As November descended upon Hogwarts, the gentle embrace of autumn gave way to the harsh bite of winter. The once vibrant landscape surrounding the school transformed into a wintry spectacle, with the majestic mountains looming over the grounds, their peaks cloaked in frosty gray hues. The vast lake, once a shimmering expanse of azure, now mirrored the cold steel of the sky above, its surface glazed over with a thin layer of ice that crackled with each step.
Each morning, the students awoke to a world draped in a delicate blanket of frost, the ground beneath their feet adorned with intricate patterns of icy crystals. From the windows of the castle, they could see Hagrid trudging across the Quidditch field, his breath forming wispy clouds in the frigid air. Clad in a long moleskin overcoat that billowed around him like a protective cloak, he diligently worked to defrost broomsticks, his movements deliberate and purposeful despite the biting cold. His hands were encased in rabbit fur gloves, the warmth they provided a stark contrast to the chill that permeated the air, while his feet were encased in enormous beaver skin boots that crunched softly with each step. Despite the harsh conditions, Hagrid remained steadfast in his duties, a stalwart figure against the backdrop of winter's icy embrace.
The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry would be playing in his first match after weeks of training: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, they would move up into second place in the house championship.
In the lead-up to the Quidditch match, whispers spread like wildfire through the Hogwarts corridors, weaving their way into every nook and cranny of the castle. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was poised to make his debut as Gryffindor's Seeker, a role shrouded in mystery and anticipation. Wood, the team captain, had decreed that Harry's skills were to be kept under wraps, hidden away like a precious treasure, until the opportune moment arrived.
Yet, despite Wood's best efforts to maintain secrecy, rumors had a way of seeping into the ears of eager spectators. Word of Harry's pivotal role in the upcoming match had spread like wildfire, igniting a frenzy of speculation and excitement throughout the school. For Harry, the anticipation was a double-edged sword, fraught with equal parts exhilaration and apprehension.
On one hand, there were those who showered him with praise, lauding him as Gryffindor's secret weapon, destined to lead them to victory with his unparalleled skill and bravery. On the other hand, there were jests and jibes from his peers, teasing him about the prospect of crashing to the ground while they scurried beneath him, clutching mattresses in a futile attempt to cushion his fall.
Despite the mixed reception, Harry remained resolute, his determination unwavering as he prepared to take to the skies. The softening charm, a glimmer of reassurance amidst the uncertainty, promised to offer him a safety net should he falter, granting him the chance to bounce back and soar once more. With nerves fluttering like the wings of a captured snitch, Harry steeled himself for the challenge that lay ahead, ready to embrace the exhilarating thrill of Quidditch and prove his mettle on the pitch.
As the demands of Quidditch practice intensified and the weight of looming deadlines pressed down upon him, Harry found himself grateful beyond measure for the steadfast presence of Hermione Granger by his side. With her unparalleled intellect and unwavering determination, she had become an indispensable ally, a beacon of support in the tumultuous sea of academic and athletic challenges.
Together, they forged a formidable partnership, their study sessions in the cozy confines of the Gryffindor Common Room serving as a sanctuary of shared knowledge and mutual encouragement. Amidst the flickering glow of enchanted torches, they pored over their textbooks, their heads bent close together as they delved into the intricacies of Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hermione's meticulous notes and insightful explanations proved to be a guiding light for Harry, illuminating the path through the dense thicket of magical theory and practical application.
Despite the relentless demands of Quidditch practice, they seized every spare moment to bolster each other's understanding, quizzing one another with fervent determination. With each correct answer, their confidence soared, bolstered by the knowledge that they were not facing their academic challenges alone. And through it all, Harry found himself stealing glances at Hermione, his heart swelling with admiration for her unwavering resolve and unwavering dedication to their shared goals.
Immersed in the enchanting world of "Quidditch Through the Ages," Harry found himself captivated by the myriad secrets and revelations concealed within its weathered pages. With each turn of the parchment, he delved deeper into the rich tapestry of Quidditch history, uncovering a wealth of fascinating anecdotes and little-known facts that ignited his imagination and kindled his passion for the sport.
