"Almost forgot! Before the match officially begins, we should first welcome our referee."
All of a sudden, Charles remembered something and quickly added that with a grin.
Harry was still wondering who would be serving as the referee when he saw Dumbledore walking over, followed by a group of Hogwarts professors.
"I'm not dreaming, am I? Professor Dumbledore himself is going to be the referee?" Ron's jaw practically hit the floor.
Harry, however, looked less than thrilled. "Yes—and even Snape is here!"
Over the past two months, he had become quite certain that Professor Snape utterly despised him. Now all Harry could do was silently pray that Snape wouldn't be assigned to judge the first-year matches.
But sometimes, life loved to prove that the things you feared most were exactly what would happen. Snape appeared, draped in his pitch-black robes, gliding toward the first-year arena with a face as dark and stormy as a thundercloud.
Ron and Hermione exchanged uneasy glances, both worried for Harry.
"At least he won't dare to target you in front of Professor Dumbledore," Hermione whispered reassuringly.
Harry thought that made sense—somewhat. By comparison, the second years were probably worse off. Their referee was Quirinus Quirrell. The man's constant stench of garlic was so strong that even from a distance it was hard to think straight.
The other referees were also all Hogwarts professors. Charles had even roped in the four Heads of House to serve as assistants. Snape had initially refused, but after a "talk" with Dumbledore, he had no choice but to comply.
Even though Charles had already provided Dumbledore with valuable information regarding the Horcruxes, the Headmaster still couldn't afford to be entirely at ease about Voldemort. Having Snape oversee Harry's matches under Quirrell's nose was part of Dumbledore's layered precautions—just in case.
If Voldemort were to return, Snape would need to continue his role as a double agent.
The final referee was Professor Kettleburn, the Care of Magical Creatures instructor—a cheerful, one-armed, one-legged wizard whose enthusiasm for magical beasts rivaled that of Newt Scamander himself.
Since Charles' return to Hogwarts with Pokémon, Kettleburn had visited him several times just to spend time with the creatures.
Seeing his excitement, Charles half-suspected the old man might delay his retirement again. If that happened, poor Hagrid's dream of becoming a professor would be crushed.
Once all seven referees were ready, Charles stepped forward and began explaining the rules.
"This selection battle will use a one-on-one format. Each young wizard may send out only one Pokémon. The species will be randomly assigned—some may even be Pokémon not listed in your textbooks. Part of the challenge is to identify the Pokémon's type based on its appearance and characteristics.
"When one Pokémon can no longer battle, the match will end."
The rules were simple and direct. Once Charles finished speaking, he signaled that the matches could begin.
Snape's face was darker than ever as he spoke in a cold, unpleasant tone, "Hannah Abbott, Terry Boot—release your Pokémon."
He still had no idea what Dumbledore's purpose was in assigning him this tedious task, but it had undoubtedly interrupted his ongoing research into the material properties of Pokémon components. Needless to say, he was in no mood for it.
Worse still, Dumbledore had again persuaded him—always from Charles' perspective—to take part in such trivial matters.
For the first match among the first years, Hannah's assigned Pokémon turned out to be the Hat Pokémon—in a way.
—Murkrow (Dark/Flying type). Ability: Insomnia. Moves: Peck, Gust, Astonish, and Night Shade.
That information appeared on the instrument panel in front of Hannah. She hadn't expected to actually draw one of the "Pokémon not listed in the textbook" that Professor Gold had mentioned—and one that possessed the Dark type, no less.
That, in fact, was an advantage. Her opponent wouldn't know much about Murkrow, and could at most guess that it was a Flying type. That alone could let her strike with the element of surprise.
Her opponent, Terry Boot of Ravenclaw, was someone Charles remembered well—a student who loved drawing attention to himself, though sometimes a little too much.
Terry's Pokémon turned out to be an Exeggcute, a Grass/Psychic-type. He looked delighted with his luck.
Though Psychic-type moves had limited coverage, few types could resist them—and Psychic Pokémon were generally far trickier in reality than they were in the games.
But Hannah was even happier.
Psychic-type attacks didn't work at all against Dark types—and Murkrow's Ghost- and Flying-type moves were both super effective against Exeggcute!
Truth be told, first-year battles were hardly impressive to watch. Even Snape couldn't help sneering with open disdain throughout. The little wizards, however, were absorbed and enthusiastic.
The upper-year matches were far more intense. The first third-year battle, in fact, turned out to be a Weasley civil war.
Fred's Pokémon was a Magmar, while George drew an Electabuzz.
Neither Pokémon was particularly strong, but being second-stage evolutions, they at least looked formidable enough.
The twins were perfectly in sync—one would unleash a Fire Punch, the other would respond with a Thunder Punch. Sometimes, Ember collided with Thunder Shock, scattering sparks and flame across the arena!
Had their Pokémon been stronger, the duel would've been even more spectacular. Still, compared to the utterly unwatchable, welding-like duels of ordinary wizards, it was downright entertaining.
It had to be said—the twins were naturals at Pokémon battles. The fourth-year matches that followed didn't even come close in excitement.
In the end, George lost to Fred when Magmar's Flame Body ability activated, burning his opponent.
Because the one-on-one format kept things brisk, the first set of matches wrapped up in about ten minutes.
Though George lost, his battle sense was solid. Charles decided to include him in the recommendation list anyway.
Several more rounds followed before it was finally time for the match everyone had been waiting for—Harry Potter versus Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy stood smugly on his side of the arena, eyes gleaming with arrogance as the crowd gathered.
"Just you wait, Potter. I'll crush you completely!" he taunted, not even glancing at his assigned Poké Ball before sneering.
The tension in the air spiked. Even those from other years were watching now.
Snape's expression remained sour, but his focus sharpened noticeably. Dumbledore, who was supposed to be refereeing the seventh-year matches, seemed perfectly calm—but Charles could feel that the Headmaster's attention was fixed squarely on this battle.
As for Quirrell—well, he looked like he wanted to shove his garlic-reeking, turban-wrapped head right into the first-year arena.
Charles couldn't help wondering whether Voldemort had awakened yet.
Either way, with Dumbledore present, Quirrell wouldn't dare make a move.
(End of Chapter)