"It's a bloodline study, of sorts," Tom explained casually, sipping his tea. "Something that ties into history. Ideally, I'd like it published in The Wizarding World News or the Daily Prophet International Edition—journals with global reach."
He knew such papers weren't as widely read as local dailies, but among professionals they carried weight. Articles there were often cited, adapted, or reprinted elsewhere. One spark in the right place could ignite across the world.
Rosier carefully noted every word, promising resources to make it happen. Tom, in turn, pried into her family's old secrets, committing them to memory for later use.
After breakfast, the two parted ways—Tom returning to Hogwarts, Rosier turning her steps toward her ancestral estate.
…
"Merlin's vest! Potter is cursed today! That Bludger's fallen in love with him—won't even look at anyone else!"
Lee Jordan's voice boomed over the Quidditch pitch, his commentary nearly drowned by the storm lashing Hogwarts. In the stands, students screamed as a Bludger whistled past Harry's head, close enough to shear hair.
It wasn't the first time. The bewitched ball had hunted Harry relentlessly, slamming after him ten, twenty times, ignoring every other player. He could barely keep himself aloft, let alone chase the Snitch.
And Gryffindor's situation was dire. The scoreboard glowed: 130–20. Slytherin in the lead.
As some Muggle-borns muttered from the stands, the Lions couldn't even smell Slytherin's tailwind. Their players looked battered, bruised, and utterly outmatched.
The storm favored the serpents. Madam Hooch's vision was half-blinded by the downpour; she never caught the elbows, the jabs, the sly wandless hexes slipped between collisions. Every time Flint "accidentally" rammed someone, Gryffindors were left gasping in pain.
The Lions lodged complaint after complaint. Hooch could only issue warnings. Flint would grin, nod, promise to behave—then drive his elbow into Alicia Spinnet's ribs the next play. Equal-opportunity brutality, male or female.
The rain thickened until even players blurred into shadows. The crowd resigned itself to a long, grueling stalemate. And then—Harry spotted it.
The Snitch, gleaming gold, hovered just above Malfoy's head.
Draco had been dogging Harry all match, jeering, swerving dangerously close. But when the crazed Bludger swooped past again, Malfoy flinched, unwilling to risk getting flattened. He held back, sneering from a safe distance.
"Potter! What are you—" Draco never finished.
Harry dove, not at him, but over him—reaching, snatching. His fingers closed around the Snitch at the exact moment the rogue Bludger smashed into his arm.
A crack, a scream, and both boy and broom plummeted. The stands erupted in gasps.
When Tom arrived on the pitch, he caught the scoreboard changing: 170–170.
A tie.
Daphne blinked at it, stunned. "Tom… what does a draw even mean?"
Tom shrugged, raising a shield to deflect the driving rain. "It means nothing. The Hogwarts Cup is about cumulative points. This won't matter in the end."
He bent toward Astoria, whispered a few quick words. The younger Greengrass sister's eyes widened. She nodded briskly, and slipped away toward the castle while the others still clustered around the pitch.
For Gryffindor, a tie in these conditions felt like victory. The team swarmed Harry, who was half-conscious, retching from the fall, his arm bent at a sickening angle.
"Just a broken arm," Professor Wilkinson's calm voice cut through the chaos. He knelt, wand in hand, bathing the injury in green light. Bones knitted, pain faded. Harry's face relaxed.
"Thank you, Professor," he gasped, gratitude plain. This was how he had always imagined a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher should be—capable, commanding, reliable.
"Think nothing of it." Wilkinson grinned, giving Harry a thumbs-up. "You flew brilliantly. Keep it up, and you could go pro. The American League's salaries are enough to make anyone jealous—even me."
Oliver Wood's eyes nearly popped from their sockets. He abandoned Harry on the spot, rushing forward eagerly. "Professor! And me? Could I make it as a professional?"
Wilkinson tilted his head, expression thoughtful. "…You mean, based on the fact you let seventeen goals past you today?"
Wood deflated like a punctured Quaffle. Harry couldn't help but snort, even through the ache.
Wilkinson pressed him gently back down. "Don't move yet. The arm's healed, but that fall was nasty. Better let Madam Pomfrey confirm you're clear. I'm not a Healer."
The Weasley twins wrangled the Bludger back into its crate, then lifted Harry between them. The Gryffindor stands roared, chanting, cheering, escorting their hero back to the castle.
In the crowd, Ginny trailed after, face tight with worry. She pushed forward, only to feel her sleeve tugged.
"Ginny!" Astoria Greengrass whispered urgently, eyes wide with panic. "Luna's in trouble! A bunch of Ravenclaw girls dragged her off—the same ones who stole her earrings the other day!"
"What?!" Ginny's heart lurched. She knew how badly her only real friend in Ravenclaw was treated. "Where did they take her?"
"Follow me," Astoria urged, already turning away. Ginny hesitated only a heartbeat before rushing after her.
…
Meanwhile, in the Room of Requirement—
Luna Lovegood's silver eyes reflected the wandlight. Tom's wand tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Miss Lovegood," he said softly, his voice edged with steel, "you wouldn't want your friend to stumble into danger… would you?"