Malfoy couldn't believe his eyes when he saw that Harry and Ron were still at Hogwarts the next day, looking tired but perfectly cheerful. In the meantime, Harry filled Ron in about the package that seemed to have been moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spent a lot of time wondering what could possibly need such heavy protection. "It's either really valuable or really dangerous," said Ron.

  "Or both," said Harry.

  But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious object was that it was about two inches long, they didn't have much chance of guessing what it was without further clues.

  Neither Neville nor Hermione showed the slightest interest in what lay underneath the dog and the trapdoor. All Neville cared about was never going near the dog again.

  Asher, however, had expressed interest in their midnight exploits, and had asked about their efforts in practice dueling.

  Harry glanced over at Ron, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Despite the harrowing events of the evening, it was hard not to feel a sense of pride at their accomplishments.

  "Well, it really is quite simple," Ron boasted, puffing out his chest with a hint of swagger. "We carved new history for first years and really became quite the duelists—not that Malfoy ever showed his face to find out."

  Harry couldn't help but chuckle at Ron's bravado, his friend's confidence infectious even in the face of danger. "It's true," Harry chimed in, nodding in agreement. "We've been practicing whenever we can, trying to hone our skills."

  "Do you think you’ll duel often?" they asked.

  Ron grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "As often as we can manage, I think," he replied, a hint of excitement in his voice. "It's good practice, you know, keeps us sharp."

  Harry nodded in agreement. "And besides," they added, a playful twinkle in their eye, "it seems Malfoy is plenty mad we didn’t get caught.”

  Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and Ron, but Ron had seen that as an extra bonus. Despite Ron's jests though, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of guilt gnawing at him.

  As the morning sunlight streamed through the enchanted windows of the Great Hall, casting a warm glow over the long wooden tables, the usual hustle and bustle of breakfast was interrupted by the arrival of the Hogwarts owls. With a flurry of feathers and hoots, the winged messengers descended upon the students, delivering their daily correspondence with practiced precision.

  But today, their arrival was anything but ordinary. All eyes turned to the front of the hall as a collective murmur rippled through the sea of students, their curiosity piqued by the sight of a long, thin package carried by six large screech owls. The package seemed to emanate an aura of mystery, capturing the attention of everyone in the hall.

  Harry felt his own curiosity piqued as he watched the majestic birds soar gracefully down to the Gryffindor table, their talons gripping the parcel tightly as they landed with a thud. The force of their landing sent Harry's breakfast flying, his bacon tumbling to the floor in a mess of crumbs and grease.

  Startled by the unexpected arrival, Harry scrambled to his feet, his heart racing with excitement as he approached the parcel. The owls had hardly fluttered out of the way when another owl swooped down, dropping a letter on top of the package with a gentle rustle of parchment.

  Eager hands reached out to grab the letter, the anticipation in the air palpable as Harry tore open the envelope. His eyes scanned the contents, a grin spreading across his face as he read the words written on the page.

  Harry ripped open the letter first, which was lucky, because it said:

  DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.

  It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don't want everybody knowing you've got a broomstick or they'll all want one. Oliver Wood will meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven o'clock for your first training session.

  Professor McGonagall

  Harry's face lit up with excitement as he handed the note to Ron, a grin stretching across his features as he watched his friend's eyes widen with disbelief.

  "A Nimbus Two Thousand!" Ron exclaimed, his voice tinged with envy. "I've never even touched one."

  “Oh, that’s amazing,” Asher chimed in, their tone filled with genuine admiration. “I hear it’s top of the line.”

  Their excitement mounting, they hurriedly left the Great Hall. The corridors buzzed with chatter as they made their way through the castle, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

  But their enthusiasm was short-lived as they reached the entrance hall, their path blocked by the imposing figures of Crabbe and Goyle.

  Harry's heart sank as Malfoy seized the package from his grasp, his grip possessive as he felt it, a smirk playing across his lips. Malfoy's disdainful gaze fell upon the broomstick in Harry's hands, his expression twisted into one of jealousy and spite. With a haughty toss, he threw the package back to Harry, the package landing with a soft thud against his chest. "That's a broomstick," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "You'll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren't allowed them."

