A rustle woke me.
For a moment, I lay with my eyes closed, hoping it would stop.
Instead, something hit the floor, someone swore under his breath, and then I heard Malfoy.
“Goyle, you’re standing on my scarf.”
“Didn’t see it.”
“You do now.”
I opened my eyes.
The dormitory was still dark.
The lake’s greenish light was enough, however, to make out Malfoy trying to pull the end of his scarf from beneath Goyle’s shoe.
Crabbe sat on his bed, watching with the interest of someone who didn’t yet have to get up himself.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Morning.”
“I noticed that much.”
“You said you wanted a good seat.”
I had.
I just didn’t remember agreeing to fight for one before breakfast.
I sat up and pushed the hair from my forehead.
My left eye didn’t hurt.
I blinked several times, checking for even the familiar burning after last night, but everything seemed normal.
Good.
I intended to do a lot of looking today.
The broom in the Room of Requirement had proved more interesting than expected.
Simply watching it respond to an outstretched hand had given me several questions I couldn’t answer.
During the match, I’d see much more.
Take-offs, braking, sharp turns.
Fourteen brooms used by people who really knew how to fly.
And one that, at some point, would stop obeying its owner.
That cooled my enthusiasm a little.
I knew what was supposed to happen.
Harry would lose control of the Nimbus, Hermione would suspect Snape, set his robes on fire and, in the process, interrupt Quirrell’s spell.
It would all end with a Gryffindor victory and another story the school would repeat at every meal.
That much I remembered.
I’d have preferred it if my memory also included the exact minute the trouble began.
“Coming?” Malfoy asked.
I looked at him.
He was dressed, his hair combed, and apparently ready to insult anyone who delayed our departure.
“I’ll wash first.”
He sighed as though I’d thought of it deliberately.
***
We could hear the Great Hall from the corridor.
Coloured ribbons floated above the tables.
Someone had enchanted several red ones to twist into a lion, but the animal was having obvious trouble maintaining its hind legs.
At the Gryffindor table, it inspired more laughter than admiration.
I sat beside Blaise and reached for toast.
Malfoy’s badge immediately flashed.
**SLYTHERIN WILL CRUSH GRYFFINDOR**
“Does it have to do that while we’re eating too?”
“Yes.”
“Yesterday, you said you could tone it down.”
“You can.”
Malfoy poured his tea.
Apparently, that concluded the discussion.
Across the hall, Harry sat over an almost untouched plate.
Ron spoke earnestly to him, occasionally indicating something with his fork.
Hermione moved her cup out of reach.
Harry nodded, but didn’t look as though he was listening.
“Potter looks about to be sick,” Malfoy observed.
“He hasn’t even got on the broom yet,” Blaise said.
“Exactly.”
I looked at Harry again.
He held his cup in both hands and stared at the scrambled eggs.
“He could at least eat something,” I murmured.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow.
“Worried?”
“No. Wondering how he expects to stay on a broom until lunch.”
“He won’t have to. We’ll finish earlier.”
He said it with such certainty that I looked at him over my toast.
“Are you playing too?”
Blaise snorted.
Malfoy shot him a glance.
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
Even so, his way of talking about the team was beginning to amuse me.
Since last night, he’d personally planned its victory, catalogued Gryffindor’s mistakes and insulted Wood, whom he’d probably never heard speak off the pitch.
At the staff table, McGonagall talked to Madam Hooch.
Snape ate silently, ignoring a green ribbon hovering near his shoulder.
Quirrell sat a few places away.
This time, I looked at him deliberately.
Usually, a moment was enough to notice something unpleasant in the magic around his head.
Today, I tried to focus more precisely, to find the boundary of whatever didn’t belong.
A stab came beneath my left eyelid at once.
Not strong.
A warning.
Quirrell raised his cup.
His hand trembled slightly, and when someone spoke to him from the other side of the table, he answered with a hurried nod.
He didn’t look like a man preparing to throw a student off a broom.
Of course, that was the point.
For a moment, I thought what I could see around the turban moved independently of him.
I leaned forward slightly.
Quirrell turned his head.
I lowered my gaze to my plate before he looked our way.
I didn’t know whether he’d noticed anything.
