Cedric Diggory.
Even students from other houses cheered for him. He was not only humble but carried a strong sense of justice and sportsmanship.
Of course, in this case, chivalry didn't mean the reckless bravado of a knight errant. In the original tale, Cedric had all the makings of a hero, except for the one thing a true hero needs most, an unyielding fate.
It was truly a shame.
He had barely begun his journey before being forced into an unwinnable duel against Voldemort himself. That was about as fair as asking a first-year to outfly a seasoned Quidditch champion.
"Old Tom's bones have long since been ground to dust," Ian mused, shaking his head. As if sensing Ian's gaze, Cedric glanced over, then broke into a bright grin and waved at him with unreserved enthusiasm.
It didn't seem to occur to Cedric that such a public display of camaraderie might make Ian look like a traitor to Ravenclaw, earning him no small amount of teasing from his housemates. Ian sighed, wondering if he should dig up a few of Voldemort's metaphorical bones just for good measure.
"Whoosh!"
Madam Hooch blew her silver whistle, and more than a dozen broomsticks shot into the air, soaring high above the pitch. As the cheers intensified, the student commentator began their work.
"The Quaffle is first taken by Hufflepuff! Ravenclaw was just a fraction too slow, putting them on the defensive straight away!"
"Ravenclaw counters, oh! A beautiful dodge from Hufflepuff! And they score! Hufflepuff takes an early lead, 10-0!"
"And look at that! Merlin's beard! The Ravenclaw Seeker just pulled off a Wronski Feint! The Hufflepuff Seeker nearly took a one-way trip to the hospital wing!"
...
The match was exhilarating.
Ian was particularly enthralled by the moment both Seekers plunged towards the ground at breakneck speed before one abruptly veered off at the last second.
He reckoned the poor Hufflepuff Seeker who fell for the feint had stopped no more than twenty centimeters above the pitch, a stark reminder of how dangerously close Quidditch could tread to disaster.
The stadium had transformed into a battlefield.
Even Cedric Diggory, ever composed and graceful, was nearly taken out by his own teammates in the chaos.
"Oh, heavens!"
Ian glanced towards the staff stand, where several professors had already risen from their seats. Professor McGonagall's wand was at the ready, her tense posture a stark contrast to the delighted cheers and frenzied screams of the younger students.
The match carried on.
However, after noticing the professors' reactions, Ian found himself paying less attention to the game itself. Instead, he was rather entertained by McGonagall's ever-changing expressions, wand ever poised, gaze flickering between stern disapproval and resigned exasperation.
Watching her internal battle between strict discipline and Quidditch fervor was proving just as enjoyable as the match itself.
Not only that.
Another scene unfolding in the stands was far more intriguing than the match itself, Professor Quirrell, clad in his usual modest robes, was present among the faculty.
However, unlike the other professors, who watched the match intently while remaining alert for any signs of danger, Quirrell's gaze frequently flickered toward Gilderoy Grindelwald.
Gilderoy, seemingly oblivious, was cheerfully munching on a pastry, his attention fixed on the game. When he caught Ian's glance, he even raised the half-eaten pastry in a friendly salute, as if they were old acquaintances.
Ian quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere. As the saying goes, while the mantis stalks the cicada, the oriole waits behind. Quirrell was so intent on observing Gilderoy that he had entirely failed to notice the looming presence behind him, a dark, bat-like figure shrouded in black robes.
Professor Snape, with his perpetually somber expression, stood out starkly in the crowd. His sharp gaze was fixed unwaveringly on Quirrell, his brows furrowed in suspicion. It was little wonder that the trio of young heroes so often mistook him for a villain.
"Poor uncle probably has no idea what sort of errand noseless Tom has set Quirrell on," Ian mused, pulling out a scrap of parchment to document the curious scene before him.
His sketching had improved over time, practiced in idle moments, and he was approaching a rather respectable skill level. Interestingly, this artistic pursuit also enhanced his proficiency in alchemy, after all, inscribing magical circuits required precision, much like illustration.
That might have explained why Ian's artistic skills were developing, yet his style had veered firmly into abstraction. He had long since abandoned realism, growing more fascinated with the expressive nature of lines and form.
Amid the lively cheers and chants echoing through the stands, Ian set about sketching the scene, a composition where he, Quirrell, and Snape all appeared to be locked in a cycle of observation, each staring at another in an endless loop.
Since this was purely for his own amusement, Ian took the liberty of adding an extra detail: a grotesque, barely visible face on the back of Quirrell's head. The expressions were captured well, but he made no effort to adhere to realism.
In some ways, it had the eerie charm of a master's work.
But rather than resembling a Renaissance portrait, it bore a striking similarity to a Picasso, particularly one of his more chaotic periods. This was entirely deliberate; if Ian had wanted to draw realistically, he could have done so effortlessly.
Instead, he found himself drawn to abstraction, wondering if reaching the highest levels of artistic skill, combined with magic, could produce something truly extraordinary, perhaps even enchanted artwork capable of stirring emotions or altering perception.
"This is the complete Quirrell," Ian murmured in satisfaction, admiring his artistic rendition of the professor, complete with the hidden face. Meanwhile, the match had reached its climax.
"After an initial struggle, the Ravenclaw team has begun to assert dominance! Their impeccable coordination and tactical shifts have widened the lead to 120-40!"
"Hufflepuff started strong but has been completely entangled in Ravenclaw's strategic play! They haven't managed to break through, this overwhelming lead leaves them with little hope of a comeback!"
"If nothing unexpected happens, wait, heavens! An unexpected turn of events! The Snitch! The golden Snitch has appeared! Cedric Diggory is diving for it, could this be another miraculous moment?"
"He's done it! Cedric Diggory has caught the Snitch! What a breathtaking finish! Hufflepuff wins! He's the hero of Hufflepuff today!"
The match concluded in a dramatic reversal.
The stadium erupted into cheers, and a flood of Hufflepuff students surged onto the field, celebrating their stunning comeback. Meanwhile, the Ravenclaw players were left disheartened, their earlier excitement replaced by weary sighs of disappointment.
Ian mimicked their sighs for effect, but his quill never paused. He had just realized that his sketch lacked a certain artistic touch. With a few careful strokes, he erased the extra face on Quirrell's head, refining his composition to better suit his evolving artistic vision.
"The essence of a true masterpiece lies in its artistic vision."
After a moment of contemplation, Ian decided to reposition the face to the back of Quirrell's head. Instantly, the composition took on a distinctly avant-garde quality, one might even call it visionary.
Meanwhile, across the stands…
Ian, still absentmindedly biting the end of his quill, admired his creation, wondering what peculiar enhancements his artistic skill might unlock once he reached the next level.
Oblivious to this, Quirrell's focus remained locked on Gilderoy Grindelwald. However, a peculiar itch nagged at the back of his head. Without thinking, he reached around, scratching at the spot through his robes, his expression twitching slightly.
"Master was supposed to arrive at Hogwarts this morning, and then… nothing. No word, no sign. And yet, here I am, watching a man who seems more interested in pastries than the Dark Lord's plans. Should I use the poison I prepared or not?"
Quirrell, new to the perilous world of espionage, found himself trapped in a spiral of indecision. His mind was so preoccupied that he barely noticed the shadow looming behind him.
"Professor Quirrell."
A cold, silken voice sliced through his thoughts like a blade.
Snape's hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Quirrell nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around hastily, wide-eyed, to find the Potions Master watching him with a gaze sharp enough to pierce through steel.
"You seem… unwell," Snape murmured, his voice dripping with suspicion.
(To Be Continued…)
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