Chapter 27: Defeat

Harry's consciousness was on the verge of fading due to the Dementors when someone grabbed his arm and yanked him upward.

It was none other than the "Tyrant of Slytherin" — Mirabel, his current opponent.

She pulled Harry up into the air with force and slapped his cheek to snap him awake.

Slap!

The dry sound echoed sharply, and the sudden impact made Harry's eyes go wide with confusion.

"Come on, pull yourself together. The Dementors are gone."

For a few seconds, Harry sat there, stunned. But soon, he seemed to remember they were still in the middle of a match.

His eyes darted around as he confirmed that the game had not yet ended.

Thank goodness, it's not over.

Relieved, he tried to steady himself, but his body wouldn't respond. His fingers were ice-cold.

**"Wood's called for a second time-out. Go back down and rest for a bit.

Don't forget to have some chocolate."**

When encountering Dementors, the body grows cold, and it becomes difficult to move.

The most effective remedy for this is to eat chocolate.

No one fully understands why, but since ordinary, non-magical chocolate works, it's likely due to its ability to quickly restore body warmth.

Essentially, anything high in protein, carbohydrates, and sugar would do the trick.

Mirabel herself returned to the pitch and accepted a piece of chocolate being distributed by Madam Hooch to the players.

As much as she despised the idea, even Mirabel was not immune to the effects of Dementors.

This was simply a matter of being human. There was nothing that could be done about it.

Furious, she bit into the chocolate and began to restore her physical condition.

However, the lingering effects of the Dementors weren't so easily dispelled.

Her body was still far from its best condition.

"You lot, still able to move?"

"Y-Yeah… we're fine."

After swallowing the chocolate, she called out to her teammates.

Marcus replied firmly, though his body still trembled slightly.

It was clear that their physical limits were approaching.

Pushing the match any further would be dangerous.

Although she had wanted to widen the point gap a bit more, it was best to end it before they overextended themselves.

"Hold out for three more minutes. I'll finish it after that."

"G-Got it."

Time to end this, Mirabel decided.

She rose into the air once again.

A little later, Harry returned as well.

This would be their third — and most likely final — confrontation of the match.

Harry's face was still pale, but he seemed far more composed than before.

"Now there's nothing in our way. Let's settle this for good."

"...!"

Mirabel's provocative tone earned a sharp glare from Harry.

But even that defiance felt pleasant to Mirabel.

The thought of overpowering those determined green eyes filled her with twisted satisfaction.

The whistle blew, signaling the restart of the match.

Harry broke eye contact with Mirabel, scanning the field with sharp focus.

His quick shift in mindset was another of his strengths.

To the right!

Nothing but the rain pouring down.

To the left!

A Bludger came hurtling toward him, and Harry dodged with a swift twist of his body.

No Snitch here either.

Ahead!

Mirabel was still there, wearing that ever-confident smirk as if she had already won.

Harry swore to himself that he would wipe that smug look off her face.

Behind!

He spotted Fred knocking back a Bludger.

And just a bit farther from him — a tiny flash of gold.

"!?"

Before he could even think, Harry became the wind itself.

He hunched down, fusing himself with his broom, and shot forward at full speed.

At the same moment, Mirabel launched as well.

The two streaked through the rain, side by side.

Faster. Faster. Faster!

Harry's thoughts echoed as he leaned forward, pouring everything into his speed.

It's fine. I won't lose.

He reassured himself.

He had never lost a head-to-head chase like this.

Whenever it came down to a pure, straight-up race, he always won.

Then, just for an instant, he glimpsed Mirabel's grin deepen.

And then—

—The silver arrow left Harry's Nimbus in the dust.

"…Huh?"

It was like an arrow had been fired from a bow.

It shot straight ahead toward its target at an unbelievable speed.

All Harry could do was stare in disbelief.

His Nimbus was still accelerating at its maximum speed.

He was giving it his all.

So why?

