"Well, Harry, we thought we could surprise you," George shrugged.
No longer keeping it a secret, Fred handed the broomstick he had been hiding behind his back to Harry.
"Go on, unwrap it," Wood said with a grin. "You're going to love it."
Without hesitation, Harry tore open the brown wrapping paper in a few quick moves, revealing the broom inside. The polished mahogany handle gleamed with a warm amber hue, smooth to the touch. Compared to the school's practice brooms, it felt astonishingly light—almost impossibly so.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Wood said excitedly. "This is the brand-new Nimbus 2000! Mahogany handle, the fastest speed among all flying brooms available—it's miles ahead of the Cleansweep series!"
As he spoke, Wood suddenly seemed to remember something. Leaning in close to Harry, he whispered, "I won't take credit for this, Harry. This broom was actually a gift from Professor McGonagall. Keep it quiet—this might be the first time in years she's ever given a student a broom."
Professor McGonagall?
Harry was stunned. He never expected the stern, no-nonsense professor, who always upheld fairness and discipline, to gift him a broomstick. Was it because of his fame in the wizarding world? Or was her desire for the Quidditch Cup so overwhelming that she was willing to bend the rules?
Either way, it was undeniably a gift—a gift that might have even made McGonagall go against her own principles.
Well… perhaps she had already broken them when she arranged for Harry, a first-year, to join the team. After all, most students had to wait until their second year to even try out.
All of this, just to ensure Gryffindor would claim the Quidditch Cup this year.
Classic Gryffindor. Even the older Gryffindors were still very much Gryffindors at heart.
"Don't worry, Wood," Harry said solemnly. "I'll bring home a decisive victory for Professor McGonagall. The Quidditch Cup is as good as ours this year."
To Harry, this was like accepting a well-paid mission—one where he had already received his reward in advance.
A Tauren always keeps their promises.
"That's the spirit!" Wood beamed.
"Yeah, Harry, that's fantastic—but Wood, why does Harry get a new broom and not us? That's so unfair!" Angelina called out teasingly.
"If you can knock Flint's head off with a Quaffle, I'd get you one too!" Wood shot back before turning to Harry. "Go on, take a lap—show them what you've got."
Show them?
That was no problem at all.
That day, every member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team witnessed something they couldn't quite put into words. But by the time practice ended and they headed to the Great Hall for dinner, their expressions said it all—from Wood to every last player, each of them carried an unmistakable confidence.
Their behavior, of course, piqued the curiosity of many. Yet, when questioned, they refused to give away a single detail, only repeating one phrase: "We've already won."
It was infuriating.
No one likes to be kept in suspense—but everyone loves keeping others in suspense. That's part of the fun.
As November arrived, the Quidditch season officially began, and so did the cold. Most days, the hills surrounding the school were covered in a grayish-white mist, dusted with snow. Even the Black Lake had grown frigid to the touch, ice-cold against the skin.
When Harry visited Hagrid for a drink, the gamekeeper had already bundled himself up in a long mole-fur coat, rabbit-fur gloves, and enormous beaver-fur boots—practically in full winter gear.
This had become something of a regular pastime for them. When they had free time, they would sit together, have a drink, and chat.
Sometimes they drank Hagrid's homemade brew, other times it was something Harry had brought along. With a vault full of Galleons, stocking up on fine liquor was no challenge for him—especially now that he even had land of his own.
Though it was tough on Gianna, his owl, who had to carry the bottles back and forth.
For a small owl, that was quite the burden.
Perhaps it was Harry's experienced manner when drinking, or maybe it was their shared adventure in the Forbidden Forest, but whatever the reason, Hagrid no longer treated him like a child in need of protection.
By the fire, Hagrid would reminisce about interesting things he'd seen over the years—sometimes tales from within the castle, sometimes amusing stories from the wizarding world.
Harry, in turn, would share his own adventures. Though, logically speaking, some of his experiences didn't quite match his age, Hagrid never doubted him. Even when Harry spoke of strange creatures and unfamiliar lands, the gamekeeper believed every word—especially when it came to the unusual beasts. He was always pestering Harry for more details.
In Hagrid's mind, Harry had undoubtedly lived through a magical journey beyond imagination. After all, whether it was the way he called himself a shaman or the unique abilities he displayed, none of it matched anything known to wizardkind.
Hagrid wasn't surprised in the slightest. As far as he was concerned, Harry was on the path to becoming the next Dumbledore. And for a wizard destined to shape an era, nothing that happened around him could ever be considered strange.
--
"Honestly, Harry, I never thought you'd choose to be a Beater," Hagrid said, tipsy. "James was a Chaser for Gryffindor, you know… I mean, what about the Weasley twins?"
