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Particularly students from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, whose teams hadn't made the finals. Many Gryffindors simply didn't want to witness a Slytherin celebration, so only the ones with bets placed or coin at stake bothered turning up. Ravenclaws, as always, had a more pragmatic approach; having missed the finals, they opted to spend their time more wisely.
After all, the term's end was creeping up fast.
With both Houses out of contention and the House Cup standings already a foregone conclusion, many chose to study rather than spectate.
Of those forty-seven absentees, nearly half were Ravenclaws, especially those in fifth and seventh years facing O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.
An extra hour in the library, an additional bit of revision, these choices weren't made lightly. The House of the Eagle weighed all things in quiet balance.
"Goal! Hufflepuff has scored again!"
"What on Merlin's beard is that Slytherin Seeker doing?!"
"Foul! That's a foul! No whistle? Biased officiating!"
…
Even though this wasn't a clash between House rivals,
The tension between Hufflepuff and Slytherin could be felt in every sweeping turn and daring dive. Both teams played aggressively, desperate for the glory of victory.
And Slytherin's tactics aligned perfectly with their reputation: calculated, cunning, and not particularly scrupulous. Always pressing at the edges of what the rules would permit.
Within just ten minutes, the match became chaotic, especially thanks to Marcus Flint, who zipped about like a possessed pixie, elbowing others with glee and cackling like Peeves after a prank.
This inflamed the Hufflepuff team's tempers. Though Ian had little love for the sport itself, he did find this sort of spirited conflict amusing, there was a certain savage theatre to it.
"My proposal: swap their broomsticks for Knight lances and let them have at it," Ian muttered darkly, a wicked gleam in his eye.
Naturally, no one took that suggestion seriously.
Professor McGonagall, having witnessed more than enough reckless play, promptly called for a timeout. A necessary intervention to allow both teams a moment to regain their composure.
As Deputy Headmistress, her authority carried weight. When play resumed, Slytherin had clearly reined themselves in, though for Ian, the toned-down antics slightly dulled the entertainment.
A great deal of time passed.
And under Ian's frequent yawns and increasingly glazed expression,
"Cedric! Cedric's seen the Snitch! He's gaining speed! He's going for it!" cried the commentator, voice beginning to crack from the effort.
But the excitement was undeniable.
"Oh! Slytherin's noticed too! They're trying to block Cedric! What a shameless interference!"
"Cedric's broken through! Incredible maneuvering!"
"Both Seekers are locked on the Snitch! This is the match's most breathless moment!"
Despite Steve's limited phrasing and awkward delivery,
his enthusiasm was real. The tension on the pitch spilled over into the stands. Ian caught sight of Professor McGonagall tightly gripping the hand of the Hufflepuff Head of House seated beside her.
Clearly, she had her own hidden favourite in this match.
"Could McGonagall actually be a longtime admirer of Cedric?" Ian mused, recalling her deep-rooted passion for Quidditch. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed entirely plausible.
As the final seconds ticked away, the match reached its thrilling conclusion.
"Merlin's beard! It's still Cedric! Of course it is! He's done it again, dodged another Slytherin block at a wicked angle and snatched the Snitch clean out of the air!"
"Cedric Diggory! The golden boy of Hufflepuff pulls off yet another miracle!" the commentator cried, his voice ragged from the strain, while Slytherin players and their supporters scowled darkly in response.
But the game was over.
Although disgruntled, they weren't poor sports. The stands erupted into wild celebration, with enchanted yellow banners fluttering into the sky and flags waving themselves with charm-induced fervor.
Bang~!
Someone, clearly not a NEWT-level charms student, accidentally exploded a flag, sending a puff of coloured smoke drifting across the pitch. But even that minor mishap couldn't dampen the mood. Hufflepuff erupted with joy. Dozens of students in black and yellow screamed as they clambered over the railings, eager to flood the field.
Turns out, even the humble badgers had their untamed moments. Cedric was hoisted high atop his Housemates' shoulders, beaming like he'd just conquered a dragon in the Triwizard Tournament.
Outside of the disgruntled Slytherins, the only other glum faces belonged to students who'd bet poorly. Ian, feeling a bit uneasy, glanced around, he was genuinely worried about the state of the towers tonight.
"And that's how gambling gets you," He muttered to himself with a grimace.
He suspected Snape had wagered quite a bit. Among all the professors in attendance, the Potions Master's expression was by far the most sour. The moment the match ended, Snape turned on his heel and stormed off, his robes flaring dramatically behind him.
"A big thank you to the Hufflepuff team, and to the Slytherin team as well! Together they've given us a Quidditch match to remember, intense, spectacular, and spirited!"
"Let us offer our congratulations to House Hufflepuff, and perhaps a touch of sympathy for Slytherin." The Deputy Headmaster's speech rang with neutrality and decorum, but Professor McGonagall's radiant smile made it rather difficult to believe she truly pitied the defeated side.
...
With the Quidditch final over, Hogwarts returned to its usual rhythm. Students buzzed about, chatting and attending lessons, it all seemed unchanged on the surface.
But anyone with sharp eyes could spot the difference. A few students, those who had lost more than just pride, could be seen helping Filch with menial chores, some so grueling they may as well have been under a goblin labour contract. It was a visible reminder of how far some had fallen on the social ladder thanks to their reckless betting.
Lately, Filch seemed obsessed with some sort of explosive experiments, managing to blow himself up nearly every day. And every time he was shipped off to the hospital wing, a few desperate students scurried after him, hoping for a half-decent cleaning job or corridor patrol gig in his absence.
"Maybe that counts as my good deed of the week," Ian muttered, half amused.
His own exam preparations were nearing their end. The professors had even created a custom examination just for him, a fact that made him more than a little twitchy.
Especially after what he saw in the Twilight Realm.
Grindelwald, who continued to blur the lines between Professor and cryptic warlock, had somehow managed to acquire a rare Uk'ulan Ironbelly and was in the middle of modifying it with some highly dubious enchantments. In the flickering dungeon torchlight, the beast looked far more terrifying than any textbook sketch.
Ian, curious as always, had wandered closer and casually asked, "Is this meant for my final exam?"
He even gave the beast a few cheeky prods with his boot, watching its nostrils flare.
Grindelwald's reply made the blood drain from Ian's face.
"No, no... this one's for the other students."
The Professor's smile was slow, unsettling, and full of dark humour.
"You, my deer student, will face a very different challenge. Just a heads-up, eat lightly the day before, or I will record your reaction when you throw up and show it to every class I teach."
It was, in effect, a social execution warning.
The threat haunted Ian for days. He didn't sleep well. His mind spun through every possible magical scenario Grindelwald might concoct, each more stomach-churning than the last.
Even now, as the day of reckoning drew near, Ian couldn't shake the feeling that the Dark Arts professor was planning something far more dreadful than a fire-breathing dragon.
(End of chapter)