Why was Mirabel ahead of him?

She's so far away… Harry thought.

The distance between them was only about 5 meters.

The entire chase had lasted only a few seconds.

But for Harry, those few seconds felt like an eternity.

And the sight of Mirabel's back felt so distant.

"Wai—!"

He reached out his hand, acting purely on instinct.

What was he even trying to grasp?

His outstretched hand trembled, but it never even came close to reaching Mirabel's back.

The self-assurance that had filled his green eyes only moments ago...

...had now been replaced by nothing but despair.

And then—

Right before Harry's very eyes—

The golden-haired girl reached out...

...and grabbed the golden Snitch.

As the rain poured down relentlessly, the Gryffindor players sat on the pitch, stunned.

No one could utter a word.

The crowd, too, was eerily silent, as if paralyzed by some invisible force.

Wood gazed blankly at the scoreboard, as if his very soul had left his body.

Harry stared into the void, unaware that his Nimbus had slipped from his hand.

—What is this? What is this outcome supposed to be?

The scoreboard displayed the score:

"240 to 0."

The sheer, overwhelming gap between the numbers was too much for anyone to accept as reality.

Everyone desperately wished this was just a nightmare.

When they woke up, they would find themselves back in the dormitory, laughing it off as a "horrible dream" before heading to breakfast in the Great Hall.

But reality was never that kind.

No matter how much they wished for it, no one could wake up from this nightmare.

—Weren't we supposed to be the best team Hogwarts had ever seen?

As a team, they were certain they were unbeatable.

No, they were definitely the stronger side.

Their teamwork, their unity, their strategy — all of it was superior.

And yet, they lost.

All because of one single factor.

Because one person had joined the Slytherin team.

"How… how is this allowed? How can something like this be allowed!?"

A single genius, able to trample over the efforts of everyone else.

It's not a rare story.

It happens everywhere, all over the world.

It's cruel, unfair, and absolutely inescapable.

An unavoidable calamity.

No, not a natural disaster — a man-made disaster.

For ordinary people caught up in it, there is no choice but to wallow in their powerlessness and surrender to despair.

"HOW CAN THIS BE ALLOWED, DAMN IT AAAAAAAAAAAHH!!"

Wood's scream was like the wail of a man spitting blood.

But no one answered him.

Professor McGonagall knelt on the muddy pitch, her hands pressed against the ground, silent and defeated.

The cheer squad, so energetic before, could no longer find their voices.

The only sound filling the air was the deafening roar of Slytherin's supporters, who seemed on the brink of madness from their overwhelming joy.

(We… lost…)

Harry's gaze drifted aimlessly, unfocused, as he stared into the endless void above.

He tried desperately to figure out what went wrong.

But no matter how hard he thought, he found no answer.

Was it the weather?

No. Slytherin had played under the same conditions.

And thanks to Hermione's spell, his vision had been clear.

Was it the Dementors?

No. Mirabel had driven them off.

They had even been given time to rest and eat chocolate.

It was true that his body hadn't fully recovered, but the same was true for Slytherin.

Did they use some kind of underhanded trick?

When? When did they cheat?

Slytherin had a reputation for dirty tactics, but this time… this time, they hadn't done anything underhanded.

They had fought with honor.

So much so that even Harry had to admit it.

They had played fair.

Then… was it because "Mirabel was there"?

…

Ah, I see.

There could be no other explanation.

They lost because of Mirabel Beresford.

They had been struck by a "man-made disaster" so far beyond their control that there was nothing they could have done to stop it.

In other words, it couldn't be helped.

They were simply caught in a disaster that couldn't be avoided.

They weren't at fault. They had made no mistakes.

There was nothing shameful about losing to Mirabel.

The path Mirabel walked allowed for no one else.

She trampled everything in her way, equally and without mercy.

They were just unlucky.

There was nothing they could do but accept it and move on.

Harry's gaze sharpened.

And then, he punched himself.

