The arrival of November marked the official start of the new Quidditch season.
Today was the first match of the year: Gryffindor versus Slytherin—a game full of excitement and anticipation. It wasn't just a clash between two long-standing rivals; it was also the debut of Hogwarts' youngest Seeker in a century. And that Seeker was none other than the much-talked-about Harry Potter.
No student would dream of missing such a match. By early morning, the Quidditch stands were already crowded with eager students trying to claim the best seats. An hour before the game even began, the stands were filled with laughter and chatter.
The weather was clear, but November in Britain had already turned cold. Even the star of the match, Harry, felt no warmth—his hands and feet were freezing.
As a player, Harry was allowed to arrive a bit later. He walked alone along the path toward the players' changing rooms, his thoughts a blur. His mind wasn't exactly blank, nor was it clear—it was somewhere in between. He wasn't even sure what he was thinking.
"I heard you didn't have breakfast?"
A hand appeared beside him, holding out a piece of chocolate.
It was plain dark chocolate, more bitter than most, yet somehow it brought him more comfort than the sweetest kind.
Harry's face brightened instantly as he turned to see Tver smiling at him.
"Professor!" He suddenly remembered something. "I, um, it's my first match today, so..."
Tver pressed the chocolate into his hand.
"You still need to eat something. Otherwise, even if you want to perform well, your body won't have the strength to keep up."
Watching him obediently take a bite and immediately make a face of exaggerated pain, Tver couldn't help but laugh.
It didn't really have to be that bitter—but Madam Pomfrey had once suggested that giving students a literal taste of bitterness helped make lessons stick.
"I had a friend who was a Seeker, too," Tver said lightly. "On his first day, he was so nervous he forgot how to fly. He spent twenty minutes on the ground before he managed to get on his broom."
Harry couldn't help but laugh at that. He could picture the ridiculous sight of a Seeker fumbling helplessly on the ground. At least he wasn't that bad.
"But that match ended in thirty minutes," Tver continued, smiling. "Because my friend caught the Snitch in just ten."
"Now, at only fourteen, he's already the best Seeker at Durmstrang—and probably the best in his entire country."
Harry's mouth fell open in awe, bits of chocolate still on his teeth, his eyes full of admiration.
So even someone that great had once been nervous too!
"Alright," Tver said, giving his shoulder a firm pat as they reached the changing room. "Go on. Let everyone see the debut of Hogwarts' future best Seeker."
Watching the dazed boy disappear through the doorway, Tver turned toward the stands.
He hadn't planned on attending the match. Quidditch had never really interested him—not nearly as much as his work on badges. But then he remembered that, according to the story, Quirrell would make his move against Harry today.
Worried that Quirrell might deviate from the original plot and harm Harry in another way, Tver had decided to escort him.
Honestly, he still couldn't figure out why Quirrell wanted to attack Harry in the first place.
If anything happened to Harry now, Dumbledore would definitely become suspicious. Getting caught wouldn't matter—but if Quirrell exposed him, that would be a real problem.
The only reasonable explanation he could think of was that the order had come directly from Voldemort himself.
Only he could harbor such deep hatred toward Harry.
...
Upon reaching the stands, Professor Flitwick stood on his seat, his small frame waving enthusiastically at Tver.
Professor McGonagall was seated nearby, her sharp gaze fixed on the players already on the field. She only turned her attention back when Tver sat down beside her.
"What took you so long?" she asked casually.
Only here, at her beloved Quidditch Pitch, did she shed her usual strict and composed demeanor.
"A minor delay," Tver replied.
They chatted idly until a sharp whistle pierced the air from the center of the pitch. Fourteen players from both teams mounted their broomsticks and soared into the sky. At the same time, the game balls shot out one after another.
Amid the cheers of young witches and wizards, the match officially began.
Tver wasn't particularly familiar with Quidditch. Even though he had a friend at Durmstrang who was an expert, his understanding of the rules was only superficial. Fortunately, he was sitting next to someone who knew the sport better than anyone—Professor McGonagall.
Few people knew that she had once been a Gryffindor Quidditch player herself, even serving as team captain during her school days. It was only after a near-fatal accident in her seventh year that she was forced to give up her greatest passion.
Her love for the game, however, never faded—if anything, it made her even more intolerant of foul play.
"Are they a bunch of trolls? All they do is body-slam their opponents!"
"Flint's using his bat to hit players! Referee, send that brute off!"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, that filthy boy just elbowed one of my players!"
Professor McGonagall fumed, muttering angrily to herself as her fists pounded her thigh in frustration.
Yes, she looked absolutely livid.
Professor Flitwick, however, was unfazed.
"Minerva only gets worked up like this when it comes to Quidditch," he explained. "Otherwise, she's quite composed."
"And you, Professor?" Tver asked. "You don't seem too invested in the game."
Flitwick smiled faintly. "When your students treat Quidditch as casually as mine do, you learn to stay calm about it too."
But before Tver could respond, Professor McGonagall suddenly gasped.
"What's happening to Potter?!"
Tver and Flitwick immediately turned to look.
Harry's broomstick was bucking wildly in midair, twisting and jerking as if it had gone mad, trying to throw him off. Within seconds, Harry was nearly flung off entirely, hanging on by his hands to avoid plummeting.
The crowd quickly realized something was wrong, and horrified cries echoed across the pitch.
"Someone must have tampered with Potter's broom!" Professor Flitwick shouted.
His voice rose above the noise, drawing everyone's attention to the broom instead of panicking.
"Impossible!" a senior student protested immediately. "Broomsticks are extremely complex alchemical artifacts! The protective charms on them are more than I've ever seen!"
But realizing that Professor Flitwick had been the one to speak, the student quickly backtracked. "Of course, Professor—your expertise far exceeds mine."
Tver shook his head with an amused smile.
His eyes drifted toward Quirrell, who sat at the far back of the stands, muttering under his breath. And just in front of him, Snape was also murmuring incantations.
One was casting. The other, countering.
If Snape simply turned around, he would immediately notice Quirrell's odd behavior and put an end to it. But it seemed concern had clouded his attention—Harry's peril had made him drop his guard.
Then, without warning, flames erupted along the professors' seating area, causing chaos among the staff.
In Tver's hands, though, the fire behaved like a well-trained pet. With a flick of his wand, the flames leapt gracefully into the air, dissipating harmlessly into the sky.
Once everything was under control, he glanced toward Hermione, who was crouched nearby, and gave her a quick wink—startling the young witch.
A sudden wave of thunderous cheering followed.
Harry, back on his broom, had caught the Golden Snitch!
Though a bit battered and almost having swallowed the Snitch in the process, he had done it—Harry had secured Gryffindor's victory over Slytherin!