"Harry Potter's been officially confirmed as the Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He's really going to play!" Roger Davies burst into the Ravenclaw common room, panting with excitement as he delivered the announcement.
"I wonder what his skill level is?"
"If he weren't good, they wouldn't have let him on the team."
"Maybe it's just because he's famous?"
"Of course not!" said Padma Patil, one of the Indian twins in Ravenclaw, her tone loud enough to draw attention. "You know that prize cabinet in the fourth-floor corridor, the one on the left-hand side, near the old tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy? The crystal cabinets there display Hogwarts awards—trophies, shields, medals, statues, and plaques. It even includes names of former Head Boys and Girls. My sister Parvati—she's in Gryffindor—told me that Professor McGonagall showed them James Potter's name. He helped Gryffindor win the Quidditch Cup when he was Seeker and later a Chaser. Looks like Harry inherited his broomstick skills."
Adrian Blackwood's expression didn't flicker. He had long known that Harry would be a formidable opponent. Though it was unclear how strong Potter really was, Adrian had resolved to give everything he had to help Ravenclaw win. He remembered that same trophy case displaying another name: Tom Marvolo Riddle. Riddle had earned title after title—Perfect Prefect, Head Boy in his seventh year, multiple academic medals including the Outstanding Award for Magical Merit, the Special Services to the School honor, and even the Order of Merlin (First Class, posthumously). He was a terrifying example of ambition turned dark.
Among the lively chatter and rising anticipation in the Ravenclaw common room, Adrian sat quietly, almost detached, yet emanating calm strength. His composed presence drew attention without effort. Roger finally turned to him, clearly seeking guidance. "Adrian, what do you make of Potter being their Seeker?"
"No opinion," Adrian replied, eyes steady and unwavering. "It doesn't matter who we're up against. Victory belongs to Ravenclaw."
"Too right. Victory is ours to take!" Roger echoed with conviction. Buoyed by Adrian's resolve, the Ravenclaw Quidditch team left the common room with renewed determination, heading to the stadium's locker rooms for their scheduled training session.
The next morning dawned crisp and clear, a bright autumn day perfect for Quidditch. The Great Hall was filled with the warm, smoky aroma of grilled sausages and roasted tomatoes. The air buzzed with excitement as students speculated about upcoming matches.
Just as breakfast reached its peak, the usual morning post arrived. Hundreds of owls swept into the Great Hall, their wings rustling like dry leaves. Amid the flurry, six long-eared tawny owls carried a slender, cloth-wrapped parcel. After what had happened with Harry's Nimbus 2000, most students now knew what such packages typically meant. Only Vincent Crabbe looked puzzled, nudging Goyle and whispering, "Is that a… sword?"
As the owls circled lower, Adrian instinctively pushed his breakfast plate aside. Sure enough, the birds swooped down and deposited the long package directly in front of him, sending a small wave of milk sloshing across the table and tipping over Edward's goblet. Lisa Dupin quickly offered Adrian a neatly folded napkin she'd had tucked beside her book, ever prepared. Edward lunged to help, elbowing a pumpkin pasty onto the floor in his rush—after all, Ravenclaws hadn't quite mastered solving every problem with magic.
"Ohh… this is definitely yours," Edward breathed, milk still dripping from his sleeve, eyes locked on the package. He covered his mouth halfway through the sentence, then lowered his voice. "Adrian, don't open that here. Let's head back to the dormitory."
Adrian nodded. He had no intention of opening such a thing in the middle of breakfast. Flying straight after eating never ended well.
From across the hall, Roger had been watching the whole scene. The moment Adrian stood, Roger leapt up as well—lacking the usual composed grace of a seventh-year. He hurried after Adrian and Edward, excitement gleaming in his eyes.
After answering a simple question from a passing second-year and returning to his dormitory, Adrian Blackwood eagerly unwrapped the parcel he'd received at breakfast. The moment the wrappings peeled away, the room filled with a faint, sea-salt scent of polished oak and charmed bronze. What emerged was a breathtaking broom—its shaft etched with the flowing curves of the Kraken's tentacles, curling around the smooth handle like they were alive. Its tail twigs flared with branched wings resembling those of a seabird, sleek and balanced. Even the cushioning charm embedded in the handle had a strange, oceanic softness to it. It was "Neptune."
"Oh. My. Merlin." Roger Davies stared, nearly drooling. "Adrian, you've got a Neptune! That's not just any broom—it's a conceptual prototype! That model isn't even sold in Diagon Alley yet!"
"Adrian, d'you think I might—uh—borrow it after the match?" Edward asked sheepishly, his eyes wide with awe. Flying didn't come naturally to him, a Muggle-born without early broomstick experience, but that didn't dull his love for the sport.
"Of course," Adrian said without hesitation. "Once the match is over, you can take it out whenever I'm not using it." He glanced down and noticed that Edward's robes were damp from where the spilled milk earlier had soaked through. With a small frown of concentration, he flicked his wand and murmured, "Tergeo." The stain vanished, leaving Edward looking grateful—and much drier.
"I've never been so sure in my life," Roger said, still entranced by the broom. "This… this changes everything. We're going to win." He gingerly ran his hand along Neptune's shaft, almost reverently. "My sweet baby broom," he muttered, as if it were alive.
By eleven o'clock, it seemed as though every student and teacher at Hogwarts had gathered in the stands encircling the Quidditch Pitch. Students had brought binoculars and Omnioculars, craning their necks as the enchanted stands shifted higher to give them a better view. Still, many struggled to follow the faster plays.
Adrian walked to the Ravenclaw locker room, Neptune in hand, surrounded by Roger and the rest of the team. It was as if they were guarding a national treasure.
"Alright, listen up!" Roger clapped his hands, then turned to face his team with fervent eyes. "The glory of Ravenclaw is at hand. We've never had a team this sharp—sharp minds, sharp reflexes—and now we have Neptune." He nodded at Adrian's broom. "This is our day. Victory is within reach. The clock's ticking, and fortune's watching. Let's fly like Ravenclaws! Tell me—what are we?"
"Champions!" the team roared back in unison.
With that, the Ravenclaw Quidditch players followed Roger out of the locker room, stepping into the roar of the stadium. Adrian felt no fear—only the pounding of blood and the surge of excitement in his limbs. He scanned the stands and spotted Edward, who had somehow secured a massive enchanted banner.
It soared above the Ravenclaw section, suspended by perfectly cast Floating Charms. Clearly, someone had consulted Professor Flitwick—or at least remembered his class. The banner shimmered in the soft breeze, painted Ravenclaw blue with streaks of silver. Across it, in vivid magical paint, blazed the words:
"RAVENCLAW WILL WIN!"
Surrounding the bold proclamation were the names of all seven team members and a magnificent 3D-style eagle, its wings flaring, as if about to burst through the fabric and take flight.
It was clever—Ravenclaws didn't rely on brute effort like Gryffindors dragging cloth by hand. No, they used magic, and they used it well.
In the center of the pitch, Madam Hooch stood, looking as sharp as ever, a silver whistle hanging from a chain around her neck. She gripped her broom with practiced ease.
"Listen up!" she barked as the teams from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw gathered around her. "I expect a fair and clean game from all of you. No Bludgers to the back of the head unless you're aiming at the Quaffle." Her eyes narrowed at the Weasley twins before softening slightly. "Mount your brooms."
Adrian stepped forward and mounted Neptune. The cushioning charm was like silk under his grip, responding to his slightest adjustment.
Madam Hooch raised her whistle.
FWEEEET!
Fifteen players kicked off, brooms lifting like arrows into the air, and the game began.