Just as Loren and Hermione were leaning together and whispering, showering everyone around them with unabashed affection, a sudden chorus of gasps rose from the stands—something had happened on the pitch.
Since the start of the match, Harry had been following the plan he and Wood had laid out: flying high above the pitch, gliding lightly back and forth, focusing on the hunt for the Golden Snitch. But thanks to Loren's antics, Slytherin had already lost three players to penalties, Gryffindor kept piling on points, and the gap widened and widened. Harry let part of his attention drift to the run of play and eased off his search for the Snitch.
In contrast, Slytherin's Seeker, Terence Higgs, was utterly fixated on finding the Golden Snitch and ending this embarrassing match as quickly as possible. He seemed to spot a flicker just now and suddenly arrowed off in one direction.
In the next instant Terence Higgs snapped into a steep dive—like a man leaping off a plane without a parachute. Instinctively, Harry tucked and dove after him, and the two Seekers plummeted together.
Their movement hushed everyone. Players forgot their roles and hovered in place, staring at the pair.
Harry was faster than Terence; though he'd started later, he drew almost level in seconds. Then Harry realized something was wrong—there was no trace of the Snitch ahead. It was a trap. He yanked his broom upward at once.
Higgs had meant to use the Wronski Feint, a maneuver he'd practiced long and hard, to make Harry crash out so he could search in peace. But Harry's sudden change of direction rattled him; Higgs failed to pull up in time and smashed into the turf of the Quidditch pitch.
The collision drew a wave of shocked cries. Those who knew Quidditch well shouted the name of the Wronski Feint and groaned at Higgs's bad luck. Madam Pomfrey hurried over, checked him, found he was only unconscious and not in mortal danger, and whisked him off the field.
Loren and Hermione glanced down, saw it was Slytherin's Seeker taking himself out, and lost interest again.
But right then, something else went wrong. Harry, who had climbed back into the air, suddenly lost control of his broom. It began to buck and roll wildly, and Harry could barely keep from being flung off.
With a vicious twist, the broom wrenched free and tossed Harry into the air. He was left dangling by one hand from the broomstick, suspended over the pitch.
The Weasley twins spotted the trouble at once. They broke off their attacks on Slytherin, pulled up alongside Harry, and tried to haul him onto one of their brooms. But every time they drew near, Harry's broom would surge upward as if yanked by an invisible line, forcing Fred and George to hold their altitude and circle below him instead.
Taking advantage of the twins' absence, Slytherin's Chasers gripped the Quaffle tight and focused on denying Gryffindor any further scores.
"What's going on? Did the broom just break?" Ron asked anxiously, but no one answered; everyone's eyes were locked on Harry.
Loren and Hermione stopped talking and watched the pitch. Loren's gaze snapped to the stands nearest Harry—Professor Quirrell was there, staring fixedly at Harry's broom. A heartbeat later, Loren opened his magical sight. Quirrell's aura was almost entirely black; the erosion from Voldemort had clearly grown severe. He needed to stir up something big to force Dumbledore's attention.
Harry—the school's "Chosen One"—was the person Dumbledore cared most about. Any danger to him would draw the Headmaster's eye. But since the opening whistle, Harry had been flying too high, out of Quirrell's casting range. Now the opportunity had come: drawn down by Slytherin's Seeker, Harry had drifted close. Quirrell struck at once.
Hermione, meanwhile, fixed on Professor Snape on the opposite stand. Loren had mentioned the love and hate between Harry's father and Snape, so to Hermione, Snape was suspect number one. Through her Omnioculars she could see Snape staring at Harry and muttering under his breath.
She tugged Loren's sleeve and whispered, "Look—Professor Snape on the far stand. He's casting at Harry."
"You should observe a bit more," Loren murmured. "Professor Snape isn't cursing Harry—he's protecting him. Try finding who actually is casting at Harry."
Loren wasn't worried about Harry's safety. With the Weasley twins guarding him, they wouldn't let Harry fall. And with so many adults in the stands, no one would watch him smash into the ground. Worst case, even if Harry did fall, the way things were going he'd land feet first; maybe a broken leg at most, and in the wizarding world that's a quick stay in the hospital wing.
Since Loren didn't move and even urged her to find the real caster, Hermione calmed down and began scanning the stands. But there were too many people; she found nothing at first.
Seeing her flitting about like a headless chicken, Loren leaned in and prompted softly, "Use the right tool."
The hint clicked. Hermione flipped on the vision charm embedded in her glasses. Instantly she spotted two streams of magic on Harry—one from Professor Snape, the other from Professor Quirrell.
"It's Professor Quirrell!" she hissed. No one around them noticed; all eyes were on Harry.
Hermione was about to sneak off to disrupt Quirrell's spell when Loren caught her hand. Under her questioning look, he whispered, "Keep magical sight on Harry. The good part's coming."
Obediently, Hermione kept watching Harry. Beside her, Loren secretly triggered the gender-changing bracer on Harry's arm—and, in front of the entire stadium, turned Harry into "Harrie."
The sudden transformation stunned everyone for a beat—including Snape and Quirrell, who were both spellcasting. But the next moment, Quirrell kept cursing Harrie, and Snape resumed his counter-curse to protect her.
To the naked eye, nothing had changed except that Harry had become Harrie. But through Hermione's gaze, both flows of magic had clearly hit a brief snag. Then Snape's power surged, climbing faster and faster, while Quirrell's was crushed and driven back. Freed of the assault, Harrie managed to seize her broom again and swing herself astride.
Hermione glanced back at Snape. He was pale as parchment, and blood threaded from his mouth—likely from biting his tongue or lip as he chanted too fast. Quirrell, by contrast, reeled from backlash, fell hard onto the stand, then scrambled up and shoved aside the students trying to help him before fleeing in embarrassment.
No one was surprised; they'd seen Quirrell act oddly before. A few "warmhearted" students decided he needed their "help" and hurried after him one after another.
A moment earlier, under Snape's pressure, Quirrell's aura had gone pitch black. If this hadn't been Hogwarts, those students would be in real danger. As it was, they'd still likely suffer for getting in his way.
"Loren, why did Professor Snape's power suddenly erupt like that?" Hermione asked, dragging her eyes away from Snape at last.
Loren set aside Quirrell's matter and explained to her, "Magic is the manifestation of the mind's power. When Harry became Harrie, it stirred Snape's love for Harry's mother. That's what made him unleash himself without restraint and overwhelm Quirrell."
Hermione listened, half-understanding, her eyes still puzzled. Loren smiled, patted her head, and said, "Watch the match for now. It's a bit advanced for you at the moment—you'll understand in time."
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