Malfoy couldn't believe his eyes when he saw that Harry and Ron were still at Hogwarts the next day, looking tired but perfectly cheerful. Indeed, by the next morning Harry and Ron thought that meeting the three-headed dog had been an excellent adventure, and they were quite keen to have another one. In the meantime, Harry filled Ron in about the package that seemed to have been moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spent a lot of time wondering what could possibly need such heavy protection. "It's either really valuable or really dangerous," said Ron. "Or both," said Harry.

But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious object was that it was about two inches long, they didn't have much chance of guessing what it was without further clues.

Neither Neville nor Hermione showed the slightest interest in what lay underneath the dog and the trapdoor. All Neville cared about was never going near the dog again.

Asher, however, had expressed interest in their midnight exploits, and had asked about their efforts in practice dueling.

Harry glanced over at Ron, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Despite the harrowing events of the evening, it was hard not to feel a sense of pride at their accomplishments.

"Well, it really is quite simple," Ron boasted, puffing out his chest with a hint of swagger. "We carved new history for first years and really became quite the duelists—not that Malfoy ever showed his face to find out."

Harry couldn't help but chuckle at Ron's bravado, his friend's confidence infectious even in the face of danger. "It's true," Harry chimed in, nodding in agreement. "We've been practicing whenever we can, trying to hone our skills."

Asher's eyes sparkled with interest as they leaned in closer, eager to hear more about their adventures. "Do you think you’ll duel often?" they asked, their curiosity evident in their tone.

Ron grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "As often as we can manage, I think," he replied, a hint of excitement in his voice. "It's good practice, you know, keeps us sharp."

Harry nodded in agreement, the thrill of their midnight escapades still coursing through their veins. "And besides," they added, a playful twinkle in their eye, "it's always fun to show Malfoy who's boss. Even if he didn’t show, he looks plenty mad we didn’t get caught.”

Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and Ron, but she was such a bossy know-it-all that Ron had seen it as an extra bonus. Despite Ron's jests though, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of guilt gnawing at him. He had hoped they had forged some sort of connection in the trophy room, a shared bond born from their shared brush with danger.

But now, with Hermione's silence weighing on him, Harry found himself consumed by a singular desire: to find a way to get back at Malfoy. The memory of their encounter in the forbidden corridor burned brightly in his mind, fueling his determination to settle the score. Ron's eagerness mirrored his own, their shared desire for vengeance binding them together in their quest to outsmart their Slytherin rival.

As the morning sunlight streamed through the enchanted windows of the Great Hall, casting a warm glow over the long wooden tables, the usual hustle and bustle of breakfast was interrupted by the arrival of the Hogwarts owls. With a flurry of feathers and hoots, the winged messengers descended upon the students, delivering their daily correspondence with practiced precision.

But today, their arrival was anything but ordinary. All eyes turned to the front of the hall as a collective murmur rippled through the sea of students, their curiosity piqued by the sight of a long, thin package carried by six large screech owls. The package seemed to emanate an aura of mystery, capturing the attention of everyone in the hall.

Harry felt his own curiosity piqued as he watched the majestic birds soar gracefully down to the Gryffindor table, their talons gripping the parcel tightly as they landed with a thud. The force of their landing sent Harry's breakfast flying, his bacon tumbling to the floor in a mess of crumbs and grease.

Startled by the unexpected arrival, Harry scrambled to his feet, his heart racing with excitement as he approached the parcel. The owls had hardly fluttered out of the way when another owl swooped down, dropping a letter on top of the package with a gentle rustle of parchment.

Eager hands reached out to grab the letter, the anticipation in the air palpable as Harry tore open the envelope. His eyes scanned the contents, a grin spreading across his face as he read the words written on the page. Whatever was inside the parcel, it was sure to be something extraordinary, and Harry couldn't wait to uncover its secrets.

Harry ripped open the letter first, which was lucky, because it said:

DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.

