Harry Potter and the HQL - Chapter - 8

The golden glow of late summer bathed Highgarden in warmth, but Harry Potter barely noticed. The laughter of friends and chatter of the Stars Club had given way to the soft hum of enchantments, the gentle hiss of cooling charms, and the sharp chisel of wand-precision cutting spells deep inside the broomstick lab he had built for himself.

The workshop, nestled at the rear of the east greenhouse, had become his new sanctuary. Long polished tables were scattered with components—bundles of specially enchanted woods, vials of feather oil, charm-imbued twine, and precise carvings of broom handles. Sheets of blueprints floated mid-air, shifting and adjusting as he edited them with flicks of his wand.

Harry leaned over a nearly complete prototype, his face illuminated by the glowing runes carved into the broom’s handle.

“This one’s going to be different,” he murmured, adjusting the broom's weight calibration. “This won’t just match the Firebolt. It’ll surpass it.”

Each day began early. Harry would rise before sunrise, often already deep in thought, mentally reciting the list of modifications he wanted to test that day. Breakfasts were brief—a few bites of toast, a mug of pumpkin coffee, and he was gone, down in the lab.

The only things that regularly pulled him out were the Quidditch World Cup matches, which he attended with Sirius or Remus. These outings were more than relaxation—they were study missions. Harry sat in the stands, taking notes on how professional broomsticks responded to different weather, how players adjusted their positioning, and what flaws the broom might show in mid-match pressure.

After one particularly windy game in which the Irish Keeper struggled to stabilize his balance mid-air, Harry murmured, “That’s it. It needs a stabilizer charm woven along the bristle base—not just the handle.”

“You’re taking this more seriously than McGonagall did Quidditch strategy,” Sirius muttered beside him, wrapped in a green-and-gold scarf.

Harry smirked. “You can’t build the future of broomsticks on guesswork.”

About a week after the Highgarden Muggle-born event, Harry and Remus took a Portkey to Hogsmeade, where a brand-new production facility had opened under the name:

Star Broomsticks Co.

It was a large structure on the outskirts of the village, surrounded by wards and open skies for test flights. The main floor buzzed with magical energy—enchanted tools floating between stations, workers inspecting broom rods for imperfections, and stacks of finished brooms neatly labeled and levitating in gentle rows.

As soon as Harry walked in, the room paused. Tools halted mid-air. Conversations died down.

“There he is!” a voice shouted.

A tall, red-haired witch named Martha Penrose, the floor manager, stepped forward with a proud grin. “Mr. Potter, welcome. I was just telling the new recruits about the man behind the design.”

Harry shook hands, waving off the ‘Mr.’ title. “Call me Harry. Please.”

The workers gathered around—a diverse group of witches and wizards, many young, most of them Muggle-born or half-bloods. Some still wore secondhand work robes, but they all stood with pride.

“I just wanted to stop by, say thank you,” Harry told them. “You’re not just working a job—you’re building something that could change the sport and the industry. You’re part of that vision.”

One younger man, perhaps just a few years older than Harry, raised his hand. “Sir—Harry, sorry—why us? I mean… we’re not from the old wizarding families.”

Remus, standing beside Harry, answered first. “Because talent doesn’t come from bloodlines.”

Harry nodded. “You deserve better than being passed over. That’s why we started this—why Remus and I decided on fair wages, good conditions, and a voice in every step. You’ve been given the broom designs. Now it’s up to you to bring them to life.”

A ripple of nods and smiles spread through the room.

Martha added, “They’re paid more than they ever hoped for. And treated better. Most of them wouldn’t even get hired in the top shops of Diagon Alley.”

Harry looked around. “And that’s their loss.”

Returning to Highgarden that evening, Harry walked back into his lab with a lighter step. Behind him, the first completed batch of broomsticks was being prepared for enchantments.

Inside the lab, a single prototype hovered in the center of the room—Harry’s personal design.

He walked over, gripping the handle.

The balance was perfect. The runes glowed in sync with his magic. Every feather in the bristles responded with tension and grace.

He smiled to himself. “The Firebolt might have a rival very soon.”


The warm days of August passed lazily over Highgarden, but inside the manor, there was nothing lazy about the pace. Footsteps echoed through the hallways. Laughter bubbled up from the greenhouse. Spell sparks occasionally flared out of the dueling courtyard. And in the upper tower workshop, Harry Potter was hunched over his workbench, wand tucked behind one ear, sketching glowing enchantment runes across a floating blueprint.

