His tone was almost casual, as if that answered everything.
For this particular paper, unthreatening, magic-adjacent, and unlikely to ruffle feathers, their Head of House, Professor Flitwick, had even agreed to help him revise it for submission to the Wand & Quill Quarterly.
Ian had once approached Professor McGonagall with another proposal: a study on whether transfigured fruit trees produced safe-to-eat fruit. The Gryffindor Head had swiftly nipped that idea in the bud, concerned it might lead young witches and wizards to turn their gardens into magical orchards with unpredictable side effects.
After a few additional Transfiguration tutorials, she had also co to realise that Ian's particular brand of magic often strayed into uncharted territory, precise, but undeniably odd.
"Alright, fair enough," Michael said, clearly more invested in the match's outco than academic publishing. "Still, I hope Hufflepuff wins today."
He wasn't just supporting the House for Cedric's sake, he also had his eye on earning a little extra gold to buy his Little Black girl a term-end gift. Michael hadn't wagered more than a single Galleon, but considering how tightly he usually clutched his coin pouch, it said plenty.
"Sa here, as long as Slytherin doesn't win, I'll be satisfied," William added. He hadn't disclosed the amount he'd bet, but judging by the way he avoided Filch lately, it might've been more than he could afford.
"I don't really care," Ian said truthfully.
To be honest,
Which House won the final didn't just an basking in the applause of the crowd, it also ant a hefty amount of House points. But the truth was, that didn't actually affect the outco of the House Cup this year.
Even the least mathematically inclined student, upon standing before the grand point hourglasses in the Entrance Hall, would have realised: regardless of the Quidditch result, the standings wouldn't budge.
No matter who caught the Snitch, the winner wouldn't catch up.
As Ian liked to put it,
Ravenclaw simply had a steady flow of talent. Every mber was a diligent learner, and so, of course, the House points reflected that. Most of the first-year students believed this explanation unquestioningly.
However...
The older years were far more sceptical. They couldn't comprehend how Ravenclaw had practically soared to the top like a Firebolt on Pepper-Up Potion. There were mutterings of favoritism from the professors, but few dared suggest outright cheating, after all, Hogwarts' system was supposed to be foolproof.
For Professor McGonagall, that small rcy was a relief. As one of the only staff mbers, besides the Headmaster, who knew the truth behind Ian's unnatural academic rise, she'd made a point of awarding points more generously to the other Houses.
But even that hadn't helped.
The gap only grew.
Eventually, she gave up trying to balance it, privately advising Ian not to "go too far." Unfortunately, Ian misunderstood her, believing she was referring to his occasional tutoring of younger students.
The miscommunication left McGonagall with little choice but to sigh quietly and let the term play out as it would.
She didn't even have much enthusiasm left for the Quidditch final this year, though that was probably due, in part, to Gryffindor being knocked out in the semi-finals.
"Look! Ian! That's Cedric! A proper legend!" William cried out as they reached the stands, eyes sparkling with excitent.
All his love for the sport reignited in an instant.
He'd even bought a pair of Cedric-thed underpants last month, clear proof of his borderline hero worship.
"I heard he's being considered for the national team," Michael added with asured praise, "but I think he ought to be an Auror. He's got that sort of presence, the kind that scares off Dark wizards."
Cedric, the golden boy of Hufflepuff, had no shortage of fans at Hogwarts. Even Ian, who had little patience for idol worship, could admit the older student had a magnetic kind of charm. Steady, kind, and confident, everything a true wizard should be.
"He was just born in the wrong era," Ian murmured softly.
A strange, fleeting sadness passed through his eyes.
No one else quite understood what he ant by that, how could they? Only Ian knew what he'd glimpsed in the Twilight Realm, during one of his secret visits. A realm beyond ti, where past legends whispered their truths.
If fate had played out differently, Cedric might have been the hero of an entirely different story. One where the world bent around his light.
After all,
All the classic traits of a storybook hero could be found in Cedric Diggory, Ian had exchanged words with the Hufflepuff a few tis and genuinely liked the affable and dependable upper-year student.
That was also why he'd placed his bet on Hufflepuff winning.
Down on the Quidditch pitch,
The players had already disappeared into their respective locker rooms for pre-match prep.
As the minutes ticked by, the once-sparse stands steadily filled with eager students, all eyes trained on the entrances from which their teams would soon erge.
Ian glanced around.
Aurora wasn't present.
He suspected she might be sowhere deep inside the castle, managing her "student finance initiative." Ian had learned about Aurora's enterprising business not long ago, and it had made him ponder just how vast the gap was between himself and soone truly connected to the underground wizarding economy.
"Well, it adds up. With family lineage and a few discreet connections, who doesn't rake in Galleons like that?" Ian was aware that Aurora's earnings weren't strictly above-board, but he didn't necessarily think her version of campus lending was evil.
At the very least,
Aurora didn't confiscate anyone's wand for failing to repay a loan, nor did she send cursed howlers to their families as threats.
Rumours about illegal dealings on campus had always existed, but Aurora's stance was clear: if enough people owed her, one day, they'd all be useful in ways yet unseen.
It sounded foolish to Ian, or maybe just inefficient, but who could say? Perhaps she was working the long ga, just like Ian's own "Twilight Ledger," which bore a few uncanny resemblances in design.
"Good morning, Hogwarts!"
"I'm Steve, your match comntator for the day! Welco to the most electrifying Quidditch clash of the year, expect thrills, spills, and a whole lot of midair mayhem!"
Perhaps this was why the school was considering letting a new fourth-year from Ravenclaw take over comntary duties next season. Steve had passion, but his intonation lacked a certain punch.
And his vocabulary… was tragically basic.
Still, the student crowd roared with enthusiasm.
The noise thrilled Steve. As the players marched out one by one, brooms in hand and heads held high, the match officially began. Ian, however, was already calculating sothing else: the number of students who hadn't shown up for the final.
"Forty-seven."
Evidently, while Quidditch remained the wizarding world's beloved sport, not everyone viewed the final match as a mandatory event.
(To Be Continued…)
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