HP: The Third Child of Prophecy

Chapter 142: Unreliable Roger

Time: 7:15 PM, Ravenclaw Quidditch Pitch

Harry's enthusiasm had already begun to wane. Truthfully, despite Roger Davis's confident words, Harry couldn't help but feel doubtful. Even if he really was as talented as Roger claimed, with such a disorganized team and a self-absorbed captain, could Ravenclaw realistically expect to compete for the Quidditch Cup this year?

Roger opened the wooden crate he had been carrying. Inside were four balls of various sizes, each resting securely in its compartment.

"Right, Harry, let me give you the basic rundown of these," Roger said, sounding more like a lecturer than a captain. "This is the Quaffle," he said, pointing to a large, scarlet ball about the size of a football. "The Chasers—Henry, Phoenix, and myself—will pass this to each other and try to throw it through the goal hoops. Each successful shot scores ten points."

Roger didn't pause to check if Harry was following. In fact, he seemed to assume that none of it needed explanation. Luckily, Harry had gotten Ron to fill him in ahead of time, or else he would have been completely lost.

"These two are the Bludgers," Roger continued, indicating the two jet-black balls. "They fly around on their own and try to knock players off their brooms. That's where our Beaters come in—they use bats to hit the Bludgers away from us and, ideally, toward the other team. You don't need to remember their names," Roger added dismissively. "They're both in seventh year, and average at best."

He picked up one of the short, sturdy Beater bats and gave it a lazy swing for emphasis.

"And this," he said with a touch more drama, "is the Golden Snitch." He pointed to a walnut-sized golden ball with rapidly fluttering silver wings. "It's the most important ball in the game. It flies incredibly fast and is nearly impossible to see. Your job as Seeker is to catch it. Doing so earns your team 150 points and ends the match."

Harry raised his hand hesitantly. "So, I need to dodge the Bludgers and any players who might try to ram me?"

Roger nodded. "Exactly. Especially watch out for Slytherin—they'll try anything, including body slams."

He then added, "Our real strength is in our tactics. I'll tell you more during strategy sessions. For now, just remember the basics."

Harry frowned. "What about actual practice with the Snitch? Or at least with the other balls?"

Roger waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, we're all geniuses here. Geniuses don't need endless practice. Just understanding the game is enough."

"And our signature tactics," he added proudly, "are based on genius-level plays. Let me explain just a couple. First, there's the Pokov Feint—named after the Russian Chaser Petrova Pokov. The Chaser with the Quaffle flies upward suddenly, drawing defenders with them, then hurls the ball down to a waiting teammate. Very dramatic. Requires perfect timing." Roger smiled smugly. "That's my go-to play, though Henry rarely catches it."

"Then there's the Over-the-Shoulder Pass. No one knows who invented it. The Chaser tosses the Quaffle backwards over their shoulder without looking. Looks great when it works. Phoenix… well, let's just say he's still working on it."

With that, Roger slammed the crate shut and slung it back under his arm. "Well, that's enough for today. I'll leave you to your fun, Harry. You and your mates can enjoy the pitch." And with a brisk nod, he turned and left, completely unconcerned.

Harry stood there, blinking.

"…That's it?" Ron asked in disbelief. "He's not even going to let you try catching the Snitch? Or practice avoiding Bludgers?"

"Apparently, as long as we're 'geniuses,' we don't need to train," Harry muttered, mimicking Roger's pompous tone.

"No wonder Ravenclaw never wins the Cup," Anthony Goldstein said with a scowl.

Hermione had joined them in the stands and now approached with something in hand. "Here, Harry. Use this." She held out a small golf ball, which Ryan had enchanted to mimic the movement of a Snitch.

Neville grinned. "We'll train ourselves, then."

The impromptu training session began. Neville, Ron, and the others took turns hurling the ball into the air as hard as they could. Mounted on his Nimbus 2000, Harry soared gracefully through the air, catching the enchanted ball effortlessly each time, no matter how erratically it flew.

By the time they finished, the sky had darkened and the moon had begun to rise. All of them, save for Hermione and Ryan, were drenched in sweat but visibly uplifted.

"Harry, you're incredible," Anthony said breathlessly. "With that broom and your reflexes, if you catch the Snitch early, we'll win no matter how bad the rest of the team is!"

Ron nodded fervently. He was too tired to speak, but his face was glowing with excitement. The others shared his energy.

Ryan followed at the back of the group, his face thoughtful. He wasn't nearly as optimistic.

Sure, on paper, Quidditch made it seem like all that mattered was the Seeker. If they caught the Snitch, they won—simple as that. That might even seem true if you looked at how often Harry's presence won games for Gryffindor in the original timeline.

But those wins had other factors—like Fred and George Weasley, two of the best Beaters Hogwarts had ever seen. Or Oliver Wood, a reliable Keeper and excellent captain. Gryffindor was a team.

Right now, Ravenclaw only had one ace: Harry.

Henry, the arrogant Chaser with a grudge against Roger, refused to work with the others. Phoenix, obsessed with Nimbus brooms, clearly loathed Roger for favoring the Comet series. The Beaters didn't even get named—Roger just called them "the seventh-years." As for the Keeper, no one had even mentioned who it was.

And then there was Roger Davis himself.

Ryan sighed. Roger might be articulate, good-looking, and confident, but he was a dreadful captain. He only cared about showcasing his own tricks—tricks that no one else could follow. And when those tricks failed, he blamed others. No real training, no real tactics—just speeches and bluster.

Honestly, Ryan thought, Roger probably only got the captaincy because of his face and smooth words.

He shook his head.

Utterly unreliable.

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