At nine o'clock in the morning, the Great Hall was already packed.
Outside, the weather was bright and biting cold, but that did nothing to quell the little wizards' passion for Quidditch. Everyone was buzzing with anticipation for a spectacular match.
The savory aroma of grilled sausages wafted through the hall, enough to make anyone's mouth water.
Today was practically a festival of sausages: there were white sausages made from veal, Thuringian sausages paired with tangy sauerkraut, and even Italian sausages oozing with gooey mozzarella.
Tom's favorite? Definitely the Thuringian sausages with sauerkraut. The richness of the sausage balanced perfectly by the sour crunch of the kraut—it was a harmony that reminded him of certain Eastern dishes he missed dearly.
Watching how much Tom enjoyed the sauerkraut sausage combo, Daphne quietly took mental note.
Next time she wrote to her mother, she'd ask their family's house-elves to learn how to make that dish. That way, when the holidays came, she could invite Tom over for a proper feast.
Tom was thoroughly enjoying his breakfast.
On the Gryffindor side of the Hall, however, Harry Potter looked like his brain was full of static. The buzz in his head completely shut down his appetite.
Ever since that Charms class incident, Hermione and Ron had practically become strangers. They didn't speak, didn't glance at each other—it was like the other simply didn't exist. Thankfully, the fallout hadn't affected Harry and Hermione's friendship.
In Hermione's eyes, Ron was a hopeless case. All he did was play and slack off. Harry, at least, was salvageable—he asked questions, and more importantly, he listened and learned.
To help Harry integrate better with the team—and also to boost Gryffindor's chances—Hermione had found a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages in the library and lent it to him.
After diving into the book, Harry had a new level of respect for the sport.
For instance, there were over seven hundred ways to foul in Quidditch. And most of the nastiest, most dangerous ones? Aimed squarely at Seekers.
What did Seekers ever do to deserve that kind of hate? Steal someone's chips?
To make matters worse, Harry couldn't stop thinking about a strange suspicion—he'd noticed Snape limping, and he was increasingly convinced it had something to do with that corridor on the fourth floor. But what had he been doing there?
What was hidden in that corridor? Was it some kind of treasure Dumbledore was protecting?
"Harry, you've got to eat something," Hermione said gently.
"I don't feel like eating," Harry mumbled, staring at his empty plate.
"Just some toast at least," she coaxed.
Seamus, sitting nearby, took it up a notch—he handed over a slice of toast slathered with peanut butter, then topped it with a grilled sausage smeared in ketchup.
"You know," Seamus said, "the longest Quidditch match in history lasted three months. Even Hogwarts' longest game went on for days. If you don't eat now, you could literally starve out there."
Harry caved and took a bite.
…
By ten-thirty, it felt like the entire school had migrated to the Quidditch pitch. Tom and Daphne made their way up to the very top of the stands, where the view was the best—you could see the entire field clearly from here.
Directly across from them was the Gryffindor stand. Neville and Seamus were holding up a giant bedsheet that read "Potter for the Win!" in shifting, glowing paint. Other banners and cheering props quickly followed.
Slytherin, of course, wasn't going to be outdone. Their side erupted in magical banners and swirling sigils, the air practically shimmering with charm-fueled rivalry. For a moment, the whole stadium felt less like a sports venue and more like a dueling arena between two houses.
Daphne wasn't a hardcore Quidditch fan—she saw it more as an occasional distraction than anything thrilling. But her Slytherin pride ran deep.
She had prepared a massive banner and asked Tom to enchant it into the sky.
The banner was a full twenty meters long and four meters wide, with a coiling green serpent along its borders. In the center, bold silver letters read: "Slytherin Champions."
Tom thought for a moment, then decided he might as well add a bit of flair.
He drew his wand and cast a bright spell at the banner. Instantly, the embroidered serpent sprang to life—its sinuous body writhing realistically, and its giant head bursting beyond the banner's edge, hissing menacingly in the direction of the Gryffindor stands.
Gryffindor, despite their spirit, didn't have a response ready for that. No one on their side could match that kind of spellwork.
The effect was immediate—Slytherin morale surged.
At exactly eleven o'clock, the players from both teams emerged from the tunnel onto the pitch.
Amid thunderous cheers, Madam Hooch blew her silver whistle, and with her included, fifteen broomsticks soared into the air.
"The Quaffle goes immediately to Gryffindor's Angelina Johnson—she's one brilliant Chaser, that one, and quite the looker too—"
"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall snapped almost immediately.
