Medical Miracle

When Tom went over, Professor Flitwick was busy checking Quirrell's injuries and didn't care how a little wizard had managed to sneak into the teachers' stands.

The sound of that impact was enough to make anyone's teeth ache; thankfully, Quirrell was stubborn.

"Professor Flitwick, should we remove the scarf from Professor Quirrell's head? It would be troublesome if it caused a secondary infection."

Professor Flitwick looked up at Tom. "Yes, that makes sense!" He reached out to untie Quirrell's scarf.

Quirrell's hand moved; he grabbed Professor Flitwick's wrist with great force, and Professor Flitwick's hand stopped.

Quirrell opened his eyes; they were bloodshot and as red as a rabbit's.

He got up from the ground slowly and stiffly, his scarf askew, revealing a small patch of skin on the back of his head.

Tom glanced over but didn't see Voldemort's face; he only saw a patch of red swelling.

"I'm fine," Quirrell's voice was hoarse. "I'm just a little dizzy, nothing else."

He dusted off his robe and then limped away from the stands with an odd gait.

His steps were slow, and each step he took was trembling.

Professor McGonagall stood on the faculty bleachers, watching Quirrell's retreating figure.

"A medical miracle." Her voice was soft, but Tom heard it.

Tom nodded admiringly. Quirrell, a real wolf.

With Quirrell gone, Harry's Flying Broomstick finally returned to normal.

He suddenly swooped down, but Terence Higgs, thinking he had lost his balance, didn't take it seriously and was only focused on looking down for the Golden Snitch.

Suddenly, Harry covered his mouth with his hand, pretending to S.P.E.W., and then he spat out a Golden Snitch.

The golden wings, glistening with saliva, shimmered in the sunlight.

The entire room fell silent. Everyone stared at the Golden Snitch in Harry's hand, their mouths agape, unable to close.

Lee Jordan's voice blared from the loudspeaker, shrill and distorted. "Harry Potter caught the Golden Snitch! Gryffindor! Although the method was a bit... a bit unusual, they won!"

The Gryffindor stands erupted; everyone jumped up, screaming, cheering, and hugging.

The Slytherin stands were filled with grief; everyone stood rooted to the spot, their faces ashen, as if attending a funeral.

Marcus Flint jumped off the broom and rushed to Madam Hooch.

"Professor! He caught the Golden Snitch with his mouth! That's against the rules!"

Madam Hooch glanced at him. "The rules don't specify what method must be used to catch the Golden Snitch. With your mouth, your hands, your feet—anything goes."

Marcus Flint's face flushed red. He turned and walked away, his boots pounding heavily on the grass.

The final score was Gryffindor winning 170-60.

Tom sat at the highest point of the Slytherin stands, watching the Gryffindor run around on the lawn.

Their jerseys were a fiery red in the sunlight, and cheers echoed from the stadium to the castle and back, reverberating through the air.

On the way back to the castle, besides talking about the match, the most lively topic was Quirrell's affair.

After being Bludger, Quirrell not only didn't lose consciousness, but actually woke up from his coma, refused treatment, and walked back to the castle on his own.

Quirrell actually garnered a lot of praise for his ability to endure pain and his resilience; at least in terms of "being able to take a beating," no one at Hogwarts could compare to him.

In Hagrid's Hut, Hermione stood in front of the fireplace, pointing a finger at Harry's face. "It was Snape. I saw it through the binoculars; he was casting a spell on Harry's broom."

"I was going to stop them, but Professor Quirrell got hit by the ball, Snape immediately stopped, and Harry caught the Golden Snitch."

After the match, Hermione wanted to go find Tom and Daphne, but Hagrid wouldn't let her go and dragged her into the hut, which gave her the opportunity to explain what had happened to Harry.

Hagrid sat in a chair, holding a cup of tea that had gone cold; he didn't drink it. "Why would Snape do something like this?"

"Because he wanted to steal things from the fourth floor," Harry suddenly said.

Hagrid was startled; the teacup slipped from his hand, fell to the ground, shattered, and spilled tea everywhere. He didn't pick it up.

How did you know?

"On Halloween Eve, I saw him limping down the stairs, most likely bitten by the Three-headed Dog on the fourth floor."

Hagrid's face changed. "You know Fluffy?" Hagrid's eyes widened, and the words slipped out.

"I bought Fluffy from a Greece dealer, and I lent him to Albus Dumbledore to guard..."

Hermione's eyes lit up. "Fluffy? The name of that Three-headed Dog?"

He paused, his mouth agape, the sound stuck in his throat.

"Guarding what?" Hermione asked.

Hagrid didn't say anything. He slapped himself hard across the face, the sound was loud, and his face went from red to even redder.

With her neck stiff, she said, "Don't ask, I won't say anything!"

Even if Snape hated James...

"James?" Harry exclaimed excitedly, grabbing Hagrid's arm. "Hagrid, you mean my father? Snape knows him?"

Hagrid slapped himself hard, wishing he could take back what he had just said, and waved his arm to shoo people away.

"That's a grudge from the previous generation, it has nothing to do with you! Forget about Fluffy, forget about what it's guarding, and get out of here!"

"But those are Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel..."

"Nicolas Flamel?" Hermione's eyes lit up, and she quickly made a mental note of it; another key figure had appeared.

Slap! Hagrid slapped himself again, then pushed the three of them toward the door. "Get out, get out, or I'll throw you out!"

He pushed the three men out of the hut and closed the door behind him.

Deep within the Forbidden Forest, near the territory of the Mooncalf, the brewing of the strengthening potion was in its final stages.

Tom told Kaka to go back first, while he stayed behind to keep watch.

The liquid in the crucible was churning, its color changing from transparent to blood red, from blood red to dark red, and from dark red to black.

Tom added the last Dragon Heartstring, and the potion boiled, radiating terrifying heat, with large amounts of white, cold air rising upwards.

Tom conjured a wisp of wind from his fingertips, gently dispersing the chill, as if afraid of affecting the purity of the potion.

Andros's voice echoed in his mind. "Final step, stir thirty times, clockwise, not too fast, not too slow."

Tom gripped the stirring rod, made thirty turns, then stopped and looked at the liquid in the pot.

The Potions was now half empty. The blood-red, slightly viscous liquid shimmered like flowing liquid gems.

"Andros, are you sure this thing is okay?"

"The color is fine, but does it have a faint pungent and bloody smell?"

Tom sniffed it. "Yes, that's the smell, like blood that's been congealed for half a day."

"Then there's no problem, bottle it."

Tom took six glass bottles out of his schoolbag, preparing to divide the medicine into them.