Unlucky Quirrell

Time flew, and before they knew it, two more days had passed.

Charlie woke from a pleasant dream in Charms Class.

Professor Flitwick stood at the podium, explaining a new spell.

He noticed Charlie was awake but turned a blind eye, letting it slide.

When the bell rang, Charlie packed up to leave.

Ron ran over excitedly and grabbed Charlie's arm.

"Charlie! Come with me, quick."

"What's got you so worked up?" Charlie stumbled as Ron yanked him along.

"A Rampaging Mountain Giant, and you don't even know about it?"

"It's the Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match today." Ron's eyes were gleaming.

"And Harry's on the team too."

"I heard Fred say Harry's amazing—we're definitely going to win."

Charlie remembered—today was indeed match day.

That meant fun times ahead. In his past life, watching ball games had been one of his greatest joys. He wondered how this wizarding sport differed from football.

"Hold on."

Charlie stopped the impatient Ron.

"Billy."

With a pop, Billy appeared in the corridor, startling Ron.

"What can this young wizard do for you?" Billy asked respectfully.

Charlie pulled a Galleon from his pocket and handed it to Billy.

Every week, Charlie gave Billy a Galleon—after all, why would anyone keep looking after him for free?

In truth, compared to Billy's service, one Galleon was pitifully little.

But whenever Charlie tried to give more, Billy refused, insisting Charlie had given enough and even feeling deeply grateful to him.

"Could you get me some Marinated Meat? Marinated Chicken Leg, Marinated Egg, Marinated Tofu—anything works."

You couldn't watch a game without snacks, though it was a shame he couldn't have a little drink.

Ron stared in disbelief.

"You can do that?"

Billy soon returned with a large bag of fragrant Marinated Meat.

The rich aroma spread, making passing students swallow hard.

"Come on, we can go watch the match now."

The two headed to the Quidditch pitch together.

The stands were packed—students from all four houses had come.

Hermione, Neville, and Seamus had already secured prime spots, holding up a banner made from a bedsheet with a giant lion painted on it.

Hermione had even used magic to make the lion move, roaring majestically.

Hagrid was sitting beside them too.

"Over here! Over here!"

Neville waved at Charlie and Ron.

When they saw Charlie had brought a pile of food, Neville and Seamus lit up.

"Oh, Charlie, you're so thoughtful!" Seamus rubbed his hands together.

"Snacks with the match—should've done this ages ago."

Hermione frowned, as if about to say something about breaking school rules, but she held her tongue.

Ever since the Troll Incident, she wasn't as resistant to rule-breaking.

Soon, the players entered the pitch.

Gryffindor's team wore bright red robes, while Slytherin's were green.

Harry was among them, riding his Nimbus 2000, waving to his friends in the stands.

"Go, Harry!" Ron shouted.

The match officially began.

Madam Hooch tossed the Quaffle high into the air, and all fourteen players shot into the sky.

Commentator Lee Jordan launched into an impassioned commentary.

"And the match begins! Gryffindor grabs the Quaffle first!"

"Angelina Johnson breaks through with the ball—beautiful feint!"

Charlie listened to the commentary while slowly gnawing on a marinated chicken leg, utterly at ease.

Yeah, watching the game with some marinated meat—that hit the spot.

Up in the sky, Harry was focused on searching for the Golden Snitch.

As the Seeker, his job was to catch the Snitch and win his team 150 points.

But on the Staff Table he couldn't see, Quirrell was glaring darkly at Harry in the sky.

A vicious gleam flickered in his eyes, and a sinister smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

Quirrell silently curried favor with his master.

"Master, I'll make Potter fall to his death in front of everyone—that way we get rid of him, and it looks like an accident."

He began muttering a curse under his breath, hexing Harry's broom.

Up in the sky, Harry suddenly felt his broom start trembling uncontrollably.

His heart shot into his throat as he gripped the broom handle tight and clamped his legs around it.

"What's going on?"

"Did Malfoy really get someone to curse me?"

Harry tried to steady the broom, but the loss of control only grew worse.

The broom began swaying left and right, its altitude dropping sharply.

Gasps erupted from the stands below.

"What's wrong with Harry? Someone really must be cursing him," Ron said, standing up nervously.

"That doesn't look right," Hermione frowned.

Charlie pulled out his Wand—if Harry fell, he could catch him with a Levitation Charm.

Just then, Harry's broom suddenly emitted a faint glow.

Under the sunlight, it was barely noticeable, like light reflecting off the broom.

Everyone in the stands was fixated on Harry's dangerous situation; no one caught that detail.

Harry felt the broom become obedient again and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Must be Professor McGonagall's magic kicking in."

"Good thing I listened to Charlie."

Harry silently congratulated himself.

Though the moment was harrowing, the match went on, and Harry was just as hungry for victory, so he kept searching for the Golden Snitch.

At the Staff Table, the professors were watching the game closely.

Harry's near-miss had startled them too.

One greasy-haired professor had been wondering if it was a curse and was about to try countering it, but then Harry steadied himself, so he dropped the thought.

Suddenly, a loud bang came from behind.

"What was that noise?" Professor Snape turned around.

The other professors looked back too, but the space behind them was empty—nothing there.

"Wasn't Professor Quirrell just back there?" Professor Sprout asked, puzzled.

"Where is he?"

Dumbledore gazed thoughtfully at the now-empty back row, a glint of meaning in his eyes.

At that moment, behind the Staff Table, Quirrell was scrambling up from the ground, disheveled.

He'd been deep into chanting his curse when suddenly a powerful force rebounded, flinging him straight out of his seat.

The back of his head smacked hard against the ground, stars exploding in his vision from the pain.

Worse still, Voldemort was attached to the back of his head.

That impact gave the Dark Lord quite a jolt.

"You idiot!" Voldemort's voice roared in Quirrell's mind.

"What did you do?"

"Master, I don't know," Quirrell whimpered, clutching the back of his head and wincing.

"I was clearly cursing Potter's broom, how did it suddenly..."

"Shut up!" Voldemort seethed with rage.

"You useless waste—can't even handle a child!"

A sharp pain shot through the back of his head—Voldemort was punishing him.

Quirrell writhed on the ground in agony but dared not cry out loud, afraid of being discovered.

"Master, please spare me," Quirrell whimpered in agony.

"I truly don't know what happened."

Quirrell's pathetic display only infuriated Voldemort further.

The thought that he, the esteemed Dark Lord, was now reduced to parasitizing a wretch like Quirrell—

It enraged him so much that he intensified the torment.

Another wave of piercing pain struck, and Quirrell couldn't help but begin to sob quietly.

He hid in the shadows behind the Staff Table, covering his mouth as he wept bitterly.

In the stands, Charlie lowered his Wand when suddenly the system's chime rang out.

[Because of Your Majesty's actions, a teacher is weeping bitterly. Tyrant Points +5!]

"???"

Charlie was utterly baffled.

"What did I do? I'm just sitting here watching the match."