Harry’s Nimbus 2000 jerked again!
This time, the tail of the broom swerved wildly to the side, throwing Harry three feet sideways in midair.
He clamped down on the handle with all his might, his knuckles turning white as he dug into the wood.
Hermione dug her fingernails into Evelyn’s wrist, her voice on the verge of tears.
“He’s going to fall!”
Half the cheers from the Gryffindor stands died instantly.
Some people leapt up, pointing at the sky, while others began to scream.
Lee Jordan’s commentary choked in his throat, his microphone emitting only a sharp buzz of static.
Evelyn’s eyes didn’t follow Harry.
Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the staff table.
Professor Quirrell’s lips were still moving at a frantic, non-stop pace.
His purple turban was wrapped tightly around his head, casting half his face in shadow, revealing only a pair of rapidly blinking eyes.
Severus Snape sat to Quirrell’s right, his lips moving just as furiously.
His brow was knotted tight, his eyes locked onto Harry.
Evelyn: (ˇ᷄ωˇ᷅)
One was chanting a curse to sabotage him, and the other was chanting a counter-curse to save him.
She could tell Snape’s counter-curse was working.
Every time Harry was on the verge of being thrown off, the broomstick would briefly stabilize.
However, Quirrell’s hex never wavered, and the broom’s violent shuddering grew worse by the second.
Harry had slipped completely to the side of the broom, dangling by a single hand.
His glasses had slid halfway down his nose, and his face was whipped red by the biting wind.
The Gryffindor stands completely erupted into panic.
Ginny Weasley clutched Ron’s arm so hard her nails almost pierced his sleeve.
Neville covered his eyes, unable to watch.
Fred and George hovered near the edge of the pitch, broomsticks at the ready to dive and catch him.
But Harry’s Nimbus 2000 was bucking like a wild stallion, its flight path so erratic that they couldn’t even get close.
Hermione let go of Evelyn’s wrist and began frantically digging through her bag.
“I remember there’s a Freezing Charm that can—”
“Too slow.”
Evelyn reached into her robes and pulled out a pellet.
It was no larger than a quail egg, encased in a dark green shell with an oily sheen.
She slapped the pellet into her palm and drew out a Y-shaped wooden slingshot.
The rubber band was a bright orange-red, emitting a faint, low-frequency hum when stretched tight.
[Item Confirmed: 100% Guaranteed Hit Stink Bomb × 1 (Loaded)]
[Target Lock Mode Activated.
Please select target.]
Hermione looked up from her bag and caught sight of the slingshot.
Hermione: (ꐦ⊙Å⊙)
“Evelyn Valentine, where on earth did you get a slingshot?!”
“Standard equipment.”
“Just how many weapons are in your ‘standard equipment’?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Evelyn stood up and stepped onto the armrest of her seat.
The surrounding Hufflepuffs were still fixated on Harry in the sky, so no one noticed her movement.
She raised the slingshot and loaded the Stink Bomb into the pouch.
Hermione tugged at the hem of her robes.
“Who are you aiming at?”
“Quirrell!”
“What?”
“Look at his mouth.
He’s been chanting non-stop.
He’s the one messing with Harry’s broom.”
Hermione whipped her head around, her eyes sweeping across the pitch to the staff table.
Quirrell was hunkered down in his seat, the twitching of his lips barely visible.
“How can you be sure it’s him?”
“Intuition.”
“Intuition isn’t evidence!”
“Evidence won’t sprout out of the ground after he finishes the hex and plunges Harry to his death, Hermione.”
Evelyn drew back the rubber band.
The orange band stretched to its absolute limit, the low hum sharpening into a high-pitched whine.
Hermione’s fingers tightened on Evelyn’s robe, her knuckles turning pale one by one.
She bit her lip before finally letting go.
“Make it count!”
Evelyn: (≖ω≖)
“This thing is literally called ‘100% Guaranteed Hit.’ Missing would be news.”
A targeting box popped up on the system interface.
The red crosshairs drifted twice before snapping firmly onto the back of Quirrell’s head.
The direct line of sight from the Hufflepuff stands to the staff table was a good hundred and fifty meters.
Standing in between were half the Quidditch pitch, over a dozen broomsticks, and at least three high-speed Quaffles.
