"The ga is over," Kyle muttered to himself, observing the shift on the pitch.
He could guess what was going on. Maybe it was the comntator's enthusiasm or the fact that Snape had shown up to watch, but for those first twenty minutes, the Slytherin team had given it everything, hoping for a miracle. They played with unrestrained intensity, holding onto their ambition tightly. But once they realized they couldn’t outscore Hufflepuff, no matter how hard they pushed, that intense drive seed to vanish.
It beca clear to them that their own house wouldn’t win the championship, but they were even less willing to see Gryffindor take the cup. Since Slytherin couldn’t surpass Hufflepuff’s 300 points, they chose to give Hufflepuff an easier win. If Hufflepuff could rack up more goals now, those points might be the very thing to shatter Gryffindor’s championship dreams in the final match. That, for Slytherin, was a victory in itself.
But Slytherin was subtle. They weren’t outright throwing the ga, just easing up at critical monts. Most of the younger wizards in the stands didn’t catch on; to them, it looked like Slytherin had just run out of steam or hit a streak of bad luck. But a few sharper eyes saw through the act.
"From the Gryffindor stands, Charlie angrily pounded his fist against the stairs. 'Curse you, Rosier! I thought they’d learned a bit of integrity!'
“It’s rigged!” Fred and George yelled, their faces red with frustration. “They’re throwing the ga! Slytherin should be disqualified!”
Despite their loud protests, their voices were lost amid the thunderous cheers filling the stadium. Only a few students around them could hear their complaints. Realizing that yelling wasn’t getting them anywhere, Fred and George exchanged a look and started toward the comntary booth. They couldn’t stop the ga, but they hoped they could at least get the comntator to expose Slytherin’s blatant cheating.
As they neared the booth, they were intercepted.
“Weasley, what are you doing here?” Professor McGonagall’s stern voice halted them. “This isn’t the place for you. Go back and watch the match.”
“But Professor McGonagall,” Fred protested, “Slytherin is cheating! They’re deliberately throwing points!”
George chid in, “They’re doing this to keep Gryffindor from winning the Quidditch Cup, and you’re just going to let it slide?!”
Professor McGonagall paused, her face unreadable. “That is only your assumption, Mr. Weasley. There is no evidence to prove they are deliberately losing.”
“But—”
Fred tried to say more, but Professor McGonagall cut him off firmly. “Return to your seats and watch the match. Only the comntator may use the microphone during a Quidditch ga—that’s the rule.”
Fred opened his mouth to argue, but George tugged on his robe, sighing. “Forget it, Fred,” he murmured. Then he looked to Professor McGonagall, “We’re sorry. We’ll go back now.”
Professor McGonagall simply gave a curt nod.
Before they left, the twins threw a last glance at the comntator. They’d spoken loudly enough that he must have heard every word. If only he would say sothing…
They waited for a minute, hoping he’d address Slytherin’s underhanded tactics. But he simply kept up his animated comntary, focusing on the action on the pitch, with no indication of changing course.
Disheartened, Fred and George made their way back to their seats in silence. They understood now: anyone with the expertise to comntate a Quidditch match would surely recognize the signs of a fixed ga. Yet, just like Professor McGonagall, he chose to stay silent.
Once Fred and George returned to the Gryffindor stands, Lee Jordan rushed up to them, visibly agitated. “What happened?”
Fred and George shook their heads in unison, frustration clear on their faces.
"Those Slytherins are despicable, and the comntator’s too spineless to call it out. How could they let this slide?” Lee fud. “I was thinking of trying out for Seeker next year, but now? I’ve changed my mind. I want to be a comntator.”
“Go for it!” Fred and George both clapped a hand on Lee’s shoulders, encouraging him. “We need to have our own voice up there!”
anwhile, on the pitch, the Hufflepuff players had picked up on Slytherin’s unusual strategy. Harris glanced at the opposing goal, a flicker of indecision crossing his face. After a mont’s pause, he took a deep breath, his expression steeling with resolve. Under his leadership, the Hufflepuff team adjusted their approach, slowing their pace. They stopped pressing the attack, pulling back to a defensive formation instead.
“These idiots!” Rosier muttered angrily as he launched the Quaffle at Hufflepuff’s goalpost, only for it to bounce off the rim with a sharp clang. Harris retrieved the ball, casually drifting back down the pitch, and took a relaxed shot at the Slytherin goalpost, missing intentionally.
“What a sha,” the comntator chid in, barely hiding his amusent. “It seems that after such a long ga, Hufflepuff has started making mistakes as well. Now it’s all down to the Seekers—the first to catch the Golden Snitch will take the ga.”
Kyle, however, had lost interest in the ga’s theatrics. He quietly slipped to the last row of the stands and pulled out a piece of parchnt from his robe—the Marauder’s Map, which he’d borrowed from Fred and George before the ga.
Taking out his wand, he tapped it lightly against the parchnt and recited, “I solemnly swear I’m up to no good.” Unlike Fred and George, who only knew part of the incantation, Kyle had morized the complete phrase.
In fact, Fred and George had already discovered most of the password. If they’d wanted, they could have easily pieced together the entire phrase. But they’d been firm about solving it the “proper” way, finding each word as it revealed itself. Kyle, though, had no such reservations.
As ink spread across the parchnt, the Marauder’s Map ca to life. Kyle quickly noted down the locations of several secret passages, including one leading to the eighth floor and another connecting to the Honeydukes’ cellar—useful information he might need later.
Once he had the passage details recorded, Kyle directed his attention to the Hufflepuff common room.
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