Arthur Belmont-Prince and The Cursed Mirror: Harry Potter Fanfiction

"Alright, listen up, team!"

Marcus Flint's voice boomed across the Slytherin locker room, rough and commanding, like he was about to lead us into an actual war instead of a Quidditch match.

Which, to be fair, wasn't that far from the truth.

I tightened the straps on my gloves, forcing my hands to stop shaking. It wasn't fear—it was the energy. The crackling, restless feeling in my blood that always showed up before a fight.

Flint slammed a fist into his palm. "They're going to be against us from the start. You hear that? The whole damn stadium. But that's fine. We're Slytherins. We don't need their cheers."

The team muttered their agreement, but I could see it—everyone was tense. The way Montague rolled his shoulders. The way Pucey tapped his foot against the stone floor, restless. The way Flint gritted his teeth when he spoke.

They knew.

This wasn't just a game.

This was a message.

And if we lost, it wouldn't just be a normal loss.

It would be proof to the school that we didn't deserve to be here.

I didn't need Flint's speech to tell me that.

I'd already felt it the second I walked into the Great Hall this morning.

See, up until now, I'd been floating through Hogwarts blissfully unaware of just how much people hated Slytherins.

Sure, I got the occasional weird look. The whispered, "Isn't he Snape's kid?" in the hallways.

But this?

This was different.

At breakfast, I watched the entire Hufflepuff team get swarmed with supporters—Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, even some of my own classmates.

Cedric Diggory got a standing ovation before the match even started.

And me?

I got a hush.

Like the moment I walked in, everyone remembered that Slytherin was playing today and decided they were going to pretend we didn't exist.

Well. Except for the ones hoping I got knocked off my broom.

I tried to ignore it and head to the Slytherin table, but as I passed the Gryffindors, I heard a very distinct harrumph.

"Honestly," Hermione Granger muttered, flipping a page in her book dramatically, "as if dueling skills help you in Quidditch. Flying is about strategy, not violence."

Elias, across from her, grinned at me and gestured to his breakfast.

"Your highness," he said grandly. "Toast?"

I snatched it from his plate, flopped down next to him, and groaned. "If I hear one more person bring up the troll incident, I'm going to throw myself off my broom and end it all."

Elias waggled his eyebrows. "Good luck with that. You'd probably survive. That's kinda your thing now."

I did not dignify that with a response.

Across from us, Caitlyn Ollivander—our friendly, terrifying, wand-wielding menace—looked me up and down.

"You look like you haven't slept," she noted.

"Thanks," I grumbled.

She raised an eyebrow. "Jitters?"

I scoffed. "Jitters? Me? Please."

At that exact moment, my Nimbus 2001 slipped out of my hands and nearly knocked over my goblet of pumpkin juice.

Caitlyn smirked.

I hate her.

Elias elbowed me. "Relax, mate. Just catch the Snitch before Cedric does, and we're golden."

Now I was about to be launched into the sky to duel a Hufflepuff golden boy on brooms going faster than most wizarding fireplaces could keep up with.

All in front of the entire school.

No big deal.

…Yeah, I was so screwed.

"Honestly, don't you realize the entire school is waiting to see whether you completely trounce Hufflepuff or make a total disaster of it?" Hermione said, crossing her arms with an exasperated huff.

I leaned back in my seat, propping my feet up on the bench and taking a deliberately slow bite of toast. "Oh yeah, Hermione. Loud and clear."

Elias snorted from across the table. "Nah, mate, Just, you know, half of Hogwarts hoping you wipe the floor with Cedric Diggory, and the other half praying you crash so hard they can tell the story for years to come." He grinned. "Really, it's a win-win for everyone. Except you."

I groaned, letting my head thunk against the table.

Caitlyn, who had wandered over from the Hufflepuff table with a cup of tea in hand, tilted her head. "They're mostly rooting for Cedric," she admitted. "It's less about you personally and more… well…"

I finished for her. "Slytherin."

She nodded. "Hufflepuff's been losing for years, and no one wants Slytherin to win, even if they like you. Today's basically the one time it's socially acceptable to cheer against you."

I exhaled through my nose. "Great....just what i needed"

At that moment, Draco Malfoy slid into the seat beside me, uninvited.

"Enjoying all the attention, Prince?" he drawled, reaching for a piece of toast like he belonged there.

I leveled a look at him. "Oh, yeah. Love the constant staring. Really makes eating feel like a spectator sport."

Draco smirked. "You'll get used to it. Some of us were born for the spotlight."

"That why you're here?" I asked, raising a brow. "Checking out the competition?"

