Harry Potter : Bloodraven
Chapter 159 - 159: The Quiet Before the Quarrel (I) (CH - 179)

BOOM!

ROAR!

BOOM! BOOM!

ROOOAR!

Explosions of dazzling fireworks burst across the twilight sky above the Beauxbatons Quidditch Stadium, painting it with streaks of silver, gold, and blue. The stands quaked with applause and deafening cheers as one side of the pitch erupted in jubilation.

The team in deep navy robes with gold trim soared through the air in wide victory laps, waving to the roaring crowd, while on the other end of the pitch, the players in forest-green gear stood quietly with bowed heads and slumped shoulders.

There was no doubt who had won.

The second round of the 1992–1993 Inter-School Quidditch Tournament had reached its thunderous conclusion. Over the past week, three schools had clashed on broomsticks high above the clouds: the hosts of Beauxbatons, the formidable northern team, and the British squad clad in blue and gold.

Koldovstoretz had been eliminated back in the first round. That left three schools in the second stage—Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts.

Each school had played the others once, spaced out neatly over the week with a rest day in between every match. The scheduling was generous this year—no one could complain about exhaustion.

The first game, between Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, ended before most spectators had finished their first snack. It took less than forty-five minutes. Durmstrang was clearly the stronger team, but overconfidence and a string of early missteps allowed Beauxbatons to seize the Snitch before the match had even warmed up.

The opening match offered little for fans to get excited about, but the second more than made up for it.

Hogwarts went head-to-head with Beauxbatons in a grueling, five-hour showdown. The Snitch remained elusive, and both teams fought tooth and nail for every point, refusing to back down. In the end, it was the French side that edged ahead—one hundred and fifty to one hundred and thirty. For a school that had finished at the bottom just a year ago, beating the reigning champions was nothing short of extraordinary.

Today's final had everything on the line.

Hogwarts versus Durmstrang.

Last year's finalists—both already bested by the French underdogs in this round. Only one of them could move on to face Beauxbatons in the final, and the stakes had never been higher.

Anticipation was sky-high.

Every seat in the stadium was filled. Magical pubs were packed to bursting. School halls, wizarding homes, and public gathering spaces in magical communities buzzed with excitement. Magic Vision projectors flickered to life in every corner of magical Europe.

"Flint," said Steven, clapping a firm hand on his Seeker's shoulder, "I don't care if he flies into a thunderstorm or dives into the ground—do not lose him. You mark Krum like he just winked at your mother."

Inside the Hogwarts changing room, Steven, the team's burly coach and former pro, paced like a general before battle. His voice was low and steady, but his eyes missed nothing. A few nervous chuckles passed around the room, but no one was really relaxed.

He moved down the line, stopping in front of each player. No speeches. Just firm, clear instructions and a nod that said he trusted them to deliver.

Even the reserves were told to stay sharp. This wasn't a game where anyone could afford to sit back—substitutions were inevitable, and every broom mattered.

The team let out a unified roar—sharp, focused, and full of fire. Moments later, both sides kicked off from the ground, rising into the twilight sky to a fresh wave of thunderous applause.

The commentator's voice boomed across the stands, barely rising above the roar of the crowd. The whistle blew. And just like that, the game was on.

From the very first second, it was brutal.

Players dove, collided, and weaved through clouds like cannonballs. Bludgers slammed into arms and shoulders. Quaffles zipped across the pitch. Neither side gave an inch, though Durmstrang clearly had the upper hand in strength and precision. Hogwarts, however, played like a team possessed.

After two grueling hours, fatigue set in. Coaches from both teams started rotating out players, trying to keep the tempo high. Only the Seekers remained unchanged—locked in a silent duel above the madness.

And then came the twist.

Two and a half hours into the match, high above the roar and churn of the game below, Flint finally saw it—a glint of gold fluttering at the edge of his vision. He didn't hesitate. Leaning forward, he eased away from Krum without a sound, his movement so subtle it looked like a routine course correction. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, he dropped.

It was a sharp, sudden dive—the kind that made the entire stadium lurch forward in their seats. Krum reacted a second too late. He wheeled around and plunged after him, slicing through the air with ruthless speed, but Flint already had the lead.

The Snitch shimmered just inches above the turf, darting and bobbing like it might vanish any moment.

Flint reached out—and his fingers closed around it.

The stadium exploded with noise.

It was over.

Durmstrang had dominated most of the game. But in the end, Hogwarts had taken the win.

The eruption of cheers was deafening. Witches and wizards across Britain shouted, clapped, and wept with joy. In the Hogwarts Great Hall, students leapt to their feet, hugging one another and pounding on tables. In pubs from Diagon Alley to Hogsmeade, drinks were spilled, toasts were shouted, and strangers embraced like old friends. Owls took flight in startled flurries as the noise rolled across the countryside like a storm.

The finalists were set. Last year's champion, Hogwarts, would face Beauxbatons—the underdog who had risen from last place to host and finalist. It would be a match to remember.

"Congratulations, Minerva..."

