!"

"Sorry, Professor."

The commentary from the announcer's stand mingled with the shouts from the spectator seats.

If nothing unexpected happened, this match would only end when someone spotted that golden ball.

Until then, he'd probably be stuck here, bored, watching the golden light fly back and forth...

Thinking this, Glenn couldn't help but yawn.

But just as he was about to turn off Revelio and catch a quick nap, something unexpected happened.

Someone was tug-of-warring with Harry!