As he traced the evolution of Quidditch over the centuries, Harry was astonished to discover the astonishing array of foul plays that had marred the game's storied past. From the infamous bludger incident of 1473, where all seven hundred fouls had been committed in a single World Cup match, to the more recent exploits of daring players and cunning cheaters, the annals of Quidditch were replete with tales of skullduggery and spectacle.
Among the revelations contained within the ancient tome, Harry learned of the unique role of Seekers—the nimble and elusive players tasked with capturing the elusive Golden Snitch. As he absorbed the wisdom of centuries past, he marveled at the extraordinary skill and agility required of these intrepid flyers, their diminutive stature and lightning-fast reflexes marking them as the true heroes of the Quidditch pitch.
Yet, amidst the exhilarating highs and heart-stopping thrills of Quidditch, Harry also uncovered the sobering truth of its dangers. With a heavy heart, he read of the countless Seekers who had fallen victim to the perils of the game, their reckless pursuit of victory often leading to tragic accidents and near-fatal mishaps. And as he pondered the mysterious disappearances of referees, whisked away by unknown forces to far-flung corners of the globe.
Hermione's transformation since the incident with the mountain troll had been nothing short of remarkable. Once known for her unwavering adherence to rules and regulations, she now exhibited a newfound sense of spontaneity and adventure, much to the delight of her friends Harry and Ron.
On the eve of Harry's eagerly anticipated first Quidditch match, the trio found themselves braving the biting chill of the courtyard during their break. Undeterred by the frosty temperatures, Hermione's quick wit and formidable magical prowess came to the fore as she conjured a mesmerizing sight—a vibrant blue fire dancing merrily within the confines of a humble jam jar.
The flames flickered and swirled with an otherworldly glow, casting ethereal shadows against the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts. The warmth emanating from the enchanted fire provided a welcome respite from the wintry cold, enveloping the trio in a cocoon of cozy comfort as they huddled together, their faces illuminated by its azure radiance.
For Harry, Ron, and Hermione, this impromptu gathering beneath the starlit sky was more than just a break from their studies—it was a moment of camaraderie and friendship, a fleeting escape from the pressures of school life. And as they laughed and chatted around the mesmerizing flames, their spirits soared high, buoyed by the magic of the moment and the promise of excitement that lay ahead on the Quidditch pitch.
The trio huddled together around the makeshift fire, reveling in its comforting warmth as they sought refuge from the biting cold of the Hogwarts courtyard. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood with their backs to the flickering flames, their faces illuminated by its gentle glow, their breath visible in the frosty air.
As they basked in the radiance of their enchanted creation, their moment of respite was interrupted by the unexpected appearance of Professor Snape. Harry's keen eyes immediately noticed the telltale signs of Snape's discomfort—a slight limp that betrayed his usually composed demeanor.
Reacting swiftly, the trio instinctively drew closer together, attempting to shield the magical fire from Snape's prying eyes. Despite their efforts to conceal their transgression, Snape's penetrating gaze honed in on their guilty expressions, his suspicion piqued by their huddled stance.
"What's that you've got there, Potter?" Snape's voice cut through the chilly air like ice, his tone tinged with thinly veiled disdain. With a sense of trepidation, Harry hesitantly revealed the book in his hands—Quidditch Through the Ages.
"Library books are not to be taken outside the school," Snape admonished, his words dripping with authority. "Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor." The weight of Snape's disapproval hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the trio's brief moment of warmth and camaraderie.
Harry's frustration simmered beneath the surface as he watched Snape retreat with an air of self-satisfaction. "He's just made that rule up," he muttered through gritted teeth, his anger palpable in the frosty air.
Ron, always quick to join in Harry's grievances against Snape, nodded in agreement. "Wonder what he was doing out here, though," he mused, his brow furrowed in thought. "If you asked me, it seems like he was coming from…"
"From the hallway that leads to that huge dog?" Harry interjected, his voice tinged with suspicion. The memory of encountering Fluffy, the three-headed dog, in the forbidden corridor sent a shiver down his spine.
Hermione, ever the voice of reason, sought to temper their speculation. "Oh, there's no reason to think Snape would have gone there," she asserted, her tone measured and rational. "What purpose would he have?"