Perhaps he’d simply heard laughter from the next table.
I wasn’t going to find out by staring even more suspiciously.
“What is it?” Blaise asked.
“Nothing.”
I moved the jug to pour some tea.
For the rest of breakfast, I therefore had the opportunity to learn that the Nimbus Two Thousand was both an excellent broom and a completely irrelevant detail.
Depending on who was riding it.
***
The grounds were colder than I’d expected.
I pushed my hands into my pockets and hunched my shoulders.
Students walked around us in tight groups, calling to friends and waving scarves.
Behind me, someone tried to convince his friend that betting all his savings on the first match of the season was sensible.
The friend had doubts.
Rightly so.
Up close, the stadium looked much better than from the castle windows.
High stands surrounded the pitch, where Madam Hooch was already talking to several people.
A light mist floated above the grass, slowly disappearing in the morning sun.
I slowed at the entrance.
Something formed patterns in the wooden supports.
I could make out a repeating design running along the beams and vanishing at their joins.
Higher up, similar lines spread beneath the rows of seats.
Strengthening charms?
That seemed sensible.
If hundreds of students were going to jump around on a structure this high, I’d gladly add some magic to the nails myself.
“Peverell.”
I turned.
Malfoy was already several steps above me.
“Are you here to watch the match or the stairs?”
“Still deciding.”
“The stairs will be here later.”
A good argument.
I followed him.
We chose seats high up, with a view of most of the pitch.
Blaise sat beside me, Malfoy a little further along, his scarf occupying more bench than he needed.
I could see the teachers from here too.
Quirrell was just sitting down.
Snape was nearby.
On the opposite side, I recognised Ron’s red hair and Hermione adjusting her scarf as she looked around the stands.
Everything was in place.
I took my hands from my pockets and rested them on my knees.
For now, at least.
“Do you even know the rules?” Blaise asked.
“Yes.”
“Yesterday, you sounded as though coming here was a punishment.”
“Yesterday, I listened to people talking about it all day.”
Blaise glanced at Malfoy.
“That might have put you off.”
“I can hear you.”
“I know,” Blaise said.
A whistle sounded from the pitch.
The conversations around us quietened, then gave way to roars.
The teams were coming out.
Slytherin appeared first.
Flint led them, his broom on his shoulder and the expression of someone who’d already seen the result.
He raised a hand towards our stands.
Several older students answered so loudly that I instinctively pulled my head away.
Gryffindor received an even louder welcome.
Harry held his Nimbus firmly at his side.
From this distance, he looked much smaller than at the Great Hall table.
I remembered my first flying lesson and the height that had seemed entirely sufficient then.
Here, the players would fly several times higher while dodging iron balls trying to knock them to the ground.
Wizards had an interesting approach to school sport.
Madam Hooch stood between the captains.
Flint shook Wood’s hand so enthusiastically that we could see the tension in his arm even from our seats.
“Are they trying to break each other’s fingers?” I asked.
“Tradition,” Blaise replied.
I didn’t know whether he was joking.
The ball crate opened.
I caught a brief flash of gold, then the movement of two dark balls immediately shooting into the air.
Bludgers.
I narrowed my eyes.
Their magic looked different from the brooms’.
It was tightly concentrated, difficult to separate, with a brief change at every sharp turn.
I wanted a closer look, but Madam Hooch was already throwing the Quaffle upwards.
A whistle.
Fourteen brooms left the ground almost together.
I smiled before I could think about it.
From below, it looked good.
From the stands, much better.
The players spread across the pitch.
Some accelerated immediately; others climbed higher.
They needed no run-up, no space to gather speed.
They simply leaned forward, and the brooms carried them where they wanted to go.
For a few seconds, I tried to follow everyone.
Naturally, that didn’t work.
So I chose the nearest Slytherin.
He flew past our stand, turned his head and banked sharply after a Gryffindor girl carrying the Quaffle.
A change swept along his broom.
I’d seen something similar in the Room of Requirement yesterday, when the wooden handle rose into my hand, but this was faster and much clearer.
The body leaning.
A change in the magic.
The turn.
Did the broom respond to pressure?
Intent?
Both?
The player disappeared behind the others before I could confirm the order.
“Johnson takes the Quaffle!”
