Chapter 207: Mediocrity

The distant sky was gray and hazy. The black cat stepped through the snow, leaving behind a nimble streak of ink-dark color.

His strength was slowly returning, and the shouts from the Quidditch pitch on the other side were growing louder.

“Let me tell you this—we’re definitely taking the Quidditch Cup this year!”

It was Wood shouting.

“This year, our team will shine brilliantly! We’ll sweep away every obstacle!”

His words lifted the spirits of the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team.

The Ravenclaw Quidditch team said nothing, merely casting them a cold glance, then Roger said:

“Then let’s wait and see.”

But once they left the pitch, Roger couldn’t hold back:

“They’ve been provoking us constantly, and all we have to do is crush these arrogant bastards! Get the beaters to use the hardest bats!

We’ll win the match—and crack a few skulls!”

He looked like a loyal fan of the Falmouth Falcons, because that was exactly the Falcons’ slogan.

Inside the Quidditch pitch, Wood appeared to be issuing a challenge, but in truth, his eyes never left Ravenclaw’s locker room.

“No sneaking in through the back door—”

Fred burst out of the locker room.

“No extra players in the final practice—looks like none will join for the match—”

George picked up the thread.

“We crushed Slytherin, and with Snape’s favor, we beat Hufflepuff—nothing can stop us now!

Ravenclaw has lost their powerful external support, and we are the best—the greatest—team in the school.

As he spoke, he slammed one fist into the other palm, his eyes gleaming with the wild fire of old.

“We have three of the best chasers.”

Wood pointed to Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell.

“We have two unbeatable beaters.”

“Hold on, Oliver, you’re making us blush.”

Fred and George Weasley said in unison, pretending to turn red.

“And we have a seeker who’s never lost a match!”

Wood continued, glaring at Harry with fierce pride.

“And me.”

He added it as if he’d just remembered.

“We think you’re great too, Oliver,” George said.

“A phenomenal keeper.”

Fred said.

“Crush them!”

Wood concluded.

Professor McGonagall, listening nearby on the edge of the Quidditch pitch, felt her passion nearly spill from her eyes.

But she did not enter the pitch as she once had; instead, she took advantage of En’s newly learned Stone Stump Mobilization to correct minor errors and explain more efficient techniques.

En had slipped into the Transfiguration office in the form of a black cat, and he slipped out the same way.

Just as he didn’t understand why a cat’s body could be so supple, he couldn’t fathom why Professor McGonagall loved Quidditch so deeply.

Just as he didn’t understand why a cat’s body could be so soft, he likewise couldn’t fathom why Professor McGonagall was so passionate about Quidditch.

At that moment, a barn owl flew in through the stained-glass window and landed on En’s shoulder, dropping a pile of letters.

En knew at once whose letters these were, seeing the large owl.

When En saw the large owl, he knew immediately whose letter it was.

If you see this in time, please tell me whether you’ve secured your key?

Oh, it’s Quidditch season again at Hogwarts—is Minerva still sitting on the northern stands?

As a favor, tell me something—how else can an old man like Marcus ever touch your life?

Yours affectionately: Marcus】

En gently unfolded the letter, and the feather pen began to hover above it.

The Great Hall was noisy with owls flapping their wings; one of those noises belonged to En.

When he finished writing, the remaining letters surged forward—three letters from little McGonagall were crammed with words.

Inside the letters were several crystal-clear glass orbs, several dazzling candy wrappers, and one request slip:

【We offer you all our treasures, dear Wizard Green—can you come back soon? We’ve waited so long.】

The last line was even misspelled.

So En sent some cookies—and to his surprise, Marcus’s owl was astonishingly fast; by nightfall, it returned with a reply.

【Regarding your question about Quidditch, I’m happy to share—

It’s a distant story.

Isabel, our mother, was an exceptionally gifted witch and once a stellar Quidditch player at Hogwarts.

She fell in love with our father, a Muggle named Robert, and willingly gave up the wizarding world for love.

Their love was sincere and passionate, but a witch living in the Muggle world never had a good fate.

Especially when all three of us children showed magical talent】

Here, En already understood enough; he kept reading.

This was a long letter, describing a deliberately forgotten past:

【We could never reveal even a hint of our magical abilities,

Minerva, she was very close to our father, and her temperament resembled his.

Seeing our father struggle with our family’s strange situation, she suffered too.

Moreover, she sensed how tightly our mother strained to adapt to life in the Muggle village, how desperately she missed the freedom of being among magical kindred, how much she longed to cast spells again.

She told us she could never forget how many times their mother wept upon receiving her Hogwarts letter at age eleven; she knew Isabel’s tears weren’t only from pride—they held envy too.

So when she later fell in love with a non-magical man, she chose silence and left.

The day after he proposed to her.

Because of the International Statute of Secrecy, she couldn’t even tell him why she left, letting his heart break.

Later… he died in the chaos caused by Voldemort】

Reading this, En was utterly stunned.

He seemed to understand now—why Professor McGonagall was always strict, never yielded.

【You asked why Minerva loves Quidditch so much—I can only tell you this:

Quidditch is a bond. When her inherited talent from her mother surfaced, perhaps both touched the extraordinary nature of magic.

Both she and her mother were outstanding players—perhaps that was some comfort?】

Even at dusk, the Quidditch pitch remained noisy; Ravenclaw’s training never stopped.

Professor McGonagall gazed out the window; in the Transfiguration office, she could always see the Quidditch pitch.

She inherited little from childhood—only a furious rage against mediocrity, an unyielding determination to refuse insignificance.

She inherited little from childhood, only a furious rage against mediocrity, a determined refusal to be forgotten.