But Harry's intuition told him otherwise. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss with Snape, that there was more to the Potions master's behavior than met the eye. "Something has been off with him," Harry declared, his gaze lingering on Snape's retreating figure. "He's had it out for me all year. I think it's because he might be after what that dog is guarding." The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of uncertainty and apprehension.
The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together next to a window. Hermione had introduced herself to Asher and Johan who had been relaxing in with some work from Potions, while Lavender Brown, Pavarti Patil, and Alice Runcorn were studying Astronomy. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were working on practice for Charms—Ron was practicing the Levitation Charm on the throw pillow on the side of the sofa.
As Harry sat in the common room, his fingers drummed nervously on the arm of his chair. The weight of tomorrow's upcoming events bore heavily on his mind, and he longed for a distraction to ease his troubled thoughts. Quidditch Through the Ages had always been a comforting refuge for him, a reminder of the exhilarating freedom of flying on his broom.
But now, without the book in his possession, he felt a pang of frustration and helplessness. Hermione had lent it to him in a gesture of kindness, only for Snape to swoop in and snatch it away with a callousness that left Harry seething with resentment.
He glanced over at Ron and Hermione, who were engaged in a whispered conversation by the fireplace. Their faces mirrored his own apprehension, and he knew they shared his unease about what lay ahead.
Summoning his courage, Harry made a decision. He couldn't let Snape intimidate him into silence. Rising from his seat, he turned to his friends and announced his intention to confront Snape and reclaim what was rightfully his.
Their response, though supportive, carried a hint of caution. Ron's eyebrows furrowed in concern, while Hermione's lips formed a thin line of worry. They understood the risks of angering Snape, but they also knew Harry well enough to know that he wouldn't back down from a challenge, especially when it came to standing up for what he believed in.
“Feel free to stay here,” Harry said. “I don’t expect to be gone long.”
As Harry made his way to Snape's office, he couldn't shake off the knot of nervousness in his stomach. But he was determined to retrieve Quidditch Through the Ages, no matter what. With each step, his resolve hardened, bolstered by the knowledge that he had every right to ask for his book back.
Arriving at Snape's door, Harry hesitated for a moment before summoning the courage to knock firmly. he heard muffled voices coming from inside. Curiosity piqued, he paused just outside the door, straining to catch snippets of the conversation within.
"-should be checking the guard dog's position," Snape's voice sounded, dripping with urgency.
Filch's response was barely audible, but Harry managed to make out, "I usually do it at midnight, Professor."
Snape's tone grew sharper. "Midnight? That won't do. Change it to 3 a.m. I need to ensure everything is in order before then."
Filch seemed hesitant. "But that's rather late, Professor. And it's awfully dark and cold at that hour."
"Do as I say, Filch," Snape snapped, his voice brooking no argument.
Harry's heart quickened as he pieced together the significance of their conversation. The guard dog's position? What could Snape possibly want with that information, and why did he want it checked at a specific time? His mind raced with possibilities, none of them reassuring.
As Harry pressed his ear against the door, he could hear Filch's resigned sigh. "Very well, Professor. I'll change my rounds to 3 a.m."
Snape's voice, low and calculated, filled the air. "Good. And make sure you do it discreetly. We don't want anyone getting wind of our arrangements."
Filch's response was barely a whisper. "Yes, Professor."
Determined to uncover the truth, Harry's mind raced with the urgency of the situation as he retreated from Snape's office door. He needed to share what he had overheard with Ron and Hermione, to ensure they were all on the same page. With swift steps, he hurried back to the Gryffindor Common Room, his heart pounding in his chest.
Pushing open the door, Harry was met with the surprised gazes of Ron and Hermione. Without wasting a moment, he launched into a rapid recounting of his encounter with Snape and Filch, his words tumbling out in a breathless rush.
"You know what this means?" he concluded, his voice urgent. "He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Halloween! That's where he was going when we saw him—he's after whatever it's guarding! And I'd bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a diversion!"
