The Professor is Casting

On the teachers' stand, many of the professors couldn't help but be drawn to the lively scene over by Damon.

Watching Damon wave the enormous banner while all the Gryffindor students shouted behind him, Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.

Seeing these young people so full of life was the greatest reward for him as headmaster.

Snape appeared expressionless, but the corners of his mouth drooped even more—Damon reminded him of someone else who had been extremely popular during their student days.

One Potter was already enough to annoy him; now there was another one. Perhaps he really should find an excuse to give this brat some extra lessons after class.

After all, Minerva and Flitwick had already done so, and from their endless praise, it seemed the current coursework was still a breeze for this kid.

He swore that if he got the chance, he would teach him all his Potions knowledge—in the most caustic and severe way possible!

As Madam Hooch blew hard on her silver whistle, fifteen Flying Brooms shot up from the ground, soaring high into the sky.

The match began.

"The Bludger is immediately seized by Gryffindor's Angelina Johnson—what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and quite charming too!"

"Jordan!"

"Sorry, Professor."

Lee Jordan, a friend of the Weasley twins, was commentating the match under Professor McGonagall's close supervision.

"Excuse me, coming through, let me through."

After watching for a while, Damon noticed the giant Hagrid had also arrived. This was actually his first formal meeting with Hagrid.

"Are you Damon? Harry's mentioned you to me. He said you're the most outstanding wizard in the entire first year."

"He's exaggerating, Hagrid," Damon greeted Hagrid politely. "Harry often talks about you too. He says you're the elder he respects most in his heart."

"Really? He said that!"

Hagrid's eyes lit up, and he burst into loud laughter, slapping Damon hard on the back with his thick hand, over and over, making Damon's frame tremble slightly.

"Come visit my hut sometime. You're always welcome."

"If I get the chance, I will."

Damon smiled at Hagrid, but without much enthusiasm.

Other transmigrators might be very interested in Hagrid's treasure-filled hut, but for him, anything that could be bought with Galleons wasn't a problem.

Suddenly, angry shouts erupted from the stands—a Slytherin student deliberately rammed into Harry, and Harry's Flying Broomstick lurched violently, spinning in circles midair, nearly sending him falling.

"Foul!" The Gryffindors booed loudly.

"What a barbaric sport—especially when playing against unscrupulous bastards like Slytherin."

Damon shook his head, silently marveling at the "carefree attitude" of the wizarding world.

This sport, full of accidents and capable of breaking students' bones at any moment, had no protective measures whatsoever, not even strict rules, and was just openly performed in front of everyone.

Physical injuries could be healed, but what about mental ones?

"Damon, what are you talking about? This is Quidditch! Everyone who gets to play considers it an honor. What's a little injury?"

"If it were me, as long as I could play and win once, I'd be willing to stay in the hospital wing for a whole semester!"

Ron rarely disagreed with Damon.

Damon's face twitched—so Ron wanted all the benefits for himself.

Hermione was silent too, her big, lively eyes sizing up Damon, as if she couldn't understand why anyone in the world wouldn't like Quidditch.

Hagrid shook his head and rumbled:

"I heard from Harry that you're good at dueling? If that's the case, you should be a natural at flying too. Aren't you planning to join the house Quidditch team in second year?"

"That depends—" Damon was about to answer when another accident occurred.

Harry's Nimbus 2000 suddenly began to tremble violently, as if it might throw him off at any moment.

"Could the broom have gotten damaged when Flint rammed him earlier?" Seamus whispered.

"Impossible," Hagrid said, his voice trembling slightly. "Nothing can interfere with a Flying Broomstick except powerful Dark Magic—a kid couldn't cast that kind of spell on a Nimbus 2000."

"That's right, a professor is casting it."

Damon stood up, tossing an ordinary pebble in his hand.

Hermione grabbed Hagrid's telescope and looked at the teachers' stand, exclaiming:

"It's Snape! He's casting a spell on Harry! We have to stop him!"

"Nonsense! Snape would never do that!"

Hagrid shouted at Hermione but made no move. Sometimes Damon really didn't know what was going on inside these adult wizards' heads.

Ignoring their argument, he drew his wand with his right hand and flipped his left wrist to catch the pebble.

The next moment, the pebble in his hand began to deform and stretch, transforming in an instant into a fletchless arrow.

A vast amount of magic surged within him, and the spot where he stood warped like noodles under the influence of the spreading magical force.

"Kid? What are you doing!"

Hagrid felt the surging, torrential magic, his eyes, as large as light bulbs, bulging wide!

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

Damon did not answer Hagrid's question. Under his control, the arrow swiftly reversed its tip, locking onto Quirrell's position.

The simplest Levitation Charm, fueled by a magical reserve comparable to Dumbledore's and infused with the caster's unwavering will, was about to unleash a terrifying, explosive speed!

"Whoosh!"

The fletchless arrow transformed into a bolt loosed from a bow, streaking toward Quirrell, who was quietly casting a spell, at a speed nearly imperceptible to the naked eye!

"Crack!"

As the arrow burst apart, Quirrell's wand shattered into pieces!

Whoosh!

The teachers, who had been watching the Quidditch match, scrambled to their feet, casting Protego with wary vigilance.

They even thought someone had cast Sectumsempra, only to miss and strike Quirrell's wand by misfortune.

Only Dumbledore cast a meaningful glance in Damon's direction before speaking:

"My apologies, everyone. I've been researching a new spell recently, and it got a bit out of control."

He calmed the scene, then looked at the panicked Quirrell and said:

"My apologies, Professor Quirrell. I will compensate you with a new wand afterward, I promise."

He lowered his head, peering at Quirrell's expression with an upward gaze, sighing inwardly.

Though he knew that Quirrell, who had sold his soul to Voldemort, harbored no trace of goodwill left, he still clung to the hope that one day the man might hesitate, might want to turn back.

Now it seemed he was destined to walk that dark path to the end.

"Harry! Harry!"

Suddenly, cheers erupted on the field. With the interference gone, Harry quickly found the Golden Snitch and ended the match—Gryffindor won one hundred seventy points to sixty.

Dumbledore soothed the teachers, then looked at Harry, surrounded by his teammates on the field, and then at the dazzling Damon in the stands. His expression grew obscure and unreadable.

It seemed.

It was time to use that treasure to see the true hearts of these two young men.