The next morning, a fierce wind howled across the grounds, but it couldn't extinguish the passionate Quidditch fire burning within the castle. The upcoming match between Hufflepuff and Slytherin was the only topic of conversation. With Ravenclaw already at the bottom of the standings, this game would likely determine the two teams advancing to the finals. The atmosphere was even more electric than it had been for the season opener between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
Early that morning, students were already flocking to the stadium. Only Dumbledore and the heads of houses remained behind, awaiting the arrival of the school board and their newly formed "judging panel." The professors' faces were grim. For over a week, they had been buried in paperwork, preparing the so-called review materials. Now, they had finally received the list of jurors, and it only deepened their disgust.
They had expected, at the very least, professionals—masters of their respective fields who might actually offer some constructive criticism. That, they could have tolerated as a form of academic exchange. But the "jurors" the board had invited were nothing more than a group of so-called critics.
Snape's face was a mask of pure contempt, as if he had just seen something that made him physically ill. "These… commentators," he spat, "the ones who write for the daily papers. What knowledge do they possess? They chase whatever topic is popular, read a few reviews, and suddenly believe they are experts. In reality, if we let them brew a simple potion, what could they produce? Nothing. I'd wager they returned what little knowledge they had to Hogwarts the moment they graduated." He sneered. "If any one of them dares to offer an opinion on my teaching, I will personally transfigure him into a Flobberworm and drop him in a cauldron."
For once, the other heads of houses seemed to agree wholeheartedly with Snape's violent sentiment. Professor Sprout, in particular, looked thunderous. She had seen the name of the Herbology reviewer on the list, and her expression had turned as cold and hard as steel. Porgy Charmain, a Slytherin from her own year, was a rather notorious figure in the herbology community.
He had been decent enough with theory at school, but his practical skills were a complete disaster. Any magical plant in his care was in mortal danger. But after graduation, he had found his true calling: writing scathing, popular science reviews of other people's work. He would offer a simplistic summary of a new discovery, then tear it to shreds, calling the herbalist unintelligent and their methods idiotic. His spicy, ironic style catered to the tastes of the masses, and he had become quite popular, with many readers hailing him as a "true master of herbology."
Professor Sprout wouldn't have given him a second thought, but just before the Ministry hearing, Charmain had written an article viciously criticizing Char's method of cultivating Piranha Algae. She had been too preoccupied to respond then, and had since forgotten about it. But now, seeing his name on the list, the memory came rushing back.
"If that bastard dares to speak nonsense about Char again," she muttered, her voice low and dangerous, "the biting cabbages are ready for him." A palpable chill emanated from her, making even Dumbledore shiver.
Just then, several carriages pulled by Thestrals appeared, stopping at the castle gate. Lucius Malfoy and the other board members stepped out. Dumbledore composed himself, about to greet them, when a series of discordant, pompous voices drifted from the carriage behind them.
"After all these years, has Hogwarts not changed at all? Merlin, you'd think they could at least repair the road. And look at the castle walls, more spots on them than when I graduated. I wonder where all the teaching funds have gone. A review is long overdue."
Several well-dressed, smug-looking men emerged from the carriage. To these "critics," being invited to review Hogwarts was a great honor and a golden opportunity. A few spicy articles after the fact, and the money would roll in. Lucius Malfoy had made their task very clear: "Find fault. Find fault with everything. The more detailed your comments, the better. You can spend a week here if you wish; all expenses will be covered by the Malfoy family."
This tempting promise had them starting their work before they had even set foot inside. But as they continued their critique of the castle's management, a chill even colder than the wind washed over them, and they fell silent.
Dumbledore glanced at them, his expression indifferent. "I was worried our judges might be hungry and was going to ask you to review the Hogwarts breakfast first. But it seems you are already quite full of yourselves, so I won't add to your burden. There is a match today. If you have any further opinions, please wait until it is over." With that, he and the other professors turned and walked toward the Quidditch pitch, their displeasure obvious.
His cold dismissal silenced the critics. Lucius glared at them. "I told you to find fault, to cause some trouble, to keep them busy. I did not ask you to hold Dumbledore himself accountable for the state of the masonry. Do you think you can accomplish what several Ministers of Magic could not? You must know what you can find fault with, and what you cannot."
The critics paled, wiping cold sweat from their faces. "Yes, yes, of course. We understand."
The mention of the Quidditch match, especially one that would determine Slytherin's fate, lifted their spirits. Lucius, too, felt a sense of relief. Compared to the game's outcome, he was more focused on one thing: These chattering fools should be enough to keep the professors busy. If only this game could last a whole day… but that's unlikely. Draco said the Slytherin team has a surefire plan to win.
They followed Dumbledore to the front-row seats in the stands. As soon as he sat down, Porgy Charmain saw the Hufflepuff supporters, their flags waving, their badges proudly displayed. A mocking look crossed his face.
"In my day, weren't the Badgers just the runners-up in every competition? I was on the team, you know. Never lost to Hufflepuff in my seven years. I remember one time, I had a terrible stomachache, could barely stay on my broom, and we still slammed the Quaffle into their goal time and time again." He mimed throwing a Quaffle, and the other critics laughed.
Finding his audience, he continued, "Speaking of which, I heard Hufflepuff made an exception this year, let a first-year Beater on the team? What's his name, Sprout? I remember a Beater named Sprout. Robin Sprout, was it? The time I was playing through that stomachache, it was his team we crushed."
