Oliver Wood stood in the corridor, a living statue of consternation. "Professor McGonagall," he began, his voice strained, "with all due respect, isn't this a bit… irregular?" He looked from Harry's bewildered face to Hermione's impassive one. They were tiny. First-years. They'd had exactly one flying lesson, during which one of them had nearly been killed and the other had refused to sit on her broom properly.
As the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, he lived and breathed the sport. The crushing weight of their multi-year losing streak against Slytherin was a constant, heavy burden on his shoulders. He didn't doubt his professor's eye for talent—McGonagall was a legend—but this felt less like a strategic masterstroke and more like an act of pure, unadulterated desperation.
"The rules are quite clear, Wood," McGonagall said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "First-years are not normally permitted their own brooms. However, the rulebook makes no mention of them being barred from a team, provided they can supply their own equipment. I will speak to the Headmaster. Potter will need a broom worthy of his talent. As for Miss Granger…" She glanced at Hermione. "I trust she can handle the standard equipment."
Wood's face was a mask of constipated agony. His dreams for the season, which were already bleak, were now circling the drain. But arguing with Professor McGonagall was like arguing with a thunderstorm. He let out a slow, defeated sigh. "Yes, Professor."
The sun was beginning its slow, fiery descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and bruised purple as the three of them walked from the castle down to the Quidditch pitch. The evening air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass. Harry was practically bouncing with a mixture of excitement and disbelief, while Hermione walked with her usual silent, analytical stride.
Wood, on the other hand, felt like he was leading two lambs to a slaughterhouse. He had tried to be optimistic, but his hopes sank with every step. When they reached the storage shed and he unchained the massive, iron-bound Quidditch chest, reality hit him with the force of a Bludger.
"Right then," he grunted, grabbing one of the heavy leather handles. "Harry, give me a hand with this."
Together, the two boys strained to lift the chest. It was absurdly heavy, enchanted to contain the restless, violent energy of the balls within. They managed to drag it a few feet onto the grass before stopping, gasping for breath.
Hermione watched them struggle for a moment, an expression of profound pity on her face. "Excuse me, Captain," she said, her voice dry. "You are aware that we are wizards, correct?"
"Yes, of course, what's that got to do with…" Wood started to say, confused.
"So, perhaps," she continued, as if explaining a complex concept to a very slow child, "we could save ourselves the trouble and use a bit of magic. Like this."
She drew her wand with a fluid, economical motion. "Wingardium Leviosa."
The massive chest lifted effortlessly into the air, hovering a foot off the ground. The sudden release of weight sent Harry stumbling forward and Wood nearly fell over backward.
A deep, painful blush crept up Wood's neck. He, the seasoned Quidditch captain, had been so focused on the mundane physicality of the sport that he had completely forgotten the most basic tool at his disposal. "Right," he coughed, clearing his throat. "Well, you see, it's… it's also important to maintain physical fitness. Can't rely on magic for everything…"
Hermione just stared at him with her unnervingly intelligent, empty eyes.
"…Okay, I forgot," Wood admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked at the effortlessly floating chest, then at the small girl holding it steady with a lazy flick of her wrist. "But to lift something that heavy, with such control… that's not first-year magic."
This was becoming more surreal by the second. He was in the presence of the Boy-Who-Lived, a flying prodigy, and the Library Witch, a magical powerhouse, and he was supposed to mold them into a winning team in two months.
He led them to the center of the pitch, the floating chest trailing behind Hermione like a loyal, oversized dog. The three golden hoops at either end of the stadium stood like silent, towering sentinels in the fading light.
"Alright," Wood said, taking a deep breath and trying to reclaim some semblance of authority. He knelt and unlatched the chest. "The rules of Quidditch are simple enough…"
He launched into a passionate explanation, his love for the game evident in every word. He introduced the scarlet Quaffle, its leather worn smooth from countless matches. He pointed out the two black, menacing Bludgers, which strained against their iron chains, humming with a violent, restless energy. And finally, the tiny, winged Golden Snitch, which he released for a moment, allowing it to dart and weave through the air like a hummingbird before snatching it back.
"Your job, Harry, as Seeker, is to catch that. It's worth one hundred and fifty points and ends the game."
