The Quidditch Match Begins
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Sargeras glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall, then took out his pocket watch to double-check the time. Satisfied, he reached for his coat and stepped out of the office.
The Hogwarts Inter-House Quidditch Cup was about to begin, and the students were buzzing with excitement, more eager than he had ever seen them. As for him, he would be leaving Hogwarts for a while starting tomorrow morning.
But before that, he still needed to attend the first match over at the Quidditch pitch, and then pay a routine visit to the headmaster's office for his scheduled conversation with Dumbledore.
To be perfectly honest, he wasn't particularly interested in the upcoming match. Professor McGonagall had gone out of her way to personally invite him, so he agreed to show up, but Sargeras had already made up his mind—if time got tight, he'd simply leave midway through.
Taking his place in the faculty box, Sargeras cast a glance around the stands. It seemed that, aside from Professor Kettleburn, who taught Care of Magical Creatures, every other teacher had shown up without exception.
Naturally, Dumbledore wasn't here either, but Sargeras figured the headmaster was probably watching everything unfold through his magic mirror from the comfort of his office…
Settling into a seat in the very last row, Sargeras let his mind drift freely. Today's match was Gryffindor versus Slytherin, and officiating it was Madam Hooch, who had played Quidditch professionally for a brief time in her youth.
McGonagall, on the other hand, was different. Back when she was still a student, she had been Gryffindor's Seeker—and quite a remarkable one at that. There was even a trophy engraved with her name still sitting in the awards display case. Still, she had never gone on to pursue a professional Quidditch career.
Before he knew it, the match had already begun. Sargeras lounged idly in his seat. Gryffindor definitely had a shot at the championship this year, but it was just that—a shot. The Slytherin team's style of play was, as always, far from sportsmanlike. Barely a few minutes had passed, and they had already committed several fouls.
At this point, the Golden Snitch had not appeared yet, so Gryffindor's Seeker, Harry Potter, had not had a chance to do much of anything.
The scoreboard quickly climbed to 10–40, and the energy in the stadium was growing more intense by the second.
Then suddenly, Harry, who had been gliding aimlessly around the edge of the Quidditch pitch, dove without warning. He shot downward in a steep dive, clearly having spotted the Golden Snitch.
In that moment, nearly all the Chasers on the field froze in place, forgetting they were in the middle of a match.
The audience collectively held its breath. For an instant, the enormous stadium fell utterly silent.
"BANG~!"
A sharp, explosive crash echoed through the air.
A chorus of furious shouting erupted in the next second—Slytherin's captain, Marcus, had flown his broom straight into Harry.
Harry's small frame spun violently through the air, tumbling several times before he finally managed to steady his broomstick. But by the time he regained control, the Golden Snitch had vanished once again.
The Gryffindor players glared furiously at Marcus, their eyes filled with outrage. Up in the stands, the spectators erupted into protests against Slytherin's blatant foul play. Amid the uproar, Madam Hooch blew her whistle sharply and awarded Gryffindor a penalty shot…
So far, everything still seemed relatively normal.
But then, something strange began to unfold on the pitch.
Harry Potter began trembling violently in midair. His broomstick would suddenly drop in a sharp vertical dive, only to lurch back up, swaying dangerously as if it were bucking beneath him. Each movement was jerky and unsteady, accompanied by shuddering jolts that made it look like he was moments away from being thrown off entirely.
It looked like he had lost control of his broomstick.
Everyone in the stands had noticed the sudden shift. Some of the younger wizards started whispering among themselves, guessing that Marcus's earlier hit might have damaged Harry's broomstick.
Sargeras, meanwhile, rested his fingertips lightly on the hidden pocket where his wand was tucked. Almost instantly, he sensed something was wrong.
From his seat among the professors, he saw two twisting, tangled trails of magical energy rising like smoke through the air.
One of them originated just ahead of him—to the left, where Snape was sitting.
The other came from slightly to his right, not far away—from Quirrell.
Sargeras didn't interfere. He didn't break their spells. He wanted to see what exactly they were trying to do. True, it was a little risky for Harry, but so far, everything was still within his control.
In Sargeras' eyes, even though this was a Gryffindor versus Slytherin match, Snape would never stoop so low as to attack a student during an Inter-House Cup game. He might be biased, but he wasn't a madman.
Quirrell, on the other hand—ever since returning to Hogwarts, his behavior had been nothing short of suspicious. Especially after that bizarre troll incident on Halloween, the man wrapped in a scarf and teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts had grown increasingly strange.
He would suddenly bump into students in the corridors, leave strange herbal residue on the chalkboard whenever he taught, and there were even rumors in the school that he murmured to himself in front of mirrors at midnight.
