In Quidditch, whichever team catches the Golden Snitch is awarded a whopping one hundred and fifty points—and the match ends immediately.
This means that unless one team leads by more than 150 points, the team that catches the Snitch wins the match.
So, the moment the Snitch appeared, both Harry and the Slytherin Seeker launched themselves toward it without hesitation.
They took off nearly at the same time, neck and neck at first.
But as the youngest Seeker in a century, Harry wasn't famous for nothing.
Despite starting simultaneously, he quickly pulled ahead by a full body length, thanks to his unique flying posture and the superior performance of his Nimbus 2000.
Anyone with decent eyesight could tell—unless something unexpected happened, the Snitch was as good as Harry's.
Professor Snape, observing the scene, narrowed his eyes, a flash of undisguised distaste in his gaze.
Not far to his right, Professor Quirrell's eyes sharply contracted as he stared intently at Harry.
Hermione, who had been lying in wait nearby, noticed Quirrell's shift and instinctively tightened her grip on her wand.
Was this it? Was he about to make his move?
Just as Harry was about to grasp the Snitch, a sudden disruption occurred.
With a deafening crash, Marcus Flint, Slytherin's team captain, came barreling in from the side and rammed straight into Harry.
The impact was so strong that Harry's Nimbus 2000 violently veered off course.
Fortunately, Sherlock had warned him earlier, so Harry had mentally prepared himself for any unexpected mishaps.
In that crucial moment, he instinctively tightened his grip on the broomstick.
The crowd erupted in furious boos and jeers.
Madam Hooch immediately blew her whistle, halting the game.
Fuming, she flew over to Flint and chastised him harshly for his behavior. As punishment, Gryffindor was awarded a penalty shot at the goalpost.
"That was totally intentional!" Ron yelled, enraged.
Dean Thomas added furiously, "That's a foul! He should be sent off—give him a red card!"
"Players can't be sent off in Quidditch," Ron muttered with regret. "And… what's a red card?"
"I think he's right, though," Hagrid chimed in, nodding. "They really ought to update the rules. Flint nearly knocked Harry off his broom mid-air!"
"He'll pay for that," Sherlock said coolly, his eyes fixed on Flint's towering figure.
Suddenly, it felt as if the air around Ron, Hagrid, and Dean had dropped several degrees.
Angelina Johnson successfully scored the penalty, pushing Gryffindor ahead 20 to 10. The game resumed.
But in the chaos, the Golden Snitch had vanished from sight—an unfortunate turn of events.
Harry, however, was secretly relieved.
Sherlock's warning had kept him tense the whole time. For a moment, he even suspected Flint's reckless charge was part of Quirrell's scheme.
But now, it just seemed like unsportsmanlike behavior from a dirty player.
A player, Harry thought bitterly, with no sense of sportsmanship and rotten character. He even started wondering if Flint had some troll blood in him.
Still hovering above the pitch with nothing to do, Harry couldn't help but wonder:
"Maybe Sherlock was wrong? Even if Quirrell really wanted to hurt me, surely he wouldn't go so far as to do it in front of the whole school…"
But just as that thought crossed his mind, his broom suddenly gave a terrifying lurch.
"Shit!"
Harry swore as he immediately abandoned any wishful thinking. Instinctively, he clung to the broom with both hands and locked it between his knees.
One second later, he realized just how smart that decision was.
His Nimbus 2000—once as easy to control as an extension of his own body—had gone berserk.
It began veering wildly through the air, lurching violently from side to side.
Clearly, the broom was trying to throw him off while spiraling higher and higher into the sky.
Sherlock was the first to notice something was wrong.
He quickly swung his binoculars toward Quirrell.
Sure enough, Quirrell was staring fixedly at Harry.
Strangely, though, he wasn't chanting a spell aloud.
Sherlock immediately understood.
Of course—he's using a silent incantation!
He turned his binoculars to Snape.
Snape wasn't staring at Harry—he seemed unaware of what was happening.
Most likely, the crowd (including Snape) had been distracted by Slytherin's recent goal, which had evened the score again.
But this was still Snape. It didn't take him long to notice something was amiss. The moment he did, he began to take action.
Only a handful of people had noticed the Nimbus 2000 shaking uncontrollably as it dragged Harry higher and farther from the field.
Ron, who had been instructed by Sherlock to watch Snape, panicked. "Sherlock!"
"I've no idea what Harry's doing," Hagrid muttered, still unaware of the severity of the situation. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he's lost control of his broom…"
"You're absolutely right," Sherlock said coldly, handing his binoculars to Ron. "Keep your eyes on him."
The "him" in question, of course, was Snape.
Ron grabbed the binoculars and saw Snape standing in the middle of the opposite stand, staring at Harry while muttering incantations.
"What's he doing? Trying to jinx him?"
"Quite the opposite—he's protecting Harry."
As soon as Sherlock said this, he raised his wand.
A burst of violet fireworks erupted from its tip.
He had the confirmation he needed. It was time to act.
By now, even the slowest spectators had realized something was wrong.
Lee Jordan's voice came rapid-fire through the commentary: "What's happening with Potter? His broom's gone haywire—oh no, he's lost control!"
Madam Hooch hesitated, unsure whether to stop the game.
Meanwhile, Marcus Flint displayed once again his total lack of sportsmanship. He took advantage of the chaos to score three consecutive goals with the Quaffle.
But none of the Gryffindor players were paying attention—they were all focused on Harry.
They flew toward him, trying to bring him down safely.
But before they could get close, the rogue broom shot even higher, leaving them behind.
Back in the stands, Hermione—stationed near Quirrell—watched Harry's struggle with growing anxiety.
Like Sherlock, she suspected Quirrell was using a silent curse.
But remembering Sherlock's instructions, she held back, resisting the urge to intervene.
Her gaze darted repeatedly between Harry, Quirrell, and the banner where Sherlock was seated.
Several times, she nearly cast her spell early—but in the end, she chose to trust him.
Fingers clasped tightly on her knees, she silently prayed for Harry's safety.
Then—
From the direction of the banner, a violet firework soared into the sky.
Hermione recognized it instantly as Sherlock's signal.
Without hesitation, she drew her wand and whispered the incantation she'd prepared in advance.
A bright blue flame burst from the tip and surged straight toward the hem of Quirrell's robe.
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