The post-match celebration was magnificent.
After all, breaking a record—not by a mere fraction, but by shortening it a full 1.5 seconds—was no small feat. It was unlikely anyone would challenge the two-second mark again anytime soon, except maybe Dana himself.
Excited spectators flooded the field, their cheers echoing through the stadium. Dana hovered above them, releasing golden confetti prepared for the occasion. Back in the locker room, his teammates greeted him with hugs and congratulations. They felt that playing alongside Dana made earning money feel effortless—just go onto the field, fly, stop the Snitch, and win.
Even tying a Black Dog to a broomstick wouldn't yield as much success.
Professor McGonagall and the Weasley family entered the locker room, a privilege granted by Coach Ramsey only for today—usually, spectators weren't allowed inside.
"Dana!" McGonagall called out.
"Professor!" Dana responded, stepping forward to embrace her.
"Congratulations, my boy," she said as she let him go. "This is Molly Weasley, mother of Fred and George."
"Hello, Madam," Dana said politely. "I've wanted to meet you for a long time. I especially love the sweaters you knit for Fred and George—they look so warm."
"You charmer, child," Molly laughed, pleased.
Just then, Coach Ramsey called from the entrance, "Dana, could you come to the office for a moment?"
Dana nodded. "Sure."
Turning back, he told McGonagall and Mrs. Weasley, "Please excuse me—I need to handle something."
"Go ahead," Professor McGonagall said, patting his shoulder as he walked past. Molly added, "Do come visit us sometime; you're always welcome."
Behind her, Fred and George teased Ron, ruffling his hair into a messy nest. Dana smiled, "Thanks—I've heard your cooking is unrivaled in the Wizarding World."
Molly beamed, touched by the compliment. Dana left them and found Coach Ramsey, who motioned him into his office.
"Coach?"
The coach looked uneasy. "Dana, I owe you big time for revitalizing the team—we were at the bottom before, but now we're playoff contenders."
Dana listened; he knew this would lead to a "but."
"But your speed catching the Golden Snitch... it's too fast. Fans are demanding refunds because matches end too quickly. The owner met with me and said we need to slow things down—at least enough so games last over twenty minutes. If a game drags on all day, better yet."
Dana frowned. "Why?"
"That gives time for advertisements to run, and more in-stadium sales—food, souvenirs, everything. There's a lot at stake."
Dana remembered why he'd joined Quidditch—to make a name and pressure the Ministry to expose a conspiracy. Now, the professional player persona was just a front; it explained his income to the public. A brief, dramatic appearance on game day—no more than twenty minutes—was acceptable. But dragging out matches? It meant millions of Galleons per second in revenue for the Cannons.
"Coach, I don't want to waste time."
Ramsey sighed. "I know it's unreasonable. The Cannons are only thriving because of you. But the owner? He controls everything. We need him to keep investing."
Dana raised an eyebrow. "Did he threaten you?"
Ramsey rubbed his lip, silent.
"So he threatened you—and me—if I don't comply?"
"Not just you. Me too."
Dana stared. "Alright. But I won't drag things out."
Ramsey nodded reluctantly.
Dana left, walking through the stadium management area to a secluded corner. He pulled out his two-way mirror. "Wang Wenhui—get me everything on Rashad Bloomfield, owner of the Cannon."
Meanwhile, outside the stadium, Razor-sharp nerves crackled in Rashad Bloomfield's office. He had spent the morning preparing for a meeting—until 3 p.m., when Count Dark Dentis finally arrived, fashionably late.
"Your Excellency, welcome!" Bloomfield greeted with forced cordiality, despite his half-day wait.
Dentis gave a curt nod. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Bloomfield."
Without missing a beat, he continued, "I'm here for one reason: I want to buy the Chudley Cannons."
Bloomfield blinked. "You… want to buy them?"
Dentis repeated evenly, "Yes. Name your price."
Bloomfield stammered. "But the Cannons are thriving! Soon we'll be champion material. I won't sell—absolutely not."
Dentis sneered. "I said—name your price."
Bloomfield's heart pounded. He knew Dana Emrys was the star, but the contract terms were modest: 5 Galleons per game, plus 3 more for a win. Even a perfect season would cost under 700 Galleons. How could Bloomfield value Dana as a major asset?
Dentis met his gaze. "Mr. Dumbledore asked me the same thing. My answer? I am rich."
Bloomfield stuttered. "But aside from Dana, the Cannons have history, culture, a unique brand…"
The Count interrupted. "Let me stop you. Orange jerseys, an orange stadium—how aesthetic is that? Your jersey sales are the lowest in the league. Even Dana Emrys's shirts aren't flying off the shelves. That's poor branding."
Bloomfield's face turned pale.
Dentis leaned forward. "If you transfer the team to me, I'll give you two commercial plots in the New City of St. Kachi Paul—land valued at 3,000 Galleons per square meter. Even a corner plot will outgrow your failing brand."
Bloomfield's mind reeled: suburbs near a new city? Still, the offer was tempting.
Dentis dropped another bombshell: "Refuse, and I'll hand evidence of your magical creature poaching and Dark Arts smuggling to Mr. Stirlinger. Like these." He pushed photos showing Bloomfield with foreigners and skull-based alchemy items.
Bloomfield slumped. "You—you have proof?"
Dentis didn't blink. "A lip-reading expert could interpret everything you said there. You'd be headed to Azkaban—summer vacation edition."
Bloomfield wiped his forehead hard, breath ragged.
"Have you decided?" the Count asked.
Bloomfield hesitated, then sighed. "Yes… I've thought it through. I agree."
Dentis straightened, nodding approvingly. "A wise choice. Soon, you'll see the land in New City—wealthy wizards everywhere. Even a suburban corner plot is worth more than your team. Honestly? I'm losing out."
Bloomfield closed his eyes, feeling a new kind of terror: the game had changed. The Chudley Cannons were no longer under his control—nor was his fate.
End of Chapter 69 – "Buy"
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