(That's wrong!)

That line of thinking was no good.

If he let himself think that way, he would never be able to beat that girl.

No — he wouldn't even be a "loser." He'd be less than a loser.

He'd become someone who'd given up before the fight even began.

That, more than anything, was something Harry could never accept.

He refused.

He refused to believe they lost just because "Mirabel was there."

There had to be another reason.

Find it.

No matter how small, no matter how petty or pathetic it sounded, find a reason.

Even if it was nothing more than a flimsy excuse.

Even if it was the most childish, disgraceful sore-loser reasoning imaginable — find something.

If he accepted defeat now, his heart would break.

He'd never be able to stand against that girl again.

He'd be crushed, body and soul.

And that—

That was something he would never allow.

With every ounce of emotion in his heart, Harry Potter screamed.

His pride, his frustration, his burning desire for revenge —

All of it echoed in his soul.

(We didn't practice enough! Our strategy was flawed! Our desire to win wasn't strong enough!)

(Our coordination was lacking! Our brooms were inferior! The position of the Snitch was unlucky!)

(See? Look at all these reasons! There are still so many of them!)

(Sure, we lost. But that doesn't mean we've lost all chance of winning in the future!)

Harry Potter does not break.

The same Harry Potter that Dumbledore once called "possessing an unshakable spirit" would never yield.

Stubborn, reckless at times, even selfish.

Contradictory, yet unwavering. His indomitable will to stay true to himself — this was the very same quality shared by Mirabel.

It was also the source of Harry's true strength.

That is why he refused to accept it.

He accepted the loss but refused to submit to it.

"Oh? What's this?"

A playful, amused voice echoed in Harry's ears.

"I was certain I had broken your spirit, but there you are, looking more fired up than anyone else."

The voice belonged to none other than Mirabel Beresford.

Even after delivering a crushing, absolute defeat, she seemed genuinely surprised — and entertained — by the sight of the boy in front of her.

Her voice was filled with unconcealed amusement, as though she were witnessing something far more fun than she had anticipated.

"…I lost."

Harry's voice was steady, clear, and unwavering.

"I won't deny that."

"Indeed, you did. You're a loser. A loser with no excuse whatsoever."

"But I refuse to accept it."

Harry's sharp gaze locked onto Mirabel's eyes.

It wasn't the gaze of someone who had just suffered a complete defeat.

It had dignity.

It had resolve.

It was the gaze of someone who had lost but had not been defeated.

"I refuse to believe that I can't win against you. I refuse to accept that we lost just because you were there."

"Our brooms, our strategy, our teamwork, and our hunger for victory — we were lacking in all of those areas. If we can fill in those gaps, we'll have a chance to win. I believe that."

"How pathetic, Potter."

Mirabel's eyes narrowed with amusement.

"That's nothing but the desperate excuse of a sore loser."

"That's right."

Harry stood tall, undaunted.

"I am a sore loser. That's why I'll keep howling. I'll howl over and over again, as many times as it takes."

His eyes burned with defiance.

"If I stop howling, I'm not even a sore loser anymore. I'm just a dog with its tail between its legs."

Mirabel's eyes widened. For the first time, her confident mask cracked.

Her mouth fell slightly open in stunned silence.

Harry, his gaze firm, stared straight back at her.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

It was Mirabel who broke the silence — with a sharp, bubbling burst of laughter.

"F… Fufufu… Pfft… Kukukukuku…!!"

Her laughter echoed across the pitch.

Her laughter wasn't like the cold, condescending one Voldemort might use to mock a defeated enemy.

No, it was pure, genuine amusement.

It wasn't laughter born from malice — it was laughter born from delight.

Her laughter grew louder and louder, until she was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

At last, her laughter quieted, but her playful smile remained firmly in place.

"Kuh… Kukukuku… How delightful. Truly delightful, Harry Potter."

Mirabel's voice still held traces of laughter as she spoke.

