You can read ahead up to 110 chapters on my Patreon: spatreon/darkshadow6395
Early morning.
Brilliant sunlight spilled over the towers of Hogwarts, casting the castle in a golden shimr. The splendid weather seed almost as if the skies themselves were paying homage to the excited young witches and wizards gathering below.
As the great gates of the castle creaked open, students, granted a break from lessons, stread out in high spirits, chattering animatedly in tight little groups about their favourite house team players.
Pupils from every year brimd with anticipation.
Every face shone with irrepressible enthusiasm and delight.
"I hardly slept a wink last night, kept imagining today's final score."
"Oh? Sounds like you wagered all your remaining pocket money, didn't you?"
"Not just that! I even borrowed a fair sum of campus credit from Miss Grindelwald. The interest's steep, but if I win, I won't be short on sweets or Zonko's tricks for the next seven years."
"Bliy, you actually borrowed from that witch? Aren't you scared she'll hex your whole family into working off the debt if you can't pay up? I heard one of her relatives was just ntioned in The Daily Prophet again!"
"I wanted to borrow from the Ian Fund, you know, the one our Ravenclaw professor-in-training runs, but he said he doesn't loan to gamblers. What else was I supposed to do? This is the one chance a year to make it big!"
"Well, seems our little professor's got so morals left… Although I've heard whispers that back before he started tutoring Grindelwald, he wasn't quite so noble."
...
The air buzzed with excited murmurs and inside jokes.
The so-called grand event was, of course, the Quidditch House Final, yet Ian had still chosen to slip away for a few monts, returning to the Room of Requirent to tend to his collection of enchanted flora, feeling neither thrilled nor nostalgic.
Not a chance.
To most Hogwarts students, today marked a festive highlight of the year. But for Ian, Quidditch had never held much appeal. A sport so riddled with imbalance, where one small enchanted ball determined the fate of nearly every match, hardly seed fair.
If not for his general principle of blending in as much as possible, and the small matter of the five golden Galleons he'd bet through the twins' underground betting ring, he wouldn't have considered watching the so-called final with the rest of the school. And honestly, the second reason outweighed the first by a margin so thin it might as well be a goblin's hair.
"Watching Quidditch is like asking the Brazilian Minister of Magic to cheer for England's gobstones team," Ian grumbled internally, baffled by the intense eagerness glowing on his roommates' faces.
Even though Ravenclaw had been eliminated the week before, William and Michael remained ardent fans of the sport, waving banners chard with sparkling Hufflepuff colours.
Their tense, animated expressions were sothing Ian couldn't quite relate to.
Maybe they'd bet more gold than they were letting on? For Ian, the real entertainnt lay not in the ga itself, but in the daring betting syndicates orchestrated by a few mischief-loving Gryffindors.
"Honestly, Ian, your flying is incredible. We can't figure out why you're not the least bit interested in Quidditch," William said, hoisting a two-foot-long canvas adorned with a magically glittering Hufflepuff crest.
The banner shimred enchantingly, standing out even from afar, it had been Ian's handiwork after all, requested by his roommates, so naturally it bore a touch more charm than the others.
"Yeah, yeah, Quidditch players practically get first pick in school romance," added Michael, always oddly mature when it ca to such things.
Perhaps it was due to recent romantic woes, his friend had beco entirely enamoured with a Slytherin Chaser. And today's final was, of course, Slytherin versus Hufflepuff.
"I don't reckon Ian needs any dating privileges," William muttered under his breath, not in jest, but with genuine honesty. After all, even sixth- and seventh-years were drawn to Ian's power and poise. It wasn't likely he'd face the sa awkward romantic predicants as Michael.
"If Quidditch were a bit more balanced, I might find so interest in it," Ian replied, recalling the ti he had presented Madam Hooch with a detailed Quidditch reform proposal.
Unfortunately...
The carefully prepared plan, compiled over a full ten minutes, had vanished into obscurity. Wizards, it seed, were a staunchly traditional lot. And Quidditch? It was practically sacred.
Even William and Michael were no different.
"It's already perfect, Ian. No need to fiddle with what works," Michael replied, frowning in slight confusion as he glanced over at Ian.
"Exactly, exactly, Quidditch has been this way since rlin's beard was still brown," William chid in. Neither could even imagine how the ga might be improved.
"If you'd ever pored over the past fifty years of international Quidditch match records, you'd realise how much injustice is baked into nearly a thousand gas."
"On average, about fifteen Quaffles are scored per match, roughly 150 points. The point difference between teams almost never exceeds that amount."
"In fact, recorded history shows fewer than sixty matches with point differences higher than that. Which ans nearly every match's outco hinges solely on who catches the Golden Snitch."
"No matter how behind a team may be, or how masterful their strategies, out of almost a thousand recorded matches, eight hundred and fifty-six were decided entirely by a single Golden Snitch catch."
"What does that an? It ans that in over ninety-five percent of matches, the final result rests entirely on the Seeker. I daresay the creator of Quidditch must have been a Seeker himself," Ian said dryly.
"In my view, if that's truly the case, why bother with all the other rules and roles? We might as well have the teams just battle it out for the Golden Snitch from the start."
Ian spoke with the quiet confidence of soone who had spent hours in the library, though in truth, much of this data had co to him during his recent visit to the Twilight Realm, where the ghost of a forr Quidditch strategist had taken an interest in him. The ancient wizard had once advised the Appleby Arrows, and although Ian suspected the ghost still bore a grudge against the Snitch, the statistics were compelling.
William and Michael stared at him, montarily speechless. As Ravenclaws, they prided themselves on reason, and Ian's logic, backed by cold hard numbers, had montarily punctured their passion.
Clearly,
No one else at Hogwarts had ever bothered to compile such detailed analysis.
"Well, now that you put it that way... I'd best start training as a Seeker, or it's bound to end in heartbreak," William muttered, sounding uncannily like a wizened old goblin.
"Maybe the very first Seeker was rlin's youngest son," Michael added, his imagination drifting into one of his wild theories. "And the inventor of Quidditch created the whole ga just to impress him."
William raised an eyebrow. "But really, Ian, why would you go through the trouble of analysing sothing like this?"
"To write a paper," Ian replied simply, brushing so lint off his robe. His tone was almost casual, as if that answered everything.
(To Be Continued…)
User Comments
0 comments from readers