Evelyn released her fingers, and the pellet shot forth!
The tiny dark-green sphere trailed a razor-thin streak, zipping through a three-inch gap between two broomsticks.
It grazed the leather of a Quaffle, veered around Madam Hooch’s raised whistle, and traced an arc that completely defied the laws of aerodynamics.
*Pah!* The pellet stuck right onto the back of Quirrell’s head with pinpoint accuracy.
The Stink Bomb burst noiselessly.
A small cloud of yellowish-green mist billowed from behind his turban, like smoke from a cheap stick of incense.
Three seconds later, the full effect hit!
Quirrell buckled wildly.
Hands clutching his face, his purple turban slipping down over his eyes, he practically rocketed out of his chair.
He overturned the table in front of him, drenching Professor Flitwick in pumpkin juice.
The stomach-turning stench radiated rapidly outwards with Quirrell at ground zero.
The front row of the staff table collapsed instantly.
Wiping his face, Professor Flitwick caught a whiff of the smell and immediately pinched his nose, rolling right off his chair.
Professor Sprout slammed her handkerchief onto her face, her shoulders quivering violently.
Snape was sitting in the second row.
As the yellow-green haze drifted past his face, his incantation faltered for a fraction of a second.
His nostrils twitched twice, his furrowed brow twisting into absolute revulsion.
Yet he didn’t stop!
He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, kept his wand raised with the other hand, and continued chanting the counter-curse.
Snape: (angrily)
Quirrell lacked such fortitude.
His hex broke completely.
Doubled over, he dry-heaved three times before stumbling blindly toward the rear of the staff dais.
He knocked over two chairs, his turban slipping halfway down his head.
The moment the curse broke, Harry’s broom stabilized!
The Nimbus 2000 stopped its violent bucking, as if a runaway horse had suddenly been brought to a dead halt.
Dangling off the side, Harry wobbled twice before slowly heaving himself back into the seat.
A roar of relief erupted from the Gryffindor stands.
Fred and George reined in their brooms, both turning simultaneously to cast a glance at the Hufflepuff stands.
Their expressions were priceless.
Fred’s mouth twitched, while George’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline.
Evelyn stowed her slingshot back into her pocket and calmly sat back down.
Hermione stared at the chaotic scene on the staff platform, her mouth opening and closing twice.
“You used a slingshot…
on a teacher?”
“I shot a bad guy.”
“How can you prove he’s a bad guy?”
“The moment he stopped, Harry was fine.
That logic chain is solid enough.”
Hermione: (ꐦ눈_눈)
“Evelyn, while a slingshot isn’t explicitly listed as a contraband item in any rulebook, the way you used it…”
“Which means I didn’t break any rules.”
“You shot a professor in the back of the head!”
“I didn’t shoot him.
A Stink Bomb happened to pass by the back of his head and spontaneously burst.”
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
She repeated this breathing exercise three whole times.
Down on the pitch, once Harry regained control, his Nimbus 2000 dove at top speed.
Hugging the handle, he rocketed toward the grass in the center of the field.
He tumbled off his broom, landing on his feet, and doubled over to gag twice.
Something flew out of his mouth—golden, round, with a pair of tiny wings fluttering furiously.
The Golden Snitch landed right in Harry’s hand!
Lee Jordan’s voice finally blared back over the magical speakers, the mic thumping repeatedly as he pounded it.
“Gryffindor wins!
One hundred and seventy to sixty!”
The crowd went wild.
Draco hovered midair, his face pale green as he glared down at Harry on the grass.
His hands trembled on his broomhandle, his lips pressed into a tight, hard line.
Flint flew past and yelled something at him.
Draco ignored him, abruptly yanking his broom upward and flying straight toward the changing rooms.
Evelyn leaned back in her seat as green notification text popped up on her system interface:
[Mischief Points +180!
Reason: Physically intervened with a hostile caster, severely deviating from the canonical resolution!]
[Mischief Points +60!
Reason: Staff table chaos reached peak level for the semester!]
[Current Total: 2,920.]
Hermione brushed the grass off her skirt and stood up.
“Come on, let’s go down and check on Harry.”