The commentator’s voice carried across the pitch.
The Gryffindor swept between two opponents.
One Slytherin tried to cut her off, but she was faster.
She approached the hoops and threw. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Scored.
The red side of the stadium erupted.
Malfoy leapt from the bench.
“He just let her through!”
“Tell him,” Blaise suggested.
“He might not have noticed.”
Malfoy didn’t even look at him.
I watched the pitch with growing interest.
I had no intention of shouting with everyone else, but had to admit that watching a match live had its advantages.
Especially when a Bludger passed so close to a player that he practically lay flat on his broom to avoid it.
That was madness too.
Quite spectacular madness.
Harry circled high above the rest.
His earlier stiffness was gone.
He leaned on the broom with an ease that would have been difficult to imagine at breakfast.
I tried to focus on the Nimbus.
From this distance, I saw less than I wanted.
But I could make out the change when it accelerated and the way its magic settled again when Harry slowed.
Much more smoothly than the old broom in the Room of Requirement.
Apparently, the price wasn’t entirely down to the name on the handle.
I looked at Quirrell.
He sat calmly.
On the pitch, Flint had just blocked someone’s path so aggressively that the commentator began protesting and McGonagall had to remind him of his duties.
I returned to the match.
A few minutes later, Slytherin scored.
Malfoy grabbed my sleeve, as though there was a risk I’d missed several hundred people shouting.
“Did you see?”
“I saw.”
“Told you.”
“They’ve scored one goal.”
“You have to start somewhere.”
He only let go when Blaise pointed out that he was blocking the pitch.
I straightened my sleeve.
When I looked at Harry again, the Nimbus twitched.
A small movement.
It could easily have been a clumsy turn or an adjustment of his position.
Harry shifted his hands and levelled out.
I straightened.
Already?
For a moment, I lost sight of him as two players crossed between us.
One was calling to the other, who was looking back for the Quaffle.
Come on.
Move past.
Harry came back into view.
The broom jerked a second time.
More clearly now.
His body tipped sideways.
He tightened his legs and leaned over the handle, trying to recover his balance.
“What’s he doing?” Blaise murmured.
I didn’t answer.
I watched the magic around the Nimbus.
A moment earlier, it had changed smoothly with every turn.
Now I could see something foreign in it.
A brief disturbance appearing just as the broom tried to return to level flight.
It wasn’t constant.
It intruded into the movement.
Spoiling it.
I looked towards the teachers.
Quirrell sat with his head raised towards the pitch.
From here, I couldn’t clearly see his lips, but I didn’t need to.
Whatever had irritated me around him was clearer now.
I tried to take in both things at once: the uneven magic near the professor and the disturbance around the broom.
My left eye burned.
I leaned forwards, resting my forearms on my knees.
A little longer.
Harry pulled at the Nimbus’s handle.
The broom responded late, tilted, then suddenly moved the opposite way.
And then I saw it more clearly.
Something dark was driving into its magic.
It reminded me of a hook.
Not because it had exactly that shape, but because it caught on something still trying to work.
The Nimbus corrected its position, and the foreign pressure spoiled that correction, forcing another.
Harry tried to level out.
The broom helped him.
Quirrell interfered with both.
The pain beneath my eyelid sharpened.
I blinked, but didn’t look away.
Yesterday, I’d wondered how a broom recognised that its position needed correcting.
Now I was watching someone who apparently knew how to exploit that moment.
I wanted to understand exactly where he was inserting the spell.
Why the Nimbus couldn’t cope.
Whether the curse altered Harry’s commands or disrupted the broom’s response itself.
Another jerk almost threw Harry off the handle.
I gripped the edge of the bench.
The questions could wait a few minutes.
Ron was already standing on the opposite side of the stadium.
Hermione rose beside him, trying to see past older students’ shoulders.
I looked at Quirrell again.
He still sat the same way: slightly hunched, unremarkable, his hands close to his body.
If I hadn’t known what to look for, I might never have noticed him.
Now, though, I could see the effort hidden beneath that calm.
A concentration that didn’t follow the Quaffle, the Bludgers or the players passing the stand.
All his attention remained on one broom.
Harry jerked high above the pitch.
Quirrell didn’t even move.