Hermione's eyes widened with disbelief, her brow furrowing in earnest consideration. "No—he wouldn't," she said, her voice laced with uncertainty. "I know he's not very nice, but he wouldn't try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe."
Ron, his tone edged with skepticism, interjected sharply, "Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints or something. I'm with Harry. I wouldn't put anything past Snape. But what's he after? What's that dog guarding?"
“I’m not sure...but it must be worth it if he got something that big to protect it," Hermione responded, her voice carrying a trace of apprehension.
Their discussion gradually fizzled into uneasy silence, each lost in their own thoughts. As the night wore on, Harry rose from his seat and helped Ron and Hermione make their way to their respective common rooms before heading back to his own. Inside his dormitory, Neville's loud snores echoed through the room, but Harry found no solace in sleep. His mind buzzed with unanswered questions, his thoughts consumed by the troubling image of Snape's expression when Harry glimpsed his injured leg. Try as he might to clear his mind, the unsettling encounter lingered, casting a shadow over his anticipation for the upcoming Quidditch match.
The next morning, the Great Hall was bathed in the soft glow of dawn, its high windows letting in the first light of the day. The chill in the air hinted at the approaching winter, but the atmosphere inside was warm and festive. The long tables were adorned with platters of steaming sausages, fluffy scrambled eggs, and stacks of golden toast, filling the hall with an irresistible aroma.
Despite the lively chatter of students eagerly anticipating the upcoming Quidditch match, Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, his plate untouched. His stomach churned with nerves, making it impossible to even think about food. Hermione, ever the concerned friend, leaned in close, her voice filled with gentle insistence as she tried to coax him into eating something, anything to settle his nerves. But Harry shook his head, his appetite completely vanished in the face of his mounting anxiety.
As the minutes ticked by, Harry's apprehension only grew. In just one short hour, he would be stepping onto the Quidditch field, facing off against Slytherin in what promised to be a fiercely competitive match. But with his stomach tied in knots and his mind consumed by worry, the thought of playing seemed more daunting than ever.
"Harry, you need your strength," Seamus Finnigan chimed in, his tone earnest as he glanced at Harry's untouched plate. "Seekers are always the ones who get clobbered by the other team."
"Thanks, Seamus," Harry replied, offering a small nod of disappointed gratitude as he watched Seamus liberally douse his sausages with ketchup, Harry’s own appetite nonexistent.
As the morning sun rose higher in the sky, casting its golden light across the Quidditch pitch, the excitement among the students at Hogwarts soared to new heights. By the time the clock struck eleven, the stands surrounding the pitch were teeming with eager faces, a sea of Hogwarts robes intermingled with the vibrant hues of the various house scarves. The air crackled with anticipation, and the collective hum of conversation filled every corner of the stadium.
Students clustered together in small groups, their voices filled with excitement and animated gestures as they discussed the upcoming match. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the palpable energy of anticipation. Cheers and chants erupted sporadically from different sections of the stands, each house vying to show their support for their respective teams.
Despite the distance from the pitch, many students had come prepared for the occasion, armed with binoculars in the hopes of capturing every exhilarating moment of the match. From their elevated vantage point, they eagerly scanned the field below, eagerly awaiting the action to unfold.
Among the spectators, Ron and Hermione stood shoulder to shoulder with Neville, Seamus, Asher, Johan, Lavender, and Parvati, their anticipation palpable as they waited for the match to begin. As a special surprise for Harry, they had meticulously crafted a large banner using a sheet that Scabbers, Ron's pet rat, had inadvertently ruined. Emblazoned upon it in bold letters were the words "Potter for President," accompanied by a striking depiction of the Gryffindor lion, expertly drawn by Dean. Hermione had added her own touch of magic, casting a charm that caused the paint to shimmer and flash in a dazzling array of colors, ensuring that their banner would stand out amidst the sea of supporters.
In the bustling locker room, the air was thick with anticipation as Harry and his teammates donned their scarlet Quidditch robes, each piece of clothing a symbol of Gryffindor pride. Across the pitch, the Slytherin team would soon emerge in their distinct emerald attire, setting the stage for an epic showdown.
