You can read ahead up to 110 chapters on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/darkshadow6395
Early morning.
Brilliant sunlight spilled over the towers of Hogwarts, casting the castle in a golden shimmer. The splendid weather seemed 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, streamed out in high spirits, chattering animatedly in tight little groups about their favourite house team players.
Pupils from every year brimmed 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.”
“Blimey, 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 mentioned 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 some 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 moments, returning to the Room of Requirement 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 seemed 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 charmed with sparkling Hufflepuff colours.
Their tense, animated expressions were something Ian couldn’t quite relate to.
Maybe they’d bet more gold than they were letting on? For Ian, the real entertainment lay not in the game 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 shimmered 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 came to such things.
Perhaps it was due to recent romantic woes, his friend had become 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 same awkward romantic predicaments as Michael.
“If Quidditch were a bit more balanced, I might find some interest in it,” Ian replied, recalling the time 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 seemed, 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 Merlin’s beard was still brown,” William chimed in. Neither could even imagine how the game 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 games.”
“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 means nearly every match’s outcome 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 mean? It means 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 someone who had spent hours in the library, though in truth, much of this data had come to him during his recent visit to the Twilight Realm, where the ghost of a former 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, momentarily speechless. As Ravenclaws, they prided themselves on reason, and Ian’s logic, backed by cold hard numbers, had momentarily 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 Merlin’s youngest son,” Michael added, his imagination drifting into one of his wild theories. “And the inventor of Quidditch created the whole game just to impress him.”
William raised an eyebrow. “But really, Ian, why would you go through the trouble of analysing something like this?”
“To write a paper,” Ian replied simply, brushing some lint off his robe. 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 come 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 outcome 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.
“Same 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 mean basking in the applause of the crowd, it also meant a hefty amount of House points. But the truth was, that didn’t actually affect the outcome 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 member 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 mercy was a relief. As one of the only staff members, 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 excitement.
All his love for the sport reignited in an instant.
He’d even bought a pair of Cedric-themed underpants last month, clear proof of his borderline hero worship.
“I heard he’s being considered for the national team,” Michael added with measured 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 meant 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 time, 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 times 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 emerge.
Ian glanced around.
Aurora wasn’t present.
He suspected she might be somewhere 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 someone 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 game, just like Ian’s own “Twilight Ledger,” which bore a few uncanny resemblances in design.
“Good morning, Hogwarts!”
“I’m Steve, your match commentator for the day! Welcome 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 commentary 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 something 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.
Particularly students from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, whose teams hadn’t made the finals. Many Gryffindors simply didn’t want to witness a Slytherin celebration, so only the ones with bets placed or coin at stake bothered turning up. Ravenclaws, as always, had a more pragmatic approach; having missed the finals, they opted to spend their time more wisely.
After all, the term’s end was creeping up fast.
With both Houses out of contention and the House Cup standings already a foregone conclusion, many chose to study rather than spectate.
Of those forty-seven absentees, nearly half were Ravenclaws, especially those in fifth and seventh years facing O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.
An extra hour in the library, an additional bit of revision, these choices weren’t made lightly. The House of the Eagle weighed all things in quiet balance.
“Goal! Hufflepuff has scored again!”
“What on Merlin’s beard is that Slytherin Seeker doing?!”
“Foul! That’s a foul! No whistle? Biased officiating!”
…
Even though this wasn’t a clash between House rivals,
The tension between Hufflepuff and Slytherin could be felt in every sweeping turn and daring dive. Both teams played aggressively, desperate for the glory of victory.
And Slytherin’s tactics aligned perfectly with their reputation: calculated, cunning, and not particularly scrupulous. Always pressing at the edges of what the rules would permit.
Within just ten minutes, the match became chaotic, especially thanks to Marcus Flint, who zipped about like a possessed pixie, elbowing others with glee and cackling like Peeves after a prank.
This inflamed the Hufflepuff team’s tempers. Though Ian had little love for the sport itself, he did find this sort of spirited conflict amusing, there was a certain savage theatre to it.
“My proposal: swap their broomsticks for Knight lances and let them have at it,” Ian muttered darkly, a wicked gleam in his eye.
Naturally, no one took that suggestion seriously.
Professor McGonagall, having witnessed more than enough reckless play, promptly called for a timeout. A necessary intervention to allow both teams a moment to regain their composure.
As Deputy Headmistress, her authority carried weight. When play resumed, Slytherin had clearly reined themselves in, though for Ian, the toned-down antics slightly dulled the entertainment.
A great deal of time passed.
And under Ian’s frequent yawns and increasingly glazed expression,
“Cedric! Cedric’s seen the Snitch! He’s gaining speed! He’s going for it!” cried the commentator, voice beginning to crack from the effort.
But the excitement was undeniable.