Downstairs, however, the excitement wasn’t about broomsticks. It was about Quidditch.

“Harry!” Fred Weasley’s voice rang out as he pushed open the library doors, followed closely by George. “We’re stealing your match ticket!”

“Borrowing,” George corrected, holding up two folded parchment slips. “You did say we could, didn’t you?”

Harry looked up from his enchantment scrolls, brushing a streak of charcoal dust from his cheek. “So long as you tell me when you’re taking them. I almost passed them off to Neville this morning.”

Fred flopped onto one of the leather chairs. “We’re taking Lee Jordan to the next match. He’s been dying to see the Brazilian Chaser trio in action, and our passes are tied up with Mum and Ginny.”

“Besides,” George added, holding up the second pass, “we’ll trade these two for Hermione’s and Neville’s after the match. That way everyone gets a turn bringing their family.”

Harry grinned. “Perfect. That’s why I gave all of you seasonal passes—so the whole club can swap and make the most of them.”

By mid-afternoon, Highgarden was buzzing with familiar faces. Hermione arrived through the Floo Network carrying a stack of organized parchment folders, her parents in tow. Neville walked through the garden gate, dirt still clinging to his sleeves from the greenhouse at home. Luna drifted in like a breeze, clutching a jar of glowing silver pollen “from a dream blossom” she found in Sweden.

“I just thought it might be useful for print ink,” she said dreamily to Terry Boot, who was immediately intrigued.

As the original Stars Club members began to fill the common rooms, they carried with them stories of their summers, match results, new spells they’d tried, and a shared excitement for the school year ahead.

Padma and Parvati Patil joined the group just after dinner, and Daphne and Tracey followed soon after, both discussing plans to hold a creativity contest in the next magazine issue.

“I think we should ask students to submit short magical stories,” Tracey suggested.

“Or magical artwork,” Daphne added. “Something that gets everyone involved, not just the club.”

Harry, descending from his workshop at last, nodded in agreement. “That sounds brilliant. And if we can get enough submissions early, we can even reserve space for them in the third issue.”

That evening, the group gathered in the Highgarden study, the long table spread with stacks of parchment, quills, and mock covers of the Stars Magazine. Two full issues were already laid out: Holiday Special: Part One, and Part Two—each packed with stories, Quidditch analyses, magical creature features, puzzles, artwork, and interviews with some of the Irish and Bulgarian players.

“Everything’s written, edited, formatted,” Hermione announced, tapping the cover pages. “We just need access to the press room to print them.”

“Which we’ll do the moment we arrive,” Harry said, flipping through the pages. “Rosly already enchanted the delivery chests—we can distribute copies to every table in the Great Hall during the welcome feast.”

Neville chuckled. “That’s bold. But I love it.”

George smirked. “Just imagine—students biting into roast chicken while reading about Quidditch blunders and exploding cauldrons. Brilliant!”

They spent the next few hours assigning last-minute responsibilities: Fred and George would handle launch enchantments to spread the copies through the castle, Hermione and Terry would finalize the index, and Padma would charm the margins for animated footnotes.

Later that night, as the rest of the club drifted off to sleep in their guest rooms, Harry stood out on the balcony of Highgarden, overlooking the moonlit Quidditch field below. Sirius joined him, two mugs of butterbeer in hand.

“You’re making great progress, kid,” Sirius said quietly, handing Harry a mug. “Not just brooms. Not just a magazine. You’ve made these kids believe in something.”

Harry took a sip. “I just wanted to do more. More than be ‘the Boy Who Lived.’ More than sit and wait for bad things to happen. I want to create.”

Sirius smiled. “You are. And I’d wager that the world will be better for it.”

Below, the manor was still—its halls lit by soft floating lanterns, the sound of crickets blending with the occasional burst of laughter from a guest room.

Tomorrow, they’d continue planning, preparing, dreaming.


The warm fire crackled inside the Highgarden drawing room, and the Stars Club had gathered once again around the long enchanted table that constantly refilled tea and snacks as long as someone was seated near it.

Fred and George were tossing a Quaffle between them absentmindedly, Luna was sketching a new creature on the corner of a parchment, and Hermione had her arms crossed, staring thoughtfully at the group. Around them, laughter echoed from distant rooms and the occasional zoom of a practice broomstick could be heard through the open windows.