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Amidst the rustle of fabric and the clatter of equipment, Wood, the Gryffindor team captain, cleared his throat to command attention. "Okay, men," he began, only to be interrupted by Chaser Angelina Johnson's assertive voice. "And women," she interjected firmly, asserting her place on the team, and then nodded to Katie Bell, another Gryffindor Chaser.
Wood nodded in agreement, acknowledging Angelina's remark. "And women," he repeated, his tone resolute. "This is it."
"The big one," Fred Weasley chimed in eagerly, his excitement palpable.
"The one we've all been waiting for," added George, his expression mirroring his brother's enthusiasm.
"We know Oliver's speech by heart," Fred confided in Harry, a playful grin playing on his lips. "We were on the team last year It’s not like it’s anything special or grand."
Wood shot the twins a stern look, silencing their banter. "Shut up, you two," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "This is the best team Gryffindor's had in years. We're going to win. I know it."
His gaze swept over each member of the team, a silent warning implicit in his eyes. "Right. It's time. Good luck, all of you. I know you’re all gonna do great."
With Wood's parting words hanging in the air, Harry followed Fred and George out of the locker room, his heart pounding with nervous excitement. As he stepped onto the field, the thunderous cheers of the crowd enveloped him, drowning out the doubts that threatened to consume him. With each step, he drew strength from the unwavering support of his teammates and the fervent encouragement of the Gryffindor supporters, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him in the upcoming match.
Madam Hooch, the stern yet fair referee, commanded the center of the field, her broom held firmly in her grasp as she awaited the arrival of the two rival teams. Her gaze swept over the assembled players, a silent reminder of the rules that governed the game they were about to play.
"Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you," she announced firmly, her words directed at both Gryffindor and Slytherin alike. Harry couldn't help but notice the intensity with which she seemed to regard Marcus Flint, the burly sixth-year Slytherin Captain. Flint's rugged appearance, coupled with his formidable presence, made him appear as if he had some troll blood running through his veins.
As Madam Hooch's gaze lingered on Flint, Harry's attention was momentarily diverted to the fluttering banner high above, its vibrant colors flashing "Potter for President" over the bustling crowd below. The sight filled him with a surge of determination, his heart swelling with newfound courage in the face of the impending match.
"Mount your brooms, please," Madam Hooch commanded, her authoritative voice cutting through the air.
Harry swiftly climbed onto his Nimbus Two Thousand, his heart racing with anticipation. Madam Hooch gave a sharp blast on her silver whistle, signaling the start of the match.
Fifteen brooms soared into the air, each rider eager to seize victory for their house.
"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor—what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too—"
"JORDAN!"
"Sorry, Professor."
Lee Jordan, the Weasley twins' mischievous friend, provided colorful commentary for the match, his voice echoing across the stadium as he narrated the action, much to the amusement of the spectators. Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall observed his commentary with a stern expression, ensuring he remained focused on the task at hand.
"And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood's, last year only a reserve—back to Johnson and—no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes—Flint flying like an eagle up there—he's going to sc—no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle—that's Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there!”
“Nice dive around Flint, off up the field and—OUCH—that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger—Quaffle taken by the Slytherins—that's Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he's blocked by a second Bludger—sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can't tell which—nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes—she's really flying—dodges a speeding Bludger—the goal posts are ahead—come on, now, Angelina—Keeper Bletchley dives—misses—GRYFFINDORS SCORE!"
Gryffindor cheers echoed through the crisp, cold air, contrasting with the howls and moans emanating from the Slytherin stands.
"Budge up there, move along," came a deep voice, cutting through the crowd.
"Hagrid!" Ron and Hermione eagerly shuffled to make room for the giant groundskeeper.
"I normally watch these from me hut," Hagrid remarked, his booming voice filled with enthusiasm as he adjusted the large pair of binoculars around his neck. "But it isn't the same as bein' in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch yet, eh?"
"Nope," replied Ron, his eyes fixed on the game below. "Harry hasn't had much to do yet."
"Kept outta trouble, though, that's somethin'," observed Hagrid, raising his binoculars and squinting up at the sky where Harry was soaring, a tiny speck in the vast expanse above.