It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don't want everybody knowing you've got a broomstick or they'll all want one. Oliver Wood will meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven o'clock for your first training session.

Professor McGonagall

Harry's face lit up with excitement as he handed the note to Ron, a grin stretching across his features as he watched his friend's eyes widen with disbelief.

"A Nimbus Two Thousand!" Ron exclaimed, his voice tinged with envy. "I've never even touched one."

“Oh, that’s amazing,” Asher chimed in, their tone filled with genuine admiration. “I hear it’s top of the line.”

Their excitement mounting, they hurriedly left the Great Hall, the anticipation of unwrapping the broomstick in private propelling them forward. The corridors buzzed with chatter as they made their way through the castle, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

But their enthusiasm was short-lived as they reached the entrance hall, their path blocked by the imposing figures of Crabbe and Goyle. Harry's heart sank as Malfoy seized the package from his grasp, his grip possessive as he felt it, a smirk playing across his lips.

Malfoy's disdainful gaze fell upon the broomstick in Harry's hands, his expression twisted with a mixture of jealousy and spite. With a haughty toss, he threw the package back to Harry, the package landing with a soft thud against his chest. "That's a broomstick," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "You'll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren't allowed them."

Ron, unable to resist the opportunity to taunt their rival, stepped forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "It's not any old broomstick," he interjected boldly, his voice filled with pride. "It's a Nimbus Two Thousand. What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?" With a grin directed at Harry, Ron couldn't help but revel in the moment. "Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as the Nimbus."

Malfoy's features contorted with indignation at Ron's words, his retort sharp and biting. "What would you know about it, Weasley," he snapped back, his tone laced with disdain. "You couldn't afford half the handle. I suppose you and your brothers have to save up twig by twig."

Before Ron could formulate a response, the sound of a squeaky voice cut through the tension, and Professor Flitwick appeared at Malfoy's elbow, his diminutive figure casting a sharp contrast to the towering presence of the students. "Not arguing, I hope, boys?" he squeaked, his tone gentle but firm as he glanced between the three of them, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor," said Malfoy quickly.

"Yes, yes, that's right," said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry. "Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?"

"A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir," said Harry, fighting not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy's face. "And it's really thanks to Malfoy here that I've got it," he added.

Harry and Ron headed upstairs, smothering their laughter at Malfoy's obvious rage and confusion. "Well, it's true," Harry chortled as they reached the top of the marble staircase, "If he hadn't stolen Neville's Remembrall I wouldn't be on the team..."

"So I suppose you think that's a reward for breaking rules?" came an angry voice from just behind them. Hermione was stomping up the stairs, looking disapprovingly at the package in Harry's hand.

"I thought you weren't speaking to us?" asked Ron.

Hermione marched away with her nose in the air.

Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his lessons that day, the events at breakfast had just been much too exciting. Harry hurried through the bustling corridors, as he reached the door to the Charms classroom, Harry could hear the faint murmur of Professor Flitwick's voice, accompanied by the occasional burst of laughter from his classmates. With a quick tug, he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.

The room was bathed in a warm golden glow, courtesy of the numerous candles floating in the air, their flames flickering gently in the breeze. Rows of desks were neatly arranged in front of a large chalkboard covered in intricate diagrams and spell incantations. Harry had Charms with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, so he was sharing the class with Ron, Asher, Hermione, and Neville, amongst a few other students from each house.

At the front of the room stood Professor Flitwick, a diminutive figure with a shock of white hair and a twinkle in his eyes. He smiled warmly as Harry entered, beckoning him forward with a wave of his wand.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, right on time as always," Flitwick said cheerfully, his voice carrying easily over the hum of conversation. "Please, take a seat and we'll get started."

It was so weird, as if they had just not spoken out in the hallway minutes prior.

