Quidditch Match Day Incident (4)

Beyond the dome lay a cold, clamorous world of torrential rain. The rain struck the dome and instantly turned into white vapor, which was then scattered by the rain that followed, creating a strange, shifting spectacle. From outside, the Slytherin stands looked as though they were covered by an enormous boiling pot lid, steam churning around its edges and blurring the scene within.

Inside the dome, however, was another world entirely.

Dry.

Stiflingly hot.

The air carried a faint, sulfurous scent of scorching heat.

The rain had been completely shut out. Not a single drop could penetrate that magical dome. The seats, floor, and railings in the stands went from soaking wet to dry within seconds. Steam began rising from the Slytherin students' robes—the water-soaked fabric was rapidly evaporating in the intense heat. Vapor rose from every person, like a crowd that had just emerged from a hot spring.

Yet no one made a fuss. No one stood up, no one shouted, no one whispered to their neighbors. They simply sat there quietly, feeling the vast, steady magical field pressing down from overhead, feeling their robes gradually dry, feeling the cold rain completely sealed away outside.

Their expressions were all the same.

Indifferent.

Proud.

As though it were only natural.

As though the Slytherin stands were meant to be dry, meant to be warm, meant to be the most comfortable, most distinguished, most inviolable place in the entire stadium.

Their silver-and-green robes were immaculate, their hair perfectly in place. All traces of the bedraggled state they had endured after half an hour in the rain were wiped away in mere seconds, as if they had never existed.

Malfoy stood with his arms folded, a confident sneer on his lips. His gray eyes swept across the field like a hawk's, moving