High above the cheering crowds, Harry soared gracefully on his Nimbus Two Thousand, his eyes scanning the field intently for any glimmer of gold that would signal the presence of the elusive Snitch. This was a crucial part of the strategy outlined by Wood.
"Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the Snitch," Wood's instructions echoed in Harry's mind. "We don't want you attacked before you have to be."
As the match unfolded below, Harry's heart raced with each turn of events. When Angelina Johnson scored, he couldn't contain his excitement, executing a couple of loop-the-loops to release the pent-up energy. But now, his focus was back on the task at hand—spotting the tiny, darting Snitch amidst the flurry of activity.
Amidst the sea of movement, Harry's keen eyes caught a flash of gold, but it turned out to be nothing more than a reflection from one of the Weasley twins' wristwatches. Moments later, a Bludger hurtled towards him with alarming speed, resembling more of a cannonball than a game piece. With lightning reflexes, Harry dodged the oncoming projectile, narrowly avoiding a collision, while Fred Weasley swooped in to intercept it.
Amidst the chaotic frenzy of the match, Fred Weasley's voice cut through the clamor as he seized control of the Bludger, his frantic strokes propelling it towards Slytherin's Marcus Flint.
"Slytherin in possession," Lee Jordan's commentary echoed across the pitch, his voice carrying over the tumult. "Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the—wait a moment—was that the Snitch?"
A ripple of anticipation surged through the spectators as Adrian Pucey momentarily lost focus, dropping the Quaffle in his haste to catch a glimpse of the elusive golden glimmer that streaked past him.
Harry's pulse quickened as he spotted it too—a fleeting flash of gold beckoning to him from the distance. Without hesitation, he plunged downward in pursuit of the Snitch's elusive trail. Slytherin's Seeker, Terence Higgs, was hot on his heels, the two competitors hurtling towards their coveted prize in a thrilling chase that held the entire stadium spellbound. Above them, the Chasers momentarily forgot their own objectives, their gazes locked on the mesmerizing spectacle unfolding in the skies.
Amidst the thunderous cheers of the Gryffindors and the resounding groans of the Slytherins, Harry's pursuit of the Snitch intensified. With a burst of speed, he closed in on the elusive golden orb, its tiny wings fluttering tantalizingly just within reach. Determination etched on his face, Harry pushed himself to go faster, his focus solely fixed on the glittering prize ahead.
Suddenly, a deafening collision reverberated through the air, shattering the intense concentration of the spectators. A surge of outrage erupted from the Gryffindor supporters as Marcus Flint, driven by sheer malice, deliberately obstructed Harry's path, causing his broom to veer off course violently. Gripping onto his broomstick for dear life, Harry fought to maintain control amidst the chaos.
"Foul!" the Gryffindors cried out in unison, their voices echoing across the field in protest. Madam Hooch, her expression etched with fury, reprimanded Flint sharply before awarding Gryffindor a free shot at the goal posts as reparation for the blatant infringement. However, in the midst of the ensuing commotion, the elusive Golden Snitch vanished from sight once more, adding to the tension and uncertainty of the moment.
Amidst the uproar, Dean Thomas's voice rang out from the stands, his frustration palpable. "Send him off, ref! Red card!" he bellowed, his impassioned plea for justice reverberating through the crowd.
Confused, Ron turned to Dean, seeking clarification. "What are you talking about, Dean?" he inquired.
"Red card!" Dean exclaimed, his frustration boiling over. "In soccer, you get shown the red card, and you're out of the game!"
“I’m not quite sure Quidditch works that way,” Asher replied.
Ron, however, offered a reminder. "And this isn’t even soccer, Dean," he pointed out.
Hagrid, standing nearby, nodded in agreement with Dean's sentiments. "They oughta change the rules," he grumbled, his loyalty to Harry and Gryffindor shining through. "Flint could've knocked Harry outta the air."
Lee Jordan, caught up in the intensity of the match, struggled to maintain impartiality amidst the unfolding drama.
"So—after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating," Jordan began, his commentary tinged with indignation.
"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall's reprimand sliced through the air like a whip.
"I mean, after that open and revolting foul—" Jordan attempted to correct himself, but McGonagall's warning glare silenced him.