The Charms classroom buzzed with anticipation as Professor Flitwick, a small but lively figure, stood at the front of the room. His face was framed by a shock of unruly white hair, which seemed to defy gravity as it sprouted in all directions, giving him the appearance of a perpetually enthusiastic sprite. His eyes, bright and twinkling with mischief, darted around the room with keen intelligence, taking in every detail with a quick, observant gaze.

"Today, my dear students, we shall delve into the enchanting world of the wand lighting charm, Lumos," Flitwick announced, his voice carrying a musical lilt that commanded attention. "A spell of illumination, of guidance in the darkest of times. But before we cast, we must understand the intricacies of its incantation and the finesse of its wand movements.”

He gestured to the chalkboard behind him, where he made a motion with his hands and a piece of chalk began drawing up a detailed diagram depicting wand motions were displayed in vibrant detail. With a flick of his wand, the chalk sketches sprang to life, illustrating the graceful arcs and precise gestures required.

"The Lumos charm is a blend of elegance and precision," Flitwick explained, his hands moving fluidly through the air as he demonstrated the movements. "To cast it successfully, one must channel their magical energy with focus and finesse." He paced the room, his eyes alight with enthusiasm as he observed the students' rapt attention.

All of course, besides Harry. Flitwick picked up on this immediately and made for a motion with a slight “ah-hem!” that perked his attention up, and Harry understood that he was attempting to give him a little bit of notice. Silently, he thanked Professor Flitwick and began writing down some notes on the spell.

"Now, observe closely," he continued, raising his wand with practiced grace. "The incantation is Lumos, pronounced with clarity and confidence. But it is the wand movements that truly bring the spell to life. Simply saying the incantation will produce little more than empty sparks, it’s the direct movement that guides the magic from within into the wand." With a flourish, Flitwick executed the first motion, a delicate sweep of his wand from left to right, followed by a graceful upward flick.

"Like so," he said, his movements precise and deliberate. "A fluid motion, akin to drawing a graceful line through the air. Remember, the key is in the wrist movement. Too rigid, and the spell may falter. Too loose, and it may lose its potency."

Hermione's quill scratched fervently against parchment, the rhythmic sound echoing through the quiet classroom, even audible to Harry a few rows down. Beside him, Ron's brow furrowed in concentration as he attempted to replicate Flitwick's precise wand movements. Each flick and swish resulted in a cascade of sparks that fluttered uselessly to the desk below, much to Ron's frustration.

"Maybe try raising your wrist a bit on the final movement," Asher, a fellow Gryffindor, suggested in a hushed tone, leaning closer to offer advice.

Ron nodded eagerly, adjusting his grip on his wand as he made another attempt. This time, as he executed the final flourish, a bright lamp-like light burst forth from the tip, illuminating the space around him.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Weasley," Flitwick chimed in, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness and turning away momentarily. "That is the right idea. One point to Gryffindor for the ingenuity. Now, please do one final shake to break the connection and end the spell so the rest of your class can attempt."

Ron complied, giving his wand a little shake, causing the light to dim before fading away completely.

With a chorus of eager murmurs, the students eagerly retrieved their wands, their hands trembling with anticipation. Harry's heart raced with excitement as he gripped his wand tightly, determined to focus on the task at hand. However, the thought of the upcoming Quidditch match and the broomstick maneuvers threatened to take priority in his mind yet again.

With a deep breath, he followed Flitwick's instructions, his movements slow and deliberate as he traced the intricate patterns in the air. He felt the familiar surge of magic coursing through him, the energy building and coalescing at the tip of his wand.

"Lumos," Harry whispered, his voice steady and sure.

And with a flicker of light, the tip of his wand ignited with a brilliant glow, casting a warm radiance across the room. A ripple of applause broke out as Harry's classmates cheered, their faces alight with wonder and admiration.

"Excellent, Mr. Potter!" Flitwick exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with pride. "A splendid display of magical prowess. Keep practicing, my dear students, and soon you shall master the Lumos charm with ease."

As the students continued their practice, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment wash over him.

