31: Chapter 31 The Undercurrents of Quidditch

Saturday morning, the area outside the Quidditch Pitch was packed with people.

The Gryffindor side was the loudest, with red and gold scarves waving everywhere.

The Slytherin stands were much neater; green banners were hoisted high, and when Flint led the team in warming up, a cheer immediately erupted from below.

Draco arrived very early.

He stood in the front row with his arms crossed, staring at the Gryffindor team, his tone sour: "Potter is riding a Nimbus 2000."

Crabbe asked: "How much faster is it than the school brooms?"

Draco glanced at him: "Fast enough that you won't be able to catch up."

Goyle looked down at the pumpkin pasty in his hand: "I wasn't planning on catching up anyway."

Draco endured it for a moment, but couldn't hold back: "Are you here to watch the game, or to eat?"

Crabbe answered earnestly: "Both."

Allen sat on the edge of the Slytherin stands, half a row away from the crowd.

This position didn't offer the best view, but he could see the Professor's table and the passage below the Gryffindor stands. More importantly, no one was crowding him.

Resting on his lap was a copy of "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1". The book was open, but he hadn't turned the page.

The Void was hidden in his Portable Space, its silver vertical pupils aimed at the spatial rift to the outside world. There were too many people on the pitch, and the magical fluctuations were a tangled mess—the protective charms on the students, the defensive spells on the Professor's table, and the flight magic of the brooms themselves were all churned together.

Ordinary people watched the excitement.

Allen watched the accounts.

Who was acting, who was covering, and who was hiding in the chaos.

Madam Hooch blew her silver whistle.

Fourteen brooms took to the sky, and the audience erupted into noise. Harry flew very steadily; even though it was his first time on the pitch, he didn't show any fear. The Gryffindor side cheered even louder, and Ron stood in the stands waving his arms, almost knocking the hat off the student next to him.

Draco sneered: "If he falls off, will Gryffindor still give him points?"

Allen didn't look at him: "He won't fall to his death, but an injury is hard to say."

Crabbe stopped mid-bite of his pasty: "Can you get points for getting injured?"

Goyle thought about it: "Then can I fall?"

Draco looked disgusted: "Learn to ride a broom properly first."

The match progressed quickly.

The Slytherin team played roughly, and Flint was very proficient at bumping into people. The Gryffindor side wasn't clean either; Wood almost hung himself on the goalpost in an attempt to defend the goal.

The audience only cared about scoring.

Allen's attention was not on the ball.

At the Professor's table, Snape sat very straight, his black robes pressed against the edge of the chair, his face looking rather unpleasant. Quirrell was wrapped in that ridiculous purple turban, hunched over nearby, his fingers occasionally pressing against his knees like a patient afraid of the cold wind.

A good performance.

But the flaw wasn't on his face.

Just after Slytherin scored, Harry suddenly stopped in mid-air.

It wasn't a voluntary stop.

His broom began to jerk wildly, first shaking diagonally, then the whole broom gave an upward jolt, throwing him off balance in his seat. The cheers from the Gryffindor stands cut off, followed by a chaotic chorus of screams.

"What's going on?" Draco stood up.

Crabbe also looked up: "Is he performing?"

Goyle frowned: "This performance isn't very stable."

Allen closed his book.

Here it comes.

Harry gripped the broom handle with both hands, swaying wildly. The broom was no longer controlled by its flight path, as if someone was twisting its tail end from a distance. The wind above the pitch wasn't strong, and the flight magic itself shouldn't have been imbalanced to this degree.

This was an external force.

Allen didn't keep his eyes on Harry for too long.

He focused his attention on the Professor's table.

The Void raised its head within the space, its tail tapping against the stone slab. Two minute magical vibrations came from the spatial rift.

One came from Quirrell.

One came from Snape.

Quirrell's lips were moving quickly, his fingers hidden under his sleeves, the rhythm rapid. He wasn't watching the game, nor was he watching the Golden Snitch; he was staring at Harry's broom handle, as if afraid it wasn't chaotic enough.

Snape was also casting a spell.

But his rhythm was completely different from Quirrell's. It was short, suppressed, a counter-pull. Every time Harry's broom was about to throw him off, a counter-force would forcefully hold up the excess imbalance.