"All right, all right," Jordan acquiesced, his tone begrudging. "Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinner, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession."
As Harry deftly dodged another Bludger hurtling dangerously close to his head, a sudden, alarming sensation jolted through his body. His broom lurched unexpectedly, sending a surge of panic coursing through him. For a split second, it felt as though he was on the verge of losing control. Gripping the broom with an ironclad determination, he clung on for dear life, his knuckles turning white with the effort. Never before had he experienced anything quite like it, and the unsettling feeling lingered, casting a shadow of unease over his mind.
It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck him off. But Nimbus Two Thousands did not suddenly decide to buck their riders off. Harry tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor goal-posts—he had half a mind to ask Wood to call time-out—and then he realized that his broom was completely out of his control. He couldn't turn it. He couldn't direct it at all. It was zigzagging through the air, and every now and then making violent swishing movements that almost unseated him.
Lee was still commentating.
"Slytherin in possession—Flint with the Quaffle—passes Spinnet—passes Bell—hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose—only joking, Professor—Slytherins score—A no...
The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have noticed that Harry's broom was behaving strangely. It was carrying him slowly higher, away from the game, jerking and twitching as it went.
"Dunno what Harry thinks he's doing," Hagrid mumbled. He stared through his binoculars. "If I didn' know better, I'd say he'd lost control of his broom...but he can't have..."
Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over the stands. His broom had started to roll over and over, with him only just managing to hold on. Then the whole crowd gasped. Harry's broom had given a wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand.
"Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?" Seamus whispered.
"Can't have," Hagrid said, his voice shaking. "Can't nothing interfere with a broomstick except powerful Dark magic—no kid could do that to a Nimbus Two Thousand."
At Hermione's urgent words, the atmosphere in the stands grew tense. She swiftly seized Hagrid's binoculars, her movements frenzied as she scanned the crowd below, her eyes darting with a sense of urgency.
"What are you doing?" Ron groaned, his complexion turning ashen with worry.
"I knew it," Hermione gasped, her voice strained with apprehension. "Snape—look."
With trembling hands, Hermione passed the binoculars to Ron, who eagerly took them, his brows furrowing in concern. Through the lens, Snape came into focus, positioned squarely in the midst of the spectators across the field. His gaze was fixed intently on Harry, and a steady stream of muttered incantations escaped his lips.
"He's doing something—jinxing the broom," Hermione declared, her voice fraught with alarm.
"What should we do?" Ron asked, his voice tinged with desperation.
Hermione's expression hardened with determination. "Leave it to me."
Before Ron could utter another word, Hermione vanished into the bustling crowd, her determination propelling her into action. Ron hastily redirected the binoculars towards Harry, who was struggling to maintain his grip on his vibrating broom. The intensity of the vibrations made it increasingly challenging for him to hold on much longer.
In the stands, the entire audience rose to their feet, their faces etched with fear as they watched the harrowing scene unfold. The Weasley twins valiantly attempted to reach Harry on their brooms, aiming to pull him to safety, but their efforts were in vain. Each time they drew near, the broom would lurch erratically, defying their attempts to assist him. As Harry's predicament escalated, the spectators watched with bated breath, their hearts pounding with anxiety.
Amidst the chaos, Marcus Flint seized the opportunity to score multiple goals with the Quaffle, capitalizing on the distraction caused by Harry's plight.
"Come on, Hermione," Ron muttered urgently, his eyes darting around in search of his friend.
Meanwhile, Hermione navigated through the throngs of people, determined to reach Snape. In her relentless pursuit, she barged past Professor Quirrell, who stumbled headfirst into the row ahead. Ignoring the commotion, she pressed on until she stood directly behind Snape.
With practiced precision, Hermione crouched down, her wand poised and ready. Whispering a series of incantations under her breath, she directed a burst of brilliant blue flames towards the hem of Snape's robes, her actions swift and decisive.
It took Hermione mere moments to realize the success of her impromptu intervention. A sudden, startled yelp echoed through the stands, indicating that her plan had unfolded as intended. With a sense of relief and accomplishment, she swiftly extinguished the flames engulfing Snape's robes, deftly capturing them within a small jar tucked securely into her pocket. As she retreated along the row, a surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins. Snape would remain oblivious to the covert maneuver that had just taken place.