"Sorry, Professor!" Lee Jordan yelped.
The commentator was none other than Lee Jordan, a third-year Gryffindor and close friend of the Weasley twins. So of course, his commentary was going to be just a tad biased.
"Johnson streaks down the pitch, passes—caught cleanly by Spinnet! She's a new addition this year, scouted by Captain Wood himself—uh-oh, here comes Flint with a pretty illegal move and—oof! He steals the Quaffle! Is he going to score—NOPE! Ha!"
Right from the get-go, the game was full of explosive back-and-forth action, and the crowd loved it.
At its core, Quidditch was a three-ball game: the Quaffle for scoring, Bludgers for brutal beatings, and the Golden Snitch to end it all.
Seekers didn't really get involved in the regular gameplay—unless a Bludger tried to eat them alive.
Harry and Slytherin's Seeker, Terence Higgs, both hovered high above the chaos. They looked like hawks circling over a battlefield, eyes narrowed, scanning the skies for the elusive Snitch.
To the Gryffindor students who hadn't seen Harry train, his performance was jaw-dropping. He was flying as confidently and deftly as Higgs—maybe even more agile.
Lee Jordan took the chance to hype him up: "Potter is unbelievably agile—it's hard to believe he's only been flying for two months! Look at that feint! He's completely shaken Higgs! Brilliant move!"
"Of course, part of it's the broom as well. Compared to the old Cleansweeps, the Nimbus 2000's acceleration and handling are—"
"Jordan!"
McGonagall had to step in again to keep him from turning the commentary into a product review.
Pfft!
Tom, who'd been listening with mild amusement, suddenly snorted with laughter—just loud enough to be heard over the game.
Daphne, completely focused on the action, turned her head in surprise. "Tom? What are you laughing at?"
Wasn't this match supposed to be serious?
Tom glanced at her confused look and found it even more amusing. He smirked and replied, "Do you know what a car is?"
Daphne nodded cautiously. She'd seen them before, even if she'd never ridden in one.
Tom continued, "In the Muggle world, there's a group of people who know everything about cars. From horsepower to torque, engine specs to tire types—every detail memorized."
"But here's the funny part..." Tom held out his hands, his grin turning devilish. "They can't afford any of them."
"I feel like Lee Jordan's exactly that kind of guy. And honestly? I respect it. The way they talk like experts, even though they'll never get behind the wheel—it's impressive."
Daphne finally got it—and collapsed sideways against Tom's shoulder, giggling uncontrollably. Her laughter was light and bright, and it spread like wildfire.
Tom hadn't lowered his voice. Every student nearby heard the joke—and it wasn't long before it started rippling outward.
Soon, the entire Slytherin section was roaring with laughter.
Their stands had turned into a sea of mirth.
The commentary stand and the professors' box were just east of them, and Lee Jordan glanced over, puzzled.
Slytherin was only ahead by ten points—was that really something to be grinning so smugly about?
Just then, a student with a mouth full of mischief shouted using the Sonorus Charm,
"We really admire how you can talk like a pro when you can't even afford a Nimbus!"
That did it.
The professors' expressions twisted awkwardly. They clearly wanted to laugh—but knew they shouldn't.
Lee Jordan flushed bright red.
Still, that jab sobered him up a little. His commentary became a tad more restrained, though his bias remained painfully obvious.
"Johnson's taken back the Quaffle—she's flying full-speed! Throws it—Bletch misread the move, what a brilliant feint—Gryffindor scores!"
Gryffindor cheers echoed through the frosty air.
Professor McGonagall clenched her fists under the desk, silently cheering "Yes!" when Angelina Johnson scored.
Who would've guessed that the stern, unsmiling Professor McGonagall—renowned for her strict sense of fairness—was also a diehard Quidditch fan?
Had it not been for an old injury in her youth, she might've led a team to win the Cup herself.
Suddenly, a gasp swept through the stands.
The Golden Snitch had appeared—
It zipped past Adrian Pucey's ear, and Harry spotted it first, immediately diving after it.
Higgs saw it too, and wasn't far behind.
But Harry's flying skills and speed were a cut above—he began pulling ahead.
That's when Marcus Flint rammed into Harry mid-air, sending him spinning off course.
The Golden Snitch vanished instantly, slipping away like a whisper in the wind.
Gryffindor had just missed their best chance to end the match.
"FOUL!"
Madam Hooch roared furiously, penalizing Flint and awarding a penalty shot to Gryffindor.
