When Wood heard Harry's words, his face remained as still as a deep well, but his heart began to simmer with annoyance.
You must understand, this Wood was a true Quidditch fanatic. On most days, he was either drilling formations or studying the offensive and defensive strategies of the World Cup teams.
For such a devoted man to hear Harry say his tactics were "full of holes," how could he bear it?
"Harry, we are using the most advanced tactic, the Hawkshead Attacking Formation. The 1990 World Cup champions, the Canadian team, used this very formation."
Harry just laughed. "I know nothing of an attacking hawk's head. This one only sees a team that guards its head while ignoring its rear."
Before Wood could speak, the several players flying above descended. The first to land were, of course, Fred and George.
"Good morning, Your Majesty the Lion King! Are you here for the Seeker tryouts?"
"If you ask me, tryouts are completely unnecessary." George took off his helmet and tossed his Beater's bat aside. "What were you and Wood chatting about?"
Wood grumbled, "We were discussing tactics. Harry feels our strategy is full of holes."
The Weasley twins loved nothing more than to stir up trouble and fan the flames. Hearing Harry's words, they howled with delight.
"I believe the Lion King! What the Lion King says is never wrong!"
"I've been saying it all along, Wood! Tactics are completely meaningless!"
A Chaser named Alieya couldn't help but chime in, "That's right. He just calls us to the pitch at five in the morning to talk tactics. It's just a different place to sleep."
The team members were full of complaints, but Wood was unmoved. He crossed his arms. "Alright, Harry. Then perhaps you could be so kind as to tell us exactly where the holes in our formation are?"
Harry pointed to the Chasers. "These three, the Chasers, look brave, but in truth, they are mere brutes! When they charge, they think only of what is ahead, fighting as individuals, with not one of them guarding the rear."
"With such an opening, if an enemy were to cut them off from behind, or if a fierce opponent were to charge their formation from the flank, would they not become turtles in a jar?"
At first, Alieya and the other two Chasers thought he was just talking nonsense. But as they heard him out, it was like a clap of thunder. They all bowed their heads in thought, looking at one another.
Harry continued, "And then there are the Beaters. They are so focused on fighting and brawling that they have forgotten their true duty."
Fred and George would not accept this. "Harry," they shouted, "a Beater's job is to drive away the Bludgers!"
"That's right! In every match, I make sure the Bludgers are chasing our opponents!"
Harry shook his head. "Brothers, your words are mistaken. The Beater's duty is not only to harass the enemy but, more importantly, to protect his own house! You must be like the shield-bearers and archers of an army, protecting the main camp."
"You two brothers are only concerned with having a good brawl, but you care nothing for the life or death of your Keeper. If the enemy unites for a sudden push, will you not just let them drive straight in?"
Harry's words were those of a seasoned veteran, dissecting the team's flaws one by one. He spoke until the entire team was dumbfounded and speechless.
Fred's mouth hung open for a long moment. "Harry... have you really never played Quidditch before?"
"I feel like even the professional Quidditch coaches don't analyze it this thoroughly."
Harry laughed. "The business of offense and defense, of brawling and killing, never changes its core. In my early years, this one followed a certain brother and learned a thing or two about strategy and formations."
It turned out that, back on Liangshan Marsh, Harry had studied strategy and warfare under the "Divine Strategist" Zhu Wu. That half-volume of Sun Tzu's Art of War had been personally taught to him.
"No wonder I always feel so much pressure as Keeper! I thought I just wasn't working hard enough!"
Wood, hearing Harry's sharp critique, was not angry. Instead, he was overjoyed. "Harry, I am begging you, you must be our Seeker."
"And if not that, you can be our coach!"
As the proverb goes: Good medicine is bitter to the tongue but good for the illness; loyal words are harsh to the ear but good for one's conduct. Every word Harry spoke hit a vital point. Wood's face flushed red, but he cared not a whit, so long as he could get Harry on the team.
Harry saw that he was an open and forthright man and was pleased. He cupped his hands in a salute. "It is enough that you do not mind this one's wild boasts, brother."
"No, this isn't boasting. You are not wrong about a single thing," Wood said earnestly. "Harry, our team desperately needs a talent like you."
Fred handed him his broom. "Come on, fly up and give it a try."
Harry did not refuse. He took the broom, swung his leg over it like a hawk flipping, and shot into the sky. He tore through the clouds, twisting and turning, truly free and at ease.
Seeing this, Wood waved his hand, signaling for the Golden Snitch to be released.
The moment it was free, a streak of gold shot into the air, faster than a shooting star, quick as lightning.
But as nimble as it was, Harry's eyes had already locked onto it. In the time it takes for an incense stick to burn (about 15 minutes), there was a soft smack. The Golden Snitch was clutched in Harry's hand.
"Brilliant! He caught the Snitch in fifteen minutes with no interference!" Wood clapped. "Gryffindor hasn't had a Seeker this talented in years!"
"Harry, join the team. You must."
Before Harry could reply, a sudden noise came from the pitch entrance, making everyone turn their heads.
Looking closely, they saw several figures in green robes, carrying brooms, swaggering onto the field.
When Wood saw them, his face changed. He hurried forward. "Flint! What is the meaning of this?"
"I booked the pitch for today! This does not include Slytherin!"
"Ah, but I have a note from Professor Snape." The man called Flint, a crooked-mouthed fellow, sneered. "He's permitted us to use the pitch to train our new Seeker."
"New Seeker?" Wood frowned. "Where?"
The six Slytherins parted, and Draco Malfoy strode forward, smug. "That would be me."
Harry's tiger-like eyes flashed. "You damnable wretch! You scoundrel, must you follow this one everywhere like a bad smell!"
Draco's smugness lasted less than five seconds. Hearing Harry's curse, he recoiled. "Scarhead?! Why is it you?"
"Wait... you're Gryffindor's new Seeker?!"
Harry sneered. "What do you think you are? This one is conducting his business. Who are you to question it!"
Hearing Harry's vicious words, Draco felt a familiar itch of hatred. He thought of his father's Howler and wished he could swallow Harry whole.
That damned Scarhead! If it wasn't for him, I would have already planted that blasted diary on the Weasley fool!
Draco's malice grew. Seeing that Fred and the others were all holding old "Comet" series brooms, an idea struck him.
"Scarhead! Do you dare to play us in a match? The loser stays off this pitch for a month!"
Flint was alarmed and about to speak, but Draco quickly whispered to him, "Captain, look at their brooms! They're still using those ancient Comets."
"In a few days, the Nimbus 2000s my father is sponsoring will be here."
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