As Harry's consciousness began to fade under the Dementor's grip, someone seized his arm and pulled him upward.
It was none other than Mirabel—the tyrant of Slytherin, who was currently Harry's enemy.
She hauled Harry into the air, slapped his cheek hard, and jolted him awake.
A sharp crack echoed through the air, and Harry's eyes flew wide from the sudden impact.
"There. Stay strong. The Dementors are gone."
Harry stood dazed for several seconds before remembering that the match was still in progress. He looked around frantically and confirmed the game was indeed continuing.
"Thank Merlin, it's not over yet." He sighed in relief and tried to regain his composure, but his body refused to obey him—his fingers were numb with cold.
"Wood's called for a second timeout. You should go down and rest for a while. Don't forget to eat some chocolate."
When you encounter a Dementor, your body grows cold and won't move properly. The most effective remedy is chocolate. I don't fully understand why chocolate works, but since it seems effective even with ordinary, non-magical chocolate, it's probably just an efficient food to consume when your body temperature drops. In short, as long as it contains protein, carbohydrates, and sugar, anything will do.
Mirabel herself returned to the changing room and took some of the chocolate Madam Hooch was distributing to the players. It was utterly humiliating, but even Mirabel couldn't escape the Dementors' influence. This couldn't be helped—we're all human, after all.
She gnawed on the chocolate with a grim expression, gradually restoring her physical condition. However, the Dementors' influence wasn't something that could be completely shaken off so easily. Mirabel's body was still far from peak condition.
"You lot—can you still move?"
"Ah, yeah... I'm fine."
After swallowing the chocolate, she asked the other players. Marcus shook himself but spoke firmly. However, it was clear his body was breaking down. Continuing the match any further might be dangerous.
She had wanted to widen the point gap a little more, but it was probably best to end things here without being greedy.
"Hold on for three more minutes. I'll finish this then."
"Right, got it."
Having decided to deliver the final blow, Mirabel once again took to the sky.
Harry returned shortly after, and the two of them entered their final confrontation—likely the last of the match. Harry's face was still pale, but he seemed to have recovered somewhat from earlier.
"Right then. No one left to interfere. Let's fight with everything we have."
"..."
Harry glared sharply at Mirabel, who was making light conversation. But even that defiance felt pleasant to her. The thought of twisting those honest green eyes into submission brought her a perverse sense of pleasure.
As the whistle signaling the match's resumption sounded, Harry shifted his gaze away from Mirabel and scanned the pitch frantically. This quick shift in focus was another of his strengths.
Right! Nothing. Only the relentless rain fell there.
Left! He saw the Bludger coming and twisted his body swiftly to avoid it. No Snitch here either.
Front! Mirabel still wore that defiant, confident smile. Harry vowed to break that expression and looked away.
Behind him! He saw Fred batting the Bludger back. And a little further away—a small golden shadow.
"!"
Before he could think, Harry was already flying. Crouching low, he shot forward at high speed, becoming one with his broomstick. At the same time, Mirabel took off, and the two flew side by side.
Faster, faster, faster!
Harry focused his mind solely on what lay ahead, accelerating rapidly.
I can do this. I won't lose. I've always won this way before. If I've managed to get into a head-to-head race like this, there's no way I can lose!
Yes, as Harry charged forward, brimming with confidence, he caught a glimpse of Mirabel's smile deepening for just an instant.
And then—
The silver arrow effortlessly left Harry's Nimbus behind.
"...What?"
It was indeed like a single arrow that had been fired. Harry could only stare in disbelief as she flew straight toward the target at an impossible speed.
The Nimbus was still accelerating at full throttle. He was definitely flying with everything he had. So why was Mirabel still ahead of him?
She was so far away... Harry thought. Her back, growing smaller as she left him behind, seemed impossibly distant.
In reality, it was only a matter of seconds, and the distance between them was no more than five meters. But to Harry, those few seconds felt like an eternity, and Mirabel's back seemed to stretch on forever.
"Wait..."
His outstretched hand, moving without conscious thought, reached out desperately. But his trembling fingers never reached Mirabel's back.
The green eyes that had been filled with confidence just moments ago were now wide with despair.
And then, right before Harry's eyes, the golden girl caught the Golden Snitch.