"Before them, I'd never seen Beaters as in-sync as they are," Hagrid mused. "Honestly, they might as well be two Bludgers themselves."
"George lost a bet with Fred in rock-paper-scissors, so he became our Seeker," Harry explained, sipping his butterbeer. "Fred and I tried training together and found that we actually work pretty well as Beaters—not worse than before, at least."
"That so? Well, that's good," Hagrid said, patting his belly. "But listen, Harry, this weekend is Gryffindor versus Slytherin—you'll need to be careful."
"There are countless ways to commit fouls in Quidditch, and those Slytherins never play by the rules. They'd rather knock their opponents off their brooms than actually play the game," Hagrid huffed. "And that's not even the worst of it! Harry, before the match, don't eat anything from strangers, and don't wander the corridors alone—oh, right, I guess you don't have to worry about that."
"If any Slytherin tries to ambush you to keep you from playing, they'll be the ones regretting it! HAHAHAHAHAHA!" Hagrid burst into laughter, slapping his knee.
"I can't believe I came here to escape the nagging, and now I have to hear it from you too," Harry sighed. "You have no idea how tense Ron and the others are. Hermione even borrowed 'Quidditch Through the Ages' from the library and reads the rulebook to me every day—I swear, my head's about to explode."
"HAHAHAHAHAHA!" Hagrid roared with laughter.
Even though Harry protested against his friends' excessive anxiety, Ron, Hermione, and Neville had their own ideas—especially Hermione, who worried that Harry might rack up too many fouls and get penalized.
But honestly, Harry thought her concerns were unnecessary. In Quidditch, the worst a foul could lead to was a penalty shot. Even if a player was injured, substitutions weren't allowed—the lineup was locked in until the match ended.
Substitute players were only allowed to enter the game if the Seeker failed to catch the Golden Snitch and the match had dragged on for several days, at which point the exhausted Seekers could be swapped out for a short nap.
To be honest, Harry felt that Quidditch carried a rather primitive essence.
Perhaps it was because wizards had so few entertainment options. On the day of an official match, from the moment breakfast began, the entire castle was filled with an electrifying atmosphere. Nearly everyone was caught up in heated discussions about who would win or lose today's match—even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, who had no games scheduled, joined in the excitement.
Harry overheard parts of the debate, and unsurprisingly, some of it centered on him. One faction was convinced that this was merely another inevitable victory for the great Harry Potter, while the other… well, to put it bluntly, the Slytherins were jeering that Gryffindor should prepare a mattress to carry around beneath him in case Harry fell off his broom.
Honestly, Harry had never planned to hold back in this match, but now? He was even more determined not to.
Tauren were, for the most part, peaceful and kind by nature, but that didn't mean they were saints. They were just ordinary bulls, after all. Harry had met his fair share of Tauren pirates sailing the seas, and even some who had outright pledged allegiance to demons.
By eleven o'clock, nearly the entire Hogwarts faculty and student body had gathered in the Quidditch stands. Many students brought binoculars, and some seats were elevated high into the air, yet even so, it was sometimes difficult to keep track of the fast-paced game.
In the locker room, Harry and his teammates had already donned their vibrant red Quidditch robes.
"How could we possibly lose?" With a serious expression, Wood looked over his team and bellowed, "We can't lose! I mean, come on—how do you lose with Harry on the field?!!"
"Hey, hold on, Wood," Fred raised a hand in protest. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
"Ah, you're right." Wood nodded solemnly. "Even with Harry as our secret weapon, every single one of us is crucial to this team."
"No, no, no, not that," George shook his head repeatedly. "We meant your speech—the one for this oh-so-important moment."
"The speech we've all been waiting for," Fred grinned and turned to Harry. "Oliver's speeches? We've memorized them by heart. We've been on this team since last year."
"Shut up, you two," Wood snapped, clearly exasperated. "I should apologize to myself for even considering that you might have had something sensible to say."
"In any case, this year's team is the best Gryffindor has had in years," Wood declared loudly. "We're going to win! The Quidditch Cup belongs to Gryffindor this year!!"
"OH!!"
"For the Horde!!!"
It was almost impossible to believe that the ones shouting such a battle cry were none other than Fred and George. To be honest, hearing the twins yell that while everyone else was cheering in response to Wood made Harry clench his fists.
Even now, both Fred and George sported a pair of horns on their heads. And not just them—almost every teammate had been persuaded into wearing the same horns and matching headbands.
"You're really not joining in, Oliver?" Fred extended a hand invitingly. "Are you truly that cold and heartless?"
