"What a nightmare!"
After an afternoon of training, every Slytherin player was battered and bruised, and still shuddering at the thought of it.
With so many injuries, there were no plans for extra practice that day.
Now the Slytherins looked at their unruffled Chief as though he were a monster.
How could anyone go from barely hitting his target to predicting his victims' evasive moves in fewer than ten attempts?
By the end, he was drifting around effortlessly, knocking anyone he wanted off their broomstick.
But the Slytherins immediately felt that this term's Quidditch Cup was in the bag!
Just look at Gryffindor's prodigy Seeker, Harry. He looked positively constipated.
No wonder the Chief hadn't cared who saw their tactics. Sheer power really could trump any amount of skill.
The Slytherins could hardly wait for the new Quidditch Cup to begin so they could utterly crush the other three houses!
Snape, who had watched from a corner for an hour, left in satisfaction after catching sight of Harry's miserable expression.
Before leaving, he even had a Slytherin bring the players a pile of healing potions.
Draco was limping a little, but he couldn't be bothered with treatment. The moment he got off his broomstick, he hurried over to comfort his good friend: look on the bright side, second place was pretty good too.
Meanwhile, Shawn, the cause of all this, stared at the healing potion in his hand, his lips twitching. Was the Old Bat being kind, or giving him free rein to keep smashing people in the future?
Honestly, Shawn realized that he had suddenly developed a liking for this violent sport. No wonder Quidditch had remained so popular throughout the Wizarding World for so many years.
Destruction and explosions, conflict and conquest-perhaps that madness really was written into