The upcoming Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had seized the attention of the entire school.
The buzz was undeniable. After Harry's spectacular, if chaotic, performance against Slytherin, whispers of his daring flying had spread like wildfire through the castle's ancient corridors. Every house was eager to see if the Gryffindor team's new star Seeker could repeat his incredible feat.
But there was another, deeper current of anticipation running through the student body. For seven consecutive years, Slytherin had claimed the House Cup, a victory largely attributed to the… 'tireless efforts' of their Head of House, Professor Snape. The other three houses were simmering with a collective desire to finally break that streak, to see someone—anyone—else lift the cup at the end of the year.
With Gryffindor currently leading in points, this match was pivotal. The stakes were so high that hushed, desperate theories had begun to circulate. Some students even suggested that Gryffindor and Hufflepuff should secretly collude, running up the score to an astronomical level that Slytherin couldn't possibly hope to match. It was a devious plan to kneecap Slytherin's chances at the House Cup, even if they didn't win the Quidditch Cup.
Naturally, the honorable Hufflepuff captain had flatly rejected such an underhanded tactic.
On the day of the match, a great river of students flowed from the castle gates, their excited chatter echoing across the grounds as they converged on the Quidditch pitch.
Inside, Hogwarts Castle fell into a profound, almost eerie silence. The once-bustling hallways were now deserted, long stretches of stone and shadow where the only movement came from the flickering torches that burned steadfastly on the walls.
Unseen by all, a shadowy figure in a purple turban slunk from an office. He moved like a wraith through the empty corridors, his footsteps silent on the flagstones. After reaching the third floor, he glanced around nervously before slipping furtively into a long-abandoned girls' bathroom.
Meanwhile, the Quidditch pitch was a riot of sound and color. A sea of scarlet and gold banners waved alongside a forest of yellow and black, each side roaring its support.
Outside the Gryffindor locker room, Ron and Hermione were giving Harry their last-minute words of encouragement. Harry managed a weak smile, sighing inwardly. He could see the poorly concealed worry in their eyes, the unspoken fear that they were sending him off to a battle he might not return from.
Lost in thought, Harry pulled on his scarlet and gold Quidditch robes, the fabric a familiar weight on his shoulders. He picked up the sleek Nimbus 2000 gifted to him by Professor McGonagall and joined his team, only half-listening to Oliver Wood's impassioned pre-match speech.
His mind was elsewhere, replaying every possible disaster.
Noticing his distraction, Wood pulled him aside, his expression grim.
"Look, Potter, not trying to pile on the pressure," he started, his voice low and intense, "but we need you to catch that Snitch faster than you've ever flown. We have to end this quick, before Snape has too much time to cheat for Hufflepuff." Wood gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder. "And don't you worry about falling. Fred and George already asked Professor Dracula to keep an eye out. He'll be there, just like last time."
Harry offered a stiff nod, the knot in his stomach tightening. For some reason, the reassurance only made him feel more certain that he was destined for a long drop…
"The whole school is out here!" Fred Weasley suddenly exclaimed, peeking his head back through the locker room door. "Even… oh my god! Dumbledore is here! Dumbledore's watching the match!"
A jolt went through Harry. "Dumbledore?" he breathed, rushing to the door to see for himself.
Fred was right. There, seated in the stands, was the unmistakable figure of the Headmaster, his magnificent silver-white beard catching the morning sun. Harry watched as Dumbledore waved cheerfully to the students below. On the opposite side of the pitch, seated in the cool shadows of the stands, was Professor Dracula. He seemed to be casually sucking on a lollipop, a picture of bored impatience.
A wave of profound relief washed over Harry, and a genuine, relaxed smile finally broke through his anxiety.
He was safe.
Though he was loath to admit it, having Snape as the referee already offered a strange sort of security. But with Dumbledore and Professor Dracula also in attendance, it was like having a triple-locked vault protecting him.
If I fall off my broom with that lineup watching, he thought with a surge of newfound confidence, then Hogwarts really doesn't deserve its reputation as the safest place in the wizarding world!
Buoyed by this thought, Harry strode confidently onto the pitch, a cheerful wave directed at the roaring crowd.
The match began.
To Harry's immediate dismay, however, the game was already spiraling out of Gryffindor's control. Snape, dispensing with all pretense of impartiality, blew his whistle with furious and frequent abandon. He called foul after foul on the Gryffindor Chasers for invented offenses—improper broom handling, aggressive flying, and unsportsmanlike staring.
When Fred and George shot their hands up to protest, Snape promptly awarded Hufflepuff another penalty shot for "showing disrespect to the referee."
Under Snape's meticulous sabotage, the score gap widened at an alarming rate.
"Harry, you have to end this now!" Wood yelled, his voice strained with desperation.
Hearing his captain's plea, Harry felt a surge of helpless frustration. The tiny flicker of goodwill he'd felt towards Snape for being there had been utterly extinguished.
Just as panic began to set in, a glint of gold flashed in the corner of his eye.
Harry's heart leaped. Without a second thought, he executed a flawless, breathtaking dive, rocketing straight towards Snape.
A collective gasp rippled through the stadium, followed by a roar of approval. Lee Jordan, the match commentator, screamed for Harry to plow right into him. "TEACH THE OLD BAT A LESSON, HARRY!"
A venomous smirk curled Snape's lips. He pivoted on his broom to face the oncoming Gryffindor, already preparing to call a foul for assaulting the referee and have him sent off the pitch. A perfect solution, he thought smugly. Gryffindor loses, and Lily's son is safely grounded. Two birds with one stone.
Then he saw it. A golden blur zipped past his ear, missing him by mere inches.
In the next instant, Harry pulled out of his dive, his arm shooting triumphantly into the air. Clutched tightly in his fist was the Golden Snitch.
Snape froze, staring in stunned disbelief. He was so shocked that he forgot to blow the whistle.
TWEET! TWEET! TWEET!
Three sharp, final whistles pierced the air as Madam Hooch zoomed over on her own broom, her face a mask of fury as she glared daggers at Snape. It was clear she deeply regretted her decision to let him substitute for her.
Harry came to a gentle stop a foot above the grass, an incredulous look on his face. He couldn't believe it. He'd done it. The entire match had lasted less than five minutes.
The crowd was just as stunned. Most of the students were still settling in, barely comprehending that the game was already over. After a moment of silence, the Gryffindor stands erupted in a deafening cheer. The students from the other houses, however, wore expressions of pure, constipated disappointment. They had come for a spectacle—for drama, for accidents, for biased refereeing—and instead, they got a match shorter than the time they'd spent waiting for it to begin.
A wave of angry grumbling spread through the departing crowd. They felt cheated. They felt robbed. A single, unified thought began to bubble up:
"WE WANT A REFUND!"
Back in the girls' bathroom on the third floor, Professor Quirrell had barely begun to survey his surroundings when he heard the distant sound of footsteps echoing from the corridor.
Surprised by the crowd's early return, he cautiously peeked his head out from behind a stall door.
Immediately, a piercing scream shattered the silence.
"PERVERT—!"
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