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This year, Hogwarts felt unusually calm. In previous years, Halloween often brought bizarre incidents to the school. Just last year, a three-headed dog missing half its torso burst into the Great Hall, dragging the barely conscious Percy behind it. The year before that, a professor suffered a sudden, life-threatening illness and nearly died at the staff table. If not for Snape's quick thinking and a potion that first poisoned the professor before saving him, the poor Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher wouldn't have made it to the end of the year.
It wasn't entirely without reason that this same professor later died in a drunken brawl at the Three Broomsticks. Snape's potion had left him with severe psychological trauma, leading him to rely heavily on alcohol as a coping mechanism—or so he claimed. Most people, however, believed it was just an excuse. He reeked of alcohol from the very first lesson of the term, stumbling into the classroom in a drunken stupor.
After a calm Halloween passed, Hogwarts buzzed with activity once more as the Quidditch season began. Unlike last year, when Harry dominated the matches with spectacular plays, this year's games were particularly fierce. It wasn't that Harry had lost his touch—he had simply chosen to play as a substitute, giving other hard-working teammates their time to shine.
The games were ten times more intense than the previous year, leaving every spectator hoarse from cheering by the time they left the pitch. Even Professor McGonagall found herself clearing her throat repeatedly during the next day's classes. The much-anticipated Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match, which lasted a grueling four hours, kept everyone on the edge of their seats without a single dull moment.
Slytherin's team captain, Marcus Flint, who had switched positions from Beater to Chaser, wreaked havoc on the field. His physique, rivaling that of a troll, allowed him to power through Fred and George's full-force Bludgers and ram Keeper Oliver Wood aside to score. Although Marcus wasn't exactly known for his intellect, his brute strength more than compensated, making him nearly unstoppable.
The final score was 970 to 1020. Slytherin's new Seeker, Draco Malfoy, outlasted Gryffindor's Seeker in a battle of endurance, overturning a 100-point deficit to secure victory for Slytherin. Unlike past years, however, Slytherin didn't win amidst boos or accusations of foul play. This time, their victory was earned fair and square, garnering genuine applause.
The six matches held throughout November and December were a visual feast, keeping the school abuzz with excitement right up to Christmas Eve. Colin Creevey, the only student at Hogwarts with a camera, became incredibly popular during these months. He captured countless memorable moments and successfully developed the photos into magical moving pictures. Everyone wanted a copy of the action shots, and the demand drove the price up to ten Sickles per photo, earning Colin a small fortune. With hundreds of Galleons in profit, he no longer needed Hogwarts' financial aid—his earnings would easily cover his expenses for the next seven years.
"Harry! This is for you!"
As Harry prepared to head to the training grounds for his final pre-Christmas team practice, Colin ran over, his cheeks flushed with excitement. He handed Harry a thick photo album.
"I was planning to send it to you as a Christmas gift, but then I remembered I don't have an owl to deliver it. So, could you accept it as an early Christmas present instead?"
Colin asked hesitantly, his admiration for Harry shining through. In front of his idol, Colin always worried about saying or doing the wrong thing.
"Of course. This will definitely be one of the best Christmas gifts I receive this year. Thank you," Harry replied, accepting the album. Though the album was homemade and a bit rough around the edges, it was clear that Colin had poured his heart into it.
"You're welcome, you're welcome!" Colin's eyes sparkled with joy. "When I go home for Christmas, my dad will be thrilled. I can't believe I got to meet you, take your picture, and even get your autograph! With these photos, he'll definitely believe all the amazing stories I tell him."
"Happy Christmas, Harry!"
Colin waved enthusiastically before running off to join his waiting dormmates.
"Happy Christmas," Harry replied, tucking the album away. Having a fan like Colin was actually kind of amusing, though after receiving such a thoughtful gift, Harry decided to up his game for Colin's present. Maybe he'd gift him the latest camera model. Whether in the magical or Muggle world, money was never an issue for Harry. Gringotts' currency exchange rate was tied to the price of gold, with one Galleon equivalent to a gram of gold. Although Goblin coins weren't pure gold—the Goblins would never cut a bad deal—Galleons fetched a much higher rate on the black market, trading at nearly 25:1 against Muggle money. For wizards, earning Muggle cash was far easier than acquiring Galleons, as long as one didn't mind how "clean" the money was.