All of this, combined with certain theories Sargeras had been developing, pointed toward a single conclusion.
First of all, Quirrell's bizarre behavior was already telling enough. And Dumbledore, as one of the most powerful wizards in the magical world, surely noticed it too. Sargeras suspected that the old headmaster's silence was no accident—he was probably also waiting to see exactly what Quirrell was planning to do.
After all, anyone who could warrant such quiet scrutiny from Dumbledore clearly wasn't just Quirrell himself. That strange, stammering professor had to be hiding something—something far more terrifying beneath the surface.
The answer, it seemed, was almost self-evident. Perhaps, just as Sargeras had begun to suspect… Voldemort wasn't dead.
The Dark Lord who had vanished more than ten years ago might be making a comeback, and Quirrell… Quirrell was just his puppet, sent to test Hogwarts from within.
Sargeras believed his theory was close to the truth. But even so, there were still many questions.
From what he'd observed, Quirrell's behavior since arriving at Hogwarts was deeply suspicious—but also clumsy. His disguise had been utterly ineffective, his performance almost laughably bad.
If he had truly been sent by Voldemort to carry out some covert mission, then he should have kept a low profile, stayed hidden in the shadows.
After all, a real serpent always coils itself in secret, waiting for the right moment to strike…not flaunting its presence for all to see. And yet Quirrell had done exactly that.
Especially this time. Casting a spell on Harry in front of the entire school? Even if Snape hadn't tried to interfere, how much harm could he really have done with so many professors watching?
So then… what exactly was the point of it all?
Was he just trying to make himself noticed?
Was he… asking for help?
A flash of lightning shot through Sargeras's mind.
Yes. That was it. He was trying to be seen!
All of a sudden, a new idea struck him. What if everything Quirrell had done… wasn't because Voldemort had ordered it? What if it had all been his own choice?
The more he thought about it, the clearer it became. Sargeras retraced Quirrell's trail of erratic behavior and realized—maybe the man hadn't been trying to cause harm at all. Maybe all he'd wanted was to desperately draw attention to himself.
Like a hostage, forced into silence, doing everything he could to scream for help without saying a word.
The moment that thought formed, Sargeras' eyes snapped back to Harry, who looked like he was about to be thrown from his broom. Without hesitation, he drew his wand and traced a swift line through the air.
"Finite Incantatem."
He murmured the words softly.
And at last, high above the pitch, Harry finally managed to regain control. His broomstick stopped bucking—settling beneath him like a "tamed" beast…
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Down beneath the professors' viewing platform, Hermione stared at her wand in stunned silence. Just moments ago, she had lit Snape's robes on fire, only for the flames to suddenly go Nox.
At that very same moment, a collective gasp swept through the stands. Hermione peeked through a gap and finally saw that Harry had regained control of his broomstick—and was once again chasing after the Golden Snitch.
A breath of relief escaped her lips.
The only reason she had rushed over here in the first place was because, when Harry's broom had started acting up, she had spotted Snape through her binoculars… muttering incantations while staring straight at Harry.
She had read about that kind of sustained dark magic in a book once. The caster had to keep their eyes locked on the target while continuously reciting the spell under their breath. And Snape's actions had matched that description perfectly. She had seen it all, clear as day, through the brass binoculars. Not even Dumbledore could convince her otherwise.
So once she realized the real reason behind Harry's broomstick going haywire, the little Gryffindor's courage kicked in. After a quick explanation, she shoved the binoculars into Ron's hands and immediately dashed off toward the professors' stand to cause a distraction.
Honestly, if Sargeras hadn't cast that counter-spell first, she probably would've succeeded.
Still looking confused, Hermione had just returned to her seat when an excited Ron grabbed her arm, bursting into a vivid retelling of everything he had just seen through the binoculars.
Only then did she learn what had really happened. Just before Harry's broomstick returned to normal—right around the time she had set Snape's robes alight—Professor Greengrass had drawn his wand and traced it through the air toward Harry, who had been flailing helplessly in the sky. And right after that, everything had calmed down again.
No wonder she had vaguely heard someone casting a spell while she was below the stands. Thinking back, that voice had definitely belonged to Professor Greengrass.
"Finite Incantatem."That had to be the incantation. It sounded a lot like "Finite," but more formal. Once the match was over, she would have to look it up in the Hogwarts library…
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What Sargeras didn't realize was that their confrontation on the stands hadn't gone unnoticed.
The moment Quirrell's spell was interrupted, he had fled in a panic. Snape, too, had hurried off right behind him.
And as Harry Potter finally broke free and soared through the air to catch the Snitch, Sargeras rose from his seat, brushed the dust from his robes, and walked away from the pitch—his figure retreating quietly behind the roar of Gryffindor's victory.
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