The morning sun filtered through the small, round windows of the Hufflepuff common room, highlighting the sleep-deprived faces of the students. Many of the older ones looked rather worse for wear, which wasn't surprising. As soon as the "special" evening editions of the Daily Prophet and other mail—including letters from relatives—arrived on Saturday, the students realized that we had successfully gotten rid of Umbridge. As I had predicted, this culminated in a bit of a party. At least, it did in our House.
Yesterday, right in the middle of that party, I hadn't even fully realized just what an irritating thorn in the side of the school that pink toad had been. To me personally, she was merely a frustrating inconvenience who acted inappropriately and wrongly towards children. But for the school as a whole, she had been an absolute disaster, and the students had only endured her at my request with great difficulty. So, they threw a celebration with a drop of alcohol, a sea of food, and generally had a great time. However, everything has a price.
The fact that everyone had stayed up well past midnight inevitably took its toll on how they felt today. Hence the slightly rumpled and sluggish students I was observing now.
However, the looming Quidditch match managed to cheer us up somewhat, and by breakfast in the Great Hall, we were alert, looking good, and generally in excellent shape. Of course, the secret to this vitality lay in a couple of simple potions—the older students always kept a stash of them, and they were the ones who primarily needed them.
"Would you look at this!" Justin exclaimed, reading Skeeter's article from yesterday yet again, even during breakfast. "She's just pouring guano all over everyone!"
"She certainly has a knack for it," I smiled, trying to put together a hearty and tasty breakfast, even though Sunday breakfasts were already exceptionally good. "But let's not bring up guano while we're eating."
"Sorry, my bad," Justin apologized, though his eyes danced with amusement. "According to her, the Ministry is terrible, Fudge is lying to everyone, and he's putting children's lives and health at risk..."
"By the way, yeah," Hannah chimed in, having stopped eyeing the various sausages, bacon, and other heavy foods with doubt. "How did she get all the details of the arrest, the wizarding photographs... Even the correspondence between Umbridge and Fudge—how could she possibly know the contents?"
"Honestly, guys," I said, sweeping my gaze over my friends sitting beside and across from me, "I couldn't care less, as long as she isn't digging for dirt on us. I have my suspicions, of course... but without proof, it's just conjecture."
"Good point," Justin nodded. "But still..."
The smile faded from the guy's face.
"According to these letters, it turns out the Minister knew exactly what Umbridge was doing and how she was doing it, and he approved of it."
"Looks that way," Zacharias nodded.
"And it was all just to provoke Dumbledore and shut him up."
"That's how I understood it too," Zacharias nodded again.
"Like," Justin continued thinking out loud, "the Headmaster is stirring up trouble by telling everyone that You-Know-Who is back, and people aren't supposed to know about it. You get what I mean?"
Justin looked at all of us with a questioning expression, leaning forward slightly.
"Fudge knows the Dark Lord is back," I shrugged. "And the Ministry is covering it up. That's all there is to it. And I can understand his reasons, both personal and in general. Considering everything that happened back in those days—even though I don't have all the reliable information—it's not surprising that Fudge decided to keep quiet about it. But let's put those topics aside..."
"How can we?" Hannah protested indignantly. "At this point, Fudge is an obvious political corpse."
It was impossible to disagree with that. Fortunately, the conversation didn't stop everyone from eating, and even Hannah overcame her desire for a light meal, grabbing a couple of sausages—after all, it just wasn't right without spiced baked beans.
"Many people are going to have to reconsider their plans," Hannah continued, "if those plans involved a future career at the Ministry."
"Do you think," I said, turning to our blonde friend, who had just enthusiastically bitten into a sausage, "that the identity of the new Minister will play a major role at the internal Ministry level?"
"It can't be any other way. It might seem insignificant if you're just a minor clerk. But every Minister brings their own vision to the Ministry, and with that comes a shift in political orientations, economic development vectors, and foreign policy. Often, old political, social, and economic projects are shut down, and entire departments vanish along with them."
"Hm... I didn't realize the impact was that strong," I shook my head, finishing off the last of my oatmeal with raisins.
"Exactly," Hannah nodded importantly. "Changing the Minister literally paralyzes the Ministry for six months to a year. After visiting Justin's house a couple of times..."
Hannah nodded toward our friend, receiving a similar nod in return.
