Chapter 29 — Harry in Danger!
Dracula furrowed his brow, eyes fixed on Quirrell, who showed no sign of unusual behavior.
He couldn't make sense of it. Based on Quirrell's previous actions, it was almost certain that he was under Voldemort's control. Yet the person trying to endanger Harry during the Quidditch match was not Quirrell.
Could the Dark Lord, even in his weakened state, still have the power to control more than one wizard to infiltrate Hogwarts?
Dracula quickly scanned the entire Quidditch pitch and soon spotted another individual acting strangely—
Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin!
Snape was standing in the middle of one of the stands, his eyes fixed on Harry as he muttered incantations under his breath.
But Dracula could tell at a glance that Snape was not the one cursing Harry's broom.
Although his eyes radiated obvious disdain for Harry, his face also betrayed a deep, inescapable worry—a complex mixture of emotions.
"How interesting… Snape is casting a counter-curse to save the student he despises most," Dracula said with a faint smirk.
Seeing the counter-curse's effect was holding—at least for the moment—preventing Harry from falling, Dracula became genuinely interested. He continued observing Snape, appreciating the subtle conflict of disgust and concern on his face.
While Dracula could discern Snape's true intention, the other students lacked such insight.
Hermione, sharp and perceptive, quickly noticed Snape muttering under his breath and mistakenly assumed he was the villain cursing Harry.
Without hesitation, she ran down from the stands, heading swiftly toward the stand where Snape was positioned.
Navigating through the crowd, she reached Snape's stand, rushing along the row behind him. In the process, she accidentally bumped into Professor Quirrell, who had been watching the commotion, sending him tumbling forward into the next row.
"W-what's the rush, Miss Granger?" Quirrell stammered, turning back.
"Sorry, Professor Quirrell, but I really don't have time to explain!" Hermione said in passing, without slowing her pace. She pressed on, finally reaching Snape.
With everyone's attention focused on Harry's struggle with his broom, she crouched discreetly, drew her wand, and whispered a few spells she had learned on her own.
A bright blue flame burst from her wand, latching onto the hem of Snape's robes.
Hermione believed this was the most suitable spell for the current situation.
The blue Campanula flame wasn't dangerous like real fire. It could be touched and passed through harmlessly, without causing burns, yet it could singe fabrics, plants, or other materials. Importantly, it could be recalled at any time, making it unlikely Snape would notice.
About thirty seconds later, Snape finally realized that his robes were aflame. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from Harry for a brief moment.
Seizing the opportunity, Hermione quickly drew the blue flames back into her pocket and hurried along the row of seats, confident Snape would never discover what had happened.
But precisely at the moment Snape diverted his attention, the counter-curse that had been sustaining Harry's broom ceased. The brand-new Firebolt 2000 went completely out of control, hurling Harry off the broom!
The crowd leapt to their feet, shocked as Harry plummeted rapidly.
Hermione covered her mouth in horror, her eyes darting to Snape. She saw a look on his face she had never witnessed before—a pure panic.
Snape frantically drew his wand from his sleeve, attempting to cast a slowing charm to save Harry. At the same time, Professor McGonagall also raised her wand, uttering the incantation—
"Arresto Momentum!"
The next moment, both professors were stunned.
Their slowing charms had failed!
With the skill level of Snape and McGonagall, they hadn't encountered a spell failure in years. Yet now, at the critical moment when Harry was about to crash, their spells had suddenly ceased to work. It was a matter of life and death for the young Seeker!
Harry in danger!
Meanwhile, the Gryffindor Beaters—the Weasley twins—were desperately trying to save Harry.
As soon as Harry's broom started acting up, they had attempted to get him onto one of their own brooms, but failed. Each time they approached, the broom would rocket even higher.
After repeated failed attempts, they abandoned concerns about the Quidditch match or their bets with Slytherin and flew madly toward the stand with the conspicuous black parasol.
"Professor! You can save Harry! We know you can!"
"Yes, you're Harry's favorite professor! Don't disappoint him!"
They shouted anxiously as they reached Dracula's stand. Under the parasol, Cedric also looked on expectantly.
"Do you really think I would stand by and watch someone die?" Dracula said with a light laugh.
Seeing the smile on his face, the three young wizards unconsciously relaxed.
Fixing his gaze on Harry, still plummeting, Dracula glanced at the two professors whose spells had failed, then snapped his fingers.
A massive bat—the same kind that had snatched Cedric—fluttered from beneath the parasol and, in a few wingbeats, positioned itself under Harry.
The bat deftly caught Harry as he fell, gliding along a smooth arc and placing him safely on the soft grass of the Quidditch pitch.
Above, Madam Hooch rode her broom and retrieved Harry's Firebolt 2000 before it hit the ground, preparing to thoroughly inspect it.
"Are you alright, Harry?" she asked, concerned as Harry covered his mouth, looking nauseated. "Oh, poor boy… first match and already this happens."
"Don't worry, child. Any points the Slytherin team scored while your broom misbehaved won't count. You can have another chance next time."
Madam Hooch raised her wand to her throat, projecting her voice across the entire pitch—
"I declare today's match—"
"Wait, Madam Hooch!"
Harry finally spat out what was in his mouth, interrupting her announcement just in time.
"I caught the Golden Snitch!" he shouted, raising it high above his head.
The match ended amidst cheers from Gryffindor and protests from Slytherin. After the referees' verification, Gryffindor was declared the victor!
…
In the chaos, unseen by anyone, a young wizard with black hair and a handsome yet sinister face quietly slipped away from the Quidditch pitch.
He held a blank diary in his hands, the two inked words on its page gradually fading—
"Finite Incantatem."