The Great Hall's uproar faded, replaced by the persistent, echoing noise of triumph. Following the incident in the corridor, Harry and his friends were suddenly the most celebrated people in Hogwarts.
Every day was a gauntlet of enthusiastic, congratulatory whispers, back-pats, and wide-eyed admiration. Every corner turned brought a chorus of "Well done, Potter!" and admiring thumbs-up gestures from students of all houses.
Ron Weasley, predictably, thrived in the sudden spotlight. His head was held high, his gait was a buoyant, self-important strut, and he recounted the troll-slaying incident with tireless, hyperbolic detail, emphasizing his tactical support and fierce courage. He had finally found a heroism that wasn't borrowed from his older brothers.
Hermione Granger, however, found the attention detrimental to her studies. The endless chatter and the requests for her detailed, firsthand account were a chaotic disruption to her meticulously structured life.
Even the sanctity of the library offered no refuge; her enthusiastic classmates sought her out among the towering stacks. Desperate for academic silence, she resorted to the extreme: gathering her entire collection of textbooks and hiding herself deep within the Gryffindor common room—tucked away behind the privacy curtains of a four-poster bed—where she could study undisturbed.
Harry, while grateful for the solid, unbreakable bond of friendship now shared between the three of them, felt an awkward, lingering discomfort with the praise, especially the sheer, wide-eyed adoration of the younger students. The praise felt fundamentally undeserved.
We didn't beat the troll.
As the initial adrenaline faded, the memory of the encounter sharpened, and Harry realized the incredible precision of his near-misses. The troll's wooden club, which should have crushed him instantly, had been strangely clumsy, missing his head by millimeters. And the final defeat—a slick block of ice appearing exactly where the troll was about to step—was undeniably external.
He didn't need to ask. He knew Sebastian had been manipulating the environment, secretly shielding them and then ending the battle with a simple, perfectly timed trip hazard.
Harry kept this realization silent, a private measure of his professor's chilling efficiency and subtle protective nature. The only thing that mattered was the genuine, fierce loyalty he, Ron, and Hermione now felt for one another.
Harry's philosophical musings were cut short by the sudden, intense reality of Quidditch season.
November brought crisp air, high winds, and the opening match of the Hogwarts House Cup. But this year, the competition was overshadowed by a monumental change to the centuries-old rules—a change spearheaded by pressure from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, likely fueled by Sebastian's earlier advocacy for team play.
The Seeker—the position of glory and glamour—had received an epic nerf. The capture of the Golden Snitch no longer ended the game with an automatic 150-point victory. Now, catching the Snitch was worth only 50 points.
This single alteration fundamentally shifted the nature of the sport. Quidditch was no longer a glorified chase; it was now a tactical, sustained battle of Chasers and Beaters. Team strength, score management, and defensive prowess were paramount.
Angelina Johnson, the Gryffindor Captain, was teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. She was an intense, driven leader, and the rule change had thrown her existing strategy into chaos. Her anxiety was further compounded by the reduced strength of her veterans; the Weasley twins, Fred and George, were now essential to the team's offense, but the loss of team cohesion was palpable.
Her only mitigating factor was Harry Potter. Professor McGonagall, recognizing Harry's unprecedented flying skills from his very first lesson, had circumvented the usual waiting period and secured him a spot as Gryffindor's new, extremely young Seeker.
Angelina poured all her anxiety into Harry's training, driving him mercilessly during practice sessions, desperately hoping his natural talent would compensate for the necessary shift in focus away from the Snitch.
On the morning of the Gryffindor versus Slytherin match, Harry sat at the breakfast table, his stomach a tight knot of nerves. He could barely swallow a sip of juice.
Hermione leaned forward, her voice low with concern. "Harry, you must eat something. You'll be dizzy from hunger flying up there."
Ron, shoveling sausages into his mouth with characteristic gusto, chimed in. "Yeah, Harry! Even if the sky was falling, there'd still be food to eat, so get on with it. Hermione looked up the records—your father was a Seeker, too! It's in your blood. You're going to be brilliant."
"I know, Ron," Harry sighed, pushing his plate away, his anxiety shifting into a melancholic focus. "I saw the record. But I noticed something: my father never won the House Cup. It makes me wonder…"
He couldn't shake the conflicting stories about his father, James Potter. Hagrid spoke of a great man and a war hero. Sebastian and Mia, however, were always quick to change the subject, preferring to talk about Lily. The school records painted a picture of a talented player who, perhaps, never quite reached ultimate victory.
"Don't dwell on it, Harry," Hermione urged, sensing his shift in mood. "The game is today. You are going to win, regardless of history."
Sebastian sat high in the stands, overlooking the massive, packed stadium. He watched Harry fly with an almost painful grace—light, instinctive, a perfect natural fit for the broom.
He truly is born for this. Next year, he'd be the star of the house team. But this year... this year is still chaos.
Sebastian's internal monologue was a tactical review of the original timeline: Harry always misses the crucial final matches due to outside interference. It's an ongoing jinx. He consciously forced himself to stop planning for futures and focus on the immediate present. He needed to be hyper-vigilant for the catalyst of chaos.
He had taken a very specific position: directly behind Professor Quirrell.
Suddenly, the collective roar of the crowd turned into a confused, horrified groan.
