"This is absolutely outrageous!"
Learning about Harry's recent ordeal, *Hermione's* eyes blazed with righteous fury, her magic practically crackling in the air around her.
However, when Harry shook his head with a weary sigh, wearing that defeated expression like a familiar cloak, her anger transformed into the kind of exasperation that made her want to shake sense into him.
"Ha! I never realized Surrey had acquired a house-elf. When exactly were you sold into this charming arrangement?"
"*Tiger*, I want to file a formal complaint..."
"Don't talk nonsense, Hermione."
"Surrey expelled house-elves for good reason—we don't allow anyone to be more skilled at servitude than the Shelbys demand."
"Harry's nowhere near that efficient..."
Tiger stroked *Gunpowder's* chin with lazy amusement, his tone as languid as the cat purring in his arms.
He wasn't Harry's close friend, so Harry's domestic tragedy didn't particularly move him. Surrey was littered with sob stories—at least the boy was still breathing, wasn't he?
Hearing the casual mockery from his friend and Tiger, Harry's face crumpled with helpless resignation, but he didn't argue back. What was the point?
Seeing his miserable expression—like a kicked puppy that had learned not to whimper—Hermione finally softened, pulling match tickets from her pocket with the efficiency of someone producing evidence.
Every family had its troubles, she supposed.
She didn't understand Harry's twisted relationship with the Dursleys, that strange dance of abuse and acceptance—she just felt her heart break a little for her friend.
Today was his birthday, yet no one had remembered.
What should have been the most celebratory day of the year found him locked at home like an unpaid servant, scrubbing floors while the world forgot he existed.
"Alright, Harry!"
Her previously sharp tone instantly brightened like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Hermione waved the tickets with a smile that could have powered the stadium lights:
"Today's your birthday."
"I'm treating you to the match!"
"A match?!"
Harry's eyes widened with the kind of shock usually reserved for receiving Hogwarts letters—pure, undiluted amazement that good things could actually happen to him.
---
"Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a thunderous welcome to—*Tottenham Hotspur*!"
"Hoo-ha! Hoo-ha!"
The cheers hit like a physical force, a tsunami of sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium.
Shouts and whistles wove together into an unparalleled symphony of passion, the kind of raw human emotion that made magic seem pale by comparison.
*Dr. Granger* wore his team scarf like battle colors, waving his flag with flushed cheeks, nearly shouting himself hoarse. His usual calm, professional medical demeanor had been completely obliterated by football fever.
*Mrs. Granger* had vanished into the crowd somewhere, probably off buying overpriced stadium food with the dedication of a true fan.
"Tiger! Tiger!"
"I can see him!"
"It's *Paul Gascoigne*!" Hermione grabbed Tiger's arm, her excitement infectious as she bounced on her toes.
Thanks to her father's relentless influence, their entire family had been converted into devoted Tottenham supporters—resistance had been futile.
Harry stared in wonder at the crowd surging like ocean waves, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs with unfamiliar excitement.
He thought of Quidditch.
He thought of Hogwarts, of Gryffindor, of the intoxicating freedom of soaring through endless sky, wind whipping through his hair as he chased the Golden Snitch...
Halfway through the match, the atmosphere had reached fever pitch. Tiger's colorful commentary—which would have made a sailor blush—drew enthusiastic agreement from surrounding fans.
The most creative and profane cursing in the entire stadium emanated from the section centered around Tiger, who had apparently appointed himself chief critic of the referee's eyesight and parentage.
Someone even offered him a beer in appreciation, though Hermione's withering glare and lightning-fast reflexes ensured it never reached his lips.
Harry had completely immersed himself in this ocean of joy, letting the crowd's energy wash over him like a healing balm.
During halftime, star player *Paul Gascoigne* held up a gleaming trophy from the previous charity match, making a victory lap around the field to thunderous applause.
Then, with a mysterious smile that promised chaos, he surveyed the crowd with the calculating look of someone about to make dreams come true.
Without warning, he hurled the trophy toward the stands with the strength of a professional athlete.
"Whoa!"
Gasps erupted like thunder rolling across the stadium.
The crowd rose as one, a living wave of humanity with arms reaching desperately skyward. This wasn't just metal and gold—this was a symbol of luck and glory, the kind of moment that would be retold for years.
"The trophy's coming our way!"
Dr. Granger roared with the excitement of a man half his age, his professional dignity completely abandoned.
Faced with the glinting arc of destiny spinning through the air, Harry's Seeker instincts kicked in. His hand shot out with the precision that had won Gryffindor countless matches, fingers closing around the trophy with perfect timing.
The trophy was surprisingly substantial in his hands—real weight, real gold, real significance.
Its shape resembled a miniature World Cup, with a gleaming golden football perched at its peak like a crown jewel.
"Oh my God!"
"Lucky bastard!"
"I had my bloody hands on it!"