One was tearing it apart.

One was repairing it.

Interestingly, the one who looked most like a villain was saving someone.

Allen pressed his fingers against the edge of the book without making a sound.

Draco was still looking at the sky in front: "What is Flint doing? Grab the ball while you can!"

Allen said: "Shut up, watch the Professor's table."

Draco was stunned for a moment, then looked over subconsciously.

But he only saw Snape sitting there with a dark face, Quirrell hunching his shoulders, and Professor McGonagall standing up in anxiety. For a first-year student, these images were too fragmented to piece together an answer.

Draco lowered his voice: "What do you see?"

"Someone is casting a spell."

"Who?"

Allen didn't answer.

Some things, once spoken, become testimony. Draco wasn't a bad person, but he wasn't tight-lipped enough. Especially when it came to his father, it was hard to say whether he could keep a secret.

On the other side of the stands, Hermione rushed out.

Allen's gaze followed her for half a second.

The little Witch ran fast, her goal clear. She bypassed the stands and squeezed to the area below the Professor's table. Ron was still shouting over there, and Harry was hanging from the broom, with only one hand gripping the wooden handle.

Hermione drew her wand.

A flame spell.

Flames flared up on the hem of Snape's robe.

Snape lowered his head abruptly to deal with his robe, and the counter-curse was interrupted. Even more coincidentally, when Hermione passed behind Quirrell, she bumped into him, causing Quirrell to lunge forward, breaking the rhythm of his spellcasting.

Harry's broom regained control.

The next second, he dived from the sky, scrambling to land on the ground. The Golden Snitch was in his mouth, and the Gryffindor stands exploded into a chaotic roar.

Draco stared blankly for two seconds, then cursed: "He caught it with his mouth? Does that even count?"

Crabbe was very serious: "Catching it with your mouth is still catching it."

Goyle nodded: "The rules didn't say you couldn't eat it."

Draco turned to look at them: "Can you two stop thinking about eating for everything?"

Allen reopened his book.

The match ended absurdly, but effectively.

Gryffindor won.

There was a chorus of curses on the Slytherin side. Flint was waving his bat in mid-air, yelling at his teammates, and Draco was so angry that he couldn't even be bothered to say Harry's full name.

"He's really lucky."

Allen watched the Professor's table.

Snape was tidying up the burnt hem of his robe, his expression so terrible it could scare a first-year student to tears. Quirrell was bowing his head, huddled in his seat, his hands clenched together, looking as if he had been frightened by the chaos just now.

If you pretend too much, it becomes unnatural.

Allen withdrew his gaze and dismantled the match in his mind.

Quirrell was confirmed to be the executor.

Lord Voldemort was in him, but his state was unstable, so he didn't act personally, only using Quirrell to interfere with the broom remotely.

Snape was protecting Harry.

Hermione had stumbled into it, burning the protector, but also bumping into and breaking the spell of the actual caster.

Dumbledore wasn't in the most conspicuous position at the Professor's table, but that didn't mean he hadn't seen it. The old Principal liked to let children walk the path they were supposed to walk, and this point never made anyone comfortable.

Draco sat back down next to Allen, his face still dark.

"You said someone was casting a spell earlier. Was it Gryffindor playing tricks?"

"No."

"Then who was it?"

Allen closed the book and shoved it into his bag.

"You only need to remember one thing."

Draco looked at him.

Allen said: "Stop rushing to treat Snape as a bad guy in the future."

Draco frowned: "The Dean is certainly not a bad guy."

"Then don't be led by others."

Draco took this sentence to heart.

He looked at the Professor's table again, and after a few seconds, asked in a low voice: "So someone was trying to hurt Harry just now?"

Allen stood up and patted the Wood chips off his robe.

"Harry Potter being alive is enough to keep many people awake at night."

Crabbe rubbed his stomach: "Then he's quite noisy."

Goyle stuffed the last half of the pasty into his mouth: "Even noisy when he wins."

Draco didn't scold them.

He was still thinking about what Allen had just said.

Allen walked down along the edge of the stands without looking back.

The outcome of this match wasn't important.

What was important was that he had finally confirmed two things with his own eyes.

Quirrell was the knife hidden among the first years.

Snape was the old shield blocking in front of Harry's neck.