"Why? I mean from what you've told me this team is so bad they haven't a chance to win the Cup!"
"True, but as a result of their issues, the fan-club of the Chudley Cannons is now only consisting of Quidditch fanatics."
"Oh! And Weasley is one of those, I suppose?"
Nigel nodded silently before adding:
"Thank Merlin the rest of the boys in Gryffindor are not fans of the Cannons. Dean is a fan of a Muggle sport called 'footballe.'"
"Football," corrected Alexandra.
"Seamus is a fan of the Holyhead Harpies, Neville and Leo support Puddlemere United."
"What is your favourite team?"
"The Appleby Arrows. My father is always getting tickets and going with me to their matches when he has the time." Nigel frowned. " But his work doesn't leave him much time. And, grandfather, well, he thinks Quidditch today is a sport for weaklings. He prefers good old-fashioned duelling."
Alexandra and Hermione both gulped at that. The match between Gryffindor and Slytherin (and for that matter Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff too) had proven both girls grave injuries were likely when playing Quidditch. If you were really unfortunate, you did not leave the pitch alive. Never Alexandra had the idea to call this sport "soft." A fight worthy of Medieval times, yes. A sport for weaklings, no. Hell no. For not the first time, Alexandra wondered what was wrong with Nigel's grandfather.
These thoughts were brutally interrupted by the awful din made by a wave of students in red and gold carrying their Quidditch team towards Hogwarts doors in triumph. The clamour which was made right now by the Gryffindors had the potential to make a person deaf.
"Thankfully, I'm not a Gryffindor." Said Alexandra, smirking at Hermione."The Lions look ready to make a row all night!"
"The Ravenclaw tower is not far from ours, you know..." Reminded with a smirk the Gryffindor brunette.
"Ah, fair enough..."
As much as her two friends threw her thunderous glares after that, neither Nigel nor Hermione found it easy to show joy after that. For good reason, in her opinion. It was not even the time for lunch, but virtually the entire Gryffindor House was in the Great Hall busy eating and drinking the maximum of edible things in the minimum of time. It was not a pleasant spectacle, especially with some Gryffindors singing in voices which could have broken mirrors.
"Your House is going to venerate Neville as a God by Monday." Affirmed Alexandra seriously, seeing sixth-years leaving the hall with the Boy-Who-Lived on their shoulders to go in the direction of the Gryffindor Common Room.
"Why are they so fond of Quidditch anyway?" asked Hermione with a groan. "It's just a game!"
"So were the gladiators in Ancient Rome, Hermione." Alexandra remarked."At least ours don't leave half the team dead at the end of the day."
"Yet." said Nigel in a dark tone. "When Snape left the pitch, he looked ready to murder half of the school."
"No, he won't do that." The green-eyed girl told Nigel, although in her own mind she was far from optimistic about the final issue. " But if I was one of the Golden Trio, I wouldn't expect a good mark in Potions for the rest of their stay at Hogwarts."
Their conversation ended as the noise coming from the Lions was becoming unbearable. Leo Black and the Weasley Twins were launching small self-made fireworks, and Alexandra left in a hurry to the library before the master pranksters of the school targeted her. Perhaps in definitive, their Potions Professor poisoning the most troublesome students would not be that bad...
8 March 1992, Forbidden Forest, Scotland
The dark-robed figure stood over the lifeless unicorn, small gasps revealing the hunt had been no easy task. Had it been anywhere else than the Forbidden Forest, the volume of noise produced by the confrontation would have attracted plenty of unwelcome observers. But in the middle of this dark forest, and at an hour the average humans and diurnal animals soundly slept, no one had been there to protect or assist the white-robed magnificent creature.
To be fair to the authorities who had completely failed their duty, protecting a unicorn was not needed in ninety-nine percent of cases. The pure white magic fuelling the unicorn was a formidable defence, and if it collapsed the magical legendary one-horned animal had speed and dolphin-levels of intelligence to evade any threat. Unicorn hair and parts of its skin were useless for witches and wizards if the animal had not granted the permission to use them. Incredibly useful, yes, but anything taken without authorisation from the pure being would be cursed thoroughly for decades or centuries depending on the offence made.
The vast and quasi-totality of the wand-wielders across the world had long ago arrived to the conclusion antagonising a unicorn was more trouble than it was worth, and the imbecile who was ready to do it deserved what was coming to him.
Yet there was something about the unicorns which was not common knowledge, but more related to the information hoarded by the practitioners of esoteric and immoral magic. Unicorn blood, if drank, had the possibility of stopping death.
But the price was awful beyond any recognition. First, the killing of the unicorn because none of the horse-like beings would authorise such an abominable act, a feat which darkened your life until the last breath and was the equivalent of drinking a full dose of the Elixir of Misfortune. There was worse. When the lips of the offender touched the blood, all senses progressively died leaving no pleasure, no contentment, no happiness, only endless suffering. Besides, the soul was from this moment and onwards damned for all eternity with no recourse. The remaining life of the perpetrator was going to be pure hell, and this endless torture would continue in the afterlife.
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