"To call yourself a sore loser but refuse to accept defeat… I didn't think anyone like you existed."

Her golden eyes glowed with newfound respect.

"It seems I underestimated you, Potter."

Up until now, Mirabel had always viewed Harry Potter through a specific filter.

"The Boy Who Lived."

"The protagonist of the story."

"Dumbledore's favorite."

She had evaluated him with those preconceptions firmly in mind.

To her, Harry had always been below Hermione in terms of ability and intellect.

And she had never questioned that judgment.

But now, she realized she was wrong.

What set Harry Potter apart wasn't his background.

It wasn't his fame or his connections.

What set him apart was his heart.

He was reckless, selfish at times, and often caused trouble for the people around him.

But he was also the bravest of them all.

He was filled with more determination than anyone else.

That heart of his — wild, stubborn, and tenacious — was something that could never be replicated.

It was a kind of strength that nothing in the world could crush.

"I will admit it, Harry Potter. The proud loser."

"I'll allow you to howl at me, just this once. You've earned that right."

With genuine admiration, Mirabel bestowed her praise on Harry.

She would no longer judge him simply through the lens of "the protagonist from the original story."

From now on, she had to acknowledge him as a man — as someone who stood before her, worthy of respect.

"Now that you've howled so much, you should start by improving that broom of yours."

"That racing broom you have is something you can find in any household. You'll need a broom worthy of someone like you — an international competition-grade broom, perhaps, or something specially tuned, like my Silver Arrow."

Harry's skills were exceptional.

For someone like him, a Nimbus 2000 was simply inadequate.

He needed a better broom — one suited to his level, one that would match the standards of national teams or something like Mirabel's Silver Arrow.

"If you think you can defeat me after eliminating all the reasons you lost, then feel free to challenge me at any time. I won't choose the time or place — I'll accept your challenge whenever you're ready."

With a satisfied expression, Mirabel said her piece and turned to leave.

However, as is often the case, there's always someone who's eager to ruin the moment.

Draco Malfoy, unable to hold back, ran onto the field with a broad, mocking grin and started to ridicule Harry.

"Well, well, Potter! That was the most pitiful display of defeat I've ever seen!"

"Too bad! If only my arm had been working, I would've won easily!"

Malfoy laughed with Crabbe and Goyle by his side, making fun of Harry.

At that moment, he was only focused on the defeated Harry.

But what he didn't notice was the ferocious gleam hidden behind those golden eyes — eyes that were now trained on him.

"You were pathetic. Especially when the Dementors showed up. And then, even after being helped, you still lost like that."

The first to notice something was off were the members of the Slytherin team who had been laughing along with Malfoy.

Next, Crabbe and Goyle noticed, looking pale as they slowly started to distance themselves from Malfoy.

But Malfoy, still oblivious, continued to mock Harry, his mood seemingly unchanged.

"I've never seen such a disgraceful player! If it were me, I'd be so embarrassed, I might just die."

"Malfoy."

The voice was dangerous, cold, like ice.

It was so calm that it lacked any of the usual arrogance or excitement. It was eerily quiet.

And that, in turn, made it even more terrifying.

The words stopped Malfoy in his tracks, freezing him in place.

"That is a proud loser I've acknowledged. Someone like you has no right to insult him."

The golden eyes glared, and for a moment, Malfoy couldn't even breathe.

There was no intimidating pressure, no sense of dominance.

Instead, it was as if a sharp blade had been pressed against his neck, filling him with nothing but pure fear.

"Now, Potter, I'll be looking forward to our rematch."

With a final smile and a wave, Mirabel left the scene.

Following her, the rest of the Slytherin team — including Marcus — exited, leaving behind a defeated Gryffindor team, Harry, and Malfoy.

As Harry watched the golden-haired girl's figure retreat, still far away, he clenched his fist, a firm resolve forming within him.

"I may not be able to win yet. But I'll catch up, I swear it."

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