The Gryffindor stands erupted in boos and curses.
Flint, however, didn't care in the slightest. He even grinned up at the Gryffindors, taunting them.
Which, of course, only made the insults louder.
"That was downright dirty and shameless," Lee Jordan growled, practically spitting his words.
"JORDAN!" McGonagall snapped.
"I was talking about the foul, Professor."
"This is your last warning. If you can't commentate properly, go dig watermelons!"
"…Right."
Lee Jordan grumbled and fell quiet.
"Gryffindor is currently trailing by forty points. No worries, though—Potter has a much sharper eye for the Snitch than Higgs."
Suddenly, a new disturbance rippled through the crowd.
Harry's broomstick began bucking wildly, spinning and twisting in midair.
He barely managed to stay on.
Just as it calmed for a moment, it began trembling violently again.
Tom's eyes darted to the professor's box.
Quirrell's lips were moving rapidly, chanting under his breath.
Snape's were too.
The two were locked in a silent, magical tug-of-war, neither realizing the other was casting spells as well.
Both of them were targeting Harry's broomstick—using it as a magical conduit for their duel.
Unbelievable.
Tom seethed inwardly.
A stunt this fun—and they didn't invite him?
He gripped his wand in reverse, hiding it inside his sleeve, and began chanting too.
But his target wasn't Harry's Nimbus—there was barely room for two in that magical mess. He'd aim elsewhere.
Tom set his sights on the rogue Bludger.
Manipulating objects with willpower was a talent of his—even before getting a wand, he'd mastered it.
Now that he had a wand, this was child's play.
Under Tom's influence, the Bludger shot forward with renewed speed, slicing through the air with a sharp whistle.
George Weasley jumped, startled by its sudden charge, and swung hard with his bat.
The force of the blow rattled up his arms.
Up in the professor's box, Quirrell didn't even notice.
A wicked smirk tugged at his lips. His eyes were locked on Harry's shaking broom.
Dumbledore wasn't here today.
If he could just knock Harry off… from that height, the boy would splatter like jam.
It would be perfect revenge—for his master.
But just as quickly as the smirk appeared, it vanished.
Snape's eyes had swept toward him.
Quirrell pursed his lips, falling still.
His focus had been divided between Snape and Harry's broom.
Snape's focus was now on him and the broom.
Neither of them noticed anything else—least of all a certain ball.
The rogue Bludger, having been smacked between several players, now curved in a strange, eerie arc.
Tom's eyes lit up.
He added one final surge of power.
The Bludger nearly flew out of the pitch's boundaries—then, with a weird, unnatural tug, it snapped back and shot straight at Quirrell's head.
The sharp whistle of wind grew louder and sharper behind him, but by the time Quirrell sensed something was wrong, it was too late.
BANG!
The heavy Bludger slammed into the back of his skull with bone-crunching force.
His body flew upward, tumbled over the row of seats, then rolled down the stairway—bouncing and spinning down from the very top of the professor's box.
He didn't stop until he slammed into the railing at the bottom.
Had that railing not been there, he'd likely have plummeted several stories onto the pitch below.
"Professor Quirrell!"
Professor Flitwick nearly fainted from shock. He rushed over to check on him as chaos broke out among the faculty.
"I'm going to see what's going on," Tom told Daphne, and pushed through the crowd toward the professors' stand.
Professor McGonagall and Flitwick were kneeling beside Quirrell, who was already unconscious.
Professor Sinistra from Astronomy had sprinted back to the castle to fetch Madam Pomfrey.
Tom leaned in close.
McGonagall, clearly worried, didn't spare a second to question why a first-year student was in the professor's box.
That dull thud from earlier had made even his teeth ache.
If anything, it proved that Quirrell's head was made of solid stuff.
"Professor," Tom said after a moment of observation, "You should take off his turban.
If there's a wound under there, it might get infected if it stays wrapped."
"You've got a point," McGonagall and Flitwick nodded in agreement.
"No need!"
Just as they reached for his turban, Quirrell woke up.
Eyes bloodshot, he sat up abruptly, struggling to his feet.
"I'm just a little dizzy. Nothing else."
Then, to everyone's stunned silence, Quirrell hobbled away—limping with a twisted, almost grotesque gait—off the stand without a word.
"…A medical miracle," McGonagall murmured as she watched his receding figure.
Tom heard her whisper and nodded solemnly.
Quirrell…
Truly a man with a death wish.