And as the candles flickered overhead, casting their warm light upon the eager faces of his classmates, the rest of class had passed with relative ease.

He bolted his dinner that evening without noticing the savory aroma of the food or the flavors bursting in his mouth, his mind consumed with anticipation. Rushing upstairs with Ron after the meal, Harry's heart pounded with excitement as they finally unwrapped the Nimbus Two Thousand.

"Wow," Ron sighed, his eyes widening in awe as the broomstick rolled onto Harry's bedspread.

Even Harry, who knew next to nothing about the nuances of broomsticks, couldn't help but be impressed. The Nimbus Two Thousand looked simply magnificent. Sleek and shiny, its mahogany handle gleamed under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. The bristles were arranged in a long tail of neat, straight twigs, each one polished to perfection. And there, near the top, in elegant gold lettering, was the inscription: Nimbus Two Thousand.

It exuded a sense of power and grace, as if it were just waiting for Harry to mount it and take flight. The excitement bubbled up inside him, a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins at the thought of soaring through the air on such a magnificent broom.

As the clock struck closer to seven, Harry left the towering walls of Hogwarts Castle behind, venturing out into the dusky embrace of evening toward the Quidditch field. The sky above was painted in hues of purple and orange, streaked with ribbons of fading sunlight, casting a warm glow over the sprawling grounds.

With each step, Harry's anticipation grew, his heart pounding in rhythm with his quickening pace. He had never set foot inside the stadium before, and the prospect of finally experiencing the magic of Quidditch firsthand filled him with an exhilarating sense of excitement.

As he approached the field, the imposing structure of the stadium loomed before him, its towering stands rising up like ancient monoliths, beckoning him closer. Hundreds of seats were arranged in tiers around the perimeter of the field, each one raised high enough to offer spectators a clear view of the action below.

Harry couldn't help but marvel at the sight, the enormity of the stadium and the grandeur of its design taking his breath away. The air was alive with the hum of anticipation, a palpable energy that crackled in the air like static electricity.

At either end of the field stood three golden poles, their gleaming surfaces catching the fading light of the setting sun. Hoops adorned the tops of the poles, their circular shapes reminiscent of the little plastic sticks Muggle children used to blow bubbles, albeit on a much grander scale. Each hoop stood fifty feet tall, a formidable barrier that would test the skill and precision of even the most seasoned Quidditch player.

But Harry had little time to admire the view, his excitement mounting with each passing moment. Too eager to wait for Oliver Wood, the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Harry wasted no time in mounting his broomstick and kicking off from the ground.

The rush of wind filled his ears as he soared into the air, the ground falling away beneath him as he climbed higher and higher. What a feeling it was, to be back in the sky once more, the cool night air whipping against his face as he swooped in and out of the towering goal posts.

The Nimbus Two Thousand responded to his every command with effortless grace, turning and maneuvering with precision at the lightest touch. Harry felt a sense of freedom unlike anything he had ever experienced before, a thrill that coursed through his veins and set his heart racing with exhilaration. He felt an immense jubilation.

As he soared up and down the length of the field, Harry couldn't help but grin from ear to ear, the sheer joy of flying filling him with a sense of euphoria that he knew he would never forget. For in that moment, with the wind in his hair and the stars above him, Harry Potter felt truly alive.

"Hey, Potter, come down!"

Oliver Wood's voice cut through the crisp evening air, firm and authoritative yet tinged with excitement. Harry descended gracefully from his exhilarating flight, landing next to Wood with a sense of eager anticipation. The Quidditch captain stood before him, a tall and imposing figure with a determined glint in his eyes, carrying a large wooden crate under his arm.

"Very nice," Wood remarked, his eyes gleaming with approval as he surveyed Harry's performance. "I see what McGonagall meant... you really are a natural."

Harry beamed at the praise, feeling a swell of pride at the acknowledgment of his skill. He eagerly awaited Wood's next words, ready to absorb every ounce of wisdom the seasoned Quidditch player had to offer.