  Ron stepped forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "It's not any old broomstick," he interjected boldly. "It's a Nimbus Two Thousand. What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty? Daddy couldn’t buy you skills, too?" With a grin directed at Harry, he continued, "Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as the Nimbus."

  Malfoy's features contorted with indignation at Ron's words. "What would you know about it, Weasley," he snapped back, his tone laced with disdain. "You couldn't afford half the handle. I suppose you and your brothers have to save up twig by twig."

  Before Ron could formulate a response, the sound of a squeaky voice cut through the tension, and Professor Flitwick appeared at Malfoy's elbow, "Not arguing, I hope, boys?" he squeaked, his tone gentle but firm as he glanced between the three of them, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Wouldn’t want to be causing any ruckus now.”

  "Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor," said Malfoy quickly.

  "Yes, yes, that's right," said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry. "Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?"

  "A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir," said Harry, fighting not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy's face. "And it's really thanks to Malfoy here that I've got it," he added.

  Professor Flitwick chuckled. “Well yes, I was privy to the details of the situation. Very well, carry on boys and move along.”

  Harry and Ron headed upstairs, smothering their laughter at Malfoy's obvious rage and confusion. "Well, it's true," Harry chortled as they reached the top of the marble staircase, "If he hadn't stolen Neville's Remembrall I wouldn't be on the team..."

  "So I suppose you think that's a reward for breaking rules?" came an angry voice from just behind them. Hermione was stomping up the stairs, looking disapprovingly at the package in Harry's hand.

  "I thought you weren't speaking to us?" asked Ron.

  Hermione marched away with her nose in the air.

  Harry, Ron, and Asher had returned to the Gryffindor Common Room so they could unwrap the broom together. When Harry ripped the paper off, he saw the slick mahogany handle that shined from the window light. In bright golden words near the top of the handle were “NIMBUS TWO THOUSAND” etched neatly. The broom had a long tail with each twig fitting perfectly in place. Harry’s eyes widened tremendously at the sight.

  He never thought he’d be so excited over a broom—certainly he had held more than his fair share of the Dursley’s broom back at Privet Drive when he was made to sweep up. This though...this was different. He could feel the energy coursing through the wood, as if it were speaking directly to him. It felt light—much lighter than a normal broom. He knew this would be a menace in the air.

  “That’s amazing,” Asher said, their gaze stuck to the broom.

  “Never thought I’d see the day,” Ron said.

  Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his lessons that day, the events at breakfast had just been much too exciting. Harry hurried through the bustling corridors, as he reached the door to the Charms classroom. He could hear the faint murmur of Professor Flitwick's voice, accompanied by the occasional burst of laughter from his classmates. With a quick tug, he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.

  Rows of desks were neatly arranged in front of a large chalkboard covered in intricate diagrams and incantations. Harry had Charms with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, so he was sharing the class with Ron, Asher, Hermione, and Neville, amongst a few other students from each house.

  "Ah, Potter, Weasley, and Rhodes, right on time. Glad to see you were able to effectively store your present from the morning,” he said cheerfully. “But just because you’ve begun,” he now turned to Harry specifically, “does not guarantee your house victory. I’ll have you know Ravenclaw’s been forming up a solid team this year!” He chuckled. “Though, I can’t say we’ve been alone in that matter. Professor Snape has been doing similar with the Slytherin house team. Anyway, please, take a seat and we'll get started."

  They took their seats and the lesson began proper.

  "Today, my dear students, we shall delve into the wand lighting charm, Lumos," Flitwick announced. "A spell of illumination, of guidance in the darkest of times. But before we cast, we must understand the intricacies of its incantation and the finesse of its wand movements.”

  He gestured to the chalkboard behind him, where he made a motion with his hands and a piece of chalk began drawing up a detailed diagram depicting wand motions were displayed in vibrant detail. With a flick of his wand, the chalk sketches sprang to life, illustrating the graceful arcs and precise gestures required.

