Ten minutes had flown by in a flash. As the final whistle blew, Kyle raised his arm high and, with his last ounce of energy, flung the Quaffle through the air.
But it was too far. Harris intercepted it, breaking his own “zero” streak in the process.
On the sidelines, the scoreboard froze at 210 points—meaning Kyle had scored a total of 21 goals in those ten minutes. Scoring two goals a minute, even while racing across the pitch to retrieve the Quaffle each time, was nothing short of incredible.
The three Quaffles they’d used hadn’t been enough to keep up with his speed; by the end, Professor McGonagall, observing from the edge of the field, had conjured two more with her Transfiguration Charm just to keep the match running smoothly to the end.
"By Merlin's beard, I never want to be Keeper again!"
Back on the ground, Harris let out a deep sigh of relief. Those ten minutes had been a whirlwind of joy and frustration for him.
The joy? Hufflepuff had found a gifted Chaser. If all went well, this second-year named Kyle would be the key to winning the Quidditch Cup. Harris himself was one of the best Chasers at Hogwarts, responsible for most of Hufflepuff's points each game. But the issue was, his fellow Chasers fell short, and they struggled to work well as a team. Harris often ended up scoring alone, which placed a heavy demand on his stamina. This was why Hufflepuff wasn’t known for lasting in prolonged matches.
The other concern was that if he were heavily guarded or injured, Hufflepuff’s chances would plummet. Fortunately, Cedric—a talented Seeker—had joined last year. With Cedric on the hunt for the Golden Snitch, it was hard for other teams to draw games out for too long. And now, with Kyle’s arrival, Hufflepuff’s main vulnerability had been instantly strengthened.
Harris could almost see the Quidditch Cup within reach, and that filled him with exhilaration.
The frustration? Well, that was simple.
Anyone would feel humiliated after being turned into a laughingstock for ten straight minutes.
“Captain, good thing you didn’t sign up to be Keeper,” one teammate joked. “Otherwise, we might never see the Quidditch Cup!”
“Shut it, Farrell!” Harris shot him a glare. “Actually, I’ve noticed your skills slipping lately. Special training tomorrow at eight.”
“Eight?!” Farrell’s grin vanished. With a long face, he protested, “I’m fine with special training, but could we make it ten... or maybe nine?”
Hufflepuffs weren’t as studious as Ravenclaws or as hyperactive as Gryffindors. On weekends, they tended to sleep in. Eight o’clock sounded brutal.
“No chance!” Harris retorted. “Be there at eight sharp, or every minute you’re late means an extra hour of training.”
With that, Harris strode confidently toward the middle of the pitch.
Despite Kyle’s flawless performance, the selection process had to continue.
He turned to the remaining two candidates and asked, “Who’s next?”
The two fifth-year students exchanged looks and shook their heads casually.
One raised his hands in surrender. “No need. I’m forfeiting.”
Even though Harris might have been playing it a bit safe, it was clear that halving Kyle's score wouldn’t have made a difference. There was no point in dragging it out.
The other student silently agreed, and the matter was settled.
"I abstain as well… And don’t hold back, laugh if you want to,” he said, breaking into hearty laughter himself. Hufflepuff had produced another prodigy, and he was genuinely thrilled.
“Ahem... The professors are watching—try to keep it together,” Harris said, feigning sternness. Celebrating was all well and good, but they’d need to save it for the common room. With so many professors around, it wasn’t the place to show too much pride; they didn’t want to invite any unnecessary scrutiny.
Harris held back his own excitement, forcing himself to look serious. “Since you’ve both decided to abstain, then…”
He stepped up to Kyle and extended his hand. “Congratulations, Kyle. You’re officially the team’s new Chaser.”
“My pleasure, Captain,” Kyle replied, shaking his hand firmly.
From the stands, Professor Sprout watched them, her face beaming like a blooming Chomping Cabbage. Beside her, however, Professor McGonagall looked anything but pleased. She clutched her Guide to Advanced Transfiguration so tightly her hands were trembling.
It hurts, it hurts so much! she thought. Why is a talent in Hufflepuff?
McGonagall was certain that with Kyle and Harry Potter on the same team, Gryffindor would be unstoppable. But alas, Kyle was a Hufflepuff.
Blast that Sorting Hat…
On the eighth floor in the Headmaster’s Office, the Sorting Hat, busy composing a new tune, suddenly sneezed.
"How curious," Dumbledore remarked, glancing at it. “Do you catch colds too?”
“I don’t think so,” replied the Sorting Hat, perplexed. “After all, I am just a hat.”
It tried to rub its nonexistent head with its brim but ended up merely wiping its mouth.
“Albus, I have a feeling someone’s cursing me,” it muttered.
“I’d sooner believe you’ve caught a cold,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle. “From what I’ve seen, no student resents their house enough to hold a grudge against you.”
“You’re right…” The Sorting Hat nodded, reassured. Its choices were flawless.
“Could it be that I actually have a cold?”
The Sorting Hat wavered, a rare bout of self-doubt overtaking it. Yet, it knew Godric Gryffindor hadn’t programmed it for such trivial things!
“I’m not certain if a Pepperup Potion would work on you,” Dumbledore mused, “but would you like to give it a try?”
He stepped up to the Sorting Hat, and with a small wave, a tiny vial appeared in his hand.
“This is the most potent remedy for a cold.”
“Let’s give it a go,” the Sorting Hat replied after a moment’s consideration. “By the way, Albus, your magic’s gotten even sharper.”
“Oh, just a few small tricks,” Dumbledore said, smiling as he poured the Pepperup Potion carefully into the Sorting Hat’s brim.
Since the hat couldn’t swallow, the potion was simply applied externally, sinking into the fabric little by little and leaving a dark brown stain, making it look even grubbier.
Neither of them seemed bothered by that.
“Well, how do you feel?” Dumbledore asked.
“I think… it’s helped,” said the Sorting Hat, tipping its brim. “At least I’m not sneezing anymore.”