His expression twitched, just for a second. "I don't need to 'check out' anything. You're a first-year, Arthur. Do you really think you're going to outfly a third-year veteran like Cedric Diggory?"

I shrugged. "Dunno. Guess we'll find out."

Draco leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You might think you're special, but don't get cocky. Slytherin doesn't reward failure. You humiliate us out there, and trust me, no one's going to care that you beat a troll."

I tilted my head, pretending to think about it. "Huh. That's funny—because I thought winning meant we got house points, which would help you, too."

Draco's eyes flickered with something, but his mask of arrogance stayed firmly in place. "Just try not to embarrass us, Prince." Then he stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. "Oh, and—good luck."

He said it like he meant the opposite.

Elias waited until Draco was gone before muttering, "If I ever start sounding like that, slap me."

"Gladly," I said, then grabbed my broom and stood up. "Well, time to go disappoint half the school and enrage the other half."

Elias grinned. "Go make us proud, mate."

The second we walked onto the field, Hufflepuff's side erupted like we'd just entered the Thunderdome.

Yellow banners, enchanted badgers doing backflips, some third-years literally spelling out Cedric Diggory's name in the air with golden sparks.

Slytherin?

We got hisses.

Booing.

I even heard one particularly bold Gryffindor shout, "Push 'em off their brooms!"

I turned to Flint, whose jaw was clenched so tight I was worried he'd snap a tooth.

"Wow," I muttered. "I feel so welcome."

Flint just grunted. "Ignore 'em, Prince. Let 'em talk. We win. They shut up. That's how this works."

Inspiring. Really. Moved me to tears. I'd be telling my grandkids about that speech one day.

I adjusted my gloves, flexed my fingers, and tried not to think about how my first game ever was against a third-year who looked like he could model for Chocolate Frog cards.

Across the field, Cedric Diggory met my gaze.

And—yeah. He didn't have the usual Oh, it's just a first-year expression that I was hoping for. No, he was actually sizing me up.

Like I was a real player.

Which was terrifying and thrilling at the same time.

Because let's be real—I had zero official matches under my belt. My entire strategy up until now was just: 1) Don't fall. 2) Don't die. 3) Maybe win?

I tightened my grip on the Nimbus 2001. The thing practically purred under my touch, like a dragon itching to take off. Fastest broom on the market. Sleek. Deadly. The kind of thing that made you feel unstoppable.

And yet, my brain still whispered: You? Against him? You sure about that, buddy?

I shot Cedric a casual nod, because confidence is key or whatever.

He nodded back. No smirk. No arrogance. Just acknowledgment.

Alright. That was either a sign of mutual respect or he was already planning what kind of flowers he'd send my hospital bed after this match.

Either way—game on.

Madam Hooch's whistle sliced through the air.

"Mount your brooms."

The grass smelled sharp and wet beneath my shoes as I swung a leg over my Nimbus. My heart wasn't pounding—it was hammering, like my ribs were the only thing keeping it from flying out of my chest.

"Ready?" Hooch called, eyes flashing between us.

Cedric sat easy on his broom, like he'd been born on it. Not even a twitch. The Hufflepuff Beaters were grinning—grinning, like they already knew how this was going to end.

My fingers tightened around the wood of my broom until they ached.

You're Slytherin. You fight. You win. Or you get back up and make them wish you hadn't.

"WHISTLE!"

The ground dropped from under me.

Wind roared past my ears, cold and wild, and I surged into the sky—**up, up—faster, faster—**the Nimbus thrummed beneath me like a living thing, slicing through the air so smooth it was like flying on thought alone.

For half a second, it was just sky and air and speed, and—Merlin's beard, flying felt better than breathing.

Then a Bludger nearly took my head off.

I swerved—CRACK! Flint's bat connected with the rogue iron ball, sending it screaming toward a Hufflepuff Chaser.

"Stay sharp, Prince!" he bellowed.

I bit back a retort—because yeah, obviously—but also because he wasn't wrong.

I spiraled higher, scanning for gold—just gold, tiny, flickering, fast—

—and that's when the crowd's noise hit me properly.

A wall of sound—boos from Gryffindor, jeers from Ravenclaw, and the loudest, most ridiculous chant of:

"DIG-GO-RY! DIG-GO-RY!"

Great. Half the school was actively rooting against me, and the other half was busy writing sonnets about Cedric's cheekbones.

I soared above the chaos, the whole pitch spread out beneath me, and—there.

Cedric.

He wasn't looking for the Snitch. He was looking at me.

Sizing me up. Waiting for me to slip.

I shot him a smirk and dipped my broom into a dive, fast and reckless. If he thought I was going to panic and make rookie mistakes—good. Let him.

He followed.

