Harry Potter : Bloodraven

Inside the Great Hall at Hogwarts, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. An especially large Magic-Vision screen, designed by Maverick specifically for Hogwarts, was installed on the elevated stage where the professors usually sat—and on this day, they sat among the students, where every pair of eyes was locked on the screen—like a single, unified heartbeat.

Every gaze was fixed on Marcus as he chased down the opposing Seeker, trying desperately to stop him from catching the Snitch. If the Durmstrang Seeker succeeded, it wouldn't matter how close the score was—Hogwarts would lose. They were on the edge… and luck, at that moment, seemed to have turned its back on them.

The image then zoomed in on the outstretched hand of the Durmstrang Seeker. The Snitch was just... just inches away.

A ripple of gasps swept through the Hall. Some clutched at their friends' robes, while others closed their eyes, unable to watch the inevitable they believed was about to happen.

But then—

The commentator, who had been animatedly narrating the thrilling chase... suddenly, fell silent.

"Wait a minute…"

Everyone heard his voice hesitate for the briefest moment, followed by a gasp—then he started shouting breathlessly. "Hogwarts has scored! They've scored! Not just a goal—the goal!"

For a second, no one moved. The screen still showed the Seeker lunging for the Snitch, and the goal they were hearing about didn't seem to have registered on the alchemical device.

Until someone muttered, "Did we… win?"

Then another voice broke out in a scream—

"WE WON!"

Then another followed.

"WE WON!"

And another.

"WE WON!"

A thunderous wave of voices followed. The Great Hall erupted into pure, unfiltered joy—until suddenly, the noise cut off again.

The image on the screen had changed its perspective.

It seems it was a replay of the goal.

Gasps echoed once more.

The flawless breakthrough through Durmstrang's defense. The passes, sharp and precise as a blade. And finally, Roger's twist in mid-air, snagging Cedric's pass before launching the Quaffle like a blasting hex, tearing through the hoop with explosive precision—it was pure magic.

For a heartbeat, silence fell again.

And then the Great Hall exploded once more.

Students leapt from their seats, shouting, screaming, hugging the nearest person—friend or rival, it didn't matter. Plates shattered to the floor. Goblets toppled over. But no one cared.

They had won.

Hogwarts had won.

Even the professors allowed themselves a break from formality. Flitwick squeaked with joy, Rolanda's hand flew to her chest in stunned relief, and Hagrid let out a bellowing cheer that shook the walls. Only Dumbledore remained still—but the grin on his face showed he was barely keeping himself from rising to his feet as well.

Across Europe, homes, taverns, and magical plazas equipped with public Magic-Vision screens erupted in much the same way. In wizarding cafés from Paris to Prague, witches and wizards leaned closer to the glowing images, some shouting at the screen as if their voices might carry to the pitch.

In Germany, an elderly couple watching by the fireplace threw their goblets into the air—one in shock, the other in frustration. Those cheering for Hogwarts erupted in celebration, while Durmstrang supporters sat back with stunned expressions.

A group of teens in a Romanian pub pounded the tables, cheering loudly. And in a snowy square in Copenhagen, dozens of strangers found themselves caught in a spontaneous group hug.

The VIP stands at the stadium, filled with nobles, Ministry officials, foreign dignitaries, and school heads, buzzed with electrified energy. Madam Maxime offered a graceful round of applause, turning to congratulate McGonagall with composed admiration for such a thrilling victory.

As for herself—well, despite her usual poise, the renowned Greatmage and secret Quidditch fanatic could hardly contain her excitement. The moment the final goal hit, she was the first to let out a roar that echoed like thunder, her magic flaring unconsciously in all directions.

Thankfully, Maverick's senses were sharp enough to react in time. The moment her magic surged, he layered a discreet barrier around her outburst, weaving his own magic to contain the blast before it could ripple through the stands.

Without it, her Greatmage-rank magic could've slammed half the crowd to their knees—or worse, flat-out knocked the noble children nearby into unconsciousness before anyone even realized what hit them.

Phew. That was close. His brow twitched as he glanced at the overly hyped Deputy Headmistress.

Maxime, of course, had sensed the magical surge too. She would've reacted in kind—but there was no need. She cast a knowing glance at Maverick, then another at McGonagall, before simply shaking her head in quiet amusement and returned her gaze back to the celebration erupting around them.

The match had been played by teenagers, yes—but no one watching would ever call it childish.

"That was incredible—better than some of the World Cup matches," one wizard remarked, eyes still glued to the live commentary relay projected by the Magic-Vision at the heart of their country's magical community. "The skill, the pressure—did you see that crowd? That stadium was on fire!"

"I believe the hype has more to do with the special rule for that competition… 150 points to decide the game," another chimed in thoughtfully.

"I think so too," said a third. "They should implement that kind of rule at the professional level. It adds pressure, creates nonstop action—and the fans don't have to wait days for a result like those marathon matches. This? This keeps the fire alive."

Similar realizations were echoing across magical Europe, as fans everywhere excitedly dissected the game in pubs, parlors, and parchment-filled newsrooms.