Harry glanced around at his friends, feeling a familiar pulse of excitement building. “Alright, we’ve got two special holiday issues of Stars Magazine ready for launch. But what are we doing next?” he asked. “We always do something new every year. Something big.”

“There’s always the dueling tournaments,” Daphne suggested.

“A magical science fair?” Padma offered, but George immediately groaned.

“No more potion volcanoes, please.”

Harry smirked. “Come on, there's got to be something—something fresh.”

And then, from the far end of the table, Hermione Granger looked up, eyes bright with a rare sort of mischief.

“I have an idea,” she said simply.

The room went still. Everyone looked at Hermione.

She rarely offered ideas that weren’t academic or administrative. If Hermione had an idea that made her this excited, they knew something big was coming.

“Well?” said Fred, leaning forward dramatically. “Don’t just sit there! Hit us.”

Hermione smiled. “The Hogwarts Quidditch League.”

For several seconds, no one said anything.

George blinked. “Wait—what?”

Hermione nodded. “An inter-house Quidditch league. Not the standard house teams. A full, multi-team league inside Hogwarts, organized and managed by us.”

“You?” Fred asked incredulously. “Hermione Granger wants to organize Quidditch matches?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m not saying I want to play, but I have been watching you all fly for the last two years. I’ve seen first-years during the Muggle-born event—some of them are brilliant, and yet they’ll never get a chance to play because only seven people from each house get picked.”

“That’s true,” Luna said softly, sketching broomsticks now. “Many students are excluded, even though they love the sport.”

Neville tilted his head. “But… will the professors even allow something like this?”

Harry leaned forward, a spark of excitement igniting in his eyes. “I think Dumbledore will agree. Hogwarts is huge—tons of open space and unused fields. We barely use half the school’s facilities on weekends.”

“And think about it,” Harry continued, “if we create a rule—each team must have at least three different houses represented—we can even sell it to the professors as an inter-house bonding exercise.”

Daphne looked thoughtful. “That would remove a lot of inter-house rivalry. Imagine Slytherins and Hufflepuffs on the same team.”

Fred and George exchanged wicked grins. “Oh, we need this to happen.”

“And it’s not just about playing,” Hermione added quickly. “We could turn it into an event. Allow spectators. Parents could pay a small entry fee, and we’d use the revenue to fund school-wide activities—or even fund future Stars Club projects.”

“You want to charge people to watch matches?” Blaise asked, amused.

“Not a lot,” Hermione clarified. “Just enough to give value. And besides, we can offer seating charms, enchanted commentary, and maybe even magical snacks. It’ll be a real event. Something Hogwarts hasn’t seen before.”

Harry sat back, the idea taking full shape in his mind now. Multiple Quidditch teams, formed of students across different years and houses. A formal league, complete with fixtures, captains, announcers, scoreboards, and weekly coverage in Stars Magazine.

It wasn’t just a fun project.

It was something revolutionary.

“It’ll give so many students a chance to play,” Neville said with quiet conviction. “Even ones who were too nervous to try out. And the league rules can allow rotating players—no fixed seven. Teams can have substitutes, younger players, everything.”

“And we can even use our new factory brooms,” Harry added. “Sponsor the whole league under Star Broomsticks.”

That was all Fred and George needed to hear.

“Right,” Fred declared, standing. “When do we start the recruitment?”

The next few hours were a blur of parchment, scribbling, excited voices, and flying Quidditch diagrams. They drafted rulebooks, team formation templates, pitch scheduling options, and proposal letters to the professors.

Hermione handled the structure.
Fred and George planned the entertainment.
Luna volunteered to design the match posters.
Harry began writing the draft of the announcement article for the next Stars Magazine issue.

By midnight, the Stars Club had designed the entire blueprint for the Hogwarts Quidditch League.

“We’ll bring it to Professor McGonagall as soon as we get back,” Harry said confidently.

“And if we get Dumbledore’s support,” Hermione added, “the rest of the staff will follow.”

“And the students?” George grinned. “They’re going to go wild.”

As the enchanted quills sketched the final bits of the calendar, Harry glanced at the fireplace, where the Hogwarts crest glowed faintly in preparation for the coming term.

This year wasn’t going to be like any other.

This year, they would make history.