Since this was the last practice before Christmas, Harry pushed the team to their limits during the rare free afternoon. After four hours of grueling drills, every player except Harry was barely able to stand, collapsing in the snow and glaring weakly at their merciless captain.
"You're a monster…"
Their feeble accusations did little to faze Harry as he finished his final set of weighted exercises. Lately, Harry had been obsessively training in squats, using a two-ton custom barbell. He'd managed to limit his height growth to just half an inch over two and a half months.
"I gave you the chance to challenge me," he said casually.
Harry suddenly exerted force and tossed the barbell to the side. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he smiled and said, "It seems no one's going to claim this year's special Christmas reward."
"We don't—"
"Care about it at all—"
Fred and George muttered between labored breaths, but the curiosity in their eyes betrayed their true feelings. They knew from experience that their captain's generosity was legendary, and any reward dangled by Harry was bound to be extraordinary.
"Oh? So no one's interested in a prototype of a next-generation broomstick from the Firebolt company?" Harry teased. "If it weren't for the large order I placed with them earlier, I wouldn't have secured this exclusive testing opportunity."
"A new broomstick?!"
As Quidditch players, their ears perked up instantly at the mention.
"Of course. The previous Firebolt 2000 series—nicknamed the 'Intercontinental Missile'—was actually a scaled-back version designed to fund future developments. You've probably noticed that both the Firebolt 2000 and 2001 have a slight shortcoming."
"The burst acceleration is too slow!" Oliver Wood blurted out immediately. As revolutionary as the Firebolt 2000 series was, its lackluster burst acceleration had always been its Achilles' heel—a critical flaw in a sport like Quidditch, where explosive speed was often the key to victory.
"Exactly." Harry nodded. "Now, this prototype broomstick in testing takes only 2.73 seconds to accelerate to 100 kilometers per hour—three times faster than the Firebolt 2000. It also reaches 200 kilometers per hour in just 6.8 seconds, twice as fast as the 2000. The turning radius has been reduced by 48%, making it much more agile and responsive."
"Theoretical top speed? 1,000 kilometers per hour. This is the Firebolt company's real masterpiece, showcasing the full potential of a next-gen broomstick. It's set to officially launch in June next year, and its name? The Flaming Crossbow Subsonic Intercontinental Cruise Missile. It's destined to become an indispensable tool in the next Quidditch World Cup."
"Until the Suborbital Bomber comes out, this broomstick will reign as the unrivaled king of the Quidditch pitch," Harry added with a grin.
"Originally, you all had the chance to test it six months before its official release. Too bad…"
"Captain! I'm still in!"
Marcus, who had been lying on the ground pretending to be dead, suddenly sprang to life. "I can still squat! Put on 800 kilograms! I'll do another set!"
"Too late."
Harry nudged the barbell he'd tossed aside with his foot. "I've already increased the weight to two tons. Eight hundred kilograms is half of that—doesn't count anymore. Should've thought of that before slacking off during my warm-up."
Marcus slumped, his face crestfallen. "Can't you give me another chance, Captain?"
Harry ignored him, but Oliver Wood pulled Marcus aside, annoyed that his massive frame was blocking his view.
"Captain, what's a Suborbital Bomber? Another new broomstick?"
"Oh, that." Harry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The Firebolt company mentioned it as their next project. They said it's still in the conceptual phase, and the blueprints won't be ready for another seventy, eighty, maybe ninety years. But based on their boasts, the Suborbital Bomber is expected to reach speeds of over 1,224 kilometers per hour—supersonic. By then, Quidditch pitches will have to be resized. The next World Cup pitch is already set to be 50% larger than usual to accommodate the new broomstick's capabilities."
"Well, if you've all rested enough, get ready to head back. Take a shower, grab a meal, and get some rest. We've got a train to catch tomorrow."
"Anyone who can't get up, drink a potion. Get it from Oliver. Dismissed! And enjoy your Christmas break."
"Ughhh…"
Amid half-hearted groans of acknowledgment, Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled leisurely toward the castle, leaving behind his exhausted teammates sprawled in the snow. The Great Hall bustled with laughter and festivities, but Harry veered into an empty corridor, away from the noise and cheer.
(End of Chapter)