The peaceful, comfortable Christmas holiday was drawing to a close.
Not long after New Year's, students began returning to school one after another, and the Hufflepuff common room grew livelier by the day.
With more people back, Jon could no longer study and practice magic there in peace.
Reluctantly, he packed up his things and moved his "base" back to the Room of Requirement—just like before.
A week after New Year's, the new term officially began.
And with it came a piece of news that spread like wildfire among the students—
"I heard Harry Potter from Gryffindor got a Firebolt for Christmas!" Zacharias Smith announced mysteriously one evening in the common room.
"What's a Firebolt?" Hannah Abbott asked, puzzled. "The name sounds familiar…"
"The Firebolt is the finest racing broom ever made—the absolute pinnacle of broomstick craftsmanship!" Zacharias launched into his explanation with the enthusiasm of someone paid to promote it. "Every twig in its tail is hand-selected for perfect streamlining. Its balance and precision are second to none… It can go from zero to one hundred and fifty miles per hour in ten seconds flat! Any Quidditch player would give their wand arm for one."
"Potter's Nimbus 2000 got snapped clean in half during our match in that storm," Cedric Diggory added, his voice tinged with envy. "Guess you could say he made the best of a bad situation…"
After all, Cedric himself was still flying a Cleansweep Eight.
"Who would give him a gift that expensive?" Ernie Macmillan said in disbelief. "A Firebolt isn't exactly pocket change!"
"Maybe one of his admirers… Harry's got plenty of fans," Hannah suggested.
"Or maybe it's just a bit of misdirection from Gryffindor?" ventured Jimmy, Hufflepuff's Beater.
"Either way, our match against Gryffindor's already over."
...
All the speculation ended one midday in late January.
During breakfast, Professor McGonagall and Madam Hooch entered the Great Hall carrying a broomstick wrapped in protective covering.
"I just went to the Gryffindor common room looking for you," McGonagall said. Her voice wasn't loud, but still carried far enough for plenty of people to hear. "Here you are. We've run every check we could think of, and there's nothing wrong with this broom. You've got yourself a very good friend, Potter."
As the two teachers left, the hall erupted.
"Merlin's beard, it really is a Firebolt!"
"That's the official broom of the England National Quidditch Team!"
"Harry, can I touch it?"
Students from all four houses crowded around—Gryffindor most of all, but plenty of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws joined in too.
Even Ernie Macmillan and Zacharias Smith, who had been sitting next to Jon moments earlier, pushed into the crush.
Everyone was shouting over one another, desperate for a glimpse of the famous broom.
Jon stayed put, gnawing on a ham hock and watching it all with mild interest.
Before long, his eyes drifted to the Slytherin table, where he spotted Draco Malfoy.
Poor Malfoy's face was set in a cold, stony glare, his gaze locked on the knot of Gryffindors, an expression hovering between jealousy and fury…
...
Jon could imagine exactly what Malfoy was thinking. If it were him, he'd be sending an owl to his father right now—asking Lucius Malfoy to buy him a Firebolt. Or better yet, seven of them, one for every member of the Slytherin Quidditch team.
Of course, Jon didn't have that kind of money. And, from the look of it, neither did the Malfoys.
Lucius had been able to splash out on seven Nimbus 2001s to secure Draco's place on the team and challenge Harry Potter, but buying a Firebolt was apparently out of reach.
Truth be told, the Nimbus 2001 was already one of the best brooms on the market, and seven of them together cost about as much as a single Firebolt. Lucius's broomstick budget had clearly been spent in one go.
From Jon's own deductions—and what he'd heard from Astoria—most of those glamorous "pure-blood families" were living well beyond their means.
They looked wealthy on the surface, but in reality had almost no real income.
A typical pure-blood family might own a grand estate, heirloom gold and silver antiques passed down for centuries, and vaults of gold in Gringotts.
But the manor was for living in, the antiques for using. They might seem priceless, but try to sell them for Galleons and you'd find they fetched far less than you'd expect.
And the gold in those vaults? It dwindled with each generation. Most families had less and less, and some even had to borrow from Gringotts just to get by.
That gold had been amassed by countless generations—through discovering hidden treasure, building fortunes in potion-making or alchemy, or earning rich rewards from Muggles for banishing spirits and dark creatures.
But over time, such opportunities had grown scarce, and accumulating wealth became harder and harder.
Few wizarding families had any kind of sustainable business. And in a magical world where material goods were abundant, most industries hardly produced anything of real value.
Thanks to magic, essentials like food, clothing, and water were dirt-cheap.
Gamp's Law might forbid conjuring food from nothing, but you could multiply a small amount, grow pumpkins taller than a man, or make barren fields yield record harvests.
Even "poor" wizarding families like the Weasleys weren't struggling for their next meal. What worried them was paying for four or five children's school expenses—new books, wands, and robes. They might not have a single spare Galleon, yet they lived in a sprawling house with acres of yard and could still feed a dozen people well every day.
Pure-blood families, on the other hand, burned through huge sums each year just to keep up appearances and maintain connections across all levels of wizarding society. Those costs far outstripped anything they earned from a Ministry post or a seat on the Hogwarts Board of Governors.
Over time, they grew hollow and worn down.
And that, Jon thought, was why Voldemort's "pure-blood supremacy" had such appeal for them.
By attacking, enslaving, and plundering Muggle-borns and Muggles, they could seize wealth and resources all over again—refill their Gringotts vaults and let future generations return to the luxury they believed was their birthright.
...
Jon lowered his gaze and took another unhurried bite of ham.
Inside, he felt nothing at all—if anything, he was a little amused.