"Whoa! Harry Potter has fallen! But a textbook roll saves him from being knocked unconscious!"
"Eh? Why is he covering his mouth? Did that rough landing make him nauseous?"
"Ah! Look what he just spat out! It's the Golden Snitch—he caught the Golden Snitch!"
"Brilliant! Truly the Boy Who Lived! Living up to his name as the Chosen One, Harry Potter has captured the first Golden Snitch of the season!"
"And this is the very first Snitch he has ever caught in his Quidditch career! Harry Potter earns 150 points for Gryffindor—the match is over!"
Lee Jordan screamed into his magical megaphone at the top of his lungs.
"However! Gryffindor, having suffered heavy player losses early on, was completely unable to withstand the fierce, brutal offensive of the Slytherin team!"
"During the time Harry was desperately chasing the Golden Snitch, Slytherin scored five more goals in a row! The final score is officially locked at 210 to 150. It is a great pity that Gryffindor lost this match today."
"I hope Gryffindor can head back to the locker room and adjust their strategy. Too many defensive holes were exposed in the team today; you simply cannot pin all your hopes of winning on a rookie Seeker!"
"Let us congratulate Damian Black for securing a beautiful opening victory this season!"
"More than the victory itself, what makes the fans even happier is that—despite not participating in a single training session for half a year—Black still displayed extraordinary, overwhelming strength. We have every reason to believe that Damian Black is already the strongest contender for this year's Beater of the Year."
Lee Jordan was showering Damian with so much praise that he completely forgot the standard pleasantries of actually congratulating the Slytherin team as a whole.
Truthfully, Jordan enjoyed watching Damian's games immensely. Damian was the most outstanding, technically skilled Beater he had seen since he started commentating. His only real regret was that Damian wasn't Gryffindor's Beater.
Down on the pitch, Harry's mood was incredibly complex. He was filled with the pure, adrenaline-fueled excitement of catching the Golden Snitch in his debut match, but it was heavily weighed down by the bitter frustration of his team's defeat.
The other members of Gryffindor simply breathed a collective sigh of relief; not being shut out by Slytherin was already the best possible outcome they could have hoped for.
After Harry caught the Snitch, cheers had finally erupted from the Gryffindor stands, which had previously been as quiet as a library.
But the moment Madam Hooch blew her whistle to end the match, those Gryffindor cheers were instantly drowned out by the deafening roar of the rest of the stadium.
"Black! Black! Black!"
That evening, the Slytherin common room was filled with a triumphant, joyful atmosphere. A lavish celebratory banquet had been laid out across the silver-trimmed tables.
Captain Marcus Flint stood in the center of the common room, exaggeratingly recounting the afternoon match to anyone who would listen. Almost every sentence he spoke inevitably looped back to praising Damian's brutal plays.
Holding a glass of iced pumpkin juice, Damian chatted quietly with his roommates in a dimly lit corner.
A slightly youthful-looking, brown-haired girl timidly walked over to their group.
"Senior Damian..."
Damian offered a gentle, polite smile. "Hello."
"Tonight..." The girl nervously tucked a strand of delicate brown hair behind her ear and looked at him expectantly. "Are you free tonight, Senior Damian?"
Damian feigned a look of distress. "Today's Quidditch match was quite intense, so I'm actually a bit exhausted. I'll be heading back to the dormitory to rest as soon as the celebration banquet is over."
The girl showed a disappointed expression but still took out a letter, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Please accept this, Senior Damian."
Damian gently took the love letter and slipped it into his pocket. He smiled warmly. "Thank you."
Her face entirely red, the girl turned and quickly ran back to her friends.
Even though he had deliberately hidden in the corner, an exceptionally large number of people had come over to talk to him tonight. Some came for small talk, some came to heavily hint that they were free for a midnight stroll, and several simply shoved love letters into his hands before sprinting away. Out of politeness, Damian accepted them gracefully, making sure not to embarrass any of the girls; his robe pockets were already stuffed with scented parchment.
"I've never received so many love letters," Geralt sighed enviously. "I need to join the Quidditch team next year too."
Jerry shot him a blunt look. "Forget it. Even if you make the team, you won't get a single letter."
Jerry gestured toward the center of the room with his cup. "Look at Flint. He's the Captain, and he hasn't received a single love letter all night."
Geralt gave his bangs a flashy flick with his left hand and grinned confidently. "Well, I'm at least a bit better looking than Marcus Flint."
After the celebration banquet finally wound down, Damian did not return directly to the dormitory to rest. Instead, he planned to go to the Room of Requirement to practice his meditation method and brew a few potions for tomorrow.
As he walked past an abandoned classroom, he noticed something in the room seemed to be emitting a faint light.
Peering through the half-open door, he saw a giant mirror inside. The faint light he had just seen was the reflection of the corridor's moonlight on the mirror's surface.
The mirror stood several meters high, framed in magnificent, ornate gold, and resting on two sturdy, claw-shaped supports. An inscription was carved into the top of the arching frame: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. Read backward, it meant: I show not your face but your heart's desire.
Damian's expression was strange; he realized he had stumbled across the famed Mirror of Erised. It certainly hadn't been in this classroom when he walked past earlier this afternoon. Had Headmaster Dumbledore moved it here while everyone was at the match?
Unable to sense if Dumbledore was currently hiding nearby, he decided to play it safe and act with the natural curiosity any normal student would have upon finding such a bizarre object.
Feigning a look of mild wonder, Damian pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside.
As he came to a halt before the Mirror of Erised, the smooth surface rippled like water. The reflection of the dusty classroom faded, replaced by an entirely new scene—midnight London, where portraits of a handsome, black-haired boy with naturally curly hair were plastered on every building and billboard. He had a gentle smile, yet his posture radiated an undeniable, absolute majesty—a perfect blend of grace and absolute power.
The person ruling over the city in those portraits was Damian himself!
Damian could hardly hide his genuine surprise. When had he ever harbored such grandiose desires?
Since transmigrating into the Wizarding World and realizing the sheer, limitless possibilities of magic, had his core mindset gradually begun to change into something far more ambitious?
Just then, a calm, kind voice spoke from the shadows behind him. "Damian. You found this?"
Damian's heart skipped a beat. He turned around to find Albus Dumbledore standing quietly near the doorway, watching him. Even at such a close distance, Damian's highly tuned True Magical Perception hadn't detected a single trace of the Headmaster's presence.
Recovering instantly, Damian offered a polite smile. "Good evening, Professor Dumbledore."
Dumbledore blinked behind his half-moon spectacles. "I haven't had the chance to congratulate you on winning your first match yet. I watched the game from the stands; it was thoroughly exciting. It looks as though you'll be earning the title of Beater of the Year again this year."
Damian said modestly, "Thank you, Professor. But it was mostly because my teammates played brilliantly; I just provided a bit of aerial support."
"No need to be too modest; you played remarkably well," Dumbledore said softly, stepping fully into the moonlight. He patted Damian gently on the shoulder before turning his piercing blue eyes toward the towering glass. "Have you discovered the unique joy of the Mirror of Erised? I must admit, I am wondering... what is it that you see?"
Damian maintained a perfectly curious expression. "Is that what this is called? The Mirror of Erised? Well... I see myself standing on a very peaceful street."
He chose not to outright lie, instead employing a clever trick of omission. The person in the grand portraits was indeed himself, and the moonlit streets of London he was conquering were, technically, quite peaceful.
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