Chapter 43: Is Hogwarts the Lair of Death Eaters?

Before Harry could react, he noticed Hermione stealthily sneaking toward the teachers' stand.

What was she up to?

Harry's distraction caused him to momentarily forget to cast Finite Incantatem on his broomstick, leading to a violent shake that almost threw him off.

Phew.

The stands erupted in gasps and murmurs of alarm.

“What is Hermione trying to do?” Ron muttered anxiously, peering through a pair of binoculars but failing to locate her.

“I’ve no clue,” Hagrid replied absentmindedly, his massive hands clasped in silent prayer for Harry.

From above, Harry saw Hermione reach the teachers’ stand. Before she could do anything, though, he suddenly felt the force that had been tossing his broom vanish.

What was going on? He watched as Hermione lit Snape's robes on fire.

"You're on fire!" shouted someone next to Snape, snapping him out of his trance. Alarmed, Snape quickly stood up, frantically patting down the flames, looking utterly distraught about his singed robes.

Harry was perplexed. What was happening here?

There was no time to ponder, though, as a golden glimmer flashed before his eyes.

The Golden Snitch!

In an instant, Harry leaned forward, dipping his broom into a dive. With one swift motion, his hand shot out, and the Snitch was securely in his grasp.

He raised his arm high, the small golden ball buzzing faintly in his grip.

“Harry Potter has caught the Golden Snitch! Gryffindor earns 150 points!” Lee Jordan’s voice boomed with unrestrained excitement. “Gryffindor wins the match 170 to 60!”

Madam Hooch flew over on her broom, blowing her whistle to signal the end of the match.

“Gryffindor wins!”

Harry gracefully landed on the field, where his ecstatic teammates quickly surrounded him, cheering loudly.

“Potter! Potter! Potter!”

The Weasley twins, in perfect unison as always, pumped their fists and chanted as if they were copies of each other.

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“Professor McGonagall!” Harry shouted excitedly, holding the Snitch aloft and beaming at her from the crowd. “I caught the Golden Snitch!”

Professor McGonagall approached, her expression transitioning from worry to relief as she asked, “Potter, are you all right? Was there a problem with your broom?”

“No, Professor,” Harry replied, choosing to lie. “I think I just lost my grip for a moment—got a little too nervous. My hands were slippery.”

“Oh, I see.” Professor McGonagall’s face lit up with a smile, and she clasped her hands together like an excited schoolgirl. “How wonderful! We won!”

“We won!” Oliver Wood shouted, punching the air triumphantly. “We finally beat Slytherin!”

He had every reason to celebrate—since joining Hogwarts, Gryffindor had never beaten Slytherin in Quidditch.

After some celebratory moments on the pitch, Harry politely declined the invitation to return to the Gryffindor common room with his teammates. Instead, he was pulled aside by Hermione and Ron, who led him to Hagrid’s hut.

“It was Snape!” Hermione declared firmly. “Ron and I saw it clearly. He was muttering an incantation while staring at your broom the entire time!”

“Rubbish!” Hagrid interjected. His focus had been entirely on Harry during the match, and he hadn’t noticed Snape’s actions. “That’s impossible!”

“I even cast a fire charm on Snape’s robes,” Hermione said. “And right after that, Harry’s broom stabilized. It’s proof that Snape was the one cursing it!”

“Not a chance! Absolutely not!” Hagrid barked, frowning deeply. “Snape’s a professor at Hogwarts. He wouldn’t do something like that. Even if you think he might’ve done it to someone else, it’s out of the question when it comes to Harry!”

“Why not?” Ron asked in confusion.

“Don’t ask me. I won’t say anything,” Hagrid muttered, clamming up. The complicated history of the previous generation wasn’t something he felt comfortable gossiping about, especially since he’d sworn secrecy to both Dumbledore and Snape.

“Hermione,” Harry interjected before she could press Hagrid further, steering the conversation elsewhere.

“Yes, Harry?” Hermione turned to him.

“When you climbed the teachers’ stand, I saw you,” Harry began, speaking quietly. “But before you set Snape’s robes on fire, my broom had already stopped shaking. Snape was still chanting, but the broom showed no further signs of disturbance.”

“How did you even notice that?” Ron asked incredulously. “Mate, you’re wearing glasses!”

“It’s a Seeker’s instinct,” Harry replied casually, offering an irrefutable explanation.

Hermione began pacing the room, her brows furrowed as she muttered to herself. “If that’s the case, then who could it be? Are you sure, Harry?”

“I don’t think Snape likes me very much,” Harry admitted. “But I’m certain he’s not the one trying to kill me.”

He then shifted the topic to a puzzling question.

“What confuses me most is that Professor Dumbledore was in the stands the whole time. Why didn’t he stop my broom from being cursed?”

“Or,” he continued thoughtfully, “why did the culprit feel bold enough to cast a curse in front of Dumbledore?”

A sudden thought struck Ron, and he raised a finger. “Wait—could it be that Dumbledore himself—”

Before he could finish, Hermione elbowed him sharply.

“Ronald! Are you insane? Do you think Hogwarts is a Death Eater’s headquarters?” she snapped, fuming like a mother lioness defending her cubs.

Ron stuck out his tongue sheepishly. “I know that’s not true. I was just joking to lighten the mood.”

But the atmosphere turned even more somber.

“Of course, I don’t doubt Dumbledore,” Harry said resolutely, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “I’m just questioning why he remained indifferent.”

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