Before he could finish his smug reminiscence, a curse shot through the air and hit him. The sharp magical edge made his face go pale. In the blink of an eye, all his hair fell out, leaving him completely bald.
He scrambled to his feet and saw Professor Sprout, her wand pointed directly at him. "You? You dare attack me? I'm a member of the jury, invited by the school board!"
She remained unmoved, the tip of her wand, sharp as a sword, resting at his throat. "Do not mention Robin's name in that tone again. The next trimming spell will not be aimed at your hair. I mean what I say."
A hush fell over the stands. Everyone, including the other board members, could feel the murderous intent radiating from her. Porgy had touched a nerve, and he knew, with chilling certainty, that he was about to die here.
Thankfully, at that moment, a whistle blew, and Lee Jordan's passionate commentary began. "Time's up! The players are entering the pitch!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. Professor Sprout slowly retracted her wand, turned toward the Hufflepuff entrance, and forced a smile, her hands clapping slowly. Porgy finally felt like he could breathe again. But the public humiliation filled him with a burning rage. Slytherin, crush them, he thought, his fists clenched. And later, when we review that little greenhouse… Pomona Sprout, you just wait.
At that moment, Char walked out of the tunnel. His gaze fell on the stands and immediately locked onto Professor Sprout. He could read the fury in her expression, and when he saw the bald man sitting near her, clearly the victim of a trimming spell, he understood. To make his good-tempered aunt that angry, the man must have crossed a serious line. Char's eyes grew even colder. He committed Porgy Charmain's face to memory.
A sharp pressure on his hand brought his attention back to the pitch. It was time for the pre-game handshake. Marcus Flint, the Slytherin captain, a brute known for his dirty playing, was gripping his hand, clearly intending to crush it, a favorite intimidation tactic of his.
But no matter how hard he squeezed, it was like pinching a mountain. Char looked at him calmly. "Have you held on long enough? If not, let me teach you. This is not how you hurt someone."
The next second, Char's fingers tightened slightly. Flint felt as if his hand had been bitten by a prehistoric beast. Five deep, red fingerprints bloomed on his skin. He had no doubt that Char could have crushed his hand to splinters. His face went pale, and he snatched his hand back as if he'd been burned. He shot Char a hateful glare, then turned and stomped back to his team.
The Hufflepuffs noticed that every Slytherin player was carrying a small box. The crowd began to murmur. Draco Malfoy and the other Slytherins in the stands looked smug. "Just you wait," one of them said loud enough for the worried Hufflepuffs to hear. "Once those boxes are opened, your team is finished."
When the boxes were finally opened, a gasp went through the stadium. Inside each one, enchanted with a Traceless Extension Charm, was a set of shining, silver armor, which immediately came to life and equipped itself onto the Slytherin players.
The stadium was in an uproar. "Foul!" Lee Jordan roared into his megaphone. "That's a foul!"
But the Slytherins just laughed. "Really? Which rule did we break? Is there a rule that says you can't play Quidditch in armor? We're wearing our team uniforms underneath, just as required."
Madam Hooch, the flying professor, took out the thick Quidditch rulebook. After a long moment of searching, she had to shake her head and overrule Lee Jordan. "It's not mentioned in the rules. If it's not prohibited, then it's allowed. Slytherin didn't commit a foul. At best, they took advantage of a loophole."
The Hufflepuff supporters were going wild. "That's not fair!"
"How is it unfair to make reasonable use of the rules?" the Slytherins retorted. "Maybe you should have thought of it first!"
Amid the chaos, Marcus Flint looked at Char and his team, his voice muffled under his helmet. "This time, your Bludgers are no threat to us. Without them, how can you possibly win?"
But to his surprise, the Hufflepuff players on the opposite side looked… relieved.
Cedric Diggory just shrugged, his eyes sharp. "We were a bit hesitant, wondering if our plan was going too far. Luckily, you came up with this. Now we don't have to feel bad about it."
The Slytherins stared, confused. Before they could figure out what he meant, the whistle blew, and the game began.
The armored Slytherins were noticeably slower, and by the time they took off, the Hufflepuffs were already in formation, surrounding Char as they headed for the first Bludger. The Slytherins were about to laugh, thinking they had completely neutralized Hufflepuff's strategy.
But the next second, Char swung his bat with incredible force. The Bludger shot off like a cannonball—not toward an opponent, but straight at Hufflepuff's own goalposts.
With a harsh, screeching crunch of metal, the entire stadium fell silent. The Hufflepuff goal—was broken. Destroyed.
The smug Slytherins froze. Their opponents' goal was gone. How were they supposed to score?
"Foul!" Flint screamed. "You can't destroy your own goal! That's completely unfair!"
Madam Hooch blew her whistle for a timeout and consulted the rulebook again. A moment later, she raised her hand. "The rules do not say you can't use a Bludger to break your own goal. Since there are no rules against it, the game will continue!"
The Slytherin players stared at the empty space where their target should have been, their minds completely blank. How could the game possibly continue?
Char casually tossed his bat from one hand to the other. "Now it seems our rules are above yours, don't they?" he said, his voice carrying across the silent pitch. "So, everyone… are you ready? This game might be a little… long."