When Harley fell from her Flying Broomstick, the stands erupted in gasps, and many people sprang to their feet.
Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall drew their wands at almost the same time and cast Slowing Charms without hesitation.
But both spells were blocked by the black cocoon Harley had released, and seemed to have no effect.
Fortunately, the black cocoon itself slowed her fall and cushioned the impact, landing smoothly on the ground.
Then the cocoon quickly disappeared. Only then did the two Heads of House see clearly that the black cocoon was made of Harley's hair.
At the same time, Harley raised her hand high. A Golden Snitch was struggling in her grasp.
Cheers rang out across the pitch. Almost everyone thought Harley had jumped from her broom to catch the Golden Snitch without a doubt.
After all, Slytherin's Seeker had been right beside Harley. If she had simply sped up, she would certainly have drawn his attention.
At such close range, Harley's small frame couldn't compete with Slytherin's tank of a player, so there was a good chance she would miss the Golden Snitch.
So people filled in the blanks for themselves: to guarantee Gryffindor's victory, Harley had ignored the danger and leaped from her broom to catch the Golden Snitch.
The Gryffindors went even wilder. The three Chasers on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team rushed over and gave Harley a tight hug.
The other players and the spectators crowded around too, celebrating Harley's first victory.
Only Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall didn't look particularly pleased.
As the only Heads of House present and the only publicly recognized masters of magic, they could both tell that Harley's broom had been subjected to Dark Magic in that instant. That was why she had jumped off.
Professor Snape waved his wand, and invisible ropes appeared, pulling Harley's broom down from the air.
He exchanged a glance with Professor McGonagall, who didn't ask for the broom.
After all, because of certain experiences in his past, Professor Snape's knowledge of Dark Magic far surpassed Professor McGonagall's, making him better suited to examine it.
And Professor Snape was very kind to Harley. There was no way he would tamper with the broom or neglect his duties.
After the match, Harley returned to the common room with the Gryffindors celebrating their first victory, but soon claimed she was exhausted and went back to her dormitory.
Hermione wanted to hurry after her out of concern, but Harley turned her down too, saying she wanted to lie down quietly by herself for a while.
Back in her dormitory, Harley didn't lie down right away. She locked the door, then took a large number of small bottles and other tools out of her trunk.
The bottles contained dark-colored ointments and potions, all brimming with Spirituality and magic.
Harley quickly bit her index finger, squeezed out a good amount of blood rich in Spirituality, and placed it in a pure-black bowl.
After adding Poison Hemlock juice and other essential oils to erase the occult connection between herself and the blood, Harley added various hydrosols, then quickly used the mixture to draw all kinds of symbols.
When she was done, a glint of malice appeared in Harley's eyes.
"It's not over yet," Harley murmured, then took out a small box.
After undoing the layers of ritual magic on the box, a mad will emerged.
Harley watched the box warily, then submerged it in the remaining liquid in the bowl.
"Connect!"
A word in Jotun escaped Harley's lips. At once, the madness surrounding the box surged, and streaks of scarlet light flashed.
Harley felt her Spirituality being consumed at a frantic rate. Once more than a third of it was gone, she promptly ended the ritual and sealed the small box again.
"He must be suffering. Having to bear so much mad will should badly wound even a soul that isn't particularly fragile." Harley's lips curled into a cold smile.
When she realized that someone had used a Dark Magic curse on her broom, indirectly putting her in danger, Harley had immediately used her blood to mark the person in reverse and launched a curse against his soul.
At first, Harley had only intended to warn him. After all, the attacker probably wouldn't dare go too far in front of a crowd.
As long as he couldn't retaliate for a short while, Harley could calmly erase the connection between them, preventing the unknown attacker from using her attack to strike back.
But what Harley hadn't expected was that the attacker's soul was so fragile. Her counterattack had met no meaningful resistance at all!
So once she got back, Harley immediately decided to attack him directly through his soul, hoping to wound him badly once again.
But since some time had passed since her last attack, the attacker might have prepared for it.
So instead of attacking him directly, Harley used the fragment of her soul that held the mad will born when she had broken through to demigodhood.
Earlier, Harley had used her blood once to retaliate, and that trace of blood still existed in the occult sense.
So this time, she drew blood again and erased its occult connection to her body, then used it to channel the madness held by the soul fragment inside the box and attack her assailant.
"I'll give you the mad whisper I heard when I became a demigod. The connection will be brief, but it won't be weak.
"Let's hope that fragile soul doesn't go mad on the spot." As Harley thought this, she cheerfully cleaned up the traces of the ritual.
In the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office, Professor Quirrell was frantically drinking potion after potion.
His trademark turban, which had covered nearly his entire head, had been taken off and tossed onto the bed.
On the back of Professor Quirrell's head, where thick hair should have grown, was a face—a snake's face.
It was horribly twisted and utterly bloodless, in stark contrast to its blood-red, slit-pupiled eyes.
The most striking thing about the face was that it had no nose, only two long, narrow nostrils like a snake's.
At that moment, the face was shrieking furiously. "You're an idiot! A useless fool! A Muggle! A Squib!
"Everything I asked you to do, you've failed to do!
"You broke into Gringotts for nothing. You didn't even catch a glimpse of the Philosopher's Stone, and you wasted so much of my power!
"You still haven't figured out all the obstacles, and you can't even beat a dog!
"Now I send you to attack a first-year Witch, and you still manage to fail—and get hit by magical backlash!
"I've never seen such a useless Death Eater!"
Professor Quirrell kept drinking potions as he trembled under Voldemort's tirade, not daring to answer back or even let a disrespectful thought cross his mind.
After all, Voldemort was monitoring Quirrell's mind. He could detect any irreverent thought.
After ranting furiously for a while, Voldemort couldn't help feeling a little tired.
The earlier "magical backlash" had injured his soul, making his already fragile soul fragment suffer even more intense pain.
Though Voldemort sometimes wondered why such an ordinary gaze could damage his soul when it backfired, he didn't dwell on it. He simply blamed Quirrell for being so useless that he couldn't even handle such a simple spell.
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