Her task completed, Hermione hastened back toward her friends, her heart still racing with the intensity of her daring act. The expressions of astonishment and gratitude that greeted her from Ron and Neville spurred her on, the weight of her actions lifting from her shoulders.
Meanwhile, high above the chaos on the Quidditch pitch, Harry struggled to regain control of his broom. As he managed to climb back onto it, a sense of relief flooded through him. With newfound determination, he propelled himself forward, his focus unwavering despite the tumultuous events unfolding below.
Ron's words brought Neville back from his emotional distress, his sobs gradually subsiding as he turned his attention back to the match. Harry's descent toward the ground sent a collective gasp rippling through the crowd, their hearts pounding in suspense as they watched him approach the field.
In a dramatic moment of anticipation, Harry braced himself as he neared the ground, his hand instinctively moving to his mouth in a gesture of nausea. However, as he landed on the grass on all fours, a glimmer of gold caught his eye. With a mixture of astonishment and elation, he realized that the elusive Golden Snitch had fallen into his hand, its presence a testament to his resilience and determination amidst the chaos of the game.
"I've got the Snitch!" he shouted, waving it above his head, and the game ended in complete confusion.
"He didn't catch it, he nearly swallowed it," Flint was still howling twenty minutes later, but it made no difference—Harry hadn't broken any rules and Lee Jordan was still happily shouting the results—Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy points to sixty. Harry heard none of this, though. He was being made a cup of strong tea back in Hagrid's hut, with Ron and Hermione.
Ron's voice trembled with urgency as he relayed the unsettling sight witnessed alongside Hermione "It was Snape. Hermione and I saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn't take his eyes off you."
Hermione's expression mirrored his, her features etched with concern as she nodded in fervent agreement.
"Rubbish," Hagrid's booming voice reverberated through the cozy hut, filled with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. His massive hands, accustomed to handling creatures of all shapes and sizes, trembled as he struggled to process Harry's revelation. The teapot, once held firmly in his grasp, slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the table with a resounding thud. "Why would Snape do somethin' like that?"
The trio exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of their newfound knowledge heavy upon their young shoulders. Ron's brow furrowed with concern, while Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line, her mind racing to make sense of the unfolding situation. In the midst of their silent deliberation, Harry remained steadfast, his determination to uncover the truth unwavering.
"I found out something about him," he told Hagrid. "He tried to get past that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal whatever it's guarding."
Hagrid dropped the teapot. "How do you know about Fluffy?" he said.
"Fluffy?"
"Yeah—he's mine—bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year—I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the—“
"Yes?" said Harry eagerly.
"Now, don't ask me anymore," said Hagrid gruffly. "That's top secret, that is."
"But Snape's trying to steal it."
"Rubbish," said Hagrid again. "Snape's a Hogwarts teacher, he'd do nothin' of the sort."
"So why did he just try and kill Harry?" cried Hermione.
The afternoon's events certainly seemed to have changed her mind about Snape. Harry felt thankful she believed him.
“I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I've read all about them! You've got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn't blinking at all, I saw him!"
"I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!" Hagrid's voice resonated with fiery intensity as he vehemently defended Snape, his words laced with a mix of frustration and loyalty. The crackling fire cast flickering shadows across the rustic interior of Hagrid's hut, enhancing the charged atmosphere of the conversation.
The air crackled with tension as Hagrid's impassioned rebuttal clashed with the skepticism of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. His stout frame seemed to swell with indignation as he staunchly refuted their accusations, his unwavering loyalty to his colleague evident in every word. "I don' know why Harry's broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn' try an' kill a student! Now, listen to me, all three of yeh—yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget what it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel—"
"Aha!" said Harry, "so there's someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?"
Hagrid's expression darkened, a mixture of frustration and regret flickering across his features as he realized his slip of the tongue. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, betraying his inner turmoil as he struggled to contain his emotions in the face of Harry's probing inquiry.
“I’m done talking about this,” he said.