  "The Lumos charm is a blend of elegance and precision," Flitwick explained, his hands moving fluidly through the air as he demonstrated the movements. "To cast it successfully, one must channel their magical energy with focus and finesse." He paced the room, his eyes alight with enthusiasm as he observed the students' rapt attention.

  All of course, besides Harry, who had been letting his mind wander to the Nimbus sitting back on his bed—thinking of flying it around the castle grounds and...well, doing whatever it was Quidditch players did.

  Whatever a Seeker did.

  Flitwick picked up on this immediately and made for a motion with a slight “ah-hem!” that perked his attention up.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Now, observe closely," he continued, raising his wand with practiced grace. "The incantation is Lumos, pronounced with clarity and confidence. But it is the wand movements that truly bring the spell to life. Simply saying the incantation will produce little more than empty sparks, it’s the direct movement that guides the magic from within into the wand." With a flourish, Flitwick executed the first motion, a delicate sweep of his wand from left to right, followed by a graceful upward flick.

  "Like so," he said, his movements precise and deliberate. "A fluid motion, akin to drawing a graceful line through the air. Remember, the key is in the wrist movement. Too rigid, and the spell may falter. Too loose, and it may lose its potency."

  Hermione's quill scratched fervently against parchment, the rhythmic sound echoing through the quiet classroom, even audible to Harry a few rows down. He could tell there was frustration behind each stroke. Beside him, Ron's brow furrowed in concentration as he attempted to replicate Flitwick's precise wand movements.

  "Maybe try raising your wrist a bit on the final movement," Asher suggested in a hushed tone, leaning closer to offer advice.

  Ron nodded eagerly, adjusting his grip on his wand as he made another attempt. This time, as he executed the final flourish, a bright lamp-like light burst forth from the tip, illuminating the space around him.

  "Yes, yes, Mr. Weasley," Flitwick chimed in, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness and turning away momentarily. "That is the right idea. One point to Hufflepuff for the ingenuity. Now, please do one final shake and repeat the incantation for the wand-extinguishing charm, Nox, to break the connection and end the spell so the rest of your class can attempt."

  Ron complied, giving his wand a little shake, and said aloud “Nox!” causing the light to dim before fading away completely.

  With a chorus of eager murmurs, the students eagerly retrieved their wands, their hands trembling with anticipation.

  With a deep breath, he followed Flitwick's instructions, his movements slow and deliberate as he traced the intricate patterns in the air. He felt the familiar surge of magic coursing through him, the energy building and coalescing at the tip of his wand.

  "Lumos," Harry whispered, his voice steady and sure. And with a flicker of light, the tip of his wand ignited with a brilliant glow.

  "Excellent, Mr. Potter!" Flitwick exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with pride. "A splendid display. Keep practicing, and soon you shall master the Lumos and Nox charms with ease."

  He bolted his dinner that evening without noticing the savory aroma of the food or the flavors bursting in his mouth, his mind consumed with anticipation.

  As the clock struck closer to seven, Harry left the castle proper behind as he made his way out to the Quidditch field. The sky above was painted in hues of purple and orange, streaked with ribbons of fading sunlight, casting a warm glow over the sprawling grounds. With each step, Harry's anticipation grew, He had never set foot inside the stadium before.

  As he approached the field, the imposing structure of the stadium loomed before him, its towering stands rising up like ancient monoliths, beckoning him closer. Hundreds of seats were arranged in tiers around the perimeter of the field, each one raised high enough to offer spectators a clear view of the action below.

  Harry couldn't help but marvel at the sight, the enormity of the stadium and the grandeur of its design taking his breath away. At either end of the field stood three golden poles, their gleaming surfaces catching the fading light of the setting sun. Hoops adorned the tops of the poles, their circular shapes reminiscent of the little plastic sticks Muggle children used to blow bubbles, albeit on a much grander scale. Each hoop stood fifty feet tall.

