A day at Hogwarts.

Chapter 708 Potter Punches Malfoy

For many, this was the first time they had ever witnessed such a peculiar scene: the Slytherin cheers abruptly ceased, while the Gryffindor cheers exploded like a tidal wave, instantly engulfing the entire stadium.

Harry hovered steadily in mid-air, his fingers tightly gripping the still slightly trembling golden Snitch.

He raised his arm high, showing the audience the ball that would decide the outcome of the game.

The sunlight shone on his sweat-drenched face and illuminated the small golden glint in his hand.

In an instant, a loud and deep lion's roar came from the Ravenclaw stands.

"Boom!"

A heavy thud suddenly came from behind.

Harry quickly turned around and saw that Angelina had somehow flown up behind him and used the tip of her broom to smash a bouncing ball that was heading straight for him.

The black ball was suddenly deflected and spun as it flew into the distance.

“It was that thug, Crabbe!” Angelina gasped, her voice filled with barely suppressed anger. “As soon as he saw you catch the thief, he deliberately hurled the ball at you.”

Almost simultaneously, Mrs. Hodge's whistle rang out sharply as she flew rapidly toward Crabbe, her arm raised high to indicate a foul.

“But it’s okay,” Angelina turned her head, her anger instantly replaced by a bright smile, and even a little tear glistened in her eyes, “because we won, Harry, we won!”

She spurred her broom forward and patted Harry hard on the shoulder.

As the newly appointed captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team this year, she has been under considerable psychological pressure.

Every mistake during training and every tactical choice felt like a heavy burden on her shoulders.

Especially in today's match, Ron's performance was not very consistent and remained at a low level, which could lead to a loss and increased the pressure on Angelina.

Now, with Harry catching the Snitch, Angelina has finally won her first match as captain.

Angelina felt a huge weight lifted off her shoulders, and the joy of relief almost made her want to shout it out. If Harry didn't have a girlfriend, she might have hugged and kissed him right then and there.

Harry couldn't help but laugh as he turned to look at the tall scoreboard—160:40.

Although there were some twists and turns in the process, the score is not too bad.

In the distance, the Gryffindor players flew towards Harry, ready to celebrate their victory.

This match is a great start to the year, and it's also the first match since the resumption of games after the suspension last year. It's very meaningful and deserves a proper celebration.

Just then, Draco Malfoy's broom came to a sudden stop not far from Harry, kicking up a cloud of grass clippings.

His pale face flushed slightly with anger, and he bit his bloodless lips tightly.

"He saved Weasley's life, didn't he?" Malfoy drawled, his gaze sweeping over Ron, who was flying alone toward the locker room entrance. "I've never seen such a terrible goalkeeper, but what can you expect from someone born in a dumpster?"

"Do you like my lyrics, Potter?"

Harry was like a fly buzzing around, his back to Malfoy, arms outstretched to welcome his swooping teammates.

The team's gold and red jerseys flew in like burning clouds, but Ron had already landed, his broom trailing behind him, and walked off the field alone.

“Actually, I also prepared a third verse!” Malfoy suddenly raised his voice, his eyes following Katie and Arya who were hugging Harry. “But it’s too fat and ugly to rhyme, so we’d like to sing about his mother.”

“A sore loser.” Angelina’s fiery gaze swept over Malfoy, and she gripped the broom handle tightly.

Malfoy, unfazed, continued, "Or how did his mother give birth in a garbage dump?"

Fred and George's hands, which had just touched Harry's shoulders, suddenly froze, and they slowly turned to Malfoy, their knuckles cracking.

“He doesn’t deserve your fists.” Angelina gripped Fred’s taut arm tightly, the wrist guard digging painfully into her wrist. “Let him bark, this sore loser hyena!”

Harry clung tightly to George's waist, while Angelina and the others desperately tried to stop Fred.

Upon seeing this, Malfoy burst into a shrill laugh.

"Speaking of which, Potter, you seem to have a particular fondness for the Weasleys' pigsty?" He deliberately imbued each syllable with malice. "Weren't you eating moldy bread there last summer?"

"No wonder, poor thing, who grew up with Muggles, feels a sense of familiarity even when he smells the swill on Weasley."

“Perhaps…” Malfoy’s eyes gleamed in his narrowed eyes, “you actually remember the smell of that Mudblood woman, the Weasley pigsty reminds you of…” Harry suddenly felt a profound stillness.

When he regained consciousness, his fist was already embedded in Malfoy's abdomen.

This punch was so fast that even the fire arrows paled in comparison.

Malfoy found himself suddenly feeling lighter.

He felt as if he had not been punched by a human fist, but rather collided head-on with a train traveling between London and Hogsmeade.

Harry's second punch arrived while his feet were still dangling in mid-air.

The punch landed crisply on the bridge of the nose.

As Malfoy flew away, leaving two red streaks in his eyes, he saw Harry for the first time on the train, and the burlap sack that covered his head one night.

Harry didn't stop.

His elbow strike was like a blacksmith's hammer, slamming heavily into the opponent's chest.

The sound of bones breaking is easy to recognize.

Next was his chin; Malfoy flew up again before landing.

The world suddenly turned very red.

The shouts from the stands and the screams from teammates all seemed to come from underwater.

"Stop him!" someone shouted.

But who can stop him?

Harry just couldn't stop.

Straight punch, hook punch—the fist has its own will.

Malfoy swayed like a fallen leaf amidst a storm of punches.

With every collision, bones groaned in pain.

Harry's knuckles were bleeding, but he couldn't feel it.

Sometimes, a person ceases to be a person and becomes the fist itself.

The whistle blew, and the dean's angry shout pierced the air.

Angelina hugged his waist from behind, and he dragged her across the grass, creating two ditches.

George and Fred grabbed his arms from either side, and despite their combined efforts, they were thrown back four or five feet.

No one can stop Harry at this moment.

He strode forward, grabbed Malfoy as he was about to hit the ground, tossed him into the air, and then got into position, waiting for his prey to fall.

Just then, a hand gently pressed on his shoulder.

The hand was light, yet it carried an irresistible force, pulling him back a few steps.

"enough."

Hermione said.

It was very light and quiet.

Malfoy finally landed, like a bag of discarded trash.

All that remained on the field were gasps and groans.

The setting sun shone through the archway, making the bloodstains appear very bright.

At this moment, Voldemort looked at Lucius Malfoy with a puzzled expression, and for some reason, he felt a strong urge to beat him up.

(End of this chapter)