Olympe Maxime turned with a smile toward the Deputy Headmistress, whose eyes twinkled with pride as she sat beside her in the VIP stands.

She was so caught up in clapping for her students that she didn't hear a word, let alone respond. Maxime smiled and shook her head. Who could blame her? Everyone knew she was a massive Quidditch fanatic—and her school had just won, right in front of all of Europe.

The others seated nearby joined in the applause, though a few offered polite words of consolation to Igor Karkaroff, who wasn't looking particularly cheerful. After all, they'd lost twice—and both times, it had been after outplaying their opponents. Just rotten luck.

"Little Raven," Maxime turned her gaze to Maverick, who sat calmly beside McGonagall. She leaned in slightly and spoke directly into his mind over the noise of the cheering crowd. "If you don't mind, stay for the day and come by my office tonight. Some old folks from the ICW want to have a word with you."

Maverick tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. "Councilors?"

"Yes," Olympe said. She glanced at the large Magic Vision hovering overhead, then back at him. "You can probably guess what they're after."

Yes, Maverick had a pretty good idea of what those old politicians wanted. It wasn't the first time. Over the past year, his company had been approached countless times by the ICW—or more precisely, by a handful of greedy old geezers who thought they could get whatever they wanted. They were after his invention. After all, by now, anyone with half a brain could see just how impactful Magic Vision was for the entire wizarding world.

But what they wanted was impossible—and their approach had never been one of negotiation. It was all demands, veiled threats, and entitlement. Idiots. Just thugs in robes for the so-called Councilors. Ali had shut them down every single time.

But this time, it seems it wasn't the lackeys, but the masters themselves who were coming. And somehow, they have a speaker to mediate with him directly.

Maverick's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Come now, little raven. Don't give me that look," she said with a playful chuckle. "Of course, I refused to speak for them. I even warned them not to play with fire. But they insisted, and—ah—they do have some face to keep, being Councilors and all. And... well, I happen to owe one of them a small favor, so I agreed to pass the message. Just pass the message, nothing more."

She gave a little shrug. "It's up to you whether you come. I've done my part."

Maverick studied her for a moment, then gave a single, silent nod.

The celebrations went on for another hour, but eventually the stadium emptied. The crowd filtered out, and the teams with their delegations departed back to their home countries. Maverick stayed behind. Around nine o'clock that evening, he and Maxime sat side by side at a long table, enjoying a quiet, elegant French dinner.

Maxime took a small bite from her plate and glanced at him. "Are you sure you don't want to call in your teacher for this? You know, that old fellow Takamaru isn't exactly someone to take lightly."

Maverick shook his head. "No, I can handle it. But tell me more about him. And how those idiots managed to get him on their side."

Maxime smiled slightly and took a slow sip from her goblet. "Actually, it's the other way around. Takamaru is by far the oldest among the seven of us. That old man has a habit of sticking his hand into every loud affair in the wizarding world. They are not his backing, but his people, to be more precise."

She set her glass down and continued. "Your invention is probably the biggest thing to hit the magical world in centuries. Everyone wants a piece of it. The only reason you've been able to keep it mostly to yourself is because of Garling."

"But that doesn't mean another archmage won't try to butt in when they smells opportunity."

Maverick narrowed his eyes. "So, in your opinion, what happens if I say no?"

Maxime paused thoughtfully before answering. "Probably… he'll play dirty. Politics, blackmail, maybe even threatening your people directly."

Maverick's gaze hardened. Just then, Maxime looked to her right, toward the fireplace, before turning back to him.

"They're coming," she said, waving her hand. Plates and food cleared away, and she glanced back at the fireplace, waving again.

Woosh — With a sudden flare of green flame, three men stepped out. All three looked old. Two were Caucasian, dressed in formal wizarding robes. The third was unmistakably Asian, with a long beard and thick eyebrows, wearing elegant traditional robes that spoke of nobility.

The old man in the center paced without pause before stopping at the table. He stood directly opposite Maverick and Maxime. The other two men flanked him, standing silently at his left and right.

Maxime rose gracefully and greeted him in Japanese. "Takamaru, welcome to my humble little school." She motioned toward the chairs. Maverick also stood, out of courtesy, ofcourse. A few polite words passed between the two parties before they all took their seats.

The old man, who seemed to keep his eyes closed most of the time, opened them slightly and fixed a sharp glance on Maverick. Maverick met his stare without hesitation. He felt no magic probing his mind, just a plain, steady stare.

"You must be that Garling's disciple," the old man said in fluent English. "Fierce, just like him. I see it clearly in your eyes."

"Girl… thank you for arranging this meeting," he added, turning to Maxime.

Maxime bristled immediately, her voice sharp with annoyance. "Careful, you old thing. Even if you're three times my age and try to act like some ancient ancestor, I don't appreciate being called 'girl.'"

Maverick noted the two men flanking Takamaru—one radiated the power of a Greatmage, the other a Magus.

Takamaru did not seem bothered by Maxime's sharp reply. He turned back to Maverick. "Let us get down to business, then."

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