"I'm just going to teach you the rules this evening," Wood continued, his tone businesslike yet enthusiastic. "Then you'll be joining team practice three times a week.”

With a sense of anticipation, Wood unlatched the crate and swung open the lid, revealing its contents. Inside lay four different-sized balls, each gleaming in the soft glow of the evening light.

"Right," Wood said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Now, Quidditch is easy enough to understand, even if it's not too easy to play."

As he spoke, Wood reached into the crate and retrieved a bright red ball about the size of a soccer ball, holding it aloft for Harry to see.

"This ball's called the Quaffle," Wood explained, his voice filled with a sense of reverence for the game. "The Chasers throw the Quaffle to each other and try to get it through one of the hoops to score a goal. Ten points every time the Quaffle goes through one of the hoops. Follow me?"

Harry nodded eagerly, his mind already racing with excitement as he absorbed Wood's instructions.

"The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through the hoops to score," Harry repeated, committing the information to memory. "So—that's sort of like basketball on broomsticks with six hoops, isn't it?"

"In a sense," Wood agreed with a nod, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "But also not."

"Now, there's another player on each side who's called the Keeper—I'm Keeper for Gryffindor. I have to fly around our hoops and stop the other team from scoring."

Wood's voice echoed across the Quidditch field. The evening breeze ruffled his hair, and the last rays of sunlight painted the scene in shades of gold and orange, casting long shadows across the grassy pitch.

"Three Chasers, one Keeper," Harry repeated, his brow furrowed in concentration as he absorbed every word. "And they play with the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are they for?" He gestured toward the remaining balls nestled inside the wooden crate.

"I'll show you now," said Wood, a glint of excitement dancing in his eyes. With a practiced hand, he retrieved a small club from the crate, its polished surface gleaming in the fading light.

"Take this," Wood instructed, handing the club to Harry. "I'm going to show you what the Bludgers do."

Harry accepted the club, noting its weight and balance as he held it in his hands. He watched intently as Wood reached into the crate once more, extracting two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Even from a distance, Harry could see the Bludgers straining against the straps that held them captive, eager to be set free.

"Stand back," Wood warned Harry, his voice tinged with caution. With a swift motion, he bent down and released one of the Bludgers from its restraints.

As the ball sprang to life, Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through him. The Bludger whizzed through the air with alarming speed, its dark surface reflecting the fading light as it darted toward Harry with a menacing hum.

With a quick step backward, Harry watched as Wood expertly maneuvered to intercept the Bludger, his movements fluid and precise as he deftly redirected the ball away from harm's way.

As the Bludger veered off course, Harry couldn't help but feel a newfound respect for the dangers that awaited him on the Quidditch pitch. But beneath the apprehension, there lingered a sense of exhilaration, a thrill that pulsed through him with each beat of his heart. He thought he’d be scared, but it just felt exciting.

At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted straight at Harry's face. Harry swung at it with the bat to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it zigzagging away into the air— it zoomed around their heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it and managed to pin it to the ground.

"See?" Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the crate and strapping it down safely. "The Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock players off their brooms. That's why you have two Beaters on each team— the Weasley twins are ours—it's their job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and knock them toward the other team. So—think you've got all that?"

"Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the Keeper guards the goal posts; the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team," Harry reeled off.

"Very good," said Wood.

"Er—have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?" Harry asked, hoping he sounded offhand.

"Never at Hogwarts. We've had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that. Now, the last member of the team is the Seeker. That's you. And you don't have to worry about the Quaffle or the Bludgers unless they crack my head open."

"Don't worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the Bludgers—I mean, they're like a pair of human Bludgers themselves."

Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth and last ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large walnut. It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver wings.

"This," said Wood, his voice reverent, "is the Golden Snitch, and it's the most important ball of the lot."

He held the small, spherical object delicately in his gloved hands, cradling it as though it were a precious jewel. Harry leaned in closer, his eyes widening with curiosity as he examined the Snitch. It gleamed in the fading light, its surface polished to perfection, adorned with intricate engravings that seemed to shimmer and dance in the dim glow.

