Time passed swiftly. Harry received a Firebolt, a gift from Professor McGonagall, and visited the Quidditch pitch twice, more or less grasping the rules.
Quidditch involved different balls: three Chasers competed to score with the Quaffle, a game that somewhat resembled a normal ball sport. The Keeper guarded the goalposts. Watching only the Quaffle, it felt a bit like aerial polo.
The Beaters, however, were anything but ordinary. Their job was to prevent Bludgers from injuring their teammates while smacking those same Bludgers to bash opposing players.
"Let me get this straight," Harry said, "no one's ever died playing this game? Because it feels like it'd be way too easy to smash someone's brains out with these things, not to mention the bonus damage from falling out of the sky."
Harry squeezed the Bludger in his hand. Based on his years of experience, this thing was better suited for killing than a chessboard. And the rules allowed it—victory and defeat were settled right there on the pitch, where you could practically murder someone.
"Well, it's usually just concussions or broken bones," his teammate replied. "The force isn't normally enough to kill anyone. I mean, no student's died on the Hogwarts pitch… probably. At least, I've never seen it. Just a few people with shattered jaws."
Harry wanted to retort: Are you lot really living in a modern school? But then again, wizards. Some of their ideas were a bit barbaric, weren't they?
"As for professional matches, they've got proper referees, so deaths are… rare."
Rare, Harry thought. You wizards are something else.
The sport was rough and savage, encouraging players to aim Bludgers directly at opponents—hitting both the ball and the person. Harry couldn't fathom why wizards loved it. Maybe because their potions worked wonders on injuries, and their bodies were sturdier than most.
Truth be told, Harry kind of liked the physicality of it. Shame his role didn't involve hitting anyone. He was a Seeker, tasked with catching the Golden Snitch, a tiny, elusive ball. The Seeker's job was to grab it, and whichever team's Seeker succeeded earned their side an extra 150 points—pretty much a guaranteed win. Most teams couldn't pull the score gap to 150 points unless the skill difference was massive. But a truly skilled Seeker could end the game quickly, leaving the other team no chance to catch up.
A Quidditch match only ended when the Golden Snitch was caught, so some games dragged on for days. Wood mentioned the longest match he knew of lasted three months, with players rotating out to sleep before jumping back in, battling until total victory.
"Alright, that's the gist of it," Wood said. "Any questions?"
Harry shook his head. Truthfully, he thought the rules were unbalanced. Didn't that make the Seeker's role way too important? The ultimate protagonist? Unless the opposing team had a killer Beater who could keep pelting the Seeker with Bludgers, once a fast Seeker nabbed the Snitch, everyone else became irrelevant.
But since he was the Seeker, that meant his team was basically guaranteed to win. No problem there.
Harry wasn't really in it for the sport anyway. He just wanted to win attribute points. His hunger for victory far outweighed any fleeting joy from the game itself. Getting stronger—that's what thrilled him. Nurturing rivals, enjoying the match, or "friendship first"? That nonsense didn't exist for him. This was the heart of a champion.
"This is the Golden Snitch," Wood said, carefully showing it to Harry before tucking it back into its case. "We won't train with it yet. It's too dark, and we might lose it. We'll use these other balls for practice instead."
"No need," Harry said. "Just use the Snitch."
Harry's presence alone was persuasive—charisma was its own kind of royalty. Wood didn't argue. He released the Golden Snitch.
The moment it darted away, Harry's hand shot out at a speed Wood could barely track, snatching the Snitch mid-flight.
"Too easy," Harry said. "Is this against the rules? Should I wait for it to speed up or get farther away?"
Before Wood could respond, Harry released the Snitch again.
Wood blinked, stunned. "You're fast… no wonder…" He trailed off. "Wait, you're not chasing it? I'm losing sight of it!"
"No rush," Harry said. "Let it fly a bit."
He mounted his broom, circling lazily in place. Somehow, even on a broomstick, he exuded an air of commanding power, as if he were leading a thousand-strong army ready to charge alongside him.
"Three minutes," Harry declared. "I'll have it."
No surprises there. Two and a half minutes later, Harry returned with the Snitch in hand.
"Enemy shamed, I strip them bare," he muttered.
He repeated the feat several times, each catch faster and smoother than the last, as if plucking the Snitch from the air was as easy as picking fruit from a tree. Wood was ecstatic, proclaiming Harry a god among men.
This wasn't human!
His eyes, his speed, his riding, his ferocity, his pride, his dominance! A hexagonal warrior whose stats didn't just max out—they broke the ceiling. The sky itself was his limit.
It's like love at first Quidditch match, Wood thought, as if Cao Cao gazing at Guan Yu was less entranced than I am watching Harry.
Merlin's lacy knickers! This was the Savior, the strongest of them all!
The mightiest has already taken the field!
Lord Potter! I feel your unyielding will to win! I see your ambition to be the absolute best!
At this moment, Gryffindor was fifty times stronger than ever before. Wood's laughter bordered on unhinged, a cackling jejejeje of pure glee.
With such a titan on their team, what chance did measly Slytherin have? What could possibly stand in Hogwarts' way?
Professor McGonagall was right. Gryffindor was invincible now—truly, undeniably invincible. With a Seeker like this, they could take on national teams with ease. Stick my grandma on a broom next to Harry Potter, and she'd win the Quidditch World Cup!
"This year, the Quidditch Cup will bear our name," Wood said jubilantly as they walked back to the castle. "I used to think Charlie Weasley was the best young player I'd ever seen. If he hadn't gone off to study dragons, he'd have played for England, no question. I always wished we'd been in school together—I could never carry the team alone. But now? Charlie's not the best anymore. He doesn't hold a candle to a single hair on your leg, Harry! Here's to Charlie's happiness, wherever he is."
Maybe it was because things were so hectic—mostly because Harry was obsessed with improving. Between classes, learning new practical magic skills (especially since his skill caps had expanded), and training his already master-level combat abilities even harder, not to mention the occasional insight quests that might earn him more attribute points—Harry suddenly realized he'd been at Hogwarts for two full months. Time flew too fast.
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