In the pouring rain, the Gryffindor players sat on the pitch in stunned silence. No one could utter a word, and the crowd was silent as if frozen in time.
Wood stared at the scoreboard as if his soul had been ripped from his body, while Harry gazed into empty space, unaware that the Nimbus had fallen from his hands.
"What is this? What's happening? This result..."
The score displayed on the scoreboard: 240 to 0.
The overwhelming gap left everyone unable to face reality. This had to be some kind of nightmare. Surely, if they just woke up, the match wouldn't have even started yet, and they'd be laughing about their terrible dream as they headed to the Great Hall.
But reality was merciless. No matter how long they waited, there was no waking from this nightmare.
"Weren't we supposed to be the best team Hogwarts had ever seen?"
As a team, they shouldn't have lost. No—they definitely should have won. Their team was clearly superior. Yet they lost! Because of a single factor. Because one person joined Slytherin!
"Is this really happening...? This... this..."
A single genius easily surpasses and tramples the efforts of others. Such examples are countless in the world—cruel and inescapable. An unavoidable natural disaster. No, a man-made disaster. Those caught up in it can only lament their powerlessness and surrender.
"IS THIS REALLY OKAY?!"
No one could answer Wood's blood-curdling scream. McGonagall sank to her knees in her mud-covered robes, overcome with despair, and the cheering section couldn't utter a sound. Only the Slytherin supporters continued their wild celebration.
(We've lost...)
Harry stared blankly into the void, his eyes unfocused. He desperately tried to figure out what had gone wrong, but nothing came to mind.
Was the weather bad? The opponent faced the same conditions. Thanks to Hermione, visibility had been good.
Did the Dementors interfere? Mirabel had already driven them away. They'd even been given time to eat chocolate and rest. Sure, it made him feel worse, but the same applied to the opponent.
Did they use underhanded tactics? ...When? When had the opponent used dirty tricks? Slytherin usually resorted to foul play, but this time they had fought completely fairly. They'd adhered to fair play so thoroughly that there was no denying it.
Then... then it was "because Mirabel was there"?
...Ah, I see. There's no other reason I can think of. We lost because we were struck by a disaster beyond ordinary human control—Mirabel Beresford.
In short, it was unavoidable. We were caught up in an unavoidable disaster, and we're not at fault in any way. Losing to Mirabel is inevitable, and there's no need to feel ashamed. There was no one in her path—everything was simply trampled equally. We were just unlucky. Nothing more.
Having thought that far, Harry... punched himself in the face.
(That's not right!)
This line of thinking was no good. If he kept thinking like this, he'd never be able to defeat that girl. He'd become less than a loser—a pathetic wretch!
So he wouldn't admit it. He wouldn't admit that he lost simply because Mirabel was there.
Reasons. He needed reasons. Any excuse would do. It didn't matter if it was forced or pathetic. If he accepted defeat, his heart would break. He'd never be able to face that girl again.
Harry screamed from the depths of his soul. With every fiber of his being, every emotion inside him screamed in defiance.
(We weren't prepared enough! Our strategy was inadequate! We didn't want it badly enough! We couldn't coordinate properly! Our brooms were inferior! The Snitch was in a bad position! See? I can think of all these reasons! There are still so many factors! Sure, we lost, but that doesn't mean we have no chance of winning!)
Harry Potter would not break. The heart that Dumbledore had praised as possessing "perfect mental fortitude" would never yield.
Selfishly, recklessly, even stubbornly—the strength to remain unyielding despite contradictions, to stay true to oneself. That heart, which resonated with Mirabel's own, was Harry's true strength.
Therefore, he would not accept defeat. He would acknowledge losing, but he would not yield.
"Hmm? What's this? I thought I'd broken his spirit, but there's someone here still brimming with fighting spirit."
Harry, who had renewed his determination and regained his composure, heard the cheerful voice of a girl. Despite winning by such an overwhelming margin, she seemed to find it strange—yet amusing—that the boy had already regained the spark in his eyes.
Perhaps it was just his imagination, but her voice seemed filled with genuine joy.
"...I lost. I won't try to hide that."
"That's right. You're a loser with no excuses."
"But I won't admit it."
