Just as Wood straightened up to announce the tryout results, Loren suddenly asked:
"If a Beater kills someone with a Bludger, would they be sent to Azkaban?"
Wood nearly lost his balance at the question, twisting his back, and stared at Loren with open disbelief. Then, sighing, he explained again.
"Bludgers are specially enchanted. At most, they injure. When Beaters hit them, they use the ball's own effect—it's not about raw strength."
Loren, unconvinced, hefted the bat and motioned for Wood to release one.
Wood's shoulders slumped. Clearly Loren hadn't been listening. He bent down and unclipped one of the black spheres.
Harry, realizing what was coming, scrambled to the far side of the pitch. Even enchanted, a Bludger still hurt.
The ball shot into the air, spun once, and streaked toward Loren. This time he used half his strength. The bat cracked against it, and the Bludger ripped away like a cannonball—straight into the stands.
Wood splintered. Timber cracked, echoing across the pitch. Support beams gave way as the Bludger tore through, finally bursting out the back of the stands and vanishing into the forest.
Everyone gaped. Only Hermione's face remained calm—she'd long suspected Loren's true power. She wore the same training gear and practiced the same body-hardening drills. If her strength had grown, his must be on another level.
Loren casually flicked his wand. "Accio."
The Bludger whipped back out of the trees, flying neatly into his hand. He squeezed, effortlessly pinning the ball that Wood himself needed both hands to restrain.
Wood swallowed hard. Then his expression went slack, mouth half open, drool threatening. He'd already begun dreaming of the Quidditch Cup.
Fred and George pounced, snatching bat and ball from Loren, fumbling with them as if to prove some trick was involved.
The racket jolted Wood back. He cuffed each twin on the head, yanked the gear away, and stuffed it back in the crate. "That's enough. Give this back to Madam Hooch—and fix the stands. I'm off to speak with Professor McGonagall about broomsticks."
As he hurried away with the twins, Loren's friends crowded in. Ron seized his hand, face lit with pride.
"Congratulations, Loren! You've outdone Harry—now you're the youngest player in Hogwarts history!"
Loren humored him, promising that next year he'd recommend Ron for the team. Wood would graduate in two years, and new blood would be needed.
…
A week later—Friday morning—Loren lingered in the Great Hall after breakfast.
The day before, Professor McGonagall had told him and Harry their new brooms would arrive. She'd petitioned Dumbledore herself.
At last, a broom of his own. He'd had money enough to buy one, but his focus had been elsewhere—alchemy, enchantments, research. He'd never cared much for Quidditch. He could fly without it. But now, knowing the rules, with a place on the team, the idea of a broom felt different. A chance to play Quidditch like a blood sport.
And better yet, McGonagall had paid for it herself. Free. Sweetest price of all. He'd already decided on her Christmas gift—two liters of concentrated catnip extract, refined personally. Ordinary leaves wouldn't do.
At eight sharp, a cloud of owls swooped into the hall. All eyes turned to the enormous package slung between ten of them.
Loren knew immediately—it was theirs. He rose, intercepting the owls before the parcel could crush breakfasts off the table.
A second owl fluttered down, dropping a letter atop the bundle.
Loren set the package at his feet, broke the seal, and read:
*Do not open this in the hall. Inside are two Nimbus 2000 broomsticks. I don't want the others knowing yet—it would cause an uproar. Oliver Wood has scheduled your first training session tonight at seven. Do not be late.*
*—Minerva McGonagall*
He passed the letter to Harry. Once the others had read it, they rushed from the hall together, the bulky parcel in tow, bound for the dormitory.
On the stairs, they ran into Professor Flitwick.
"New brooms, hmm? What model?" he asked with a grin.
"Nimbus Two Thousand, sir," Harry answered, beaming. Then they bolted on, too excited to linger.
That day's Potions lesson went the way of the last. Snape picked on Harry relentlessly, but Harry couldn't stop smiling. Even after losing ten points—record-breaking for a single lesson—he looked triumphant. Snape, as Slytherin Head, must have heard of Harry's new role on the team.
Watching, Loren had a sudden thought he couldn't shake: what if he turned Harry into a girl for Potions class? He'd have to dig into Polyjuice theory, maybe craft a gender-shifting draught. The idea of "Harriet" Potter facing Snape was almost too amusing.
At lunch, Harry, Ron, and Neville barely touched their food before racing back to the dorm to unwrap the package.
Loren lingered over his meal. A new broom was tempting, but a hot lunch was better.
Later, when he returned, he found the box opened in the center of the room. Harry, Ron, and Neville crowded over Harry's broom. Ron cradled it like a newborn.
Even with little interest in brooms, Loren had to admire the Nimbus 2000. Sleek lines, polished wood, the handle carved from mahogany, the bristles straight and uniform. The golden letters gleamed at the tip.
For a moment, he was tempted to tear into his own box immediately. Instead, habit drew him to his bed. He'd nap first.
When he woke, the others were still fussing with Harry's broom, entranced. Loren finally gave in, opening his own case.
The weight in his hand made him understand. It was like buying a new car—over time the novelty would fade, but on the first day, you couldn't put it down.
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