Regarding that mysterious creature, brimming with malice and truly difficult to transform—the rat.
Ron reckoned it was probably old, suffering from dementia, but Harry didn't think so. He sensed that the malevolent rat must have originally possessed a high level of intelligence; otherwise, it wouldn't have that sinister, almost un-beastly malice. It must have been so charmed by its own transformation that it genuinely believed itself to be an ordinary rat.
As a result, it lost much of its intellect.
That was probably for the best. This rat's danger level far exceeded that of a young wizard. Its constant malice was always a hidden threat, and no one knew how long this accidental effect would last.
"…Maybe when it wears off, another dose of Transfiguration wouldn't be a bad idea."
Meanwhile, in the changing room, Harry and the other team members were slipping into their scarlet Quidditch robes, while the Slytherin team donned green.
Wood cleared his throat to quiet everyone down.
"Right, lads," he said.
"And ladies," added Chaser Angelina Johnson.
"And ladies," Wood agreed. "It's time."
"The big moment," said Fred Weasley.
"The moment we've all been waiting for," George chimed in.
"We've got Oliver's speech memorized by now," Fred told Harry. "We were on the team last year."
"Shut it, you two," Wood said. "This is the best Gryffindor team in years. I'm not exaggerating—go back a hundred, two hundred, three hundred years, you won't find a better one. We're going to win. I know it."
"We know it too, because we've got an invincible leader!"
"The great Lion King!"
"The Lord of Quidditch!"
"Ending Slytherin in one second flat!"
Everyone erupted into cheers, brimming with confidence in their victory.
Meanwhile, across the way, the Slytherin changing room was shrouded in gloom.
"Captain, the rumors are true. They've got Potter."
"I know."
"Potter's strong."
"I know. I'd know he's strong even if I thought with a troll's toe," said the Slytherin captain, who looked like he might have some troll blood himself.
"Can we win?"
"…We'll win."
"Really? I don't believe it!"
"Damn it, I'd love to rip your mouth off!"
"No matter how strong Potter is! Even if he killed a Dark Lord at age one or has the powers of an emperor, so what? His broom might not be faster than ours!"
"Exactly, exactly. What, is he going to enchant his broom with magic or something?"
"Hard to say. I heard the Dark Lord could fly. Maybe Harry can walk on air. Terrifying thought."
"Is that kind of magic even allowed in the rules?"
"No way. You need a broom for Quidditch, just like a chef needs to know how to cook or a scholar needs to have knowledge."
"That's great, then. We still have a chance."
"If we actually beat Potter, he won't come after us for revenge, will he?"
"Professor Snape's here, isn't he? I think Potter's pretty scared of him."
"No, I think Potter wants to kill Snape but holds himself back… I know what a murderous look is like. You can't hide that kind of gaze…"
"If Snape ever kills himself, or dies from poison or some accident, it'll definitely be Potter's doing."
"Where's Professor Dumbledore?"
"Oh, right! We've got the invincible Professor Dumbledore!"
"He didn't show up today."
"…Well, in that case… I actually think winning isn't everything."
"Friendship first, competition second. That's always been my motto."
"Exactly, exactly."
"Enough! I don't get it! …A massive… ancient battlefield… no matter what…"
Harry stepped onto the roaring Quidditch pitch.
Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the center of the field, holding her broom, waiting for both teams.
"Now, I want a fair and honest game from all of you. No fighting, and no actions that could endanger anyone's life," she said as the players gathered around her.
Harry noticed—did she glance at him when she said that?
No way. He always played by the rules.
"Everyone, mount your brooms."
Harry straddled his Nimbus 2000.
Madam Hooch blew her silver whistle with a sharp blast.
Fifteen brooms shot into the air, soaring high above the field. The game had begun.
"The Quaffle's immediately snatched by Gryffindor's Angelina Johnson—what a brilliant Chaser that girl is, and quite charming too—"
"Jordan!"
"Sorry, Professor."
Lee Jordan, a friend of the Weasley twins, was commentating under Professor McGonagall's watchful eye.
"She's absolutely tearing through up there, a beautiful pass—there it is, Angelina again—Keeper Bletchley dives—misses—GOAL! And—wait, hold on, Gryffindor's won! Harry's caught the Golden Snitch! Merlin's beard, not even five minutes in!"
Harry had already clamped his hand around that blasted Golden Snitch.
Gryffindor's cheers echoed through the cold air, mingled with Slytherin's groans.
Ron and Hermione felt the only downside to the match was how short it was. Hagrid, sitting beside them, shared the same thought.
They hoped Harry would stretch out the next game a bit so everyone could enjoy it more.
Once it was confirmed the match was over with no rules broken, Harry leapt from his broom in midair. The broom hovered for a moment, then sputtered out a plume of black smoke and plummeted.
Aside from Harry himself, hardly anyone noticed.
Lee Jordan was still shouting the results with glee: "Gryffindor wins, one hundred and sixty to zero!"
But Harry didn't hear any of it. He, Ron, and Hermione headed to Hagrid's hut, where their host was brewing a strong cup of tea.
"My broom was jinxed. I know who did it, and he's got some guts," Harry said.
"I was planning to let the Snitch fly for half an hour before catching it, to let everyone enjoy the game and not make it feel too rushed. But… I was worried if I kept fighting the broom, it'd just shatter. I don't know counter-curses, so I just forced it to work normally with sheer power."
Harry explained to the others.
Who would've thought Quirrell had that kind of nerve? Was he really not afraid of death? Did he think Harry wouldn't dare kill?
Quirrell didn't seem like the type, though. More likely, Voldemort was watching him the whole time. If he didn't act, Voldemort would've killed him before Harry could.
So, did that mean Voldemort had a way to monitor the school remotely…?
Even if Voldemort couldn't beat Dumbledore, he was probably a legendary wizard on the same level. With that kind of sorcerer, there was no telling how many tricks or spells they had up their sleeve.
"What? Your broom was jinxed?" Ron said, realization dawning. "No wonder you were wobbling like that two and a half minutes in. You were fighting off a curse."
Everyone had thought Harry's odd movements were him showing off, proving he was in complete control, like some basketball star.
Oh, Quidditch, not basketball. Harry kept saying he was the basketball GOAT, which always confused Ron.
"Who shows off like that? That's just ridiculous," Harry said, exasperated.
"Er, I don't even know basketball," Ron said, scratching his head.
————
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