“Oh! Slytherin’s noticed too! They’re trying to block Cedric! What a shameless interference!”
“Cedric’s broken through! Incredible maneuvering!”
“Both Seekers are locked on the Snitch! This is the match’s most breathless moment!”
Despite Steve’s limited phrasing and awkward delivery,
his enthusiasm was real. The tension on the pitch spilled over into the stands. Ian caught sight of Professor McGonagall tightly gripping the hand of the Hufflepuff Head of House seated beside her.
Clearly, she had her own hidden favourite in this match.
“Could McGonagall actually be a longtime admirer of Cedric?” Ian mused, recalling her deep-rooted passion for Quidditch. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed entirely plausible.
As the final seconds ticked away, the match reached its thrilling conclusion.
“Merlin’s beard! It’s still Cedric! Of course it is! He’s done it again, dodged another Slytherin block at a wicked angle and snatched the Snitch clean out of the air!”
“Cedric Diggory! The golden boy of Hufflepuff pulls off yet another miracle!” the commentator cried, his voice ragged from the strain, while Slytherin players and their supporters scowled darkly in response.
But the game was over.
Although disgruntled, they weren’t poor sports. The stands erupted into wild celebration, with enchanted yellow banners fluttering into the sky and flags waving themselves with charm-induced fervor.
Bang~!
Someone, clearly not a NEWT-level charms student, accidentally exploded a flag, sending a puff of coloured smoke drifting across the pitch. But even that minor mishap couldn’t dampen the mood. Hufflepuff erupted with joy. Dozens of students in black and yellow screamed as they clambered over the railings, eager to flood the field.
Turns out, even the humble badgers had their untamed moments. Cedric was hoisted high atop his Housemates’ shoulders, beaming like he’d just conquered a dragon in the Triwizard Tournament.
Outside of the disgruntled Slytherins, the only other glum faces belonged to students who’d bet poorly. Ian, feeling a bit uneasy, glanced around, he was genuinely worried about the state of the towers tonight.
“And that’s how gambling gets you,” He muttered to himself with a grimace.
He suspected Snape had wagered quite a bit. Among all the professors in attendance, the Potions Master’s expression was by far the most sour. The moment the match ended, Snape turned on his heel and stormed off, his robes flaring dramatically behind him.
“A big thank you to the Hufflepuff team, and to the Slytherin team as well! Together they’ve given us a Quidditch match to remember, intense, spectacular, and spirited!”
“Let us offer our congratulations to House Hufflepuff, and perhaps a touch of sympathy for Slytherin.” The Deputy Headmaster’s speech rang with neutrality and decorum, but Professor McGonagall’s radiant smile made it rather difficult to believe she truly pitied the defeated side.
…
With the Quidditch final over, Hogwarts returned to its usual rhythm. Students buzzed about, chatting and attending lessons, it all seemed unchanged on the surface.
But anyone with sharp eyes could spot the difference. A few students, those who had lost more than just pride, could be seen helping Filch with menial chores, some so grueling they may as well have been under a goblin labour contract. It was a visible reminder of how far some had fallen on the social ladder thanks to their reckless betting.
Lately, Filch seemed obsessed with some sort of explosive experiments, managing to blow himself up nearly every day. And every time he was shipped off to the hospital wing, a few desperate students scurried after him, hoping for a half-decent cleaning job or corridor patrol gig in his absence.
“Maybe that counts as my good deed of the week,” Ian muttered, half amused.
His own exam preparations were nearing their end. The professors had even created a custom examination just for him, a fact that made him more than a little twitchy.
Especially after what he saw in the Twilight Realm.
Grindelwald, who continued to blur the lines between Professor and cryptic warlock, had somehow managed to acquire a rare Uk’ulan Ironbelly and was in the middle of modifying it with some highly dubious enchantments. In the flickering dungeon torchlight, the beast looked far more terrifying than any textbook sketch.
Ian, curious as always, had wandered closer and casually asked, “Is this meant for my final exam?”
He even gave the beast a few cheeky prods with his boot, watching its nostrils flare.
Grindelwald’s reply made the blood drain from Ian’s face.
“No, no… this one’s for the other students.”
The Professor’s smile was slow, unsettling, and full of dark humour.
“You, my deer student, will face a very different challenge. Just a heads-up, eat lightly the day before, or I will record your reaction when you throw up and show it to every class I teach.”
It was, in effect, a social execution warning.
The threat haunted Ian for days. He didn’t sleep well. His mind spun through every possible magical scenario Grindelwald might concoct, each more stomach-churning than the last.
Even now, as the day of reckoning drew near, Ian couldn’t shake the feeling that the Dark Arts professor was planning something far more dreadful than a fire-breathing dragon.
(End of chapter)
You can read ahead up to 110 chapters on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/darkshadow6395