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Friday morning rolled around. As the students filtered into the Great Hall for breakfast, the news of the burglary in the Ravenclaw common room had already spread like wildfire.
"What?"
"You mean that massive strategy board they spent months making is just gone?"
"Yeah, I heard a bunch of Ravenclaws talking about it..."
"Wow. Talk about terrible timing..."
Reactions across the Great Hall varied wildly.
The atmosphere at the Ravenclaw table was incredibly tense, but underneath the gloom was a hardened, fierce resolve.
The rest of the houses mostly just gossiped, treating it like a juicy piece of drama. But over at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy couldn't wipe the smirk off his face.
He glanced down the table at Marcus Flint. Marcus gave him a subtle, acknowledging nod, then stood up and left his half-eaten breakfast behind. Since the data was confirmed real, Marcus needed to use every available second to study it.
Having Ravenclaw's entire playbook was basically like stealing the answer key the night before final exams. It was practically impossible to fail now. Draco and Marcus were completely convinced of it.
"Heh. Boss, we're totally gonna crush 'em," Crabbe chuckled.
"Did you see the looks on those nerds' faces? Oh man, they look so depressed. Hahaha!"
Even Draco's two braindead bodyguards understood the tactical advantage they held.
And all of it was because of him.
Draco stretched out comfortably, already daydreaming about his inevitable victory lap. Father is going to be so proud of me when he hears about this.
---
After breakfast, the Hogwarts student body went about their normal class schedules.
But the Ravenclaws were aggressively multitasking. While they listened to lectures and took notes, their minds were constantly sifting through their memories of Quidditch stats. The absolute second class ended, they didn't waste a single breath. They sprinted back to the common room to continue debating and compiling their lost data.
Meanwhile, Captain Razim Gideon led the Ravenclaw Quidditch team out to the pitch. Instead of running drills, they started physically re-mapping the entire field. They meticulously measured the distance between the goal hoops, calculated the exact yardage from the center point to specific defensive zones... variables that seemed totally insignificant to a normal player, but were absolutely critical to their mathematical strategy.
The entire school noticed Ravenclaw's hyper-focused, borderline obsessive behavior, but everyone silently agreed to give them a wide berth.
It was obvious they were busy, and equally obvious they were furious. Anyone stupid enough to provoke a Ravenclaw right now was asking to get cursed into oblivion.
Of course, Joel and the other prefects had already briefed Professor Flitwick on the situation, so the faculty didn't interfere.
As the day bled into night, the Ravenclaws pushed themselves to the absolute limit. By sheer force of collective memory and scattered personal notes, they actually managed to reconstruct a functional strategy board.
Because it was pieced together from memory, the data wasn't perfectly exact, meaning there was a slight margin of error. But it was close enough.
In the common room that night, the look in every single Eagle's eyes was one of pure, hardened determination.
---
Saturday. Match Day. The sky was overcast and deeply gray. The heavy, damp smell of impending rain and wet earth hung thick in the air.
The students noisily made their way down to the Quidditch pitch.
"I really wonder if Razim and the team are actually ready for this," Terry said, looking incredibly stressed.
"I heard Slytherin drafted a completely new strategy," Anthony sighed.
Richie, Stephen, Terry, and Anthony were walking with the massive crowd heading toward the stands. Given the gloomy weather and the lingering anxiety about the stolen logs, the group's morale was noticeably low.
Stephen pushed up his glasses, trying to offer some comfort. "No matter what happens, we gave it everything we had. That has to count for something."
Richie nodded in agreement. "Relax, guys. The data was only missing for a single day. The team has been physically running those plays for months. The muscle memory is there."
"Yeah. Right," Terry muttered, entirely unconvinced. Richie let it drop.
He knew exactly how Terry operated. Terry wouldn't actually cheer up until Ravenclaw officially won the match. Trying to talk him out of his anxiety right now was completely pointless.
I wonder if Slytherin's "new strategy" is based on the data I gave them... Richie thought, a subtle, predatory gleam flashing in his eyes.
The massive crowd finally reached the stadium and started climbing up into the towering wooden stands.
"Testing, testing... One, two..."
"Today's highly anticipated matchup is between the Ravenclaw Eagles and the Slytherin Serpents!"
"Before we begin, a quick announcement! Due to the impending weather, please see your house prefects to collect a raincoat to avoid getting soaked mid-match. I repeat..."
Lee Jordan's booming voice echoed across the massive stadium.
Richie and his friends grabbed their raincoats and secured seats close to the front rail, waiting for the match to start.
The pre-game routine flowed smoothly. The Ravenclaws had already set up a massive chalkboard near the entrance of their stands, entirely covered in their hastily reconstructed tactical data.
Meanwhile, up in the VIP and faculty box, two wizards dressed in sleek, modern British coats were deep in conversation.
"Reporter Kernburg. I certainly didn't expect to run into you here."
"Ah, Scout Paul! Is the Wigtown Wanderers' recruitment drive dipping into the Hogwarts talent pool?"
Paul gave a slight nod. "Actually, I'm here doing a favor for someone. But as you know, the Wanderers are always on the hunt for fresh blood. What brings the press out here?"
Kernburg smirked and pointed across the stadium at the massive chalkboard in the Ravenclaw stands. "Do you see that? That is a brand new tactical system Ravenclaw developed. They call it 'Data-Driven Quidditch Strategy.' They absolutely dismantled Hufflepuff using it in their last match."
Kernburg raised the heavy camera strapped around his neck and snapped several rapid-fire photos of the board.
"Data-driven?" Paul repeated, looking surprised. But as a professional scout with deep technical knowledge of the game, the implications clicked instantly. His eyes lit up with genuine interest.
"Well. It seems this trip might actually be worth my time. I am incredibly curious to see what this Ravenclaw team brings to the pitch."
Down on the field, Madam Hooch marched out to the center circle.
"TWEEEET!"
"Captains, bring your teams to the pitch!"
The heavy wooden doors of the locker rooms slammed open. Fourteen players kicked off the ground, shooting into the gray sky.
Razim and Marcus flew to the center and faced off, hovering on their brooms.
"Razim Gideon. I honestly thought you cowards would have forfeited by now," Marcus sneered, his face twisting with disgust. "Where do you get the nerve to face Slytherin today? Are you really going to rely on that pathetic, patched-together data board? You don't belong on a broom. Go back to the library and act like good little nerds for your professors."
Razim, usually a fiery player, was surprisingly calm. A cold, dangerous smile actually crept onto his face.
"We get the nerve because we actually know how to play the game without relying on cheap, cowardly sabotage," Razim shot back smoothly. "Unlike you. If you're that terrified of us, go run home to mommy. Don't sit up here on a broom waiting for us to spank you."
Hearing Razim casually insult Marcus Flint to his face, the rest of the Ravenclaw team burst out laughing.
All the pent-up rage, frustration, and toxic stress from the last few days completely detonated. Every single Ravenclaw player locked eyes with their Slytherin counterpart, absolutely vibrating with aggressive energy, just waiting for the whistle.
You think because we read books we don't know how to fight?!
The Slytherins' faces darkened instantly. They gripped their broomsticks tightly, glaring back like vipers ready to strike.
With the mandatory pre-game trash talk concluded, Madam Hooch checked her watch, raised her whistle, and blew hard.
"TWEEEEET!"
"The match has begun!"