— — — — — —
By 9 a.m., the Great Hall was already packed.
Outside, the sky was clear but bitingly cold—not that it did anything to cool down the young witches and wizards' excitement for Quidditch. Everyone was hyped for what promised to be a thrilling match.
The scent of grilled sausages drifted through the hall, making mouths water and stomachs growl.
It was practically a sausage feast today. There were white sausages made from veal, classic Thuringian sausages usually paired with sauerkraut, and some Italian-style sausages stuffed with gooey mozzarella.
Tom's favorite was easily the Thuringian sausage with sauerkraut. The sharpness of the sauerkraut cut through the grease perfectly.
Watching Tom dig in so happily, Daphne Greengrass made a mental note.
She figured she could tell her mum in her next letter so their house-elf could learn how to make the dish. That way, next time Tom visited during the holidays, she could serve it and impress him.
...
While Tom was enjoying his breakfast, over at the Gryffindor table, Harry couldn't eat a single bite. His mind was a total mess.
Ever since that class, Hermione and Ron had basically become strangers. They didn't even look at each other anymore, which, surprisingly, didn't seem to affect Hermione's relationship with Harry at all.
In Hermione's eyes, Ron was a lost cause—always playing around and never serious. Harry, on the other hand, still had potential. At least he asked questions and tried to learn.
To help Harry better integrate into the team—and also boost Gryffindor's chances—Hermione had found a book in the library titled The Wonder of Quidditch and lent it to him.
After reading it, Harry gained a much deeper understanding of the sport.
Apparently, there were seven hundred types of fouls in Quidditch. And guess what? Most of the nastiest ones happened to Seekers.
Like… why? Did a Seeker steal your fish and chips or something?
But that wasn't even the most distracting thing on Harry's mind. He had a sneaking suspicion that something major was up—Snape's limp, for instance, might be connected to that forbidden corridor on the third floor. What the heck was he doing there? Was Dumbledore hiding some kind of treasure?
"Harry, you need to eat something," Hermione urged.
"I'm really not hungry," he muttered.
"Just a bit of toast?" she coaxed.
Seamus, sitting nearby, helpfully offered a slice of peanut-buttered toast with a sausage smeared in ketchup stacked on top.
"You know, the longest Quidditch match ever lasted three whole months. Even Hogwarts has had games that went on for days. If you don't eat, you might literally pass out out there."
Harry gave in and took a bite.
By 10:30, nearly everyone had made their way to the Quidditch pitch. Tom followed Daphne up to the highest point in the stands—it had the best view of the whole field.
Directly across from them was the Gryffindor section, where Neville and Seamus were waving a sparkling banner for Harry Potter—just a bedsheet painted in shifting colors. Around them, other props and Gryffindor house banners flew high, fluttering in the wind.
Slytherin wasn't about to be outdone. Their stands exploded with magical banners and glowing charms. It felt more like a battle of magical aesthetics than a sports event.
Daphne wasn't a diehard Quidditch fan—she thought of it more as a way to kill time than something to get worked up about.
Still, her Slytherin pride was strong.
She'd brought a massive banner and had Tom help float it high into the air with a spell.
The banner was huge—about twenty meters long and four meters wide—with a green serpent slithering around the border and "Slytherin Champions" written boldly in the center.
Tom, feeling like joining the fun, pointed his wand at the banner and sent out a flash of magic. Instantly, the embroidered serpent started writhing like it had come to life, and its giant head even broke free of the fabric, becoming a three-dimensional illusion that hissed menacingly at the Gryffindor section.
The Gryffindors had no comeback. Nobody on their side could pull off something that flashy.
Slytherin's morale skyrocketed.
---
At exactly eleven, both teams emerged from the player tunnels.
Amid roaring cheers, Madam Hooch blew her silver whistle, and fifteen broomsticks—including hers—shot into the sky.
...
"And the Quaffle is immediately snatched up by Angelina Johnson from Gryffindor! She's a fantastic Chaser—and I must say, quite the looker too!"
"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall's warning tone came seconds into the match.
"Sorry, Professor!"
The announcer was Lee Jordan, a third-year Gryffindor and close friend of the Weasley twins. As expected… his commentary was wildly biased.