"...I noticed that ordinary people seem much more bustling. Much more proactive. They react to events faster and make decisions quicker. Sometimes the difference is colossal."
"Are you saying," I said, taking a piece of sliced pudding from the communal plate and getting ready to eat it, "that wizards are much slower at making decisions?"
"It seems that way. Either way, changes are coming. And I don't know exactly what kind of changes we should be preparing for."
The group fell into thought, but not for long.
"Look," Justin nodded toward the Gryffindor table. "Ron came to breakfast in his full Keeper's uniform."
"He's pale," Susan noted, not missing the detail as she adjusted her long braid of red hair. "Probably nervous."
"Given the Slytherins' tendency to rile everyone up before an important event," Ernie finally spoke up, "they've driven him to the absolute limit of self-doubt."
"I've seen them practice," I said, having quickly polished off the pudding. "Ron is... not the best Keeper, but he has fantastic luck."
"What do you mean?" Justin instantly perked up.
"Well..." I paused, thinking of how best to phrase it, and emptied my glass of pumpkin juice. "Three-quarters of the Quaffles he blocked or caught were due to a fantastic coincidence, sometimes absurdly so. During one practice, he nearly fell off his broom, hanging on by his hands, but in doing so, he accidentally kicked the Quaffle away. There are tons of instances like that. I just hope he doesn't get too upset and quit Quidditch altogether."
"Why the sudden concern?" Hannah smirked.
"Quidditch is the only thing Ron has started dedicating himself to completely. What if he can actually become a great player? Yes, he lacks foundational experience, but that doesn't come from nowhere."
"Unless you're Potter," Ernie stated with mild resentment.
"Yeah, I heard he became a Seeker in his first year," I said, offering a shrug while trying to spot anything else interesting to eat, though it seemed my body had had enough. "Talent is important, of course, but without perseverance and constant training, even that talent—that gift—won't help you one bit. Meanwhile, a wizard with no innate gift at all, who constantly trains and improves, will eventually surpass the gifted one."
After breakfast, the whole school headed to the Quidditch pitch. By some completely mystical, magical means, I ended up at the very edge of our House's stands, right next to the Slytherins. Needless to say, I found myself sitting next to Daphne and Pansy on one side, and Hannah and Ernie on the other. Sure, there were other students in front of and behind us, but no one I regularly interacted with, so we didn't pay much attention to them.
"Daphne."
"Hector."
"Parkinson."
"I know my last name perfectly well, Granger."
"So do I. What about your first name?"
"Just as well."
"Ooo, what a snake," I smiled.
"No more than usual," Pansy smirked.
"You lot seem to be having," Hannah leaned slightly forward in her seat, "quite a bit of fun."
"A little bit. The weather today," I looked up at the sky, "is nice. Warm. I was starting to worry November would be freezing."
"It will be," Daphne smiled faintly.
The murmur of the crowd was becoming more structured, more focused, and the reason was simple—the players for the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams had started walking onto the pitch.
"You did notice that we've already had snow and a light blizzard, right?" Daphne continued, having to raise her voice slightly over the roar of the spectators. "Now, suddenly, there's sunshine and warmth. Though I'm afraid it won't last long."
"I agree," I smiled. "The weather can be a bit unpredictable. Just a little sun—and suddenly everything is more than fine."
While we chatted about the weather, the teams greeted each other, and Madam Hooch blew her whistle to start. The balls were released, and the game officially began. Lee Jordan was commentating in his usual style, adding a bit of fuel to the fire by disparaging the Slytherins and praising the Gryffindors, but without crossing the line—something he was exceptionally good at. Naturally, McGonagall kept reprimanding him, but when did that ever work? Honestly, I wasn't listening to him or McGonagall; my focus was entirely on the game. True, the chances of me seeing anything interesting in terms of the actual sport were slim, but on the other hand, the game itself—its quality, the increased or decreased skill of the players—helped me evaluate something entirely different, something seemingly unrelated to Quidditch: magical proficiency.
Regardless of how you look at it, a broom is just a magical tool, much like a wand. Needless to say, they are used for completely different purposes and work differently, but it's still a tool. And the more advanced a wizard is in wand magic, the better a flyer they will be. Excluding various exceptions due to mindset and other nuances, of course. That was what I was observing. Take Crabbe and Goyle, the new Beaters for the Slytherin team, for example. They are strong and have stamina; their bat swings are powerful and accurate. But they fly terribly, with poor control over their bodies and their brooms. On the other hand, Malfoy had stopped constantly trailing somewhere behind Potter, and most importantly—he had stopped playing against Potter.
