Soon after agreeing, the conflicting parties dispersed. When Harry and Ron passed by, they were still discussing quietly.
"What's a wizard's duel?" Harry asked.
"And what does it mean to be your second?"
"Oh, if you're killed, the second steps in," Ron said casually. Only when he noticed Harry's pale face did he correct himself. "But you know, people only die in proper duels with real wizards. You and Malfoy can at best shoot sparks at each other."
"What if I wave my wand and nothing happens?"
"Then throw away your wand and punch him in the nose," Ron's voice was firm and decisive.
"Good heavens!" Hermione's face had reddened with anger. "Don't they realize how many points they'll lose?! I worked so hard to earn all those points, and we still can't match Ravenclaw. Now they want to lose more?!"
Saying this, she rushed off furiously. Justin, worried about her, immediately followed. "Oh, Shawn, we'll be right back. Don't worry—with me here, Hermione won't be bullied."
Shawn nodded. Actually, he was focused on the Yorkshire pudding before him. He knew that because of this midnight duel, Harry would have his first encounter with the three-headed dog, and his adventures this school year would officially begin. But it had nothing to do with Shawn. If anything, once Harry drove Voldemort away, Hogwarts would be much safer, at least for this school year, allowing Shawn to grind proficiency peacefully.
As the last day before flying lessons, the Ravenclaws' enthusiasm seemed ready to soar skyward. After politely saying goodbye to Madam Pince, Shawn could still hear loud Quidditch discussions in the corridors. Madam Pince remained absorbed in reviewing his notes before he left. This lady, whom young wizards both respected and feared, wasn't always temperamental—rather, young wizards' behavior made her so. Anyone would be angry seeing carefully organized books turned into chaos and neatly cleaned desks covered in scribbles.
So Shawn quietly did small things. Casting a few Scouring Charms was simple and took little time. Shawn's History of Magic notes were already half-complete, with many useful suggestions from the knowledgeable Madam Pince. Whenever Shawn felt confused, this kind woman would casually pass him relevant books, saving him countless hours.
Once again, closing the library's heavy oak doors, the cool evening breeze made Shawn's hair dance in the wind. Sir Cadogan had squeezed into the portrait frame above, displacing the black-robed wizard who occupied it.
"Oh—Shawn Green!" Shawn ignored him.
"Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow you'll have flying lessons, yet today you don't want to ask Scotland's greatest Seeker for some advice?" Sir Cadogan flitted between several portraits, now stepping through a beautiful lady's golden wheat field, now barely avoiding several monks.
"Sir, you're from the Arthurian era, but the first Quidditch World Cup was held in 1473," Shawn said helplessly.
"A clever trick—at least you're willing to talk to me now, aren't you? Violet, three bottles of liquor!" Sir Cadogan shouted down the hall.
"All right, Sir. You certainly have your ways," Lady Violet, in her long dress, laughed resignedly, accepting the wager.
"Aha. Even for the liquor's sake, I must give you some advice." Shawn looked doubtfully at the seemingly unreliable knight. To his surprise, the knight suddenly jumped up, then was kicked away by the startled pony, but quickly scrambled back.
"I've watched Quidditch for five centuries, young Green. I understand it better than that lecturing lady!"
"Please, Sir," Shawn immediately took out his notebook.
"Ahem, this is an exclusive secret. Except for young wizards, I fancy, I don't tell anyone. The last person to receive this technique was a Potter, a talented fellow as well. Sir Cadogan's face grew nostalgic. "Let me tell you—when wizards invented flying broomsticks, it wasn't because only broomsticks could fly. Rather, wizards carved their magic onto broomsticks. What you're controlling isn't the broomstick, but the magic. The magic gives the broomstick flying power. When you grasp this, you'll understand: controlling yourself means controlling flight."
It seemed to make sense. Shawn sincerely thanked him. "Thank you, Sir."
"Hmph," Sir Cadogan's chin nearly reached the sky.
After Shawn left, the knight muttered, "Young Green, this time, don't go moving the monks' portrait. Last time Lady Violet grabbed a broomstick and chased me all day."
The Ravenclaw Common Room's fireplace was always warm. Young wizards habitually gathered around discussing Quidditch. Shawn recalled Sir Cadogan's words: Potter, talented. Whatever Potter it was, they seemed to have remarkable Quidditch talent. Harry especially relied on flying skills to pass the fourth floor's challenge and navigate the dragon obstacle in the Triwizard Tournament to seize the golden egg. So could he? No, wait. How could Sir Cadogan tell?
Friday, Hogwarts' Quidditch pitch lay quietly at the Forbidden Forest's edge—a magically enchanted arena. Along the 300-foot oval field's sides stood three golden poles. Between them lay the scoring zone, resembling a giant's ball-toss game.
The goals have an interesting history. Originally, Quidditch goals were simply baskets atop poles. However, this lack of standardization created problems. Wizards near Barnton in the north exploited this by placing impossibly small baskets at their opponents' end while maintaining large, easy-to-score-through hoops at their own end. The Department of Magical Games was forced to intervene and standardize the goals across all pitches, establishing the uniform hoops of fixed size used today.
Under the tall golden poles, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff young wizards also entered the field.
"Shawn, aren't these broomsticks too thin? Can you actually ride them?" Shawn heard Justin's quiet inquiry.