The aftermath of the troll incident solidified the bond between Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They became an inseparable trio, their friendship forged in the crucible of shared terror. I watched their new dynamic from a distance, a faint, analytical smile on my lips. Their unity was a key component of the original timeline, a force that would eventually lead to Voldemort's downfall. For now, it was a useful, predictable variable in my own complex calculations.
As the first snows of winter began to blanket the Hogwarts grounds, the castle's attention shifted from the lurking monster to a more immediate and thrilling prospect: the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
The rivalry between the two houses reached a fever pitch. The Slytherins, now firmly under my unofficial leadership, were more united and disciplined than ever. I had no interest in the sport itself—a barbaric game involving bludgers that could knock a player's head off—but I understood its strategic importance. It was a battle for morale, for dominance, for the very soul of the school. A victory for Slytherin would cement our House's renewed prestige and, by extension, my own authority.
I did not, however, involve myself directly. My 'Uncrowned King' status was built on an aura of mystique and overwhelming power, not on schoolyard sports. Instead, I delegated. I had Zabini, Nott, and Rosier organize cheering sections and "strategic disruptions" (non-magical, of course—loud noises and distracting banners at key moments). It was a trivial exercise, but it was an excellent test of their loyalty and organizational skills.
The day of the match was bitingly cold. The entire school seemed to be in the stands, their breath misting in the frigid air. I stood with Daphne in the Slytherin section, observing the scene with a detached interest.
"You don't seem very excited," Daphne noted, pulling her silver and green scarf tighter around her neck.
"It's a crude sport," I replied. "But a useful one. Observe the crowd, Daphne. This isn't just a game. It's a barometer of the school's social climate."
The match began, and it was immediately apparent that Harry Potter was a natural. He soared on his broom with an instinctual grace that infuriated our team's Seeker, Terence Higgs. But the real drama began when Harry's broom started to buck and weave uncontrollably.
He clung on for dear life, his broom lurching violently through the air. Hermione, watching from the Gryffindor stands, immediately suspected foul play. She scanned the crowd, her eyes landing on Professor Snape, who was staring intently at Harry, his lips moving in a silent chant.
Convinced he was jinxing the broom, she rushed off to create a distraction, setting fire to Snape's robes in the process.
I, however, saw the truth. My[Soul Sight]ability, a passive skill I had gained from studying the diary, allowed me to perceive strong magical emanations. And I could see two distinct curses converging on Harry's broom. One was a weak, clumsy jinx—Snape's counter-curse, I realized, an attempt to stabilize the broom. The other, however, was a far more powerful, more malevolent stream of dark magic, originating from the professors' stand, but not from Snape.
It was coming from Professor Quirrell.
The turban-wearing professor was staring at Harry, his face a mask of intense concentration, the dark curse flowing from him in invisible waves. It was a direct, brazen attack, happening in plain sight of the entire school, yet no one else could see it.
This was my chance. I could expose him now, end the threat of Voldemort for the year, and be hailed as a hero.
But where was the advantage in that?
Exposing Quirrell would bring Dumbledore's full, undivided attention onto me. He would want to know how I saw the curse, how I knew of Voldemort's presence. It would unravel my carefully constructed facade in an instant. No, a public revelation was a fool's move. A quiet intervention was far more elegant.
As Hermione's small fire distracted Quirrell, breaking his concentration and freeing Harry's broom, I made my own move. I focused my will, not on Quirrell himself, but on the magical signature of his curse. It was a complex piece of magic, but thanks to the diary's tutelage, I could understand its structure.
I drew my wand, keeping it hidden in the folds of my robe, and whispered a single, ancient runic word Cadmus had taught me—a word for 'sever'. It wasn't a spell, but a focused application of pure will, a command to the fabric of magic itself.
[Subtle Casting successful. You have severed the connection of an active Dark Curse.]
In the professors' stand, Quirrell stumbled as if struck, his magical connection to Harry's broom forcibly cut. He looked around in confusion and fear, his eyes eventually meeting mine across the stadium. I gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent message that said, 'I see you.'
Fear bloomed on his face. Pure, unadulterated terror. He had believed himself invisible, his parasitic master a perfect secret. Now, he knew someone else was aware. Someone else was a player in his dark game.
Harry, his broom now steady, seized the moment. He went into a steep dive, caught the Golden Snitch in his mouth, and won the match for Gryffindor.
The Gryffindor stands erupted in a jubilant roar. The Slytherins groaned in collective disappointment.
I, however, was smiling. I had lost the battle for House points, but I had won something far more valuable. I had established a direct, psychological hold over my true enemy. I had turned myself from an unknown variable into a terrifying, known threat in the mind of Lord Voldemort's servant.
The game on the Quidditch pitch was over. My own, far more dangerous game, had just entered a new, exhilarating phase.