Time flew by, and two days passed in a blink.
Charlie slowly emerged from his dream in Charms class.
Professor Flitwick was at the front, energetically explaining a new spell. He noticed Charlie had stirred but chose to turn a blind eye.
As the bell rang, Charlie packed up and got ready to leave.
Just then, Ron came running over and grabbed Charlie by the arm, eyes shining with excitement.
"Charlie! Come with me, quick!"
"What's got you so worked up?" Charlie staggered a little from the force.
"A rampaging mountain troll couldn't keep me from this! Don't you know?"
"Today's the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match!" Ron's whole face lit up.
"And Harry's on the team!"
"I heard from Fred that Harry's amazing. We're definitely gonna win!"
Charlie finally remembered, it was match day.
Now this was going to be fun. Back in his past life, watching games was one of his favorite pastimes. He was curious how wizarding sports compared to good ol' football.
"Hang on a sec."
Charlie stopped Ron in his tracks.
With a soft pop, Billy appeared in the hallway, giving Ron a bit of a scare.
"What do you need, master?" Billy asked respectfully.
Charlie pulled a Galleon from his pocket and handed it over.
Every week, Charlie paid Billy one Galleon. After all, why should Billy serve him for free?
Honestly, given how helpful Billy was, that one Galleon was far too little. But whenever Charlie tried to give him more, Billy would refuse, saying it was already generous, and was even deeply grateful for it.
"Bring me some snacks, braised chicken legs, eggs, dried tofu, whatever you can get."
What's a game without good food? Too bad there wasn't any booze.
Ron stared, slack-jawed.
"You can do that?"
Billy soon returned with a large steaming bag of fragrant snacks.
The rich aroma wafted down the hallway, making passing students swallow hard in envy.
"Alright, now we're ready for the match."
The two of them headed toward the Quidditch pitch together.
The stadium was packed, students from all four houses had shown up.
Hermione, Neville, Seamus, and a few others had already secured prime seats. They'd strung up a huge banner made from bed sheets, painted with a massive lion.
Hermione had even enchanted the lion to move, it roared proudly and paced across the sheet.
Hagrid was seated nearby as well.
"Over here! Over here!" Neville waved them over.
The moment they saw the feast Charlie brought, Neville and Seamus lit up like Christmas trees.
"Oh, Charlie, you're a genius!" Seamus rubbed his hands gleefully.
"Watching matches with snacks, why didn't we think of that sooner?"
Hermione frowned slightly, clearly wanting to say something about school rules, but in the end she kept quiet.
Ever since the troll incident, she'd been a little more flexible about rules.
Soon, the players entered the pitch.
Gryffindor wore bright red; Slytherin, sharp green.
Harry was among them, riding his Nimbus 2000 and waving to the stands.
"Go, Harry!" Ron shouted at the top of his lungs.
The match began.
Madam Hooch tossed the Quaffle high into the air, and fourteen players shot skyward in an instant.
Lee Jordan's voice boomed across the pitch with fiery enthusiasm.
"And they're off! Gryffindor grabs the Quaffle first!"
"Angelina Johnson's on the move, what a fakeout!"
Charlie leisurely munched on a braised chicken leg as he listened, utterly content.
Now this was how you watched a match.
Up in the sky, Harry kept his focus trained on the elusive Golden Snitch.
As Seeker, his job was to catch the Snitch and earn 150 points for his team.
Unbeknownst to him, in the staff stands, Professor Quirrell was staring at him darkly, eyes full of venom and malice curling at his lips.
Inside, Quirrell was speaking to his master.
"My Lord, I'll make sure Potter falls to his death in front of everyone. It'll look like a tragic accident, and he'll be out of our way for good."
He began muttering under his breath, casting a curse on Harry's broomstick.
In the air, Harry suddenly felt his broom lurch.
Panic surged into his throat. He gripped the handle tighter, legs locked around the shaft.
"What's going on?"
"Could Malfoy have actually cursed me?"
Harry struggled to steady the broom, but the sense of losing control only worsened.
It began to shake violently and dip toward the ground.
Gasps rippled across the stadium.
"Something's wrong with Harry, someone's cursed his broom!" Ron shot up in alarm.
"Something's definitely off," Hermione muttered, frowning deeply.
Charlie pulled out his wand. If Harry fell, he was ready to catch him with a Levitation Charm.
At that moment, Harry's broom gave off a faint shimmer.
In the sunlight, it looked almost like a reflection, barely noticeable.
Everyone's attention was on Harry's spiraling descent; no one noticed the glint.
Harry, however, suddenly felt the broom stabilize.
Relief surged through him.
"That must be Professor McGonagall's spell kicking in."
"Thank Merlin I listened to Charlie."
Still shaken but unwilling to give up, Harry resumed scanning the skies for the Snitch.
Meanwhile, in the professors' box, several teachers had noticed Harry's earlier distress.
One slick-haired professor had been preparing to intervene, only to relax once Harry regained control.
Suddenly, there was a loud bang behind them.
"What was that?" Professor Snape turned.
Other professors looked back as well, but the seats behind them were empty.
"Wasn't Professor Quirrell just back there?" Professor Sprout asked curiously.
"Where'd he go?"
Dumbledore stared thoughtfully at the vacant seats, a flicker of insight flashing in his eyes.
Behind the stands, Quirrell was clumsily scrambling to his feet.
He'd been muttering his curse spell, fully immersed, when a surge of magic rebounded violently, launching him from his seat.
His skull had slammed against the floor, making stars dance in his vision.
Even worse, Lord Voldemort was parasitically fused to the back of his head.
That impact had shaken him too.
"You imbecile!" Voldemort's furious voice thundered in Quirrell's mind.
"What happened?!"
"M-My Lord, I don't know!" Quirrell winced, cradling the back of his head.
"I was just casting the curse, and suddenly, "
"Silence!" Voldemort snapped.
"You useless worm. You can't even handle a child!"
A searing pain erupted at the base of Quirrell's skull, Voldemort punishing him.
Quirrell writhed on the ground, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out and giving himself away.
"P-Please, Master, have mercy," he whimpered through clenched teeth.
"I don't know what went wrong…"
His pitiful state only enraged Voldemort further.
To think the Dark Lord had been reduced to hiding inside this pathetic wreck…
His fury doubled, and the pain intensified.
More searing waves of torment struck. Quirrell began sobbing softly, holding his mouth to keep from wailing.
Up in the stands, Charlie lowered his wand just as a familiar sound chimed in his head.
[Because of Your Majesty, a professor is now weeping in secret. +5 Tyrant Points!]
Charlie blinked in utter confusion.
"…What did I do? I was just watching the game…"
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