Chapter 42: Dumbledore's

When the match began, Harry soared leisurely on his broomstick, scanning the sky for any sign of the Golden Snitch.

"Stay on the side," Wood urged, leaning close to him. "Wait until you see the Snitch, then jump in. We don't want you to get targeted too early."

"Alright, Captain," Harry nodded in agreement.

"Brilliant! Gryffindor's Chaser Angelina Johnson leaps into action, snatching the Quaffle with a deft maneuver!" the commentator, Lee Jordan, exclaimed. "She's spinning in a spectacular spiral to evade the defenders—and she's left them all in the dust! Oh, look at that! A Slytherin player is desperately grabbing at her robes, but it’s no use—Gryffindor scores! Ten points!"

Cheers erupted from three houses in the stands, mixed with the frustrated roars of the Slytherins.

After Gryffindor’s first score, Slytherin launched a fierce counterattack.

However, Gryffindor's Keeper, Oliver Wood, was so exceptional that the Slytherins found it impossible to get the Quaffle past him and into any of the goals.

"Here comes Gryffindor on the offensive again! What a play by Alicia Spinnet, a talent scouted by Oliver Wood himself!" Lee Jordan rattled off breathlessly. "She was only a reserve player last year—oh no! Slytherin's Captain, Marcus Flint, intercepts the Quaffle! Let’s see how Gryffindor counters—wait, wow! That steal by Alicia is just as impressive!"

"Oh, but what’s this? Alicia’s pass is intercepted by a Slytherin player—Merlin’s beard, Gryffindor seemed ready to give up when, lo and behold, a miraculous deflection sends the ball bouncing off Angelina’s... uh... robust chest muscles, straight into the goal! Another ten points for Gryffindor!"

Lee barely finished his commentary before Professor McGonagall smacked him on the back of the head.

"Stick to calling the game!" she scolded, her glare sharp.

Lee muttered an apology and continued, but his enthusiasm seemed somewhat subdued.

As Gryffindor mounted another offensive, Harry, observing from above, suddenly heard Wood shouting in alarm.

"Harry! No!"

Harry quickly tapped his robes, activating the protective enchantments layered into his Quidditch armor.

Marcus Flint, with a malicious grin, aimed a Bludger straight at Harry, already envisioning the Gryffindor Seeker tumbling from his broomstick.

But to everyone's astonishment, a dull thud echoed in the air as the Bludger ricocheted off Harry, leaving him completely unscathed.

"Harry, are you okay?" Fred immediately flew over, smacking the Bludger hard in Flint’s direction.

"I'm fine," Harry replied calmly, brushing off his robes as if nothing had happened.

Just as he answered, a glint of gold caught his eye.

The Snitch!

Harry leaned forward and accelerated, streaking toward the golden blur.

Slytherin’s Seeker, Terence Higgs, spotted it as well, and the two of them shot off side by side in pursuit of the elusive Snitch. The Chasers, momentarily forgetting their own roles, hovered in place, transfixed by the fierce competition unfolding before them.

Harry’s superior broomstick and skill quickly gave him an edge, putting him two lengths ahead of Higgs.

"Watch out!" Angelina's voice screamed from above.

Harry noticed Marcus Flint charging at him, preparing for a collision. Taking a deep breath, Harry braced himself and subtly angled his elbow to counter with a well-placed jab.

Thud!

Flint yelped in pain as he was sent tumbling through the air like a kite with a snapped string.

Harry glanced back, offering Flint a cheeky grin mid-air.

Ah, the satisfaction.

However, his triumph was short-lived. Harry’s broom suddenly dipped sharply, nearly sending him plummeting to the ground.

What’s going on?

Harry yanked the broomstick back up, narrowly avoiding a crash, only for it to begin violently bucking beneath him as if it had a will of its own.

Someone’s jinxing my broomstick!

Harry instantly suspected foul play. Who could be doing this? He hadn’t made any serious enemies—had he?

Malfoy? No, the little weasel might hate me, but he doesn’t have this kind of skill.

Gripping the broom tightly with one hand, Harry smacked the handle with his other.

"Finite!" he commanded firmly.

The broom steadied momentarily before starting to thrash even more violently.

"Harry! Look at Harry!" Ron yelled in panic from the Gryffindor stands.

Hermione grabbed the binoculars from Neville, peering intently through them.

"This isn’t right," Ron muttered beside her, his voice thick with worry. "With Harry’s flying skills and McGonagall’s gift of a new broom, how could something like this happen?"

"I know!" Hermione snapped, her eyes glued to the scene. "Quiet, Ron! Let me think!"

She instinctively pointed the binoculars toward the staff box—and her suspicions were confirmed.

"I knew it!" Hermione hissed, setting the binoculars down and shoving them into Ron's hands. "Look! It’s Snape! He’s staring straight at Harry, and his lips are moving—he’s cursing the broom!"

"But why?" Ron asked, bewildered. "Wasn’t Snape friends with Harry’s parents? Why would he curse Harry?"

"That doesn’t matter right now!" Hermione exclaimed, glancing back at Harry with mounting concern. "I’ll handle this!"

She hurriedly dashed out of the Gryffindor stands, leaving Ron behind.

Meanwhile, high in the sky, Harry was still wrestling with the rebellious broomstick. His gaze swept over to the staff box, where Dumbledore sat serenely, showing no inclination to intervene.

Seriously? Dumbledore, are you just going to sit there and watch?

Harry muttered an internal complaint, wondering if this was some kind of twisted test from the headmaster.

Instead of landing to escape the danger, Harry resolved to stay airborne, determined to expose whoever was behind the spell.

Activating a farsight charm, Harry’s sharp eyes zeroed in on the staff section—and locked onto Snape, who was staring at him intently, muttering under his breath.

Could it really be him?