As the two walked down from the stands, Evelyn’s peripheral vision caught a dark shadow near the exit of the staff dais.
Most of the yellow-green haze had dispersed, yet his forehead remained tightly knotted.
Pulling his gaze away from where Quirrell had fled, he locked his eyes firmly onto Evelyn.
The two of them locked eyes across a distance of ten paces for three long seconds.
Snape lowered his sleeve from his nose.
His lips were pressed into a thin line, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly.
He didn’t speak, nor did he dock any points.
He simply stared at Evelyn for a long moment, his dark eyes swirling with an unreadable emotion.
Then he turned, his long black cloak billowing in a grand arc, and strode off toward the castle.
Evelyn: (ˇ᷄⌓ˇ᷅)
“What was that look on his face?”
Hermione dragged her toward the pitch.
“You just pelted his colleague in the back of the head!
The fact that he didn’t dock points is a miracle—don’t look back!”
A large crowd had gathered on the grass.
Harry stood sandwiched between Ron and Neville, his face still pale from gagging, his hand clutching the Snitch tightly.
Fred and George pushed through the crowd, beaters’ bats slung over their shoulders.
Fred threw an arm around Evelyn’s shoulder and pulled her away from the crowd.
“Little Evie, that shot back there—whose handiwork was that?”
“You saw?”
“I was fifty meters in the air!
You pulled that slingshot back like a professional markswoman—hard to miss!”
George leaned in, dropping his voice low.
“Did you really hit Quirrell?”
Evelyn glanced sideways at him.
George’s eyes were unnaturally bright, his lips curved into a subtle smirk.
He leaned near her ear, his breath carrying the crisp scent of grass and a hint of pine.
“I thought you only knew how to use a baseball bat.”
Fred tightened his grip on her shoulder, teasingly adding, “Ranged and melee combat, both covered!
Little Evie, just how many more tricks do you have up your sleeve?”
Evelyn extracted herself from between the two of them and dusted off her robes.
“Trade…”
“…secret.
Yeah, we know,” Fred and George finished in unison.
The twins exchanged a look and burst out laughing together.
Fred hefted his bat onto his shoulder.
“Once detention is over, hook us up with your slingshot supplier, and we can talk cut of the profits.”
George produced a crumpled Chocolate Frog from his pocket and opened it before Evelyn.
“Have a bite to recharge.
You’ve burned plenty of energy today.”
Evelyn took the Chocolate Frog and took a bite.
The frog twitched twice, failing to escape.
Hermione squeezed her way out of the crowd, bits of grass clinging to her forehead, still clutching her stack of books.
She paused, her gaze sweeping over the way Fred and George were sandwiching Evelyn.
Hermione: (ꐦ→_→)
“You three, step apart!
Standing so close in the corridors will get your names reported by Filch.”
“This is the pitch, Hermione,” Fred argued.
“I don’t care if it’s the pitch or not!
Evelyn’s already caused enough trouble for one day!”
Hermione took Evelyn by the sleeve and led her off toward the castle.
After ten paces, she suddenly dropped her voice.
“About Quirrell…
are you planning to tell Dumbledore?”
“Tell him what?”
“That Quirrell was using a hex on Harry’s broom.”
“No proof.
I can’t even explain the trajectory of that Stink Bomb.”
“So you’re just going to leave it at that?”
Evelyn chewed on the hind leg of the Chocolate Frog, her eyes scanning over Hermione’s shoulder toward the castle entrance.
Snape’s dark silhouette was just disappearing into the shadows.
The system interface flashed in the bottom-right corner of her vision, a line of preview text floating into view:
[Foreshadowing Marker: When Professor Quirrell’s head was hit by the Stink Bomb, his turban slipped three inches.
An abnormal magic source was detected at the back of the target’s skull.]
Evelyn swallowed the last bite of chocolate and crumpled the wrapper into a ball, shoving it into her pocket.
“Hermione, did you happen to notice Quirrell’s turban?”
“What about it?”
“When he got hit earlier, it slipped down a bit.”
Evelyn licked the lingering chocolate off the corner of her lips, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“Why do you think a magic teacher wouldn’t take off his turban even when he sleeps?”
Hermione’s footsteps abruptly came to a dead halt.