Harry Potter : Bloodraven

A black blur flickered at the edge of Harry's vision, screaming toward him like a cannonball.

He jerked his broom to the side, and the iron ball whistled past, missing by inches and whipping through his hair. He tightened his grip to stay upright, heart pounding, but the Durmstrang Beaters weren't letting up—it was less a match now, more a hunt.

Whoosh!

Another Bludger tore through the air, aimed straight for his ribs.

Ruthless.

Harry pulled up sharply, and the Bludger shot beneath him, close enough for him to feel the rush of air and the angry spin of iron.

The crowd's roar echoed in the distance, but up here, it was drowned out by rushing wind and thundering heartbeats.

And it wasn't just Harry flying with one eye over his shoulder—Krum was under fire too. Hogwarts team had long since abandoned any pretense of fair play.

Every turn brought a new threat. A rogue elbow. A sudden swerve. A Bludger sent with obvious intent.

The referee's whistle blew now and then, followed by warnings that were quickly ignored. Nothing changed. In fact, the game only got dirtier.

And even though Harry and Krum were locked in a frantic aerial duel—swerve or suffer—they were also playing their own game of cat and mouse.

The message was clear in every maneuver. If you spot the Snitch, you'll have to get through me first.

They dove low, banked hard to the right, cutting through the air with sudden, slicing turns. Their movements were sharp, unpredictable—a test of nerve, speed, and will.

They kept at it, weaving through the sky—slashing, swerving, never slowing. The Bludgers kept coming, forcing constant evasions. Neither Seeker was willing to give an inch.

Then came the announcer's shout: "And Durmstrang scores again! That's one-forty for Durmstrang! Hogwarts better grab a miracle, or this is it!"

The crowd erupted—cheers, groans, feet stomping the stands. The sound washed over the pitch like a wave.

Only one more goal and Durmstrang would win.

That moment of celebration—just a flicker of distraction—was all it took.

Harry saw it.

A flash of gold. A shimmer, barely a blink, near the edge of the stands. Tucked just behind the shadow of a banner fluttering in the wind.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

He didn't move right away. He didn't dare.

He glanced sideways—Krum was turned, eyes tracking the celebrating chasers, just for a second. A second too long.

Now.

Harry dove.

The air tore past his ears as he rocketed downward, hugging his broomstick, wind dragging at his robes. He twisted between players and dipped beneath a spiraling Beater's bat.

The crowd gasped.

"Potter's diving—he's seen it!" shouted the announcer, voice rising with excitement.

Krum's head snapped back around. He didn't need to see the Snitch. He only needed to see Harry's posture—sharp, focused, deadly.

Krum shot forward.

And the chase was on again.

The crowd howled. A storm of cheers and screams echoed through the stands as both Seekers blazed across the pitch like comets, one chasing a ghost, the other chasing him.

Harry weaved through the rising stands, the Snitch flitting just above a support beam near the public section. The golden ball danced upward, then zipped left, skimming the edge of the towering banners.

He was gaining.

Krum followed, gaining too—closer, closer. He couldn't see the Snitch, but he didn't have to. His only goal was to ruin Harry's line, to clip his broom, to force a mistake.

Harry cut low, so low his foot skimmed the stadium rail. Sparks burst from his boot sole. The crowd shrieked, half in awe, half in horror.

"What is he doing—" the announcer's voice cracked. "He's gonna crash—"

He didn't crash.

Harry jerked the broom up at the last second—a slingshot turn, using the stadium's curve to whip around with blistering momentum. His back screamed from the g-forces. His vision blurred.

But the Snitch was dead ahead now, flitting along the stadium wall, fast but within reach.

Krum surged behind him, arm out, fingertips brushing Harry's robes.

But Harry had one more move.

He leaned forward, balanced on the edge of the broom's handle, then stood—stood on the broom mid-flight like a tightrope walker.

Gasps echoed like cannon fire from the crowd.

He rode the broom with both feet planted, arms spread for balance, and lunged forward—one wild, desperate leap.

His fingers closed around something cold and fluttering.

The world held its breath.

Then the whistle blew.

Silence—followed by an explosion of sound.

"HE'S GOT THE SNITCH! HARRY POTTER HAS CAUGHT THE FU— OW!... THE SNITCH!"

