For the rest of the meeting, the four prefects kept hammering home how important the House Cup was and how crucial Quidditch was to winning it. But when it came to actually improving their win rate? Crickets. Nobody had a single solid idea.
After talking in circles for what felt like hours, Joel finally threw his hands up, ending the loop.
"Look, if all else fails, we'll just embrace being the nerds."
"Let them talk. We'll just keep our heads down and study."
The four of them exchanged a look, sharing a bitter smile.
Right at that moment, Richie, happily munching on a brandy fruitcake, casually chimed in.
"If you guys genuinely want to boost your Quidditch win rate, the first thing you have to do is make the house actually care about the game."
"Huh?" All four prefects turned to stare at him.
Penelope leaned in, curious. "What are you thinking, Harland?"
Richie swallowed a mouthful of the dense, rich cake, swinging his legs happily. It had a slightly weird name, but the texture and flavor were out of this world.
Answering Penelope's question, he pulled out another piece and took a bite. "The low win rate probably isn't just on the team."
"It's a culture issue. Specifically, Ravenclaw's academic vibe is way too intense. It's so suffocating that it chokes out everything else."
"In our house, the general consensus is: why waste time doing literally anything else when you could be studying?"
"Because of that, nobody really pays attention to Quidditch. People don't go to the matches, and they definitely don't show any support. The team internalizes that. Between the guilt of 'wasting time' and the total lack of hype from their housemates, they just give up. They stop fighting it and spend their practice time studying instead."
"When that happens, obviously Ravenclaw isn't going to stand a chance against houses that actually grind out practice hours and have better gear."
"Then, because we aren't earning any house points from Quidditch, people care even less. The interest completely tanks."
"And boom—you've got yourself a toxic cycle."
The four prefects slowly nodded in agreement.
Why waste time when you could be studying?
That was exactly the atmosphere in Ravenclaw Tower.
Quidditch was a universal sport. It was practically a religion in the wizarding world. It wasn't like kids from wizarding families suddenly stopped liking the game the second they got sorted into Ravenclaw.
But they just couldn't compete with the raw academic obsession of the Muggle-borns. Those kids hadn't grown up with Quidditch culture; the second they arrived, they were fully locked in on learning magic.
Catching that infectious drive, the other students had to suppress their love for the sport and throw themselves into their books just to keep up.
And just like Richie said, the cycle took over. The academic pressure cooker got more intense, the Quidditch team got completely ignored, and eventually, they just faded into irrelevance.
Joel let out a heavy sigh of defeat. "We know all that. But the problem is... having a strong academic culture isn't a bad thing."
"That's just who we are. That's Ravenclaw."
Richie rubbed his face. For some reason, his cheeks felt a little flushed and hot, but he kept going.
"You're right. Everyone here would rather spend their time studying."
"So... what if Quidditch was studying?"
That blunt, A-equals-B logic hit the prefects like a wall.
"Quidditch is studying?"
Renee started turning the phrase over in her head. "You mean... we make everyone study the game itself?"
"Like, study the formations? The physical plays?"
Richie held up a finger, wagging it back and forth. "Nope. Not even close."
"The reason we like studying is because of the payoff. The satisfaction of gaining knowledge and the pure high of solving a massive problem."
"So, why not trigger that exact same feeling during a Quidditch match?"
The four older students looked thoughtful, a spark of inspiration finally catching in their eyes.
"For example..." Richie leaned forward. "Using the pitch to field-test academic theories."
"Let me ask you guys a few questions."
"During flight, do the vibrational frequencies of the brooms sync up? And if so, under what specific conditions?"
"During a match, does the Golden Snitch's flight path alter based on the Seeker's starting coordinates?"
"If two targets are at the exact same distance, what variable dictates a straight-line Bludger's target selection?"
Hit with the sudden barrage of questions, the prefects froze. Almost instinctively, their brains kicked into overdrive.
"Vibrational syncing... that would involve magical aerodynamics. The ambient magic bleeding off the runes getting absorbed by neighboring brooms... hmm..."
"The Snitch's flight path? Isn't it just RNG? No, wait, that's intellectually lazy. There has to be an underlying algorithm..."
"Equal distance Bludger targeting... I don't think I've ever read a case study on that..."
Watching the four prefects get sucked down the rabbit hole, Richie let out a loud hiccup.
"When dealing with theoretical or highly debated variables, field testing is the only way to establish factual truth. The only way to get real data is to get up in the air on a broom and run the experiment."
"So, why not crowdsource the problem?"
"Throw these questions at the rest of the house. Let them formulate their own hypotheses, and then use the actual Quidditch match as the testing ground to prove who's right."
Their eyes lit up. Joel literally clapped his hands together, his face flushed with excitement.
"Drafting a hypothesis, running a live field test, and securing the data! It triggers the exact same dopamine hit we get from grinding out a tough equation!"
"Plus, the absolute chaos of everyone aggressively debating their theories in the stands? The emotional investment would be off the charts."
"Honestly, Harland, the way you pitched that just now... I'm suddenly hyped to go to a match!"
Penelope watched Richie swaying slightly in his seat, her eyes full of sheer admiration.
"You diagnosed the systemic flaw in our sports culture in minutes and pitched a flawless, tailor-made solution."
"Richie, your brain is honestly terrifying."
Tristan nodded, a relaxed grin breaking across his face.
"If Razeem heard this, he'd probably tackle you in a bear hug and start weeping."
"Who... who's Razeem?"
Richie shook his head. His vision was definitely starting to blur around the edges.
Weird. Adrenaline crash, maybe? I just need to finish eating and pass out.
Without missing a beat, he shoved his fifth slice of cake into his mouth.
"Oh, right," Tristan explained. "He's our team captain. Razeem Gideon."
"He's been pulling his hair out since day one trying to figure out how to rally the house."
"Rallying..."
Suddenly, to the utter shock of the four prefects, Richie pushed himself to his feet. He swayed dangerously, slurring his words.
"Rallying people is super easy... you just need a killer hook... something like..."
"If we treat the Snitch and the Bludgers as raw variables... and the pitch as our parchment..."
"Then our brooms are our quills... and the sky is just ink waiting to be spilled."
"Quidditch isn't a sport anymore... it's a live-fire intelligence test."
Having delivered his mic-drop manifesto, Richie stumbled wildly. Running on fumes and pure survival instinct, he collapsed straight into Penelope, who was sitting closest to him.
Please. Passing out on a girl is infinitely better than eating the stone floor.
"Harland!"
Penelope caught him in a panic. But a second later, she caught a harsh whiff of alcohol. Her expression twisted in utter confusion.
"Is he... drunk?!"
The four prefects stared at each other in stunned silence.
Richie was already dead to the world, snoring softly against her shoulder.
Meanwhile, down in the Hufflepuff common room, a certain badger was staring at a piece of cake in her hand, scratching her head in confusion.
"Why don't these have any alcohol in them?"
"Did my tolerance go up?"
She peeked into her woven bag and realized that aside from the cake, it was packed with food she absolutely hated: pumpkin pasties, mashed potatoes, and wasabi crackers...
A horrifying realization suddenly hit her, and the blood drained from her face.
"Oh crap. Did that kid..."