30: Chapter 30 The Eve of Harry's First Quidditch Match

November at Hogwarts was biting cold.

The reflection of the Black Lake pressed down on the ceiling of the Slytherin Common Room, green light flickering about; even the fireplace couldn't save the Dungeon from the dampness.

After dinner, Draco mentioned Harry for the seventh time.

"The youngest Seeker," he enunciated the words heavily. "Professor McGonagall took him away personally and even gifted him a Nimbus 2000. School rules state first-years can't have broomsticks; does she think that rule is just for decoration on the wall?"

Crabbe looked up. "Is a Nimbus 2000 expensive?"

Draco glanced at him. "Very."

Goyle asked seriously, "How many pies can it buy?"

Draco closed the book in his hands.

"Can you two please move your brains out of the kitchen?"

Crabbe thought about it. "Move them where?"

Allen leaned back in an armchair in the corner, with "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1" spread across his lap, the pages stuck on the same spot for a long time.

He was sleepy.

But he hadn't fallen asleep.

Tomorrow was the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Originally, this was just an inter-house match. For Draco, it was a stage for Harry to show off; for Flint, it was a chance to save face; for most students, it was a rare bit of weekend excitement.

For Allen, it was different.

This would be Quirrell's first time making a move in front of the whole school.

Harry's broom would go out of control.

Snape would recite a counter-curse.

Hermione would set the wrong person on fire.

While everyone was staring at the Golden Snitch in the sky, the truly valuable things would be in the stands.

Allen turned a page.

Draco was still ranting.

"Are all the Potters this good at causing trouble? One gets into Gryffindor as a Seeker, the other sits here sleeping."

Allen looked up. "You could just insult one."

Draco huffed. "You clearly know how to fly too."

"I don't."

"During Flying Class, your broom rose too steadily." Draco lowered his voice. "You can fool Madam Hooch, but you can't fool me."

Allen flattened the page. "I was only two feet off the ground."

"Two feet is still better than Goyle."

Goyle objected. "I was three feet off the ground."

Crabbe added the final blow. "And then you fell off."

Goyle wanted to retort but couldn't find the right words after thinking for a long time.

Draco couldn't be bothered with them and sat down opposite Allen.

"Slytherin will win tomorrow. Flint said they've prepared a strategy."

"Flint's strategy?"

"What's that look for?"

"No expression."

Draco was choked up.

Flint hadn't had an easy time lately. Snape's detention hadn't completely ended, and there was resentment within the Quidditch team toward him. It was hard for teammates to trust a captain who spent his energy counting slug slime before a match.

However, Harry's side wasn't exactly united either.

A first-year, his first official match, wearing the halo of The Chosen One, with the expectations of the whole school on him. Any ordinary kid would have sweaty palms by now.

But Harry wasn't an ordinary kid.

Trouble loved to chase him, and he always managed to survive it.

Allen didn't dislike that about him.

When someone stands in the front line to draw fire, the people in the back can watch the show in peace.

Zabini passed by the fireplace, heard a few words, and stopped.

"Malfoy, you've mentioned Harry Potter twenty-three times tonight."

Draco frowned. "Why are you counting that?"

"It's too noisy, I just noted it."

Pansy laughed out loud nearby.

Draco couldn't hold his face. "I'm analyzing the opponent."

Zabini looked at Allen. "What do you think?"

Allen closed his book. "He's jealous."

Crabbe nodded. "Sounds like it."

Goyle added, "He's been ranting for a long time."

Draco glared at the three of them, finally taking his anger out on Harry.

"Wait until Flint knocks him off his broom tomorrow; let's see how he plays the hero then."

Allen said, "Don't let Flint do anything reckless."

Draco was stunned. "Why?"

"If Harry falls to his death, Dumbledore will investigate every blade of grass."

The Common Room went quiet for a beat.

The words were too realistic; no one could respond lightly.

Draco frowned. "Flint isn't that stupid."

Allen looked at him.

Draco was silent for a moment, then changed his tone. "I'll go warn him."

"Don't say I said it."

"Of course I won't." Draco stood up, walked two steps, then turned back. "You're going to watch the match tomorrow, right?"

"Yes."

"I thought you didn't like crowds?"

"Watching Slytherin win or lose doesn't count as a crowd."

Draco found that pleasing to hear, and his expression improved quite a bit.

After he left with Crabbe and Goyle, Zabini didn't leave.

"Do you really care about the house's victory or defeat?"

Allen packed his book into his bag. "House points and the Quidditch Cup can make many people shut up, and can also make many people speak."

Zabini smiled. "You always talk like you're balancing accounts."