He stared straight at Mirabel with unwavering resolve. It wasn't the gaze of someone who had just been utterly defeated, but one that seemed almost noble.
"I won't admit that I can't beat you. I won't admit that my defeat was predetermined simply because you were there. It was because I lacked better broom performance, because of the weather, because I didn't want it enough. If those factors had been different, we might have had a chance. That's what I believe."
"That's a pathetic excuse, Potter. Nothing but the desperate ramblings of a loser."
"Yes, I'm a loser. That's exactly why I'll keep howling. I'll keep howling again and again. If I stop barking, I'm not even a loser anymore—I'm just a beaten dog."
Mirabel stared at Harry with a blank expression. Harry glared back with unshakeable resolve.
Several seconds passed. The silence was broken by Mirabel's delighted laughter.
"Huh... heh... pfft, hehehehe...! Ahahahahahaha!"
"How amusing—truly amusing, Harry Potter. To accept being a loser yet refuse to admit defeat. I never thought such a person existed. It seems I underestimated you."
"The Boy Who Lived," "the protagonist," "Dumbledore's favorite"—whenever Mirabel looked at Harry or judged him, these labels had always served as filters. Her evaluation of Harry himself had always ranked below Hermione's, and she'd never thought that assessment wrong.
But she'd been mistaken. What was truly special wasn't his circumstances or relationships, but the state of his heart. Sometimes he caused trouble for others, acted recklessly—but his heart, overflowing with courage and refusal to surrender, was an unparalleled strength.
"I'll acknowledge it, Harry Potter—proud loser. I'll allow you to challenge this Mirabel. You've earned that right."
She offered her heartfelt praise without hesitation. From now on, she would no longer judge him through the lens of "original protagonist." She would acknowledge him as a person—a human being worthy of standing before her.
"Since you've made that declaration, you should at least do something about that broom. Not some off-the-shelf model you can buy at any shop, but an international-grade broom worthy of you."
Harry's instincts were unmatched. For him, the Nimbus 2000 was no longer sufficient. He needed something better—something of the caliber used by national teams, or perhaps a specially tuned broom like Mirabel's Silver Arrow.
"If you can eliminate all the factors that caused your defeat and truly believe you can beat me, then challenge me anytime. I won't choose the time or place. I'll accept your challenge whenever you're ready."
Mirabel said this with complete satisfaction and turned to leave. But there are always fools who ruin a perfect moment, no matter the situation.
He should have waited until Mirabel had left, but he couldn't resist. Malfoy, with a genuinely delighted expression, leaped from the stands and began mocking Harry.
"Brilliant, Potter! I've never seen such a pathetic defeat before! What a shame—if only my arm had been working, I would have beaten you just like that!"
Malfoy spoke while taunting Harry, with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. All he could see was Harry, crushed and defeated. Therefore, he didn't notice the deadly gleam that flickered in the golden eyes watching him.
"How pitiful! You were absolutely pathetic when the Dementors came! And after all that help, you still lost like that!"
The first to notice were the Slytherin team members who had been laughing along with Malfoy. Next, Crabbe and Goyle noticed and slowly backed away from Malfoy with pale faces. But Malfoy remained oblivious and continued his mocking with a smug expression.
"I've never seen a more pathetic player! I'd be so embarrassed I'd want to die!"
"Malfoy."
It was a dangerous voice, cold as winter ice. There was no trace of her usual arrogance or emotional outbursts—just an eerie, deadly calm. And that was what made it so terrifying.
It stopped Malfoy's words and froze him in place.
"That is a proud loser I have acknowledged. I will not tolerate you insulting him."
"...!"
Those cold, golden eyes fixed on him made it impossible to breathe. There was no trace of her usual intimidating presence. Instead, there was only the terror of feeling a razor-sharp blade pressed against his throat.
"Well then, Potter. I look forward to our next battle."
With a final smile, Mirabel waved and swept from the pitch, her robes billowing behind her. Following her lead, Marcus and the rest of the Slytherin team also departed, leaving behind the defeated Gryffindor team, Harry, and a thoroughly cowed Malfoy.
Watching the golden girl's retreating figure, Harry clenched his fist and made a firm resolution.
"I can't win yet. But I will catch up to you, no matter what it takes."