His Hogwarts had a mysterious kind of magic.
Living in a foreign land (technically, even if it's the same country), boarding school life, and sharing a dorm with other boys—none of these "negative buffs" affected Basil's unique love for this castle and school.
With every professor—except for Snape and Quirrell (and that old fraud Dumbledore didn't count as he was Headmaster)—Basil grew closer to them as he understood them better.
They were no longer the hollow characters depicted in a few dozen minutes of screen time in the movies.
They were kind mentors who accompanied him daily and dedicated themselves to his education.
In less than a month...
Professor McGonagall had become Basil's favorite teacher, bar none.
She was a strict witch.
She loved tartan patterns; her dressing gown, travel bag, and handkerchiefs were all tartan.
She always maintained a serious demeanor and was impartial in all matters.
Except for Quidditch.
Basil had always been curious about this.
Especially since even Ron hadn't managed to dig up the inside scoop.
Nearly Headless Nick understood this curiosity.
But today, his strategy to distract Basil might fail.
Basil wasn't going to get excited about this.
The gloom of having to go to work/school right after a holiday was something nothing could dispel.
"It all goes back to your Professor McGonagall's seventh year."
"At that time, she was a Seeker."
"She had already decided to pursue a career at the Ministry after graduation and give up Quidditch."
"It was the final match: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin."
"The winner would take the Quidditch Cup."
"However, just as young Minerva was about to touch the Golden Snitch and draw a perfect end to her Quidditch career—"
Nick dragged out the suspense.
Basil's face remained gloomy.
But the students gathering around gave Nick the motivation to continue.
"Wham! A Bludger. Bang! Followed by a Beater's bat. They hit young Minerva in the chest and head consecutively."
Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean from the next dorm shot to their feet in unison. "It was Slytherin!"
Nick nodded. "The result was that Slytherin was penalized for a foul, but with their Seeker out of commission, Gryffindor still lost the match."
"Ever since then, seeing the Slytherin Quidditch team lose has been young Minerva's lifelong wish!"
"She never misses a single match involving Slytherin."
Nick glanced pointedly at Basil.
He seemed to still be holding out hope for a reaction.
"Speaking of Quidditch... you must be curious about when your Flying Lessons will start, right?"
"I'll give you a heads-up: this very Thursday, you will have the first Flying Lesson of your lives!"
Basil remained unmoved.
Even as all the children from wizarding families around him started getting excited.
He was the exception.
Because his parents died playing the most popular broom game in Devon—Shuntbumps—when they were killed by Death Eaters.
Even before his memories awakened, unlike most wizarding children, he didn't care for Quidditch.
But the broom games being discussed by the surrounding young wizards caught his ear.
They were all discussing their local broom sports.
Ron, representing Devon, stood up first.
He described the aerial jousting sport, Shuntbumps.
Everyone held a long pole with a rounded end, like a knight, using their broomsticks as horses to duel in the sky.
Last one flying wins.
And he, Ron Weasley, was the greatest knight.
No young wizard could survive his lance.
Then, a Hufflepuff boy claiming to be from Herefordshire stood up.
He called Shuntbumps too barbaric, lacking in broom-handling finesse.
He claimed his county's game, Swivenhodge, was the true test of a rider's skill.
A pig's bladder was inflated and set in the air.
Players took off from the same distance.
Riding their brooms backwards, they used the brush end to bat the bladder back and forth.
First to 50 points wins.
Seamus raised his goblet high, expressing his disdain.
Hailing from Ireland, he introduced his homeland's broom game—Aingingein.
Each player held a goat's gallbladder called a Dom.
They had to speed through burning barrels mounted high in the air on stilts.
The winner was the one who finished without catching fire.
This was the perfect combination of skill and courage.
Riding a broom backwards was just a circus trick!
Finally, Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff from Scotland, stood up.
"Everyone here, the sports you're talking about are trash."
"Nothing compares to our Scottish game: Creaothceann."
"It is the symbol of bravery, the ultimate test of manliness and courage."
The room fell silent.
Ron muttered unwillingly, "That's cheating!"
Yet, not a single Gryffindor stood up to argue.
After hearing the name of the sport...
Basil's curiosity was finally piqued.
"Elaborate?"
Basil's excellent performance in class, his boldness (unlike Hermione), his disregard for rules, and his handsome face undoubtedly made him the leader of the Gryffindor first-years.
He was quite famous in other Houses too.
So, seeing it was Basil asking, Macmillan nodded immediately.
"It is a game facing death and blood, showcasing the athlete's courage!"
"Twelve players strap cauldrons to their heads."
"Above them, a hundred feet in the air, hang up to a hundred enchanted rocks of various sizes!"
"When the match starts, the rocks fall. The players fly up and try to catch as many rocks as possible in their cauldrons."
"The player who catches the most... and survives... is the winner!"
Ernie got more excited as he spoke, finally reciting a poem:
> Twelve handsome, strong lads
> Gathered at the field,
> Cauldrons strapped to their belts,
> Quietly waiting to fly.
> Hearing the horn sound,
> They swiftly shot into the sky,
> But ten of the heroic athletes
> Were destined to die.
Finally, he sighed. "Unfortunately, Creaothceann was banned as an illegal sport in 1762."
Basil's mouth hung open, soundless.
Like he had been hit with a Langlock Jinx.
No wonder no Gryffindor stood up to argue. This was a dimensional strike of insanity.
Twelve players, only two survive?
With a mortality rate like that...
There's a reason there are so few Scottish wizards.
Thursday arrived in the blink of an eye.
In the morning, almost every student was immersed in anticipation of the upcoming Flying Lesson.
Hermione, for once, didn't pester Basil.
Instead, she kept reciting flying instructions she read in Quidditch Through the Ages to everyone else.
Saying this was another good chance to earn points.
That everyone should work together to win the House Cup this year.
Basil thought this was futile.
They were all classmates. Except for Neville, all the kids from wizarding families had played on brooms before.
Hermione only had book knowledge; acting like this would only make her annoying.
Indeed, aside from Neville, everyone else showed faces of disgust.
Only Neville listened intently to every word Hermione said, desperately hoping to glean a bit of useful knowledge that might help him stay on his broom later.
Even Harry, who expected to make a fool of himself in Flying Class, didn't listen seriously.
He was busy asking Ron for flying tips.
Hermione noticed none of this, still immersed in her lecture.
Just as Basil was about to warn her... the post arrived.
Hermione shut her mouth.
Basil looked enviously at the other students receiving letters.
He was an orphan and too cheap to subscribe to the newspaper.
So no one would send him letters.
Harry was the same; aside from Hagrid's note in the first week of September, he hadn't received any mail either.
Right now, the two of them were brothers in misfortune.
No, there was one more person.
Draco Malfoy at the Slytherin table.
At the start of the term, he often had owls deliver sweets.
He would tear them open triumphantly at the Slytherin table and share them with the students around him.
But lately, he seemed to have stopped receiving owl deliveries.
His two bodyguard-like henchmen, Crabbe and Goyle, barely paid attention to him anymore.
Now, Malfoy looked more like their follower.
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