Char's mind raced as he made his way toward the Quidditch pitch, lost in thought about the day's events and the tangled web of Hogwarts intrigue. Just as he turned a corner, a familiar, stuttering voice called out from the shadows.
"Xia, Xiaer… You're going to watch Quidditch too? What a coincidence."
Char's grip on his wand tightened as he spotted Professor Quirrell emerging from the dim corridor, trying hard to appear friendly. Ever since Char had rebuffed his earlier attempts at manipulation, Quirrell had grown increasingly persistent, still unable to get past the three-headed dog and now clearly desperate for any advantage.
"Would you like to watch the game together?" Quirrell asked, forcing a smile. "I know a lot about Quidditch from my school days…"
Char could see right through him. Quirrell was determined to get close, hoping to lure him in with the pretense of mentorship. But Char wasn't about to fall for it.
"Sorry, Professor," Char replied, polite but firm. "I promised my aunt I'd watch the match with her. I'm running late, so I'll have to go ahead."
Quirrell's smile froze. He watched Char walk away, frustration simmering beneath his polite facade. "Damn kid. Doesn't know what's good for him."
Char, meanwhile, felt a chill run down his spine. Quirrell was becoming a real problem—like a piece of gum stuck to your shoe, impossible to shake off. Even if Quirrell wouldn't dare do anything inside Hogwarts, Char knew better than to underestimate him, especially with Voldemort lurking in the background. If the noseless monster ever woke up, who knew what secrets might be uncovered?
He needed a plan to keep Quirrell distracted, at least for a while. Suddenly, inspiration struck. He remembered the overpowering smell of garlic that always clung to Quirrell—a desperate attempt to mask the stench of Voldemort's presence. Quirrell used fresh garlic every day, and Char realized he could use that to his advantage.
By the time Char reached the Quidditch pitch, the stands were packed, the air buzzing with excitement. Professor Sprout waved him over to a reserved seat. "Char, you almost missed the teams coming onto the field! Where have you been?"
Char flashed an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Professor. I just remembered I hadn't watered a few pots of goldfish spider plants. Lost track of time."
Sprout shook her head, half exasperated, half amused. "Only you would be thinking about plants at a time like this."
A roar from the crowd signaled the players' entrance. Gryffindor and Slytherin faced off, their uniforms bright against the green pitch, the tension between them palpable. The stands erupted with cheers and jeers, the smell of anticipation thick in the air.
And then, wafting through the stands, came a strong, unmistakable scent—garlic. Quirrell hurried to his seat, a basket of garlic at his side. He was preparing for his moment: casting a curse on Harry's broomstick. The Nimbus 2000 was protected by powerful magic, but Quirrell was ready to use every trick he knew, especially with Voldemort riding shotgun in his mind.
As the match began, Quirrell's eyes locked onto Harry. He started to mutter a silent incantation, dark magic snaking toward Harry's broom. The broom began to wobble dangerously in the air.
In the stands, Snape noticed immediately. His eyes narrowed as he began his own silent counterspell, sending a wave of stabilizing magic toward Harry's broom. The two magical forces clashed, invisible to most but deadly serious all the same.
Quirrell was surprised—someone was countering him! But with Voldemort's power, he felt confident. Unless Dumbledore intervened, he was sure he could overpower any defender.
Snape's brow furrowed in concentration. The dark magic was stronger than he'd expected, and all he could do was slow the attack, buying Harry precious seconds. He was grateful Char had healed his leg—without that, he wouldn't have lasted this long.
Quirrell, feeling the resistance, pushed harder. The stench of decay from the back of his head grew overwhelming, and he realized he'd have to act quickly before Dumbledore noticed. He grabbed a handful of garlic from his basket, muttering, "Just a moment, Master," and stuffed the garlic into a small container near the back of his head.
But as he prepared to resume the curse, a sudden, sharp pain shot through him. It felt like something was biting him—hard—right where Voldemort was attached.
Quirrell yelped, clutching his head. In his mind, Voldemort's furious voice screamed, "Quirrell! Did you put biting cabbage on my face? Are you trying to kill me? Don't bite my nose!"
Quirrell's heart raced with panic. "Biting cabbage? What? No—wait, what's happening?" The pain grew worse, itching and burning like a swarm of angry insects. The stench became unbearable.
Voldemort raged, "Giant konjac flower juice? You put that on me too? Quirrell!"
Desperate, Quirrell tried to figure out who could have done this. His first thought was Char, but then he shook his head. No, it must be those Weasley twins—they were always up to mischief, always targeting him with pranks.
"Master, I swear, it wasn't me! It must have been the Weasley brothers!" he pleaded, even as the pain continued to spike.
Meanwhile, in the stands, Char watched the chaos unfold, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. Sometimes, the best way to fight dark magic was with a little ingenuity—and a touch of mischief.