  But Harry had little time to admire the view, his excitement mounting with each passing moment. Too eager to wait for Oliver Wood, the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Harry wasted no time in mounting his broomstick and kicking off from the ground.

  He felt the wind course through his hair and his glasses push up against the bridge of his nose as a deep exhilaration flooded his veins. There was nothing that could compare to this feeling. It was astounding.

  “Potter, over here!” came Wood’s voice across the pitch.

  Harry stopped, pulling up on the handle and he was fascinated by how easily it listened. He spotted the Quidditch Team Captain down on the pitch. It had looked as if he were carrying something hefty under one arm. On closer inspection it looked to be a large wooden crate.

  Harry pulled himself down and descended near Wood.

  "Very nice," Wood remarked, his eyes gleaming with approval as he surveyed Harry's performance. "I see what McGonagall meant... you really are a natural."

  Harry beamed at the praise, feeling a swell of pride at the acknowledgment of his skill.

  “Thank you, sir,” Harry said.

  “No need for sirs here. If you’re going to be part of the team you can call me Wood.”

  “About that...I don’t know how to play Quidditch. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Problem? Not at all. Quidditch is one of the simplest games of them all to learn!”

  “Really?” Harry asked.

  Harry noticed Wood started to chuckle, “Well, it is a little complicated, but it’s nothing we can’t teach you. I’m going to teach you the rules this evening," Wood continued. “We’ll iron out flying with precision in the days to come—flying itself is one thing, but flying while focusing on the game is another layer on top of it. I’m sure you’ll be fine with that, given how you were going about up there,” he motioned with his hand. “Rules first though, going to need to have you understand what you’re doing before you learn to actually do it. Then after that you’ll be joining team practice three times a week, sound good?”

  Harry smiled, his eyes wide with excitement. “Sounds perfect.”

  With a sense of anticipation, Wood unlatched the crate and swung open the lid, revealing its contents. Inside lay four different-sized balls, each gleaming in the soft glow of the evening light.

  "Right," Wood said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Now, Quidditch is easy enough to understand, even if it's not too easy to play. The game revolves around everything in this box here."

  As he spoke, Wood reached into the crate and retrieved a bright red ball about the size of a soccer ball, holding it aloft for Harry to see.

  "This ball's called the Quaffle," Wood explained. “This is the main ball here that is used to score points. We have players on the team called Chasers. Their main focus is this ball right here. The Chaser’s goal is to get this Quaffle here into one of those hoops up there,” Wood pointed to the tall hoops on either side of the pitch. “Ten points for each successful goal, and that is where Keepers come in. That’s my job, I stand as goalie for these hoops—try preventing any goals by the opposing team and give the Quaffle back to our Chasers, make sense?”

  Harry nodded. “Yeah, I think so. It’s kind of like Muggle Soccer.”

  “Except with a lot more flying,” Wood joked. “Yes, so there are three Chasers to every team. Ours are Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell. All talented Chasers who will be very excited to meet you.”

  "Three Chasers, one Keeper," Harry repeated, his brow furrowed in concentration as he absorbed every word. "And they play with the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are they for?" He gestured toward the remaining balls nestled inside the wooden crate.

  "I'll show you now," said Wood, a glint of excitement dancing in his eyes. With a practiced hand, he retrieved a small club from the crate, its polished surface gleaming in the fading light.

  "Take this," Wood instructed, handing the club to Harry. "I'm going to show you what the Bludgers do."

  Harry accepted the club, noting its weight and balance as he held it in his hands. He watched intently as Wood reached into the crate once more, extracting two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Even from a distance, Harry could see the Bludgers straining against the straps that held them captive, eager to be set free.

  "Stand back," Wood warned Harry, his voice tinged with caution. With a swift motion, he bent down and released one of the Bludgers from its restraints.

  As the ball sprang to life, Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through him. The Bludger whizzed through the air with alarming speed, its dark surface reflecting the fading light as it darted toward Harry with a menacing hum.