"They're custom-made for each game because of how special they are," Wood explained, his tone tinged with awe. "It's very hard to catch because it's so fast and difficult to see. It's the Seeker's job to catch it."

As Wood spoke, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement bubbling up inside him. The Golden Snitch represented the ultimate challenge, the pinnacle of every Seeker's ambition. To catch it was to secure victory for one's team, to be hailed as a hero among heroes.

"You've got to weave in and out of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get it before the other team's Seeker," Wood continued, his words ringing with authority. "Because whichever Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra fifty points, so they nearly always win."

Harry nodded eagerly, his mind already racing with strategies and tactics. The prospect of chasing the Golden Snitch through the night sky, of outmaneuvering his opponents and claiming victory for Gryffindor, filled him with a sense of determination unlike anything he had ever felt before.

"That's why Seekers get fouled so much," Wood added, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "A game of Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it can go on for ages—I think the record is three months. They had to keep bringing on substitutes so the players could get some sleep."

Harry's eyes widened in astonishment at the thought of a Quidditch match lasting for three months. The sheer endurance and determination required to compete at such a level left him in awe, his respect for the sport and its players growing with each passing moment.

"Why do they have to be specially made?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued by Wood's earlier remark.

"They've got a flesh memory," Wood explained, his tone growing more serious. "Used typically in cases of disputes. But when you hold onto them for a few seconds and they sense your warmth—your body temperature, that is—they record that information inside themselves. That’s why I’m only touching it with my gloves here. It doesn’t register my touch unless it's my body warmth."

Harry nodded, absorbing the information with keen interest. The intricacies of Quidditch never failed to fascinate him, each new revelation sparking a sense of wonder and excitement within him.

"And that's about it, honestly. Any further questions?" Wood asked, his gaze fixed on Harry with an expectant look.

Harry shook his head, his mind buzzing with excitement and anticipation. He understood what he had to do alright—it was doing it that was going to be the problem.

"We won't practice with the Snitch yet," said Wood, carefully shutting it back inside the crate, "it's too dark. We might lose it. Let's try you out with a few of these."

He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket, and a few minutes later, he and Harry were up in the air. Wood threw the golf balls as hard as he could in every direction, and Harry soared through the sky, his eyes sharp and his reflexes quick as he caught each ball with ease.

Harry's performance surpassed all expectations, his reflexes sharp and his movements fluid as he effortlessly caught each golf ball thrown by Wood. With each successful catch, a sense of pride swelled within him, bolstering his confidence and fueling his determination to excel on the Quidditch pitch.

Wood's face lit up with delight at Harry's display of skill, his eyes sparkling with pride as they soared through the night sky together. The moon cast a soft, silvery glow over the Quidditch field, illuminating their path as they practiced late into the evening.

As the minutes stretched into half an hour, the darkness deepened around them, the stars twinkling overhead like diamonds scattered across a velvet canvas. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves and dew-covered grass.

Finally, with night fully descended upon them, Wood called an end to their practice session. With a satisfied smile, he turned to Harry, his voice filled with optimism and excitement for the season ahead.

"That Quidditch cup'll have our name on it this year," said Wood happily, his words echoing in the stillness of the night. "I wouldn't be surprised if you turn out better than Charlie Weasley, and he could have played for England if he hadn't gone off chasing dragons."

Harry couldn't help but grin at the thought of bringing glory to Gryffindor House, his heart swelling with pride at the prospect of leading his team to victory. As they trudged back up to the castle, the weight of their broomsticks slung over their shoulders, Harry felt a sense of camaraderie and purpose unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

With Wood by his side, guiding him every step of the way, Harry knew that the Quidditch cup was within their grasp. And as they disappeared into the shadowy depths of Hogwarts Castle, the promise of triumph hung in the air like a beacon of hope.