ELEVENZONE
The autumn air over the Quidditch pitch was crisp, smelling faintly of pine and the ozone of high-altitude charms. Above, the sky was a bruised plum, but the stadium was a kaleidoscope of vibrant house colors. All four houses cheered as one, a rare, unified roar that echoed against the crags of the surrounding mountains.
Albus Potter banked his broom, his Slytherin robes snapping in the wind. For once, the weight of his legacy felt like a shadow he had outrun. He felt the familiar, rhythmic hum of the wind, the competitive adrenaline, and the joy of a school finally breathing easy. Below him, a Hufflepuff Beater-a boy with a bright, easy grin-was winding up for a massive swing, his bat poised to intercept a rogue Bludger.
It happened in the blink of an eye, yet it felt like a lifetime in slow motion.
The Beater's swing stopped dead. The golden sunlight hitting his face didn't warm it; it began to leach the color away, turning skin to dull, porous grey. The grin was erased, pulled taut into a mask of sudden, cold finality. The sound was the worst part-not a scream, but the sickening, wet crack of muscle turning to granite.
The bat slipped from his fingers, clattering against the bleachers like a tombstone hitting pavement. The boy didn't fall as a person; he tilted backward, stiff and heavy as a slab of mountain rock. He struck the grass with a deafening, hollow thud that silenced the entire stadium.
Then, the cheering died. The wind seemed to stop.
Albus hovered, his heart hammering against his ribs, watching the pitch turn into a gallery of silence. The boy lay on the turf, a perfectly carved monument of terror, his eyes wide, fixed on a sky that no longer held any magic for him.
The match was over. The nightmare had begun.