The stadium erupted. Hogwarts students and the entire English crowd surged to their feet, screaming, hugging, crying. Even the professors stood frozen in stunned disbelief before they, too, burst into cheers.

Harry, breathless, heart pounding, rolled over on the grass where he'd landed, hand still clutched around the tiny golden ball.

He did it.

He actually did it.

Above him, the sky spun lazily, and somewhere overhead, Krum circled once—just once—then flew off toward the Durmstrang side, his face showing a mix of frustration and resignation.

But Harry didn't care.

Because they had won.

The moment the game ended, Hogwarts' team rushed toward Harry, joined by the reserves and even Steven, all of them swarming him in a joyous heap. They cheered and laughed, clapping each other on the back, celebrating their victory.

The stands were a blur of excitement as the audience joined in, rising to their feet, chanting, and cheering.

Lee Jordan went absolutely wild. His voice cracked with excitement, barely able to contain his joy as he poured everything out. And Professor McGonagall, who was supposed to keep him in check was far too caught up in the moment to care.

She was beaming, her eyes sparkling with pride. Her usual stern demeanor had dissapeared completely, replaced by pure, radiant happiness.

Time passed, and while the Hogwarts team continued their celebration, the pitch was quickly transformed for the awards ceremony.

The players from all four participating schools began to line up in front of the stage, where the Champion's Cup stood proudly on display. The ceremony soon began.

First, of course, the man behind the entire event—Maverick—stepped onto the stage to give a short speech. He kept it brief, touching on the tournament's success, the benefits it had brought to the schools and their students, and finally, the exciting news that it would now be held every year.

The audience cheered. Needless to say, everyone seemed quite pleased at the idea of the tournament becoming a regular tradition.

After Maverick, Dumbledore took the stage and gave a short speech of his own, before moving on to the awards.

First came the runners-up, who were awarded silver medals. Then came the individual awards for the best player in each position. Hogwarts claimed two: best Keeper, which went to Oliver Wood, and best Seeker—naturally—to Harry Potter.

Best Beater was awarded to a Durmstrang player, and best Chaser went to a student from Koldovstoretz. The title of best overall player went to Viktor Krum of Durmstrang. There was no debate—he had clearly been the strongest on the pitch.

Finally, the Hogwarts team was awarded gold medals and the Champion's Cup. And with that, the celebrations kicked off once more, lasting until nearly sunset.

---

The first inter-school Quidditch tournament had come to a close. That evening, Hogwarts hosted a grand farewell banquet in the Great Hall—a final gesture of warmth and hospitality before the visiting schools departed.

The hall had never looked more splendid. Hundreds of floating candles shimmered above long tables piled high with food, while the enchanted ceiling reflected the soft blush of evening clouds drifting across a dusky sky.

The feast was a celebration of magical cultures from across the world. British favourites like shepherd's pie, treacle tart, and golden-crusted fish and chips were served beside French escargots in garlic butter and delicate croissants filled with charmed cream that refused to melt. Hearty Russian goulash bubbled in steaming pots, rich with herbs and spice, paired with slices of dark rye bread that stayed warm to the touch.

The Hogwarts house-elves had clearly outdone themselves.

The drinks were just as enchanting. Butterbeer flowed freely, warm and frothy as ever. Tall flasks of Russian berry mead—sweet, sharp, and gently sparkling—were passed around, along with a traditional German honey brew, dark and smooth with a touch of cinnamon, leaving behind a faint chill on the tongue like a sip of winter.

Laughter rang out beneath the candlelight, filling every corner of the hall. For a while, no one thought of scores or houses or schools. The night unfolded in a blur of food, voices, and music—and when it finally began to wind down, no one felt tired, only a little reluctant, as though the evening had slipped past too quickly.

But like all good things, it had to end.

When the clock struck midnight, the visiting schools rose from their seats. The farewells were brief, exchanged with small smiles, firm handshakes, and the familiar words shared by all: they would meet again next year.

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Author's Note:

I found it really difficult to write about the finals, but I hope it turned out okay. I kept this arc short on purpose because I didn't want to drag it out.

The first year will wrap up in the next chapter or two, and things will really start to get interesting. 😁

The pacing will pick up. The following years will move much faster, and I'll do my best to keep everything engaging.

Marvel events will pop up now and then, but nothing major until the fourth year, when a big Marvel plotline will kick off.

Please leave feedback. Thank you all for your support!

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