"Angelina Johnson's flying fast—she passes it!"
"Alicia Spinnet catches it cleanly! A smart pick by Captain Wood—she just made the team this year."
"Uh-oh! Marcus Flint barges in with a very aggressive move to steal the Quaffle. Is he about to score? Haha—nope!"
...
From the very start, it was a high-speed back-and-forth, keeping the crowd on the edge of their seats.
If you wanted to sum up Quidditch, it was a game with three balls—the Quaffle for scoring, the Bludgers for knocking people out, and the Golden Snitch to end it all.
Seekers had one job: dodge Bludgers and catch the Snitch. Everything else? Not really their business.
Harry and Slytherin's Seeker, Terence Higgs, were flying far above the action, circling like hawks as they scanned the sky for any sign of gold.
Harry's performance was a shocker for Gryffindors who hadn't seen him train—he flew just as well as Higgs, maybe even better. He was more agile, more daring.
Lee Jordan pounced on the chance to praise him:
"Harry Potter's maneuvering is insane! You'd never believe this kid's only been flying for two months. Look at that feint—he totally shook off Higgs! Brilliant move!"
"Of course, it's not just the player. The broom makes a huge difference too."
"Compared to the Comet 260, the Nimbus 2000 has far better acceleration and turns on a dime, and—"
"JORDAN!"
McGonagall had to snap again as he veered off into broom specs.
...
"Pfft."
Tom suddenly burst out laughing—it was hard not to, listening to Jordan commentate like he was rapping.
Daphne turned, confused. "Tom, what's so funny?"
Was this match… supposed to be funny?
Seeing her puzzled look made Tom laugh even harder.
"Do you know what a car is?" he asked.
She nodded. She'd seen one, though she'd never ridden in or driven one.
"Well, in the Muggle world, there's a whole bunch of people who can recite car specs like a walking encyclopedia—horsepower, torque, engine type, tire pressure, you name it."
He shrugged and smirked. "Only problem is… they can't actually afford any of those cars."
"I think Lee Jordan's just like those guys. I've got to admire how confidently he talks about stuff he clearly doesn't own."
It clicked for Daphne. She collapsed onto Tom's shoulder, giggling uncontrollably.
Her laughter spread fast. Tom hadn't even tried to keep his voice down, so everyone nearby heard the joke—and before long, the whole Slytherin stand was a sea of chuckles and snickers.
The announcer's booth was right next to the staff section on the east side. Jordan glanced over in confusion.
Slytherin was only ten points ahead. What was so funny?
Then a student with a mischievous streak shouted with an Amplifying Charm:"We just love how you talk about the Nimbus like you can actually buy one!"
Boom. The whole stadium lost it.
Even the professors looked weirdly conflicted—trying not to laugh but clearly amused.
Lee Jordan's face turned bright red… though thankfully, being Black helped hide it.
After that, he toned things down a little. Still biased, of course—but slightly more restrained.
"Angelina Johnson regains the Quaffle—she's speeding forward! She shoots!"
"Miles Bletchley dives the wrong way—what a fake! And Gryffindor scores!"
...
Cheers exploded from the Gryffindor stands, echoing through the chilly air.
Over at the staff box, Professor McGonagall clenched her fist under the table and silently mouthed a triumphant "yes!"
Who would've guessed that the famously stern and fair McGonagall was actually a diehard Quidditch fan? If not for the serious injury she'd sustained in her youth, she might've been the one leading a team to the Quidditch Cup herself.
Suddenly, a wave of gasps swept through the crowd.
The Golden Snitch had appeared—just a flash of gold zipping past Derrick Pucey's ear.
Harry spotted it first and immediately dove. Terence Higgs saw it too, chasing after him just seconds later.
But Harry was faster. More agile. Bit by bit, he pulled ahead.
Then—WHAM!
Marcus Flint came crashing in from the side, smashing into Harry and knocking him off course. The Snitch vanished again.
The perfect chance for Gryffindor to win—gone.
"FOUL!" Madam Hooch bellowed, furiously pointing at Flint. She awarded a penalty to Gryffindor, while boos and shouts erupted from their side of the stands.
Flint, smug as ever, just grinned up at them in mock innocence.
