The next morning, a sharp, cold wind swept across the grounds. But no chill could extinguish the blazing Quidditch fever burning within the castle.
The entire Hogwarts community was abuzz with discussions about today's match—Hufflepuff versus Slytherin. With Ravenclaw seemingly resigned to finishing in last place, this battle would likely decide the finalists for the Quidditch Cup. Because of this, the atmosphere was even more electrifying than the opening match between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
By dawn, crowds were already streaming from the castle toward the Quidditch pitch.
Only a few stayed behind—Dumbledore and the Heads of House. They were gathered in the courtyard, waiting for the arrival of the School Board and the review committee.
The professors' expressions were far from pleasant. For one, they had been forced to spend more than a week compiling endless "review materials" at the Board's request. For another, the list of the so-called review committee members had recently been delivered to Hogwarts, and the names on it had left them shocked.
At first, they assumed the Board would invite respected Herbology Masters or renowned experts to evaluate the school's teaching. That at least would have been tolerable. After all, peer review—while daunting—could lead to valuable academic exchange.
Instead, what they got was something far more insulting.
The Board had chosen to invite a group of critics.
Snape's face twisted in disgust. It was clear he could barely contain his revulsion.
"These people," he sneered, "make their living scribbling shallow commentary in newspapers. What real knowledge do they possess? They read a handful of articles, follow whatever is fashionable, and then declare themselves experts. Yet if you asked them to brew a single potion, what could they produce? Nothing! The meager knowledge they retained after graduation was long since forgotten—returned to Hogwarts like books overdue to the library."
His voice dripped with contempt. "If any of them dare question my teaching methods, I'll gladly turn them into flobberworms and toss them into a cauldron."
The statement was outrageous, but to the surprise of many, the other Heads actually nodded in agreement.
Professor Sprout's expression was particularly grim. Ever since she had spotted a certain name on the list, her face had been set like stone.
That name was Porgie Chalman—a former Slytherin, notorious in Herbology circles.
He had once been her classmate.
Back at school, Chalman had excelled in theory but failed spectacularly in practice. Even the healthiest of magical plants would wither and droop in his hands. Most assumed he would never make anything of himself in the Herbology world.
Yet after graduation, he reinvented himself. Instead of cultivating plants, he cultivated words—Herbology popular-science commentary.
He wrote simple explainers of discoveries but laced them with biting sarcasm and endless criticism of established Herbologists. His sharp pen appealed to readers who enjoyed scandal more than scholarship. Over time, many began praising him as "the voice of the people" and even calling him "the true Herbology Master."
To Sprout, he was nothing but a fraud.
And when she recalled how Chalman had published an article not long ago mocking Char's experimental Piranha Algae cultivation, her fury rekindled. She had been too busy preparing for a Ministry hearing to respond at the time. But now, with Chalman set to judge her work, she seethed.
"If this scoundrel dares to insult Char again," she muttered darkly, "I already have a Biting Cabbage waiting for him."
The icy aura radiating from her made even Dumbledore and the other Heads shiver.
At that moment, several Thestral-drawn carriages appeared in the distance, rolling to a stop before the castle gates.
From them stepped Lucius Malfoy and several School Board members. Dumbledore readied himself to greet them, but his expression hardened when he overheard the mocking voices drifting from another carriage.
"After all these years, the castle hasn't changed a bit?" one critic said disdainfully. "Merlin's beard, they can't even repair the road between the station and the gates!"
"Look at those walls," another chimed in. "The stones are more mottled than when I graduated. Where has all the school funding gone? Clearly, it was wise to call us in to investigate."
Several well-dressed men emerged, smirking with self-importance. For them, being asked to evaluate Hogwarts was a tremendous honor—and a lucrative one. They were already imagining the galleons rolling in from the articles they would write afterward.
Lucius Malfoy's instructions to them had been simple:
"I brought you here for one purpose—to find fault. Big faults, small faults, it doesn't matter. The more detailed your criticisms, the better. If necessary, you can stay a week. All expenses will be covered by the House of Malfoy."
The promise of gold had immediately set them into "fault-finding mode." Already they were mocking the castle's condition, the school's management, even the weather.
But their chatter ended abruptly when a cold, steely voice cut through the air.
Dumbledore stood before them, his blue eyes glinting dangerously.
"I had thought to invite you to breakfast," he said mildly, "but clearly you have already eaten your fill—of words. Very well. The Quidditch match begins soon. Whatever criticisms you have may wait until afterward."
The critics fell silent. Even Lucius frowned at them.
"I told you to find fault," he hissed under his breath, "but not to make it look like you're trying to overthrow Dumbledore himself. Ministers of Magic have failed to topple him—do you fools think you can succeed with a few snide remarks? Remember: know which faults are safe to expose and which are not."
Wiping cold sweat from their brows, the critics quickly nodded. "Understood. We'll be more careful."
