Dracula frowned, his gaze fixed on Quirrell, who showed absolutely no sign of anything unusual.
He could not understand it. Based on Quirrell's previous behaviour, it was almost certain that he was being controlled by Voldemort.
But the person who wanted to kill Harry during this Quidditch match was definitely not Quirrell.
Could it be that the Dark Lord—Whose-Name-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned—even in his weakened state, still had the ability to control more than one wizard to infiltrate Hogwarts Castle?
Dracula quickly scanned the entire Quidditch pitch and soon discovered another person acting strangely—
Severus Snape, the Head of Slytherin House!
At this moment, Snape was standing in the middle of one of the stands, his dark eyes fixed intently on Harry, muttering silently under his breath.
But Dracula could tell, with certainty, that Snape was clearly not the one casting the curse on Harry's broom.
Although his eyes were full of a deep-seated disgust for Harry, his face also showed an unresolved anxiety and worry—a complex, almost tortured expression.
'This is interesting. Snape is actually chanting a counter-curse to save his most hated student,' Dracula said, a smirk forming on his lips as he observed the unfolding drama.
Seeing that Snape's counter-curse was having a significant effect, preventing Harry from falling for the time being, Dracula began to observe Snape with great interest, appreciating the fascinating conflict playing out on the Potions Master's face—disgust mixed with undeniable concern.
Although Dracula could see Snape's intentions, the other young wizards did not have his insight.
Harry's good friend, Hermione, was very clever. She quickly noticed Snape's muttering and, lacking the full picture, concluded that he was the bad guy casting a curse on Harry.
So, she decisively ran down the stands, hurrying towards the section where Snape was positioned.
Hermione struggled through the excited crowd and finally arrived at the stand where Snape was. She walked quickly along the row of seats behind him, even accidentally bumping into Professor Quirrell, who was watching the excitement with apparent glee, causing him to stumble headfirst into the seats in front.
'W-Why are you in such a rush, Miss Granger?' Quirrell turned around and stammered, regaining his balance.
'Sorry, Professor Quirrell, but I really do not have time to explain now!'
After a quick, breathless apology, Hermione's pace did not slow at all. She finally reached Snape with great difficulty.
Taking advantage of the fact that everyone's attention was focused on Harry, who was still struggling with the bucking broom, she squatted down in the chaos, pulled out her wand, and whispered a few spells that she had taught herself in her spare time—spells she was rather proud of.
Then, bright blue flames sprang from her wand, rushing silently towards the hem of Snape's black robes.
Hermione believed that this was the most appropriate spell for the current situation.
These bluebell flames were not as dangerous as real fire; they could be touched, even passed through, and would not cause burns. However, they could burn materials such as clothing and plants. Therefore, this kind of flame would not harm innocent students and could be retrieved at any time, making it difficult for Snape—absorbed as he was—to detect.
After about 30 seconds, Snape, who was intensely focused on chanting his counter-curse, realised that he was on fire. He was forced to take his eyes off Harry for a crucial moment.
At the same time, Hermione quickly gathered the bluebell flames from his robes, tucking them safely back into her pocket. She then hurried back along the row of seats—she was sure that Snape would never know what had happened.
But it was precisely in that instant when Snape withdrew his gaze that the counter-curse he was maintaining stopped working.
The brand-new Nimbus 2000 completely lost control. It gave one violent lurch and abruptly threw Harry off the broom!
The entire audience stood up as one, watching in horrified shock as Harry fell rapidly from the sky.
Hermione covered her mouth in surprise, her eyes wide with a dawning terror. She looked at Snape in front of her and saw an expression of pure panic on his face—an expression that had never, ever appeared on Snape's face before.
Snape frantically took out his wand from his sleeve, desperately wanting to use a slowing spell to save Harry.
On the other side of the pitch, Professor McGonagall also timely stretched out her wand and uttered the incantation for the slowing spell—
'Arresto Momentum!'
The next moment, both professors were greatly surprised.
Their slowing spells had failed!
With the spellcasting level of Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall, they had not encountered a situation where a spell failed for many, many years.
Now, in this urgent, life-or-death situation where Harry was about to hit the ground, the slowing spells cast by the 2 experienced professors suddenly lost their effect. This was undoubtedly a dire test for the young saviour!
Harry was in terrible danger!
On the other side, the Gryffindor Beaters, the Weasley twins, were desperately trying to save Harry.
As early as when Harry's broom had begun to malfunction, the 2 of them had tried to pull Harry onto one of their own brooms. But they were unsuccessful—every time they approached him, the bewitched flying broom would instantly dart even higher, out of their reach.
After this failure, they completely ignored the outcome of the Quidditch match and their bet with Slytherin. They flew frantically towards the conspicuous black umbrella on the stands where Dracula was observing.
'Professor, can you save Harry? I know you can!'
'Yes, you are Harry's most admired professor! Please do not let him down, Professor!'
The 2 of them flew right up to the stand where Dracula was and shouted anxiously, their voices laced with genuine fear.
Cedric, still under the umbrella, also looked at Dracula expectantly, his earlier light-hearted chat forgotten.
'What? In your hearts, am I the kind of person who would stand by and watch someone die?' Dracula said with a slow, deliberate chuckle, his eyes glinting.
Seeing the almost imperceptible smile on his face, the 3 young wizards subconsciously breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Watching Harry, who was still falling rapidly towards the hard ground, Dracula glanced at Professor McGonagall and Snape—who were now looking utterly aghast as their spells had failed—and then he simply snapped his fingers.
A large, shadowy bat—the same kind that had "escorted" Cedric earlier—flapped its wings from under the parasol and flew out with incredible speed. It flashed a few times through the air before positioning itself directly below the plummeting Harry.
The large bat gently caught Harry's falling body, smoothly drawing an arc downwards. It then carefully placed Harry on the soft, grassy Quidditch pitch.
In the sky, Madam Hooch also rode her broom and expertly retrieved Harry's Nimbus 2000 before it could crash to the ground.
She landed on the ground, preparing to take it back for a thorough inspection.
'Are you alright, Harry?' Madam Hooch looked at Harry, who was covering his mouth and looked like he was about to be very sick. She said with a worried expression, 'Oh, poor child! Encountering such a thing the first time you play!'
'Do not worry, child. The goals scored by the Slytherin team while your broom was having problems will not count. You can play another match next time.'
As she spoke, Madam Hooch pointed her wand at her throat, broadcasting the referee's voice throughout the entire stadium—
'I declare that today's game is…'
'Wait, Madam Hooch!'
Harry finally managed to spit out what was in his mouth, interrupting Madam Hooch's announcement just in time.
'I caught the Snitch!' he shouted, waving the small, golden ball high above his head.
The game ended amidst the deafening cheers of Gryffindor and the furious protests of Slytherin. After the referee's official approval, Gryffindor won the final victory!
In the midst of the chaos and celebration, in a corner where no one was watching, a young wizard with black hair, a handsome but decidedly gloomy face, quietly left the Quidditch pitch.
In his hand was a blank diary. As he walked, 2 ink-written words on the book gradually faded away, as if they had never been there at all—
'Finite Incantatem.'
***********
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