November came with a rush. So too did the snow that would begin to blanket the castle’s grounds on a daily basis. From the windows near Harry’s bed, he saw Hagrid trudging across the Quidditch field across the distance, his breath forming wispy clouds in the frigid air. Clad in a long moleskin overcoat that billowed around him. From conversations he’s had with Hagrid, Harry knew that he was working to set the field, to defrost broomsticks, everything else that went in as Gamekeeper.
The Quidditch season had finally 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. Currently Ravenclaw was in the lead—in the reception hall were four large hourglasses known as the House Point Hourglasses. Each contained marvelous gemstones inside that totaled each house point attained. Gryffindor’s housed brilliant rubies, Hufflepuffs glimmered with yellow diamonds, Slytherin had emeralds, and the Ravenclaw hourglass was filled with sapphires.
Based on current standings, Ravenclaw’s hourglass was filled the most and it had shown they were in the lead with 145 points. Slytherin trailed close behind with 102 points, then came Gryffindor with 96 points, narrowly beating out Hufflepuff who was in last with 89 points.
And all for the better, as Wood had explained that Quidditch wins helped the house cup overall. Every win a team got was an extra twenty-five points, with the Quidditch cup granting an extra fifty points.
For Harry, the anticipation was a double-edged sword. He felt as nervous as he was excited. He had enough practice to understand the fundamentals of the game—for that he was thankful for his team aplenty. But he was nervous about playing against the Slytherins. While Malfoy thankfully was not a part of the team, it was almost scarier that the team was full of students he hadn’t met or had any inkling of how he was going to perform against.
Despite Wood's best efforts to maintain secrecy, rumors had a way of seeping into the masses. Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood had decided that, as their secret weapon, Harry should be kept, well, secret. But the news that he was playing Seeker had leaked out somehow, and Harry didn't know which was worse—people telling him he'd be brilliant or people telling him they'd be running around underneath him holding a mattress.
It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a friend. He didn't know how he'd have gotten through all his homework without her, what with all the last-minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them do. She had also lent him her copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, which turned out to be a very interesting read.
Harry learned that there were seven hundred ways of committing a Quidditch foul and that all of them had happened during a World Cup match in 1473; that Seekers were usually the smallest and fastest players, and that most serious Quidditch accidents seemed to happen to them; that although people rarely died playing Quidditch, referees had been known to vanish and turn up months later in the Sahara Desert. Turns out though those cases had been all connected as a result of an infamous prankster turned rogue—Chip Herron was his name.
Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about breaking rules since Harry and Ron had saved her from the mountain troll, and she was much nicer for it. The day before Harry's first Quidditch match the three of them were out in the freezing courtyard during break, and she had conjured them up a bright blue fire that could be carried around in a jam jar. She’d looked around to make sure nobody had seen her cast it, but Harry chalked that up to habits dying slowly.
They were standing with their backs to it, getting warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved closer together to block the fire from view; they were sure it wouldn't be allowed. Unfortunately, something about their guilty faces caught Snape's eye. He hadn't seen the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to tell them off anyway.
"What's that you've got there, Potter?"
It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him.
"Library books are not to be taken outside the school," said Snape. "Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor."
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. “Why can’t he just leave me alone?”
Ron 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. The memory of encountering the beast in the forbidden corridor sent a shiver down his spine.
Hermione was quick with a retort, "Oh, there's no reason to think Snape would have gone there. What purpose would he have?"
There was something deep inside Harry that told him otherwise—that some feeling about questioning Snape’s motivations felt right. Of course, he had nothing tangible to show for it. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss with Snape.
"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."
Unfortunately, as much as Ron wanted to vouch for the idea and Hermione against, the thought was left to linger in the air as they had nothing further to add.
The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together next to a window. Hermione had introduced herself more properly 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. He was reliving the moment that he managed to knock the troll out on repeat.
As Harry sat, 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 been enough of a distraction, but the end result lie back on Quidditch itself. And now, without the book in his possession, he felt a pang of frustration and helplessness.
He glanced over at Ron and Hermione, who were engaged in a whispered conversation by the fireplace about the proper pronunciation of the softening charm—in case Harry was unable to perform it himself in the heat of the moment.
Summoning his courage, Harry made a decision. He couldn't let Snape intimidate him into silence. There was no rule about library books being outside of the castle walls—a fact as much confirmed by Hermione when they’d come inside.
“I’m going to get it—I hate that it was something that wasn’t even mine to begin with,” Harry said
"Better you than me," they said together, but Harry had an idea that Snape wouldn't refuse if there were other teachers listening.
“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. He was sick of being othered by someone who so clearly had power over him. With each step, his resolve hardened.
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 rapped.
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 am. 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 am."
Snape's voice was low and calculated, "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."
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! Oh, I knew it! 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.
“Must be...what was in that vault at Gringotts,” said Harry. “Whatever it is.”
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.
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 sat away from the Ravenclaws and 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, come on now. 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.
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’s Our Prince!" 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. Across the pitch, the Slytherin team would soon emerge in their distinct emerald attire.
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.
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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.
"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. "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. "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 a 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. His heart started to flutter and immediately he felt a soaring warmth in his chest.
Madam Hooch 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. "Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you," she announced firmly.
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. Harry recognized an unsteady, but powerful gaunt when he saw it.
"Mount your brooms, please," Madam Hooch commanded.
Harry swiftly climbed onto his Nimbus Two Thousand. Madam Hooch gave a sharp blast on her silver whistle. 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 was the Weasley twins' mischievous friend. His voice echoed 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. "Flint could've knocked Harry outta the air."
"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.
Hermione's expression hardened. "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.
Amidst the chaos, Marcus Flint seized the opportunity to score multiple goals with the Quaffle, capitalizing on the distraction.
"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. A sudden, startled yelp echoed through the stands. As she retreated along the row, a surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins. Her task completed, Hermione hastened back toward her friends, her heart still racing.
Meanwhile, high above the chaos on the Quidditch pitch, Harry finally managed to climb back on and try to get a steady hold of his broom. It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clamber back on.
"Neville, you can look!" Ron said. Neville had been sobbing into Hagrid's jacket for the last five minutes.
Harry was speeding toward the ground when the crowd saw him clap his hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick—he hit the field on all fours—coughed—and something gold fell into his hand.
"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. His head was spinning from his descent and the roaring of the crowds was enough to deafen him for the short period. Next he could hear 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 what he’d seen. "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. "Why would Snape do somethin' like that?"
The trio exchanged uneasy glances. 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.
"Because we think he’s trying to get passed that three-headed dog. I think he tried on Halloween when that troll got let out." Harry told Hagrid. "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. "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. “I’m done talking about this,” he said.
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