Harry's eyes were wide with wonder, tracking the memory of the Snitch's flight.
Wood then turned to Hermione, handing her a short, heavy, club-like bat. "You, Granger, are a Beater. Your job is to use this to hit the Bludgers away from our players, and… toward theirs."
Hermione took the bat, her expression unreadable. She tested its weight, giving it a few practice swings that cut through the air with a vicious whoosh.
Wood's captain's intuition screamed at him that this was a terrible idea. "Right then," he said, his voice a little shaky. He cautiously unchained one of the Bludgers. It shot into the air like a cannonball, a black blur of fury. "Remember, Granger, protect your teammates!"
He and Harry immediately scrambled back a good fifty feet, watching nervously. Hermione's stance was all wrong. She wasn't holding the bat like a piece of sports equipment; she was holding it like a weapon. As the Bludger rocketed toward her, a flicker of something that looked disturbingly like excited anticipation flashed across her face.
She swung. It was not a tap or a block; it was a full-bodied, murderous heave.
"THWACK!"
The sound was like a thunderclap. The Bludger changed direction instantly, transforming into a black missile aimed directly at the two spectators.
"Heads up!" Harry screamed, diving to the ground. The Bludger shrieked past, so close he felt the wind of its passage ruffle his hair.
Wood wasn't so lucky. He tried to dodge, but the Bludger caught him squarely in the lower abdomen. The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing to the turf. He lay there, curled into a tight ball, the air driven from his lungs in a single, agonizing gasp.
Harry rushed over as Wood struggled to sit up, his face pale and beaded with sweat. "Just… aim, Granger…" Wood wheezed, clutching his stomach. "Just… aim first…"
"Harry, behind you!" Hermione's voice shouted, sharp and alert.
Harry looked up just in time to see the Bludger, having completed its arc, coming back for another pass. He threw himself to the ground again. Hermione, without even looking, swung the bat behind her back in a brutally efficient arc.
"CRACK!"
The Bludger, now moving even faster, ricocheted off her bat and screamed back toward them. This time, both Harry and Wood only had time to yelp and fall flat before it whistled over their heads.
She's trying to kill us! Wood screamed in his mind. She's supposed to be protecting us!
Hermione, however, was staring into the middle distance, a thoughtful frown on her face. "Captain Wood," she said suddenly, her voice bright with discovery, "I have devised an invincible winning strategy."
"You have?" Wood groaned from the grass.
"Yes. It's quite simple. We make a small roster adjustment. We eliminate the Chaser and Keeper positions. Instead, we field a team of six Beaters. Their sole job will be to hunt down and incapacitate the opposing players. That leaves you, Harry, as the Seeker, completely unopposed to catch the Snitch. I call it the 'Invincible Six-Protect-One' formation."
Wood stared at her, his mouth hanging open. "Granger," he said slowly, as if explaining to a particularly dense troll, "you can't just change the number of players for each position. It's against the rules."
"Hmm," Hermione said, looking disappointed. A moment later, her eyes lit up again. "Alright, new plan. Can we use magic to knock the opposing players off their brooms? Or, more efficiently, can I just use a Summoning Charm on the Golden Snitch?"
Wood felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. "No, Granger! Magic is strictly forbidden during a match! The balls are enchanted to resist it."
"I see," she said, tapping the bat against her chin. She looked up, her eyes glinting with a terrifying new idea. "Well then, can I bring a few knives with me? I'm quite good at throwing them. Or perhaps I could just use this." She hefted the bat, closed one eye, and aimed it directly at Wood's head. "It has a very satisfying heft to it."
Wood went completely pale. The future of Gryffindor Quidditch, which had seemed merely bleak a few minutes ago, now looked like a season-long re-enactment of the Charge of the Light Brigade. He was doomed. He was leading a flying prodigy and a pint-sized, magical war criminal into battle against the notoriously brutal Slytherin team.
He looked at Harry's excited, hopeful face. He looked at Professor McGonagall, who was watching from the stands with a proud, expectant smile. He was trapped.
With the weary resignation of a man walking to his own execution, he forced a pained, brittle smile. "Welcome to the team."
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .