At 5:30 PM, the Quidditch pitch.
The late afternoon sun cast long, dramatic shadows across the grounds.
The grass was meticulously manicured, and the house banners on the spectator stands fluttered gently in the breeze.
Daimon stood at the edge of the pitch, holding his Nimbus 2000.
The team captain, Oliver Wood, a sturdy fifth-year boy, walked over carrying a wooden crate full of various balls.
He looked Daimon up and down, his eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.
“You’re Ignis?” Wood set the crate down.
“Professor McGonagall told me about you.
She said your flying is very good.” “It’s alright.” “Alright?” Wood said seriously.
“Professor McGonagall rarely praises anyone.
When she says ‘very good,’ it means ‘outstanding.’ I hope you don’t disappoint her.” “We’ll see,” Daimon shrugged, full of confidence.
When it came to flying, who could compare to a dragon soaring through the sky?
“Professor McGonagall told me you come from Muggle society.
Do you know anything about Quidditch?” Wood asked.
Daimon shook his head.
“Right then!
Let me explain the rules.” Daimon nodded.
“Quidditch is simple enough.
There are seven players on each team: three Chasers, two Beaters, one Keeper, and one Seeker.” As he spoke, he reached into the wooden crate and pulled out a deep red ball about the size of a soccer ball.
“This is the Quaffle,” Wood pointed at the ball.
“The Chasers are responsible for throwing it through the opponent’s goal hoops—those three rings at either end of the pitch.
Each goal is worth ten points.
The Keeper has to defend the hoops to keep the other team from scoring.
By the way, I’m the Gryffindor Keeper.” “These two are Bludgers.” Wood pointed at the black balls thrashing about in the crate, bound tightly by leather straps.
“They fly around trying to knock players off their brooms.
The Beaters’ job is to whack them away to protect their teammates.” Wood explained as he unbuckled a strap.
The black Bludger immediately shot into the sky and lunged straight for Daimon’s head.
*Crack!* A bat appeared from the side, intercepting the Bludger with precise, powerful force, sending it flying far away.
“Fred and I are the best Beaters around.
With us on the pitch, you don’t have to worry about a thing,” George laughed, resting the bat on his shoulder.
Beside him, Fred held an identical bat.
The other team members arrived one by one.
They were Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell—all of them Chasers for the Gryffindor team.
That was right—the Gryffindor Chasers were three formidable young women.
Wood took another ball out of the crate.
It was gold, only the size of a walnut, with a pair of tiny silver wings fluttering rapidly.
“The last ball is the Golden Snitch.” Wood held it in his palm, his tone turning noticeably solemn.
“This is the most important ball of all, and it’s the Seeker’s sole target.
Whichever Seeker catches it wins their team a hundred and fifty points, and the game immediately ends.” Daimon understood, summarizing: “So, there are three kinds of balls in a game—the Quaffle is for scoring, the Bludgers are for causing trouble, and the Golden Snitch is for ending the match.” “Exactly,” Wood nodded.
“There’s no set time limit for a match; it goes on until the Snitch is caught.
Sometimes a game can last for days because the Snitch is so fast and incredibly agile.” “Days?” “The record is three months.” Daimon paused, glancing at the Nimbus 2000 Professor McGonagall had given him.
“Then you definitely need a good broomstick.” “Got all that?
If you’re ready, let’s start the tryout.
Let me see what you’ve got,” Wood said.
The other players gathered around.
Angelina stood with her arms crossed, Alicia leaned against her, and Katie stood to the side, her eyes full of curiosity.
Even Fred and George had stopped joking around.
They wanted to see just how good this first-year Seeker was—the one for whom Professor McGonagall had broken the rules to recruit.
Daimon mounted his Nimbus 2000, pushed off the ground, and hovered in front of Wood.
“Let’s start with something simple.” Wood pulled a bag of golf balls from his pocket, about the size of a Snitch.
“I’ll throw these in different directions, and you have to catch them before they hit the ground.” “Alright.” Wood whipped a ball toward the front-left.
Daimon dived, his speed controlled, and with a flick of his wrist, caught it cleanly.
“Good.” Wood threw another, this time to the back-right, adding a curve.
Daimon pulled up sharply, banking, and snatched the ball just before it crashed into the stands.
“Quick reflexes,” Wood said, his tone growing more serious.
He grabbed three golf balls from the bag and threw them in three different directions simultaneously—left, right, and forward, all at different heights.
Daimon didn’t hesitate.
Diving, banking, climbing—he caught all three balls in less than five seconds with clean, effortless movements.
Angelina let out an appreciative whistle.
“Incredible reflexes.” George leaned in.
“That’s nothing.
Just wait until you see him fly at full speed.” He had clearly asked around about Daimon’s performance in Flying Class.
“Brilliant!” Wood’s eyes gleamed with excitement.
“While it’s still light, let’s try the real thing!” “My pleasure,” Daimon said easily.
Wood took a small box out of his crate, opened it, and a streak of gold zipped out.
The Snitch—the real Golden Snitch.
“However long it flies, you chase it,” Wood told Daimon.
“I’ll time you.” The Golden Snitch zipped through the air in erratic paths, darting left and right, up and down, so fast its trajectory was barely visible.
Daimon mounted his broom and shot after it.
On the first lap, he was three lengths behind the Snitch.
On the second, two.
By the third lap, he was right on its tail, the distance closing rapidly.
Wood stood at the edge of the pitch holding a stopwatch, his eyes glued to the sky.
The others followed the flying figure with bated breath.
Suddenly, Daimon’s broomstick accelerated with a violent burst.
It didn’t look like a broomstick—it looked like a cannonball firing out of a barrel.
The moment the Snitch made a sharp, sweeping turn, he lunged, his hand snapping shut around the tiny ball, holding it firmly in his palm.
He slowed down, hovered, and held the Snitch high above his head.
The pitch fell dead silent.
“How many seconds?” Fred’s voice was tight.
Wood stared at the stopwatch.
His mouth opened, then closed.
“Well?” George urged impatiently, Daimon’s performance having clearly shattered his expectations.
“Thirty-seven seconds,” Wood said, his expression utterly incredulous.
“Wow!
That’s not even enough time for me to score two goals,” Angelina Johnson gasped, covering her mouth in shock.
“Daimon, that was brilliant!
You’re absolutely amazing!” George threw an arm around Daimon’s shoulder, ecstatic.
“Charlie Weasley used to be our best Seeker—you know that?
He was good enough for the national team.
But you…
you’re even better,” Wood praised him unstintingly.
“Professor McGonagall was right.
With your talent and skill, you don’t even need to train with us regularly.
Your job is to take everyone by storm on match day.” At this point, Wood suddenly turned extremely serious, looking at everyone present.
“No one is to speak a word of today’s training.
It’s a closely guarded secret.
Come match day, we’ll give Slytherin the shock of their lives.
If anyone leaks this, they’ll have to answer to me.” “Don’t worry, our lips are sealed.” “Exactly.
I’ve been dying to get back at the Slytherin team anyway.” “With Daimon on the team, we actually have a shot this time.” Everyone chimed in, and even the usually mischievous Weasley twins gave their solemn promises.