"For Merlin's sake, shut up already—just give me that." Wood let out a deep sigh before snatching the horns and fastening them to his own head.
"Victory!!"
As the doors swung open, Wood led the team onto the pitch, Gryffindor emerging from one side while Slytherin strode in from the other.
The stadium seats had been raised to enclose the field, forming a coliseum-like atmosphere packed with spectators. The air was electric with cheers, and Harry could hear countless voices calling out his name.
Truth be told, this feeling was oddly familiar. The only difference was that, in the past, when he found himself in such an arena, it wasn't for a friendly competition—it was to knock down or kill his opponent.
Well, perhaps this wasn't entirely friendly either.
After all, this was the classic Gryffindor vs. Slytherin rivalry. The moment the two teams stood face to face, the tension was palpable, the air thick with an almost tangible gunpowder scent. When Wood shook hands with the Slytherin captain, they both gripped so tightly it seemed they were trying to crush each other's bones, their faces turning red with effort.
Madam Hooch had to smack their locked hands apart before they finally let go.
She took a moment to remind both teams about fair play, sportsmanship, and the importance of an honest, friendly game—but Harry had his doubts.
Gryffindor and Slytherin had their own… unique house dynamics.
The whistle blew, and fifteen broomsticks shot into the sky. Harry, thanks to the superior performance of his Nimbus 2000, was the fastest of them all.
A roar of excitement erupted from the stands, students wildly waving their banners and chanting encouragement. As Harry zipped past them, he could hear the crowd cheering—along with an unexpected series of… cow moos?
For a split second, Harry nearly lost control of his broom.
With just a glance, he noticed that most of the Gryffindor supporters were wearing bull horns, some even with matching headbands. As he sped past, they gleefully pressed their headbands to produce the absurd mooing sound while waving their flags enthusiastically.
Even as he flew past the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff stands, the bizarre mooing didn't cease entirely—sporadic voices still rang out in support.
"Hello, everyone! This is your commentator, Lee Jordan!" The voice boomed from the highest platform. Harry knew him—he was Fred and George's friend, someone who shared their mischievous streak.
"Gryffindor's Angelina Johnson has grabbed the Quaffle—what an outstanding Chaser she is! And might I add, quite the looker—"
"Jordan!!"
"Sorry, Professor."
As a close friend of Fred and George, Lee Jordan's commentary was under the ever-watchful eye of Professor McGonagall.
It was fitting—she was, after all, the professor most passionate about Quidditch. Sitting at the best vantage point in the entire stadium, even Dumbledore himself had to scoot aside for her.
"Angelina is charging toward the goal—she passes! Beautiful pass! Alicia Spinnet catches it! Last year, she was just a reserve player, but now—oh? The ball's back to Johnson! But wait, Slytherin's Chasers are closing in—she—Merlin's tight pants!!!"
Lee Jordan practically leapt to his feet, pounding the table in excitement. "Harry Potter! It's Harry Potter!! By Merlin's blessed underpants, he just knocked Graham Montague clean off his broom!!"
Before the stunned crowd, a Slytherin player plummeted from the sky like a broken kite, crashing to the ground like bird droppings. Madam Hooch immediately descended to check on him.
But instead of dimming the excitement, the atmosphere in the stadium exploded. Cheers grew even louder as fans chanted Harry's name, the rhythmic cries growing more unified until they reverberated across the pitch.
"I sure hope Montague's okay—er, I mean, of course I hope he's fine, but before that, let me make one thing clear: that was NOT a foul! Even Madam Hooch didn't blow the whistle! Because Montague was knocked off by a Bludger!" Lee Jordan shouted excitedly. "What a move! Harry, that was brilliant!!"
"Counterstrike Bludger! For those unfamiliar with Quidditch, let me explain—this move involves a backhand swing of the bat to strike the Bludger, sending it flying behind the Beater rather than forward. It's an incredibly difficult maneuver! Extremely difficult! Because when you're flying ahead, aiming at an opponent behind you is nearly impossible—but Harry just did it! Brilliant play!"
"Although Slytherin has lost a Beater, the game continues! Gryffindor seized the opportunity to score two goals—both valid and counted!" Lee Jordan exclaimed excitedly. "Poor Montague! He was tailing Harry, clearly intending to knock him off his broom, but he had no idea he was disturbing a sleeping lion—oh, wait, I should say, the Bull-King of Gryffindor!"
"Oh? Madam Hooch is checking on him… let's see—fantastic! Montague is too injured to continue playing!" Lee Jordan burst into laughter. "I am delighted to announce that for the rest of this match, Slytherin will be playing with only six players!!"
"JORDAN!!"
---
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