Up in the air, Harry's broomstick, the new Nimbus Two Thousand, began to buck and shake with violent, unpredictable force, threatening to dislodge him into the void.
Hermione was the first to realize the unnatural nature of the event. She grabbed Hagrid's giant binoculars.
"Look! Harry's broom is out of control!" she shrieked.
Hagrid, having prepared meticulously for Harry's debut, peered through his own lens, his face immediately pale. "Merlin's beard! That looks like Dark Magic, lass! Only powerful dark interference can affect a broom like that!"
"Dark magic? But the professors are right there! Who would dare?" Hermione was frantically scanning the staff box. Ron was beside her, his face draining of color.
"Tell me what you see, Hermione! Hurry!" Ron demanded, terrified.
Hermione's focus landed, terrifyingly, on the Potions Master. "It's—it's Professor Snape!" she whispered, her voice choked with disbelief. She watched the professor, seemingly transfixed on Harry, his lips silently forming an intricate, complex curse. It can't be! Harry is his teaching assistant! But… the hate for his father, James… is it that deep?
"I knew it!" Ron roared, leaping to his feet. "Those slimy Slytherins are trying to kill him! We have to find Professor McGonagall!"
Hermione, however, swung the binoculars wider, her academic instinct forcing her to check the counter-narrative. In the opposite section of the stands, she saw Professor Quirrell suddenly clutch his head and tumble to the ground. In that exact moment, Harry's broom stopped shaking.
"Thank goodness, Harry's safe," she breathed, but the moment was laced with deep suspicion. If it was Snape, why did the curse stop when Quirrell fell? And why was Snape there and not casting a counter-spell? Something here is deeply, profoundly wrong.
Sebastian's gaze had been fixed on the back of Quirrell's turban since the match began. He felt the surge of raw magical power—Voldemort's own desperate, focused malice—attempting to seize control of the broom.
Here it is. The nexus of all chaotic stupidity.
Sebastian's hand twitched. He fought the overwhelming urge to simply blast the back of Quirrell's head. That would be a brilliant day's work, but it would ruin the larger, more refined plan. Impatience is the downfall of great ambition.
He settled for an elegant, non-lethal solution.
With a powerful, open-palmed move, he reached out his right hand and slammed it down with exaggerated force onto Quirrell's shoulder.
CLAP!
"Merlin's Beard, Professor!" Sebastian exclaimed with a perfect imitation of startled concern. "Are you quite alright? You look faint!"
Quirrell, who was channeling his power through sheer willpower, was violently dislodged from his focus. He let out a suppressed, strangled noise—half scream, half cough—and collapsed to the ground in an act of panicked preservation.
The surrounding students and staff looked on, confused, as Sebastian smoothly took control. He lifted Quirrell, performing the exaggerated actions of the concerned colleague.
"The poor man is clearly suffering from an overwhelming migraine," Sebastian announced to the bewildered staff. "He needs fresh air. I shall escort him back to his office."
Quirrell tried to resist Sebastian's iron grip several times, but found himself clamped to Sebastian's side, being marched out of the stadium. Sebastian didn't release him until they were inside Quirrell's private, dimly lit office.
Quirrell staggered away, leaning against his desk, breathing heavily.
"That was unnecessary, Professor Swann," Quirrell rasped, his voice thin and shaky. "I assure y-you, I was recovering! You did not need to maul me like a troll!"
Sebastian remained near the door, a chilling smile fixed on his face. He calmly raised his wand and cast the Bubble-Head Charm over his own head. The translucent dome formed, isolating the air surrounding him from the air surrounding Quirrell—and the resident Dark Lord.
"I still feel there is something wrong with you, Professor Quirrell," Sebastian said, his voice now crisp and cold, slightly muffled by the charm but perfectly audible. "I felt a strange disturbance of magic, a very, very old signature, directed at one of my students. A signature that smells strongly of rotting ambition."
He took a slow, deliberate step forward.
"You struggled quite fiercely when I was escorting you, Professor. Was that you struggling, or was that the… parasite that has attached itself to your academic career? I am a master of Alchemical separation, Professor. I can excise even the most deeply rooted tumors."
Quirrell's face, already pale, was slick with nervous sweat. He tried to stammer, but only managed a squeak. "I—I have no idea what you are talking about. You are impertinent."
"On the contrary," Sebastian continued, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper, every word heavy with threat.
"I am being perfectly polite. I am giving you a warning, Professor. Stay out of the affairs of my students. Focus on your syllabus. If I find your… influence… near any first-year again, especially Mr. Potter, I won't tap your shoulder. I will simply remove your head and perform a Dissection Charm on whatever archaic malignancy I find clinging to your spine."
Sebastian turned, his voice regaining its professional dryness.
"Be well, Professor. And try to keep your curses out of sight. It makes the Defense Against the Dark Arts department look woefully uncoordinated."
He dropped the Bubble-Head Charm, turned on his heel, and exited the office, leaving Quirrell—and the entity riding his coattails—utterly paralyzed by the sheer audacity and deadly intent of the young professor. The game, Sebastian knew, was no longer confined to the Quidditch pitch.
With Sebastian now aware of Voldemort's presence and having issued a direct threat, do you think Voldemort will retreat into the shadows, or will this aggressive challenge provoke him into a faster, more reckless confrontation?