Wyzett slowly opened his eyes, greeted by the distinctive scent of sandalwood.
In his hand, a small branch had appeared—its bark radiating that same woody fragrance, a single mistletoe leaf still attached.
There was no doubt about it: this was pure magic, a curious blend of elements.
"Why are you holding a tree branch?" Anthony asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Because I need to borrow this book," Wyzett replied with a grin. He tapped the branch lightly with his wand.
The branch shrank rapidly, transforming into a sandalwood-scented mistletoe-leaf bookmark.
"Let's go!" He slipped the bookmark into his book and headed off.
Metamorphic Transformation Theory had given Wyzett a wealth of inspiration. Even on the way to the Quidditch pitch, he couldn't resist practicing more Transfiguration spells, waving his wand experimentally as he walked.
Practice when inspiration strikes—that was a lesson he'd learned in his previous life, and it worked just as well in the magical world.
He strode across the grass, wand in hand like a maestro's baton, and with every step, the blades beneath his feet blossomed into pale primroses.
Metamorphic Transformation Theory included dozens of structural diagrams, from plants to animals, arranged by difficulty.
Primroses were among the simpler diagrams—perfect for practice.
Wyzett glanced back at the fading trail of primroses, a surge of satisfaction blooming in his chest.
Transfiguration, as a major branch of magic, held its own unique allure.
Its unpredictability and freedom of form were what drew him in, making it hard to resist the thrill of creation.
Michael had been watching for a while. His jaw dropped as flower after delicate flower appeared. Eventually, he plucked one.
The petals scattered, and the pale primrose in his palm reverted to a simple blade of grass.
He tugged at Wyzett's sleeve. "How does it do that?"
"Basic Transfiguration. Turning grass into a flower isn't too hard," Anthony explained. "It's just that Wyzett is incredibly good at it… really, really good…"
"How can anyone be that good!" Michael groaned, a little deflated. "He's so fast with Transfiguration, first-year lessons must be boring for him by now."
"It's just practice," Wyzett said, tucking away his wand. Behind him, the petals fluttered down as the primroses turned back into grass. "I just practice a lot, that's all."
"If you're interested, I can lend you my notes." He held up Metamorphic Transformation Theory and gave it a wave. "This book has been a huge inspiration. You should check it out."
Confronted with the ten-centimeter-thick tome, Anthony instinctively swallowed. "Maybe later… It's the weekend, after all. We should enjoy ourselves a little!"
"Yeah, exactly!" Michael quickly agreed. "Look—the tryouts are starting!"
Wyzett had rarely ventured beyond the castle, and had only glimpsed the Quidditch pitch from his dormitory window.
The oval field was shaped like a giant olive, as large as a football stadium, with the center circle marked in white.
As an aerial sport, the stands were built high above, encircling the field like the columns of an ancient Greek temple.
Three golden goalposts rose at each end, each topped with a hoop—like a basketball net. To score, you had to send the ball through the ring.
Seeing Wyzett's unfamiliarity, his two roommates puffed up with pride, seizing the chance to explain Quidditch's player positions and scoring system.
It was a sport with a long history, beloved by wizards all over the world—there was even a Quidditch World Cup.
The game used four balls: one Quaffle, two Bludgers, and a single Golden Snitch.
Each team fielded seven players: three Chasers, two Beaters, one Keeper, and one Seeker.
Chasers fought for the Quaffle and tried to score by throwing it through the hoops—worth ten points apiece.
Bludgers, enchanted to fly and attack at random, were countered by Beaters wielding bats. Their job was to protect teammates and send the Bludgers toward the opposing team.
The Keeper guarded the hoops, blocking shots and preventing the other team from scoring.
The Golden Snitch, a tiny, magically propelled ball the size of a ping-pong ball, zipped around the field at incredible speed. The Seeker's job was to spot and catch it, which ended the match and earned their team a whopping one hundred and fifty points.
"So, one hundred fifty points? If you catch the Snitch right away, you win?" Wyzett asked, intrigued.
"That's what makes Quidditch so exciting!" Anthony gestured animatedly. "A team might be losing, but if their Seeker nabs the Snitch, they can turn the whole match around. It's brilliant!"
Wyzett nodded. The Golden Snitch really did make the outcome unpredictable—and the matches all the more thrilling.
They'd just stepped onto the pitch when they heard Cho Chang calling out, "Wyzett! Over here!"
The benches beside the team changing rooms were crowded with hopefuls.
Some, like Cho Chang, had brought their own broomsticks for the tryouts; others were using the school's.
Cho was polishing her broomstick, her voice a little rushed. "I thought you'd forgotten about me."
"Sorry, I almost did," Wyzett admitted, taking a seat. "Anthony reminded me."
Cho waved. "Hi! Thanks, both of you!"
"Uh… yeah… it's nothing, really…" Anthony's ears turned scarlet as he ducked his head, unable to meet Cho's eyes.
"Yeah… Anthony's right!" Michael wasn't faring much better—his ears were as red as if they'd been scalded.
Wyzett had to stifle a laugh. These two had been strutting and boasting all the way over, but a single greeting from Cho had turned them into bashful wallflowers.
It wasn't yet time for Cho's tryout for her preferred position—she needed a moment to settle her nerves.
To calm herself, she chatted with Wyzett about the team's situation.
Ravenclaw's Quidditch team had suffered heavy losses; Seekers, Beaters, Chasers—every position had vacancies.
Cho sighed. "The captain's really anxious. Before you got here, they'd already cut twenty people."
"How did they decide who to cut?" Wyzett asked, genuinely interested in the tryouts.
"Hovering, accelerating, weaving, sharp turns…" Cho counted on her fingers. "The captain calls out moves at random—if you can't keep up, you're out…"
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