Last day of school for 6th years and lower is Friday, July 2.
Seventh years are done with classes.
Move-home is Saturday, July 3.
And I am excited to give you..
Thunder rumbled lowly in the distant horizon, echoing over the Quidditch pitch. The day had felt entirely
too long, students either too excited or too hot to study. At long last, the time had come to head down
to the pitch. The sun sat low in the sky, grey with haze, and the world seemed to blur around the edges
with the muggy heat. It had been raining every night and blazing hot during the day. The trees of the
Forbidden Forest were rich with deep greens, the grass of the pitch electric and ready for action.
An eager, buzzing chatter clung in the air with the humidity, many students opting to fan themselves with
their house banners rather than wave them about to cheer on their preferred team. A few tried simple
cooling spells; to the delight of his housemates, Neville Longbottom managed to create an enormous ice
block. They gathered around it, basking in it's radiating chill, and awaited the players' appearance.
This was the final--The last Quidditch match of the school year.
It was also Harry Potter's last Quidditch match at Hogwarts.
Both Gryffindor and Slytherin had torn their way to the final, each ripping through Hufflepuff and
Ravenclaw for a spot in the final. Almost expectedly, the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws waved scarlet and
gold about, opting to cheer on their choice for the win. Despite his absence, Harry was at the pinnacle
of his Quidditch career; he'd been hellishly successful his last few matches.
But none of them mattered today.
Burt Sims, a Ravenclaw second year with an abnormally strong voice, sat in to commentate, his voice
booming over the crowds with power that rivaled former commentator Lee Jordan's performances.
Both teams were announced, each player kicking off the ground and circling skyward on their broomstick,
falling into team formation and taking the cerimonious lap around the pitch. The Gryffindors received
excited shouting and cheering from nearly three-quarters of the pitch; the Slytherins were sure to up
their own volume for their house team.
Sims' voice boomed over the pitch, announcing the start of the Quidditch final. Bludgers and Snitch were
released; the Quaffle was thrown into the air after them. At once, the Griffindor Chasers dove, and
within minutes, were tearing their way through goal after goal.
Slytherin chasers managed to throw in a few of their own, but Gryffindor threw down one after another;
Ginny Weasley hardly had time to celebrate a successful goal before she was in action again, Quaffle in
Sims nearly fell out of the commentator's box as Gryffindor scored their tenth goal. Slytherin trailed
with two goals; the match seemed a sure thing. Both seekers circled high above, eyes alert, ears drowning
out the sound of the crowd in hope of catching the faint buzz of the Snitch's wings.
High above the stands, Draco Malfoy hovered on his broom, grey eyes sweeping the Pitch, keeping track of
Harry Potter's position, as he found it useful to watch his opponent seeker. He cringed inwardly, eyes
darting toward the scoreboard, as Gryffindor rounded their seventeenth goal.
If Potter caught the Snitch, it would be over.
Across the pitch, the Gryffindor seeker hovered on his Firebolt, also straining for any sign of the
Snitch. From where he was, Malfoy could make out the expression on Potter's face: Harry knew Gryffindor
was headed for victory. His expression was tight, focused, eyebrows knitted as he desperately glanced
around for the Snitch. Malfoy flew a small circle, checking all around him, knowing Potter had a sharp
sense for spotting--
Streaking toward the pitch, some hundred yards ahead of Potter, the Snitch glinted teasingly. It was a
coy smile, a wink, a 'Come and get me...'.
Without thinking a further shred, Malfoy leaned close to his Firebolt and dove. The wind whipped around
him as he flew, faster and faster, knowing the ground was coming up fast but not nearly caring. Somewhere
to his left, a Gryffindor chaser with red hair flowing wildly in the wind scored another goal; Gryffindor
was up eighteen to Slytherin's thirty.
Malfoy's brows lowered, his jaw set. He urged his Firebolt faster, parallel to Potter now. The windshear
shifted as moving bodies neared each other. Had Malfoy glanced toward Potter, he'd have seen his
expression drawn with resolve, green eyes focused on the Snitch. Such a lapse in Malfoy's attention had
cost him victory in matches of the past.
This match would not be like those. He grunted, exhaling every bit of air in his lungs in an attempt to
streamline closer to his broom, the air stinging his eyes and making them water. Malfoy blinked a few
times, the wind forcing a few tears to streak across his temples. He stretched out his right hand,
clutching his broom in his left, and gritted his teeth, forcing his Firebolt to nose ahead of Potter's.
Thirty yards to the Snitch and another twenty to the ground. Malfoy pulled further ahead, every thought
in his head dissolved and scattered into the wind. Fifteen yards to the Snitch. Ten. Five.
Potter pulled closer alongside him, hand outstretched as well. Malfoy lunged forward, his fingers closing
around something cold and hard and wriggling, no longer caring about speed or distance. Faintly, he knew
he had to slow down, and pulled back on his broomstick.
Beside him, Potter was doing the same. Their speeds had been recklessly fast, and both Seekers rumbled
along in the air, bumping together, broomsticks vibrating in resistance to the fast slow down.
Which of the two hit the ground first is a mystery; they both hit with force, digging up the grass,
sending bits dirt flying. His vision completely blurred, his body suddenly aching all over, Malfoy raised
his right hand and the Snitch vibrated in his fingers. Lightning struck in the distance, glinting off the
golden surface of the Snitch. Somewhere beside him, Potter collapsed, their bodies laying side by side on
"Malfoy has got the Snitch! Malfoy has caught the Golden Snitch!" The sudden roar of applause from the
Slytherin crowd was cut through faintly by Sims' voice. Sound faded and warped, Malfoy's vision thickening
to black. Beside him, Potter breathed heavily, and Malfoy wasn't sure if what was in his left hand was
Potter's hand or not.
Distant lightning glinted off the Snitch's surface again, and as it faded, Malfoy's vision ebbed away,
Slytherin had ended the match by catching the Snitch; the final score was 180 to 180, a perfect tie.