Oh, he was fast. But I was faster.

The Nimbus 2001 tore through the air, and I felt it—the broom's hunger for speed. I skimmed so low over the grass I could've mown the pitch with my toes.

I didn't see the Bludger until it was too late.

WHAM.

A shot of pain cracked through my shoulder, and my broom spun sideways.

I clung on, barely, my shoulder screaming, the world a blur—

—and through it—gold.

The Snitch.

Then a shape. From the corner of my eye.

The second Bludger. from behind me.

It should have hit me.

But everything slowed.

I felt it again—the heat, the thrumming power under my skin. My vision sharpened, too sharp, like the whole world had snapped into brutal, unforgiving clarity. I could see the individual stitches in the Quaffle. The fraying on the tail of Cedric's broom.

The crowd's roar melted into a dull, far-off hum. My eyes locked on the iron sphere—every groove, every spin—I saw it. Felt it. Understood its path.

I twisted—hard—and caught the Bludger.

With my bare hand.

The impact should have shattered my arm. I should have been knocked from my broom, bones splintering under the raw, brutal force of a bewitched iron ball.

But my hand—Closed.

The Bludger thrummed against my palm like a caged animal—furious, violent, and I felt every ounce of it, still no pain to be felt.

The crowd gasped—a sharp, collective inhale.

And I felt it—strength, impossible and wild, coursing through my arm.

The Bludger fought, thrashing in my grip, but I held it—like it weighed nothing—and with a fierce growl, I hurled it sideways into the air.

The air split with a thunderous crack as the Bludger twisted and shot sideways, denting a Hufflepuff goalpost with a sound like a cannon blast.

The entire stadium went silent.

Even Cedric—who never stopped, never slowed—was hanging midair, his eyes wide.

And then I moved—because the Snitch was still there.

It was darting toward the stands, wings glinting in the sun.

I flattened against my broom and shot forward, Cedric right there with me, neck-and-neck. Merlin, he was fast but I was already ahead, every muscle snapping into motion. The Snitch banked left

And before it even moved—I followed like i could predict where it would fly beforehand.

I felt it. Not in my eyes. In my blood.

The wind howled, my body flattening against the broom as I tore through the air, every fiber of me burning with an instinct I didn't understand—

Cedric tried to cut me off—

But he was a second behind—

Because I wasn't chasing the Snitch, dar from it...it felt different but the same, I was hunting it.

The golden blur jinked hard, trying to lose me, and the instinct inside me—the hunter—twisted the broom, pulling me into a roll so tight I felt my ribs compress. The sky spun—blue, green, blue—

And then—

My hand snapped forward.

I felt delicate wings beat once against my fingers.

And close.

The world crashed back into focus in a sudden, dizzying rush.

The stands erupted into a thunderous sea of cheers—Slytherin scarves and banners waving frantically against the evening sky.

"SLYTHERIN WINS!" the commentator cried, voice cracking from excitement. "Prince—he's caught it—he's actually—"

Hovering midair, I stared at the Snitch, its wings beating furiously against my fingers, as if it couldn't believe it had been captured by a first-year. My palm still tingled with that strange, impossible force—the same hand that had seized a Bludger in flight and hurled it aside as though it weighed no more than a Quaffle.

Cedric Diggory landed rather heavily beside me, breath ragged, face flushed with exertion. And yet, somehow, he managed to laugh. A rich, breathless sound.

"You…" he panted, brushing strands of sweat-soaked hair from his eyes. "What was that?"

I flexed my fingers, half expecting them to be broken. They weren't. They felt oddly stronger than ever. "I… I haven't the faintest idea," I said at last, voice still rough with disbelief. "I suppose I got—"

"Lucky?"

I turned, and there stood Caitlyn Ollivander, a steaming cup of tea in her hand. "That wasn't luck," she said softly, her voice carrying a certain weight. "That was something else entirely."

The cheers of the crowd rolled around us—Flint clapped me on the back with an exuberant shout, Montague all but crowed my name.

The stands began to empty. Draco Malfoy lingered in the stands, frowning, as though he was trying to puzzle out precisely how I had not only challenged Cedric Diggory in a fair chase but had also stopped a Bludger with my bare hands. Meanwhile, Hermione Granger watched from the foot of the announcer's podium, arms folded tightly, lips forming silent equations or something....

Cedric gave me a last, measured look—the look of a worthy rival—then nodded. "Congratulations."

Caitlyn, however, offered me no congratulations. She simply smiled over her teacup, with the air of someone who knew more than she was saying.

Not amused, but… interested.

And as for the Snitch? Its wings gave one final flutter in my grasp, and then it stilled.