"Go, Gryffindor!!"
In the Quidditch stands, a boy wearing a red scarf leaned over the railing and shouted. He looked so excited he might climb right over it.
This match was Gryffindor versus Slytherin. The players' collisions looked brutally violent; it seemed less like a game and more like a brawl.
Charlie and Slytherin's Seeker had yet to find the Golden Snitch, and both were flying all over the pitch.
Pomona, meanwhile, had her attention on Gryffindor's bench. The seventh-year serving as Charlie's substitute was watching the field intently, as if someone else had been responsible for cursing Charlie and temporarily blinding him so he could not play in the last match.
At Hogwarts, if you needed help, all you had to do was ask.
For instance, if Random wanted the Centaurs to train him, Wilhelmina would go and discuss it with them.
Sometimes, "help" even came knocking on its own. Before Pomona had time to hand in her paper, Olivia had found help for her: she knew a ghost who was a poet.
More precisely, he was a Hogwarts ghost who loved writing poetry. He compared the four houses to the four seasons: Slytherin represented spring's green leaves, Ravenclaw summer's blue sky, Hufflepuff autumn's abundant fruit, and Gryffindor the hearth in the depths of winter. Every season had its own strengths and charms. If house sorting were abolished, who could imagine a year with only spring, or only winter?
Herman Ruse saw no problem with that. When he had lived at the North Pole, there had only been polar day and polar night, with nothing but endless whiteness around him.
In any case, the uproar over house sorting passed just like that. Miss Aiken was now staying in the Hufflepuff common room. Her eyesight had returned, and during her