While Cain was preoccupied with the fear of being discovered, the rest of Slytherin was busy writing letters.
Not even an hour had passed since the troll incident, and the common room hummed with the sound of quills scratching parchment, punctuated by hushed whispers. Cain was surprised to see even Crabbe and Goyle hunched over a table, awkwardly scribbling something down, while Pansy and her group had already finished and were sealing their letters with wax.
Cain's curiosity was piqued.
"Vin," he said quietly to Crabbe, "why are you writing a letter this late at night?"
"We're writing to our parents," Crabbe replied. "Letting them know what happened tonight."
Cain nodded slowly, understanding. More than half of the Slytherins were purebloods, many from old or noble families. Reporting events at school—especially dangerous ones—was almost expected of them. Their parents likely demanded to be kept informed, particularly when a threat had entered the castle.
Most children might write home about classes or friendships, carefully omitting anything frightening. But Slytherin was different. Here, silence could be seen as negligence on their part.
---
The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with rumors.
Students clustered in groups, gossiping about the previous night. Voices rose and fell with excitement as the troll incident spread through the castle like wildfire. Every retelling grew more dramatic than the last.
And amid all the speculation, one detail stood out most:
Someone had defeated the troll.
Cain entered the Great Hall alongside Theodore Nott. As he made his way toward the Slytherin table, he spotted Draco striding confidently toward the Gryffindor table—straight toward Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
Cain glanced in their direction and saw the trio retelling the incident to a small group of students.
"It wasn't us who killed it," Harry was saying. "We would have barely manage to survive against it. It was huge."
"Whoever it was, they vanished before we could even see their face," Ron added. "The corridor was too dimly lit to make anything out."
Cain stopped walking as the words registered in his mind.
They didn't see me.
Relief loosened the tight knot in his chest.
Draco, meanwhile, had reached the Gryffindor table and announced loudly, "Is it true, Weasley? I heard you fainted at the sight of the troll."
Ron's face flushed a deep crimson.
"I didn't faint."
Draco laughed, clearly enjoying the reaction. "Oh? I didn't know Weasleys could get any redder."
Crabbe and Goyle snickered behind him as Ron's face grew even redder.
---
It was finally time. The moment students had been buzzing about for weeks had arrived.
Slytherin vs. Gryffindor.
The first Quidditch match of the season.
Cain stood among the Slytherins as the wooden stands creaked beneath the weight of hundreds of students. The air was cool, but the energy of the crowd kept the stadium warm, alive with anticipation.
The pitch below stretched wide, the grass trimmed perfectly. Three ringed goalposts rose at each end, gleaming in the sunlight. Above, the sky was clear—perfect weather for flying and a proper match.
The teams emerged from beneath the stands, soaring out over the pitch on their brooms. Gryffindor wore gold and scarlet, while Slytherin flew in silver and green. The crowd erupted, cheers rolling across the stadium like thunder.
Cain's eyes locked onto Potter as he rose from the Gryffindor formation, his Nimbus Two Thousand gleaming beneath him.
Slytherins around Cain began to jeer.
"Hold on to your glasses, Potter!"
"Don't fall off before you catch the Snitch!"
Madam Hooch stood at the center of the pitch, hands raised, whistle poised at her lips. She dropped her arms.
The whistle shrieked.
The balls were released.
The match began.
Players kicked off in sudden bursts of speed. Cain's breath caught as brooms sliced through the sky, robes whipping violently in the wind. The game unfolding before him was extraordinary—faster and more chaotic than he'd imagined.
The Quaffle passed rapidly between Chasers as the crowd roared with every near miss and daring maneuver. When Slytherin scored the first goal, their stands exploded in cheers.
The match was fast-paced and brutal. Bludgers smashed into players, bats swung hard to deflect them, bodies twisting midair to dodge collisions by inches.
Then—halfway through the match—Potter's broom jerked violently.
It dipped and swayed unnaturally.
Potter clutched the handle, his body straining to stay upright.
The Gryffindor stands screamed in panic, shouting accusations of blatant sabotage as Potter's broom continued to buck and twist beneath him.
He clung desperately, the Nimbus threatening to throw him free. The crowd roared in anger—when suddenly, Potter steadied.
His broom snapped back under control.
Cain's gaze flicked instinctively toward the teachers' stand.
And there it was.
Granger had set fire to Snape's robes.
The flames caused Quirrell to panic, breaking whatever concentration he'd held.
The game surged on.
Potter suddenly dove, his broom streaking downward in a blur. The crowd screamed, certain he was falling.
Potter's hand shot forward.
He gagged, coughing violently—then spat something into his palm.
The Snitch.
The whistle blew.
The match ended in a thunderous roar from the Gryffindors. Their stands erupted, shaking with cheers and triumph. Across the pitch, Slytherin answered with shouts of protest, voices sharp with anger.
The Gryffindors surged onto the field, hoisting Potter onto their shoulders and chanting his name. Slytherins muttered darkly among themselves.
"Hey that's cheating!"
"He swallowed it!"
As the crowd slowly dispersed, Cain turned away and walked back toward the castle. Gryffindor's cheers echoed behind him, while Slytherin's muttered complaints followed close at his side.