Naturally, this only made them scream louder.
"What a dirty, obvious cheat," Lee Jordan growled.
"JORDAN!"
"I meant the foul, Professor McGonagall."
"One more outburst and I'll replace you with someone selling pumpkin juice!"
"…Right. Got it." Jordan mumbled. "Anyway—Gryffindor's down by forty points, but it's fine. Potter's got way sharper instincts for the Snitch than Higgs ever will."
But then something strange started happening.
People in the stands noticed that Harry's broomstick had begun to wobble. Then it shook. Then it rolled—violently.
He clung on for dear life, barely managing to stay in the air.
After a few seconds of calm, the broom suddenly started spasming again, bucking wildly like it had a mind of its own.
Tom's eyes narrowed.
He glanced toward the staff section—and sure enough, there was Quirrell, muttering under his breath. Beside him… Snape was doing the exact same thing.
They were both casting, chanting like they were locked in some silent, magical tug-of-war, each using Harry's broom as the battlefield.
...
"Unbelievable."
Tom was pissed.
Something this fun, and they didn't invite him?
He flipped his wand in his palm and hid it up his sleeve, then started murmuring his own incantation.
But unlike those two, he wasn't aiming for Harry's broom. That was already crowded with dark intent. Time to get creative.
Tom focused on one of the Bludgers zipping wildly through the air.
Manipulating objects with raw magical will? That was his specialty. He'd been doing it even before he had a wand—before he'd even come to school.
Now, with training? It was child's play.
Under his influence, the Bludger began to pick up speed, slicing through the air with a sharp whoosh. George Weasley flinched and instinctively swung his bat at it, smacking it hard and feeling the sting of recoil all the way up his arm.
But Quirrell didn't notice any of this.
He was still focused, grinning viciously, muttering faster and faster, eyes glued to Harry's broom. Dumbledore wasn't here today—this was the perfect chance. If Harry fell from this height, it'd be a fatal drop. Just like that, revenge for his master would be complete.
But then—his grin faded.
Something shifted. Snape's gaze swept over, locking onto him.
Now Quirrell was trying to keep track of both Snape and the broom. Snape, meanwhile, had eyes on both the broom and Quirrell.
Neither of them noticed anything else.
Like, for example… the other ball.
After a round of wild deflections between the Beaters, the Bludger Tom had enchanted curved midair in a way that defied logic.
Tom's eyes lit up.
Time to go for the kill.
He poured more energy into the spell, pushing the Bludger into a final, deadly arc. It shot past the edge of the field, then, drawn back by his will, reversed course at breakneck speed—heading straight for the back of Quirrell's head.
By the time Quirrell realized something was wrong—whoooosh—
BAAAAANG!
The heavy Bludger smashed full-force into the back of his skull, launching him forward. He tumbled over the front row of seats, hit the stairs, and rolled.
And rolled.
And rolled.
And rolled....
He finally came to a stop against a safety railing—thank Merlin for that. If it hadn't been there, he probably would've plummeted off the stand entirely.
"Professor Quirrell!"
Professor Flitwick nearly screamed as he rushed over. The teacher's stand exploded into chaos.
"I'm going to check on him," Tom muttered to Daphne, then pushed through the crowd toward the scene.
By the time he reached them, Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were huddled around an unconscious Quirrell. Professor Sinistra had already run back to the castle to fetch Madam Pomfrey.
Tom peered closer.
McGonagall was too worried to care why a student had wandered into the staff section.
That thud just now had been nasty. You could practically feel the pain through the sound alone.
"Professor," Tom said calmly, studying Quirrell's body. "We should probably take off that scarf. If it's pressing on the wound, it might cause an infection."
"Good point," both McGonagall and Flitwick nodded.
"No need!"
Just as they were about to touch him, Quirrell suddenly sat up, bloodshot eyes wide.
"I'm fine," he croaked. "Just… a bit dizzy. That's all."
Then, under the stunned gaze of everyone around him, he got to his feet—and hobbled off the stand in a weird, limping shuffle.
"A… a medical miracle," McGonagall muttered, staring after him.
Tom heard her, and gave an admiring nod.
"Quirrell… what a cockroach."
.
.
.