"Balance the accounts, lose less money."

Zabini didn't ask again and turned to leave.

Low murmurs returned to the Common Room. Some were betting on Slytherin to win, some on Harry catching the Golden Snitch, and others only cared about whether they could bring snacks into the stands tomorrow.

Allen stood up and headed back to the dormitory.

Draco hadn't returned yet, but Crabbe and Goyle had already started rummaging through their snack stash. By the bed were piles of Chocolate Frogs, Liquorice Wands, and a bag of pumpkin pasties.

"Are you planning to watch the match or have a picnic?" Allen asked.

Crabbe answered seriously. "Both."

Goyle stuffed a pasty inside his robe. "Watching the match makes you hungry."

Allen didn't comment further.

He pulled the bed curtains shut, raised his hand, and opened a narrow entrance to his Portable Space.

His blackthorn wand, the cracked pocket watch, and the Void were all inside.

The Void was coiled on the stone slab, its silver vertical pupils lifting, its tail pressing down on a knut. It was becoming increasingly sensitive to spatial fluctuations in Hogwarts, especially when near the higher parts of the Castle and the Professor's seating area; its reactions were becoming very fast.

It would come in handy tomorrow.

Allen took out a piece of parchment and wrote down a few names.

Quirrell.

Snape.

Dumbledore.

Harry.

Hermione.

He drew a circle after Quirrell.

That stuttering Professor played the part of a coward perfectly, even sweating when pressed by students in class. But Allen had seen the aura of Dark Arts on him at the Leaky Cauldron.

Lord Voldemort was right there on him.

A remnant soul, a parasite, a madman desperate to get the Philosopher's Stone.

Tomorrow's match wasn't an assassination, but more of a probe.

Lord Voldemort needed to confirm how much of Harry's protection remained, and Quirrell needed to find an opportunity to weaken him. Snape would step in to protect Harry, but outsiders would easily misjudge the situation.

That was also the interesting part.

The whole school would see the suspect as the protector and the protector as the murderer.

The Gryffindor trio would rush forward as they were destined to, and Dumbledore would watch from above as the children hit the finish line themselves. The wizarding world always liked to mix education and selection, calling it "growth."

Allen didn't plan to comment.

He only needed to see clearly who was chanting, who was saving, and who was playing dumb.

The door opened.

Draco returned, his expression worse than before.

"Flint said I don't need to remind him."

Allen put away the parchment. "And then?"

"Then I told him that if he lets Harry fall to his death, the Board of Governors will hold the Quidditch captain accountable first."

"Did he listen?"

"He cursed a couple of times but didn't refute it."

"That's enough."

Draco sat on the edge of the bed, feeling more and more unhappy the more he thought about it.

"Tell me, what does Harry have? He just started school. He shows off once in Flying Class, and he gets a Nimbus 2000 and makes the team. We've been practicing flying since we were kids, but we have to follow the rules."

Allen looked at the dark patterns on the bed curtains.

"Because he is Harry Potter."

Draco's expression became even uglier.

The answer was unpleasant, but accurate.

"Then what about you?" Draco asked. "You're a Potter too."

"I don't want that kind of treatment."

"Why?"

"It's too bright."

Draco didn't understand everything, but he understood part of it.

When Harry stands in the spotlight, everyone looks at him. Professors, students, newspapers, enemies.

It's not just honor.

It's also a target.

Draco was silent for a few seconds, then whispered, "I'll keep an eye on Harry tomorrow."

Allen closed his eyes. "Watching the pitch is useless."

"Then where should I watch?"

"The stands."

Draco was stunned.

Allen didn't explain.

If he explained too much, Draco would easily overthink and do something stupid. As long as he didn't go looking for trouble with Harry tomorrow and didn't let Flint make things worse, that was enough.

As for the real observation, Allen would do it himself.

Late at night, the dormitory gradually quieted down.

Crabbe was still muttering "pies" in his sleep, and Goyle rolled over, crushing a snack bag and making a crinkling sound. Draco cursed and pulled the bed curtains tight.

Allen didn't sleep for long.

He rearranged the ten knuts in his Portable Space, practiced point-to-point transfer for half an hour, and tested short-range Spatial Displacement three times. The stands would be crowded tomorrow with chaotic magical fluctuations, so he couldn't use anything too conspicuous.

As long as he sat in the corner and used the Void's warning to lock onto the two sources of chanting.

That would be enough.

The cracked pocket watch lay in the ebony box, its blue light weaker than in previous days. Allen glanced at it but didn't touch it.

Things related to time could wait for later.

Tomorrow, he would watch a play first.

A play that only a few people could understand.