Chapter 241. Two Firebolts
Four days later, on Saturday.
The sky was blanketed by a heavy layer of lead-grey cloud, with bean-sized raindrops drumming down.
Even so, despite the foul weather, the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts was a roar of voices; no one's enthusiasm for Quidditch had dimmed in the least.
Today was the first match of the term.
Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff.
At ten in the morning, the stands of all four Houses were already crammed with students in raincoats and under umbrellas.
In the team room by the pitch, Harry hefted his Firebolt and couldn't help feeling a little nervous.
Today was his first official match on the Firebolt.
The opponents were Hufflepuff—this term they had rebuilt their side, and word had it they were formidable, especially their Seeker, a boy named Cedric Diggory.
Even so, Harry still felt sure he could win.
After all, he had the Firebolt.
With the advantage in equipment, he didn't think he could possibly lose to the other side.
A wave of cheering rolled in from outside.
"Time to go!" Wood's shout cut across Harry's thoughts.
Harry followed behind Wood, carrying the Firebolt as they made their way out.
In the rain he saw a blur of Hufflepuff yellow—their opponents were clearly ready.
The two teams halted, facing each other in the middle of the pitch.
But the instant they met, every player on Gryffindor froze in place.
Harry was no exception, because the handsome boy at the very front of the opposite side was gripping a broom exactly the same as his—another Firebolt.
Under the sluicing rain, the Firebolt in Cedric's hands gleamed all the brighter.
Harry felt his heart lurch and sink.
The Firebolt was no longer his exclusive edge.
"Let's hope for a fair contest," Cedric gave Wood a friendly smile. "I've been looking forward to this match."
Wood, tight-lipped, nodded and said nothing.
Clearly, the situation wasn't looking ideal.
Much as he hated to admit it, the Hufflepuff Quidditch team was definitely a troublesome opponent for them.
Meanwhile, up in the stands.
Adrian Wesson sat among the Hufflepuff students, nodding in satisfaction.
A contest between equals was far more worth watching.
Yes—the Firebolt in Cedric's hands had been sent over by Wesson.
Wesson had bought himself a Firebolt earlier too, but had never had the chance to use it, and he didn't think he needed a broom that good.
So he simply donated it to his House team, to be used by their best player.
As a Hufflepuff, backing your own House team was only right and proper.
And Cedric was very, very good at Quidditch.
Speaking of Cedric, even Wesson had to admit he could hardly find a single flaw in the boy.
The boy was perfect—impeccably so.
"Here you are, Professor."
Just then, a student beside him handed Wesson a pair of binoculars.
"Oh, thank you, Ernie."
Wesson took them and raised them to his eyes.
They were magical binoculars.
To his surprise, even in such vile weather they showed the action on the pitch with crystal clarity; it was as if the falling rain had been wiped away, gone completely.
"Where did you get these binoculars?" Wesson couldn't help glancing at Ernie.
"Cedric gave them to us," Ernie said, unable to hide the admiration in his voice. "He said he made them himself. I couldn't manage anything like this…"
Wesson turned the binoculars over and over in his hands.
It seemed Cedric was even more capable than he had imagined, in quite a few areas.
With Madam Hooch's whistle, the first Quidditch match of the term officially began.
Players shot into the air; streaks of red and yellow wove through the sheeted rain, and a roar of cheers swelled from the stands.
To be honest, this sort of weather was truly unfit for Quidditch.
Because of the foul conditions, most students could hardly make out what was happening on the pitch at all.
They could only cheer when everyone else did.
Those who could see, however, fixed on two figures who stood out above all others. Harry and Cedric had spotted the Golden Snitch early and were already locked in a duel.
Their speed outstripped everyone else's by more than a little.
"They seem to have changed brooms…" Wesson heard Ernie mutter under his breath beside him, and he smiled faintly.
All right then—with the match running smoothly, he ought to take care of a little preparation sooner rather than later.
Halfway through, the score stood at 90–70.
The whistle blew for the interval.
Hufflepuff were slightly behind, but everyone knew that wasn't the point.
With the score so tight, the Seekers would decide the result.
Throughout the first half, Harry and Cedric had been tangling with each other; neither could shake the other off, and even when they sighted the Golden Snitch, neither could get close.
In the stands, Ernie lowered the binoculars and said nervously, "Oh—Potter's actually keeping up with Cedric's speed. Can we win? Professor Wesson… Professor Wesson?"
Ernie looked about in confusion, only to find the seat beside him empty. Wesson was gone, leaving only the magical binoculars lying quietly on the bench.
"How odd…" He scratched his head.
This was a crucial moment—where had their professor gone?
But he quickly put the thought aside, because after a brief rest, the match had begun again.
At the same time, on the open ground not far from the pitch, an ominous shadow was silently gathering.
Wesson stood in the rain and closed his fingers lightly around his wand.
His gaze cut through the curtain of water, fixed on the patch of darkness that was thickening by the moment.
Dementors were drifting in from all directions, massing together.
Wesson made a rough count—there were at least a hundred of them.
That was no small number; he had never run into so many Dementors at once.
As for why they were gathering here, Wesson guessed they meant to feast at the Quidditch match.
After all, right now the pitch brimmed with the pure joy and passion of hundreds of students—nothing less than a banquet to a Dementor.
Wesson could imagine them greedily sniffing at the happiness on the air, like starving wolves catching the scent of blood.
Sure enough, once the Dementors had mustered, they began to drift slowly towards the Quidditch pitch.
And Wesson was standing directly in their path.
"One last warning."
As the Dementors approached, Wesson touched his wand to his own throat and shouted, "You have no right to enter!
Fall back at once!"
The Dementors paused for a heartbeat, but soon they began to glide forward again.
They did feel something baleful about Wesson—but…
Did a single human think to stop them?
Utter fantasy.
Seeing this, Wesson slowly sighed and glanced around.
Where had the Ministry of Magic staff who managed the Dementors gone?
If they didn't show up soon, some unpleasant things might be about to happen.
Of course—unpleasant for the Dementors, that is.
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