Surrounding fans turned toward the stunned Harry, their voices a mixture of genuine congratulations and good-natured envy.
"Absolutely brilliant, Harry!"
"Truly the best Seeker in the school!" Hermione patted his back with pride that made her glow like she'd won the trophy herself.
The ball bore the entire Tottenham team's signatures in flowing ink—if sold, it would fetch at least £5,000, though only a complete fool would consider parting with such a treasure.
"Lucky boy!"
Staring at the gleaming trophy, Dr. Granger looked like he might actually weep with envy and pride.
"Happy birthday, Harry!"
"Let's capture this moment, young man."
*Mrs. Granger* materialized behind Harry like a fairy godmother, carrying a birthday cake with lit candles that flickered in the stadium breeze, her camera ready to immortalize perfection.
Nothing in the world could be more worth commemorating than this single, shining moment.
"Thank you, ma'am..."
Harry's voice cracked slightly, his nose tingling with the kind of emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel.
"Hermione, thank you for bringing me here. This is... I want to give you this trophy!"
After the photo, Harry beamed with a joy so pure it was almost painful to witness, his green eyes sparkling like emeralds in sunlight.
Though football couldn't compare to Quidditch in his heart, the Grangers' infectious enthusiasm and the sheer impossibility of his luck had wrapped around him like a warm embrace.
"Oh no, absolutely not."
"This is your good fortune, your moment—I wouldn't dream of taking it."
Hermione shook her head with fierce determination, her smile soft with affection.
She wanted Harry's birthday to be meaningful, wanted him to have something purely his own. Every time he looked at that trophy, he'd remember this perfect day when the universe had smiled on him.
Just then, a meaty hand shot out like a striking snake, rudely snatching the trophy from Harry's grasp with the casual cruelty of long practice.
Everyone turned to stare at the intruder with expressions ranging from confusion to outrage.
"Harry, you actually dared sneak out!"
*Dudley* sneered with the kind of malicious satisfaction that came from years of perfecting the art of crushing dreams, chocolate residue still smeared around his thick lips like war paint.
"No, I didn't..."
Harry's entire body went rigid, his eyes darting around frantically as panic set in. He couldn't bear the thought of his friends witnessing his humiliation, seeing how small and powerless he became in his cousin's shadow.
"Then shut your mouth and crawl home like the freak you are. I'll keep your little secret..."
Dudley patted the trophy possessively, his smile cruel as winter as he turned to leave without another glance, already dismissing Harry from existence.
"Harry?!"
"Who the hell is that?"
Hermione's voice cut through the air like a blade, her transformation from friend to avenging angel happening in the space of a heartbeat.
Her eyes blazed as she stared at Dudley's retreating bulk, her bushy hair seeming to crackle with barely contained fury.
"Bloody thieving bastard!"
She started forward with the deadly purpose of a lioness protecting her cub, but Harry's desperate grip on her arm stopped her cold.
"Forget it, Hermione."
"Even if I brought it home, he'd just take it anyway. I was sneaking out to begin with, wasn't I?"
His voice carried the hollow resignation of someone who had learned that fighting back only made the pain last longer.
"Harry, I need you to tell me one thing, and I need the truth!"
"Whose trophy is that?"
Hermione's stare could have melted steel, her voice carrying the promise that the wrong answer would end their friendship on the spot.
"It's... it's mine..."
The words came out like they were being torn from his throat, but they came out strong.
"Good. I'm glad we understand each other."
Without another word, Hermione calmly slipped on her brass knuckles with the practiced ease of someone who had learned to fight for what mattered.
Harry grabbed her wrist in desperation.
"No, no, no, Hermione!"
"It's just a trophy... I can talk to him... he's my cousin..."
"He's just... spoiled, that's all."
"Your cousin?"
Hermione's tone went flat and dangerous, her anger shifting into something far more frightening—cold, calculated fury.
But seeing the pleading desperation in Harry's green eyes, her expression gradually softened into something resembling mercy.
"Fine. How about I trade this lovely birthday cake for your trophy?"
She sighed with the weariness of someone who had appointed herself protector of the innocent, picking up the cake with deceptive gentleness.
"Of course, I'll come with you..."
Before Harry could finish his sentence, Hermione had vanished into the crowd with the fluid grace of a predator stalking prey.
"You should follow her."
"Consider it an educational opportunity in conflict resolution."
Tiger fed popcorn to Gunpowder, his smile carrying the promise of spectacular entertainment.
"Dudley, may God have mercy on your soul."
After a moment of contemplative silence, Harry crossed himself with genuine solemnity. He knew Hermione's capacity for righteous violence—and Dudley was about to receive a very thorough education in consequences.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
🔥 Want to read the next 60+ chapters RIGHT NOW?
💎 Patreon members get instant access!
⚡ Limited-time offer currently running...
👉 [Join on Patreon - patreon.com/DarkGolds]