Okay, not completely, but he was no longer "waging war" against him; instead, he was focusing purely on the Snitch. Even if, for now, it was just attempting to find the Snitch, it was still a step up.
The game carried on. The Slytherins, as always, played rough, right on the edge of a foul, so to speak. The Gryffindors didn't hold back either, which generated a sea of applause. The fans cheered, gasping at dangerous plays directed at their favorite players, or rejoicing over a confident and successful risky maneuver.
Time passed. Ron, unfortunately, let one Quaffle after another slip past him, growing increasingly desperate. Did it matter, given the playstyles of both teams? Not in the slightest. Both teams were playing more or less evenly, and even a small point difference didn't really matter—the only thing that mattered was who caught the Snitch.
The weather suddenly took a turn for the worse. Clouds rolled in, and a cold wind began to blow. Drawing my wand, I conjured a couple of thin but comfortable blankets. I draped one over Daphne, immediately receiving a grateful look and a smile, and handed the others to Pansy and Hannah—Ernie could conjure his own whatever-he-wanted. Judging by the smirk on his face, he understood this perfectly well and didn't mind.
"...finally, the Seekers of both teams have spotted the Snitch and are diving for it!!!" Lee Jordan's voice echoed over the stadium louder than before.
The eyes of every fan—myself included—were glued to the Seekers in green and red as they flew neck and neck, completely ignoring the very existence of their opponent. Even I froze in anticipation, tracking the action. Yes, I had known where the Snitch was the entire time, and that knowledge had me shaking my head every now and then, thinking, "Oh, come on, how did they miss it?" But now, I watched intently...
"The Snitch has been caught by Malfoy!!!" Lee Jordan's voice rang out. "What a disaster... What a twist!!!"
Malfoy had beaten Potter by literal centimeters. An ovation erupted; the students were cheering! Not all of them, obviously, but still. According to the rumors, Malfoy had always kept pace with Potter, but had always paid too much attention to opposing Harry. This time, however, it was as if he saw nothing but the goal.
Daphne and Pansy yielded to the general mood, applauding and joyfully cheering for their team—it had been a long time since they'd beaten Gryffindor, making this quite a landmark event.
While the teams landed and accepted congratulations from those who had rushed down to the pitch, I, along with Daphne, Pansy, and the rest of the group sitting nearby, descended from the stands and headed toward the castle, glancing at the sky periodically—it looked like it might burst into rain at any moment.
"Are we heading straight to Hogsmeade?" I asked Daphne, who was walking beside me and had already dialed back her excitement over her House team's victory.
"I think we should grab a quick bite first..."
"It's way too early for lunch," Pansy pointed out importantly.
"I have a solution!" Ernie raised his finger sagely. "The kitchens."
"Right!" Pansy immediately smiled. "I almost forgot that there's an entire community of house-elves working here! You'd have to try really hard to leave them hungry..."
"Mr. Granger..."
The familiar voice of the elder Malfoy sounded from the side. We all stopped dead in the middle of the path and turned toward the voice. Off to the side of the pitch, Mr. Malfoy had literally caught up to us—or intercepted us, rather—accompanied by a man I had seen before but hadn't been formally introduced to: Pansy's father.
"Mr. Malfoy," I nodded, as did the rest of the group. "Mr. Parkinson. To be honest, I thought you would be trying to be among the first to congratulate Draco on his victory."
"Indeed," Mr. Malfoy offered a tight smile, shifting his grip on his black cane. "However, I have already arranged to meet him at the Three Broomsticks. As far as I know, you have a trip to Hogsmeade scheduled right after today's match. I hope you won't find the company of Mr. Parkinson and myself to be a burden?"
It looked like the visit to the Hogwarts kitchens was postponed. Oh well. If we couldn't get a good meal in Hogsmeade, we could always task the local house-elves with it later. Besides, I was far too curious about why Malfoy had decided to chat with me, because there was no other way to interpret this "interception."
---------------
Give me Powerstones if you like the story.
If you want to read 60+ advanced chapters, you can do so on my Patreon.
Patreon(.)com/TheRedSpell