The post-game celebration was grand.
After all, not everyone can break a record—especially by a full 1.5 seconds.
Honestly, that 2-second record will probably be very difficult for anyone to break in the future, except for Dana himself.
Excited spectators poured onto the field, cheering with their hands raised, while Dana circled above them, showering gold confetti he had prepared in advance.
Back in the locker room, he was greeted by hugs and congratulations from his teammates—truth be told, being on a team with Dana made earning money feel too easy.
Go on the field, take a lap, stand still, and win.
At this point, they joked that you could tie a big black dog to a broom, and it would still win!
Professor McGonagall, along with the Weasley family, also entered the players' locker room—a special permission granted by Coach Ramsey today. Normally, spectators weren't allowed in the players' area.
"Dana!"
"Professor!"
Professor McGonagall gave him a hug.
"Congratulations, child."
"Thank you."
McGonagall released him and gestured toward Mrs. Weasley beside her.
"This is Molly Weasley, Fred and George's mother."
"Hello, Madam. I've been wanting to meet you for a long time—honestly, I especially love the sweaters you knit for Fred and George; they look so warm."
"Oh, child, you're so sweet."
Molly's smile nearly split her face, but then Coach Ramsey called from the entrance:
"Dana, come over for a moment. I need to talk to you."
Dana nodded.
"Coming."
He turned to McGonagall and Mrs. Weasley.
"Sorry, I've got something to handle."
McGonagall smiled and patted his shoulder.
"Go ahead."
Mrs. Weasley added warmly:
"Come visit us sometime; our whole family welcomes you!"
Behind her, the twins were already ruffling Ron's hair into a red bird's nest. Perhaps owls would love such a cozy perch.
"Definitely," Dana nodded. "I'm looking forward to it. Fred's told me your cooking is unmatched in the British wizarding world, Mrs. Weasley."
Molly felt her cheeks ache from smiling. How could this child be so likable?
Dana walked away and found Coach Ramsey.
"Coach, what's up?"
Ramsey led him into the office, hesitating before he spoke:
"Dana, I really appreciate what you've done. You saved my career. Our team was at the bottom, and now we're contenders thanks to you…"
Dana listened patiently. Usually, when someone starts like this, a "but" follows.
"But you're catching the Snitch too fast. Fans are demanding ticket refunds. The boss talked to me about this…"
"He wants you to slow down during matches, make them last at least twenty minutes. Ideally, a whole day. It's not just about ticket refunds—short matches mean advertisements don't run properly, and stadium spending drops."
—A normal Quidditch match could last an entire day. Spectators would need food, drinks, even bathrooms, all within the stadium. When you added it all up, it was a major revenue stream.
But what did that have to do with Dana?
He originally joined Quidditch to make a name for himself and put pressure on the Ministry of Magic to expose those behind his wrongful imprisonment.
Now that goal had been met. His professional Quidditch career was just a façade to explain his income.
Appearing on the field for a few seconds, up to twenty minutes, was a cost he could accept.
But to drag matches out unnecessarily? He was worth hundreds of thousands per second—could the Cannons afford that?
"Sorry, Coach. I don't want to waste time."
Coach Ramsey scratched his head awkwardly.
"I get that this is unreasonable. The Cannons profit thanks to you. But the boss wants more. He controls the money."
Dana narrowed his eyes.
"Did the boss threaten you?"
Ramsey touched his mouth and said nothing.
"So, if you can't convince me, he'll fire you?"
Ramsey sighed.
"Not just me—he said he'd fire you too."
"Alright, I get it, Coach."
Dana left the office, circled through the stadium's management center, reached a secluded area, and pulled out a two-way mirror.
"Wang Wenhui! I need all the dirt on Rashad Broomfield, the owner of the Chudley Cannons!"
Rashad Broomfield was ecstatic.
Count Dark de Dentis, the rising legend of the British wizarding world, was coming to visit him!
He dressed early and waited in his office at the Cannons' stadium from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. before the Count finally arrived.
"Oh, Count, welcome, welcome!"
Broomfield was extremely deferential. Despite being stood up for most of the day, he showed no irritation.
Dentis nodded.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Broomfield."
Without waiting for pleasantries, he went straight to the point:
"I'm here for one reason—to buy the Chudley Cannons."
Broomfield froze, needing several seconds to process.
"You… want to buy the Cannons?"
"Yes. Name your price."
"No, no, sir. The Cannons are thriving! With Dana Emrys, we're championship material—I can't sell, not at any price."
"I said—name your price."
The Count's tone was firm, almost impatient. Broomfield's heart skipped a beat.
"Alright. As you know, Dana Emrys is unique—a superstar who could dominate for two decades. So, I'd say… one hundred thousand Galleons."
"One hundred thousand?"
Dentis smirked.
"You realize that Dana's contract is a short-term, one-year deal? He earns five Galleons per game, plus three if the team wins. Even with a perfect record, he'd only make around seven hundred Galleons."
"So why do you think he belongs to the team?"
Broomfield was stunned.
"How do you know that?"
Only he and Dana knew the contract details. Could this Count be connected to Dana?
No—they had no connection.
"Mr. Dumbledore asked me the same thing. I told him—I'm very rich."
Broomfield was silent for a moment, then tried again:
"But the Cannons are a historic team! We have unique branding…"
"Orange jerseys and stadiums? That's your branding? The Cannons' merchandise sells the worst in the league. Even Dana's jersey sales are mediocre—your team aesthetic is abysmal."
Broomfield was struck speechless. Then the Count added:
"Sell the team to me, and I'll give you two plots of land near the entrance to New St. Catchpole."
"What? Vacant land?"
Dentis snorted.
"Land there is now worth three thousand Galleons per square meter—and rising. And that's if you can even find a seller."
"But… the entrance is basically the suburbs!"
Dentis narrowed his eyes.
"You'd better take the deal. Otherwise, evidence of your illegal poaching and smuggling will be on Mr. Stringer's desk tomorrow."
Broomfield opened his mouth to protest, but several photos were tossed onto his desk.
In the images, he was making deals with foreign buyers—next to him, items clearly crafted from human skulls.
"Don't bother denying it. A lip-reader can confirm what you said. You'll be vacationing in Azkaban. Lovely place."
Broomfield slumped into his chair, sweating. He wiped his forehead furiously, but the sweat wouldn't stop.
"Well? Have you decided, Mr. Broomfield?"
"…Yes, Count."
"Say it clearly."
"I agree."
"Wise choice," Dentis replied.
"You'll find your land will become far more valuable than this rotting Quidditch team. Soon, wealthy wizards from around the world will gather in New St. Catchpole.
Even a sliver of land there will be worth more than a dying franchise. Honestly, I'm taking a loss."
End of the Chapter.
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