  With a quick step backward, Harry watched as Wood expertly maneuvered to intercept the Bludger, his movements fluid and precise as he deftly redirected the ball away from harm's way.

  At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted straight at Harry's face. Harry swung at it with the bat to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it zigzagging away into the air—it zoomed around their heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it and managed to pin it to the ground.

  "See? You’ve now performed the role of our two Beaters, though I’m sure you know them both."

  “Fred and George,” Harry said, his eyes on the Bludger still.

  Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the crate and strapping it down safely. "Correct. Beaters are on the lookout for Bludgers across the field which are given free reign. They help protect everyone else on the team from getting walloped. Additionally, they have an added unspoken responsibility to try and redirect those bludgers at the opposing team to get them off balance.”

  "Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the Keeper guards the goal posts; the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team," Harry reeled off.

  "Very good," said Wood.

  "Er—have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?" Harry asked, hoping he sounded offhand.

  "Never at Hogwarts. We've had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that. Madame Pomfrey in the hospital wing is a blessing for healing any wounds quick-like. Now, the last member of the team is the Seeker. That's you.”

  Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth and last ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large walnut. It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver wings.

  "This," said Wood, his voice reverent, "is the Golden Snitch, and it's the most important ball of the lot."

  He held the small, spherical object delicately in his gloved hands, cradling it as though it were a precious jewel. Harry leaned in closer, his eyes widening with curiosity as he examined the Snitch. It gleamed in the fading light, its surface polished to perfection, adorned with intricate engravings that seemed to shimmer and dance in the dim glow.

  "They're custom-made for each game because of how special they are," Wood explained, his tone tinged with awe. "It's very hard to catch because it's so fast and difficult to see. It's the Seeker's job to catch it."

  "You've got to weave in and out of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get it before the other team's Seeker," Wood continued, his words ringing with authority. "Because whichever Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra fifty points, so they nearly always win. That's why Seekers get fouled so much," Wood added, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "A game of Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it can go on for ages—I think the record is three months. They had to keep bringing on substitutes so the players could get some sleep."

  "Why do they have to be specially made?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued by Wood's earlier remark.

  "They've got a flesh memory," Wood explained. "Used typically in cases of disputes. But when you hold onto them for a few seconds and they sense your warmth—your body temperature, that is—they record that information inside themselves. That’s why I’m only touching it with my gloves here. It doesn’t register my touch unless it's my body warmth."

  "And that's about it, honestly. Any further questions?" Wood asked, his gaze fixed on Harry with an expectant look.

  Harry shook his head, his mind buzzing with excitement and anticipation. He understood what he had to do alright—it was doing it that was going to be the problem.

  "We won't practice with the Snitch yet," said Wood, carefully shutting it back inside the crate, "It's too dark. We might lose it. Let's try you out with a few of these."

  He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket, and a few minutes later, he and Harry were up in the air. Wood threw the golf balls as hard as he could in every direction, and Harry soared through the sky, his eyes sharp and his reflexes quick as he caught each ball with ease.

  Harry's performance surpassed all expectations, his reflexes sharp and his movements fluid as he effortlessly caught each golf ball thrown by Wood.

  Wood's face lit up with delight at Harry's display of skill, his eyes sparkling with pride as they soared through the night sky together. The moon cast a soft, silvery glow over the Quidditch field, illuminating their path as they practiced late into the evening.

  As the minutes stretched into half an hour, the darkness deepened around them, the stars twinkling overhead like diamonds scattered across a velvet canvas. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves and dew-covered grass. Finally, with night fully descended upon them, Wood called an end to their practice session. With a satisfied smile, he turned to Harry, his voice filled with optimism and excitement for the season ahead.

  "That Quidditch cup'll have our name on it this year," said Wood happily, his words echoing in the stillness of the night. "I wouldn't be surprised if you turn out better than Charlie Weasley, and he could have played for England if he hadn't gone off chasing dragons."

  As they returned to the depths of the Castle interior, Harry had felt a growing happiness inside him.

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