Meanwhile, ticket vendors were swamped—requests came flooding in through the Floo Network and owl post alike, and the few seats that hadn't already been snatched up were vanishing at lightning speed.

"Dad... Dad... I want to go to the next match," a young wizard in Florence tugged at his father's robes as they sat in a high-end wizarding restaurant, watching the Hogwarts team's celebration unfold on the Magic-Vision screen. "I want to feel that. I want to be in that crowd."

Word of the tournament began to spread like wildfire—from friend to friend, family to family, from those lucky enough to witness the match in the stadium to those who hadn't. As a result, orders came pouring into Caesar's Magitech outlets across the continent.

Everyone wanted a Magic-Vision. If they couldn't be there in person, they'd bring the magic home—feel every thrill, every roar of the crowd, every goal, right from the heart of their living rooms.

And in that moment, across the magical Europe, it became clear—the Inter-School Quidditch Tournament was no longer just a friendly contest between students or a clash of school pride. It had transcended that. It had become a phenomenon. A true spectacle that gripped the hearts of witches and wizards everywhere.

---

Thanks to the incredible performance that left fans on the edge of their seats during every moment of the game, the remaining three matches of the first round drew even greater fanfare. The viewership numbers soared, especially for those watching through Magic Vision.

Every public corner with a screen installed—whether it was a bustling pub, a cozy inn, or a wizarding market square—was packed during the matches that followed. And the biggest spike in numbers came from people who purchased a Magic Vision unit just to enjoy the games from the comfort of their homes.

As for the outcomes of the remaining three games, things turned out rather surprising.

The day after Hogwarts played against Beauxbatons, Durmstrang faced off against them next and secured a solid victory with a comfortable lead of 150 to 110.

Some French supporters protested, claiming their team had been at a disadvantage without a day of rest. But the argument was dismissed entirely—after all, the other teams would also have to play consecutive matches at some point during the round.

Moreover, even though the French team had improved significantly over the summer, they still couldn't match the power and precision of the German squad.

Koldovstoretz played against Hogwarts next, and the match ended in Hogwarts' favor when Marcus caught the Snitch just an hour into the game. The Russian team, unfortunately, faced a string of bad luck this year—both of their matches ended with the opposing team catching the Snitch before they had any chance to recover.

Their misfortune only deepened when, on the following day, Koldovstoretz faced Durmstrang and were utterly overwhelmed. Durmstrang held a forty-point lead before their Seeker snatched the Snitch, ending the game decisively and crushing any remaining hope for the Russian team.

Three games. Three losses. Despite having a skilled squad, Koldovstoretz's journey ended in disappointment. Bad luck and the overwhelming strength of their opponents saw them eliminated in the very first round.

The last match of the first round of the Inter-School Quidditch Tournament saw Hogwarts facing off against the host team, Beauxbatons. By then, both schools had already secured their place in the next stage, and there seemed to be a tacit agreement between the coaches—there was no need to go all out.

For the Hogwarts reserves, it was a day of excitement. Coach Steven gathered them just before the match, his tone casual, but his words electrifying. "You're all going to play today," he said.

Harry's eyes lit up.

He'd been eager to take to the skies in the previous two games, but Steven hadn't made the switch. Now, finally, he had his chance.

The game started with the original first teams. The crowd cheered in anticipation—but within the first hour, something unusual happened. Substitutions began. One by one, both coaches replaced their starters until, remarkably, all fourteen players on the pitch had changed.

The crowd grew confused. Subbing out nearly the entire team? That had never happened before.

But it didn't take long for them to understand: with no risk of disqualification for either side, the coaches were simply giving their reserve players a chance to shine.

The audience was initially a bit disappointed, thinking the match might not be as fiery as the previous ones—but their spirits soon lifted as the game turned out to be far more exciting than expected.

Because the reserves were good.

Not quite first-team level, perhaps—but close. Very close. The match was fast, fiery, and unexpectedly thrilling. It lasted nearly three hours, the longest game so far. Harry chased the Snitch more than once, coming breathlessly close. The Beauxbatons Seeker had a spectacular moment as well, but the Snitch was in a teasing mood and evaded them both.

In the end, Hogwarts took the win—150 to 120.

The final whistle marked not just the end of the game, but the conclusion of the first round. The next leg of the tournament would resume in late February, and excitement was already crackling through the air.

Across the wizarding world, newspapers—some as far away as Africa and the Americas—reported on the match. It was no longer just a European school event. It was the tournament to watch.

---

That evening, Madame Maxime hosted a grand banquet to celebrate the close of the round. The entire Beauxbatons student body joined in, seated in the great hall alongside players from Durmstrang, Koldovstoretz, and Hogwarts.

At the high table sat the heads of all four schools, the coaches, and senior staff.

Maverick sat near Maxime, sipping a mild drink, half-listening to the chatter. Then something caught his eye.

Fleur Delacour, Maxime's apprentice, was seated beside Harry Potter. And Harry—well, he was utterly smitten, practically glowing under her attention, answering her questions with more enthusiasm than sense.