With that warning, the group made their way toward the stands.
For Lucius, the critics were only a distraction. His true focus was on the Quidditch match. "If only it could last all day," he mused. "Still, Draco insists Slytherin has a flawless strategy this time."
When they reached the stands, Porgie Chalman spotted the Hufflepuff supporters waving their golden flags. Across the stands, every student wore a badge boldly declaring: Badgers Eat Snakes!
Chalman's lips curled in disdain.
"Hufflepuff? Quidditch contenders?" he scoffed. "In my day, they were just participants. Seven years I played, and never once did I lose to them. Once, I even had an upset stomach and nearly fell off my broom—and still I scored easily against their Keeper!"
He mimed hurling a Quaffle, and the other critics burst into laughter.
"And what's this I hear?" Chalman continued smugly. "Hufflepuff recruited a first-year Beater? What was her name—Sprout? Oh, I remember now! Back then they had a Beater named Robin Sprout, I think. The year I had diarrhea, his team was crushed completely!"
The moment the name left his lips, a sharp jet of magic sliced the air. Chalman gasped as his hair fell away in clumps, leaving him bald.
He leapt to his feet, face pale, staring at Professor Sprout.
"You—you dare attack me? I'm a member of the judging panel, invited by the School Board!"
Sprout's wand remained leveled at his throat, her voice low and deadly.
"Mention Robin in that tone again, Chalman, and the next Pruning Charm won't stop at your hair."
The surrounding stands fell silent. Even the Board members dared not speak. Everyone could feel the genuine killing intent radiating from the usually gentle Herbology professor.
Fortunately, at that moment, Lee Jordan's voice rang out from the commentator's box.
"Time's up! Both teams are entering the pitch!"
The crowd erupted in cheers, breaking the tension. Sprout slowly lowered her wand, clapping firmly as the Hufflepuff team strode onto the field.
Chalman sat down, trembling with rage and humiliation. He clenched his fists, muttering under his breath:
"Slytherin, crush them. Humiliate them. And afterward, when I review the greenhouses—Pomona Sprout, you'll regret this."
Out on the field, Charle emerged from the tunnel. His eyes instinctively sought Sprout in the stands. One look at her stormy expression was enough to tell him what had happened. Glancing at the bald-headed Chalman, he understood immediately.
His gaze hardened. Anyone who dared insult Sprout's family was courting death.
But before he could dwell further, Marcus Flint stepped forward for the traditional pre-match handshake.
Flint, infamous for dirty tactics, squeezed Charle's hand with crushing force. But Charle's palm remained immovable, as solid as stone.
"Had enough?" Charle asked coolly. "If not, let me show you how it's done."
With the barest tightening of his grip, Flint's hand lit up with fiery pain, bright red marks blooming across his skin. Flint went pale, yanking his hand away as though he'd escaped a predator's jaws.
Humiliated, he stalked back to his team—each of whom was carrying a small enchanted box.
Murmurs rippled through the stands. "What are they carrying?"
Draco Malfoy smirked knowingly. "Just watch. Hufflepuff won't stand a chance."
At a signal, the Slytherins opened their boxes. Inside were sets of gleaming armor, enchanted with the Extension Charm. The pieces flew out and automatically affixed themselves to each player.
The crowd gasped. Lee Jordan furiously blew his whistle.
"Foul! This has to be a foul!"
But when Madam Hooch flipped through the Quidditch rulebook, she shook her head reluctantly. "The rules only require players to wear team uniforms when entering the field. Nothing here prohibits armor."
The Slytherins smirked in triumph.
"See? Perfectly legal," Flint boasted from within his helm. "The Bludger is useless against us now. Let's see how your so-called strategy holds up without it."
But to their confusion, the Hufflepuff team looked relieved. Cedric Diggory's eyes glinted.
"Good," he said softly. "We were wondering if what we planned might be too much. But since you pulled this trick first—don't blame us."
Before Slytherin could respond, the starting whistle shrilled.
The weight of their armor slowed them, despite enchantments. By the time they lifted off, Hufflepuff was already in formation, circling Charle as he swung his Beater's bat.
The Slytherins laughed. "What's the point? The Bludger can't touch us!"
But instead of aiming at them, Charle smashed the Bludger directly into Hufflepuff's own goalpost.
With a deafening crack, the hoops shattered into pieces.
The entire stadium fell silent.
"Foul!" the Slytherins roared. "You can't destroy your own goal!"
Madam Hooch hastily checked the rulebook again, then sighed. "The rules make no mention of it. Play continues!"
The Slytherins stared in disbelief. With no goal hoops, how could they even score?
Charle twirled his bat, a playful smile tugging at his lips.
"It seems our rules are above yours now," he said softly. "So, are you ready? This match might be a little…long."
The crowd erupted as the chaos of the strangest Quidditch match in history began.
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