Chapter 152: Ron's Suspicion
Time: 7 o'clock. Location: Outside the castle.
"Wait a minute, Harry… Even though Professor Snape's been decent to you lately, isn't it possible—" Ron suddenly said, doubt creeping into his voice. After all, Snape had never been particularly kind to him.
Harry stopped in his tracks and turned toward him. "Ron, are you serious? That's mad."
"Think back to our first Potions class," Ron insisted. "He said, 'I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory… even stop death.' Did you hear that? Stop death!"
Ron mimicked Snape's usual dramatic tone, earning a reluctant smirk from Harry.
"I'm not saying Snape's evil," Ron added, "but even good people can have… temptations. What if he's just curious about the Philosopher's Stone? Maybe he wants to study it, then quietly return it."
"Come on," Harry replied. "If you're going to point fingers, why not look at Quirrell? He used to be brilliant, now he stutters through every sentence. And remember what Professor Dumbledore said about my red spark spell? That it was linked to purification? What if Quirrell's been cursed and forced to help steal the Stone?"
"That would explain why he forgot about Crabbe and couldn't answer Professor McGonagall's questions that night," Harry continued, growing more animated. "I bet he was on the fourth floor when that troll showed up. And Snape must've sensed something and ran there too. He was moving way too fast for someone just 'checking the fifth floor.'"
Alexander Smith, walking behind them silently, blinked in surprise. Harry's deductions were eerily accurate—even though Harry didn't know it, both he and Alexander were from another timeline.
Ron still looked skeptical. "Alright, maybe Quirrell's dodgy. But who says Snape isn't the one controlling him? Quirrell was once his student. Maybe Snape uncovered some secret, cursed him, and now he's using him to get to the Stone."
Harry rolled his eyes. "You just don't like Snape because he's hard on you."
"Whatever," Ron said, brushing it off. "We got kicked out by Hagrid because of this, and I still wanted to ask Mum about her school days."
"That's not so bad," Alexander said, feigning disappointment. "I was hoping to ask my mum and dad about their most embarrassing stories. Then when they start teasing me, I can just go, 'Really? Want to talk about what you did in '67?'"
Ron burst out laughing. "Oh, I'm definitely doing that. One day, when Dad tries to brag, I'll be like, 'Remember the cauldron incident, Dad?'"
Harry, meanwhile, looked thoughtful.
---
The next morning dawned clear and cold. The Great Hall buzzed with excitement, filled with the smell of sizzling sausages and the chatter of students anticipating the upcoming Quidditch match.
Ron bit into a sausage as if making up for missing Hagrid's food the night before.
"Eat something, Harry," he said through a mouthful.
"I'm not hungry," Harry mumbled.
"Try some toast," Anthony Goldstein offered kindly.
Harry shook his head. Despite everything he'd faced—diving to the bottom of the sea, battling monsters—today's match made him nervous. Not because of the game itself, but because of his unreliable teammates and the weight of living up to his father's reputation.
Alexander understood. If Harry were on the Gryffindor team from the original world line, he'd be fine. But this team? They weren't exactly inspiring.
"You need strength to play," Michael Corner said, casually dousing his sausage in ketchup. "The Seeker always ends up the target."
"Thanks," Harry muttered, forcing a smile.
---
By eleven o'clock, the entire school had gathered in the elevated stands surrounding the Quidditch pitch. Some students even brought binoculars, although the seats were high enough that it didn't help much.
Alexander, Hermione, Ron, Neville, Anthony, and his younger brothers—Terry and Michael—sat in the top row.
To surprise Harry, they'd made a huge banner reading "POTTER MUST WIN!" on a sheet once stained by Scabbers the rat. Terry added a flying eagle, and Anthony enchanted the paint to shimmer in rainbow colors.
Draco Malfoy soon arrived with Crabbe and Goyle. Ron gave him a grudging nod, which Draco returned before sitting nearby without a fuss.
---
In the locker room, the goalkeeper finally appeared—and to Harry's dismay, he looked like a full-grown version of Dudley Dursley.
Brilliant, Harry thought. If he messes up, I'll be humiliated.
The team changed into their sky-blue Ravenclaw uniforms, while the Hufflepuff team donned bright yellow.
Roger Davis stood at the front, trying to rally the team.
"Relax, everyone," he said. "It's only Hufflepuff—we've got this in the bag."
He turned to Harry. "Now remember: if a Bludger comes at you, wrap your arms and legs around your broom like a sloth and hang tight. And don't forget the zigzag technique. Fast, unpredictable—avoid those hits!"
"Are you kidding me, Roger?" Henry, one of the chasers, interrupted. "If Harry flies like that, how's he supposed to catch the Snitch?"
"I'm the captain!" Roger snapped.
The batsmen and the goalkeeper remained silent, detached. Harry realized he still didn't even know their names. The two chasers looked openly frustrated with Roger's tactics.
He followed Roger out to the field with a mix of anticipation and dread. The cheers of the crowd hit him like a wave—but it wasn't the noise that made his legs go weak.
It was Dudley. Sitting front-row center, watching him.
Madam Hooch stood in the middle of the field with her broom in hand, ready to officiate.
"Listen up!" she called. "I want a nice clean match. No funny business!"
Harry forced his eyes off Dudley and scanned the stands. He spotted the sparkling Potter Must Win banner, Ron cheering, and Malfoy being lifted up by Crabbe and Goyle in defiance.
The sight made Harry grin.
"Very good," said a voice beside him. Henry. "You're calm under pressure. That's what makes a great Seeker."
"Mount your brooms!" Madam Hooch ordered.
Harry swung his leg over his Nimbus 2000.
With a sharp blast of her silver whistle—
Fifteen brooms rose into the sky.
The match had begun.
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