He grew curious. After all, he hadn't seen them interact at all during the week—though perhaps they had, maybe during a class both of them had attended here. Either way, he found himself wanting to know what they were talking about—or rather, what this little witch was asking Harry so intently.

Then, a moment later, he narrowed his eyes and turned his head toward Maxime on his right.

"Who told her Harry was my apprentice?"

Maxime didn't answer right away, and just gave him a sly little smile.

"Oh, come now, monsieur. Is that really so important?"

He didn't let her dodge and kept his gaze remained fixed on her.

She sighed.

"Fine. I overheard the boy telling two of your students... those redheaded twins... about your trip to Ilvermorny. He was comparing schools, and I figured, for you to bring an eleven-year-old kid, he must be important. Perhaps you took in a student as well..."

"That does not mean anything... stop spreading lies, woman."

Maxime wasn't bothered in the slightest by his annoyance or his tone. In fact, she grew more and more amused. "Hey... I've already said it, and besides, I'm not spreading it around. I only told little Fleur..."

Their conversation, of course, was layered with magic so no nosy people could hear them.

Maverick sighed. No wonder the teacher said this woman was the most annoying one among the seven speakers.

And Potter... this kid... his brows twitched as he watched Harry getting played like a puppet.

Fleur was, in no way, making polite conversation with him. She was asking all the right questions—clever ones, subtle ones. The kind someone might use to assess a potential rival.

Nothing harmful, of course. Potter didn't know anything beyond what the public already did, and while he might have known a bit about his family, the little witch hadn't asked anything regarding his personal life.

Her "interrogation" was just childish rivalry, really—she was simply making the most of the moment, gathering... intel.

And the reason for all that was simple—she now knew that, just like her teacher, he too was an Archmage.

It had happened two nights ago when Maverick visited Maxime in her office to discuss a promise he'd made her the previous year, about coming to Beauxbatons as a guest lecturer once a semester.

The girl had been present during that meeting, though Maverick strongly suspected her presence was no accident. Likely arranged by the half-giantess for reasons... he didn't care enough to bother.

At some point during the conversation, the topic of him being an archmage had come up—"accidentally," of course—and suffice it to say, the little half-blood witch had been beyond shocked. Not that Maverick cared. He wasn't actively hiding his rank anymore. If someone asked him directly, he wouldn't lie or dodge the question.

And now, because he was an Archmage like her teacher—and because Maxime had, for some reason, told her that Harry was his apprentice—Fleur had taken a sudden interest in the boy.

And everything Harry was going through now was thanks to one overly competitive little girl.

Tsk, tsk. This wouldn't do, he thought, watching Potter. It had been over five minutes now, and the boy still hadn't realized it.

Harry was completely defenseless against Fleur's Veela allure. Maverick didn't even need to sense his emotions and could see it plainly in the dazed way the idiot answered her every questions.

He needs some serious mental training. This Christmas holiday, I'll arranged for that kid's brain a good workout.

And as if he had heard that very thought, Harry suddenly shivered, blinking as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over his head.

What was that? he thought, looking around nervously. Why do I feel like something terrible just glared at me.

Fleur blinked, intrigued. To her, it looked like Harry had just broken free of her influence. She smiled, impressed.

"Well," she said sweetly, pulling a small parchment from... somewhere mysterious, "I enjoyed our talk. We should write to each other."

She pressed the note into his hand. Harry looked up—and was lost again in her eyes.

"Uh-huh. Uh-huh." He nodded like a crackhead.

Fleur giggled, gave him a final dazzling smile, and rose to leave.

The moment she was gone, Fred jabbed Harry in the ribs.

"Oi. Potter. You still alive in there?"

"Wha—what?" Harry blinked. "What's going on?"

"How in Merlin's name did you do that?"

"Do what?"

George leaned over. "Don't play dumb. When did you just bag Beauxbatons' number one beauty?"

Harry's mouth dropped. "What? No! When? I didn't!"

"You're clutching her owl address like it's your OWL results," Fred said.

The rest of the team joined in, a chorus of teasing, of course. Harry, red-faced and panicking, protested his innocence—but it was too late.

Dammit! This is slander!

The rest of the banquet, he was the target of endless ribbing.

He couldn't even enjoy the food.

Did I really get taken advantage of...? he figured out eventually, horrified at the thought. I didn't even realize what was happening.

Meanwhile, Maverick leaned back, watching it all with an arched brow and a faintly amused smile.

Beside him, Maxime chuckled lightly. "You've chosen a very... interesting apprentice, Monsieur Raven."

Mavrick: ...

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Author's Note:

Hello dear readers!

Just wanted you to know that I'm always reading your comments and suggestions... and I really appreciate all the feedback!

I know the pacing is slow. Some people like this kind of plotline, but I've noticed that many of you don't. Just know that I'm working on it. The new chapters I'm writing have been adjusted based on your feedback, with a lot less filler and more focus on the story.

The main plot I have in mind isn't changing, but I've cut out a lot of the stuff that felt less engaging.

Hope you all understand. I grow through your feedback, so please keep it coming!

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