As November set in, the weather grew bitterly cold. The mountains around the castle had turned an icy grey, and the lake now shimmered like chilled steel. Each morning, the grounds were blanketed in frost, and from the high windows, Hagrid could often be seen on the Quidditch pitch, bundled in a moleskin overcoat and beaverskin boots, defrosting broomsticks with his massive hands.
Harry's first Quidditch match was drawing closer after weeks of practice: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. A victory would push Gryffindor into second place in the House Championship, and excitement buzzed in the common room.
Elian, meanwhile, had begun spending more time with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Tuffy, now fully grown, had become less of a menace, though mischief was still in his nature. Yet Elian's biggest concern was not his dragon but Professor Quirrell. The bracelet's pain worsened during every Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, sharp enough to make Elian secretly study healing charms in an attempt to dull it. But no matter what he tried, the agony became unbearable whenever he lingered too close to Quirrell, so much so that even his strongest charms barely made a difference.
Things became trickier for Elian after Hermione officially joined their circle. She was a tremendous help to Harry and Ron with homework, but for Elian, she was a constant headache. Unlike the other two, Hermione was sharp—too sharp. Keeping secrets from her wasn't impossible, but it was draining.
One afternoon, she nearly exposed Tuffy when she spotted faint stains on Elian's robes.
"Is that blood?" Hermione asked, frowning.
"No," Elian replied with a deadpan expression. "Red paint. Peeves dropped a can of it on me a few days ago."
"But you usually dodge Peeves's pranks," she pressed.
"Thanks for the compliment, Granger," Elian said smoothly, "but I'm not completely invincible. And, as you can see, my robes aren't ruined, so technically, his plan still failed."
Before Hermione could fire off more questions, Ron and Harry arrived with their homework, unknowingly rescuing Elian. From that day on, Elian chose his words very carefully around her. Their debates became a routine, always ending in his victory, not because Hermione lacked cleverness, but because even she struggled to keep pace with the sheer weight of his sarcasm.
Hermione had become a little more relaxed about breaking rules since the troll incident, and much nicer for it. The day before Harry's first Quidditch match, the four of them huddled in the freezing courtyard during break. Hermione had conjured a bright blue fire in a jam jar, and they stood with their backs to it, warming their hands.
Then Snape limped across the yard. Harry noticed it at once. The four of them instinctively pressed closer together, hiding the fire. Snape's black eyes swept over them, sharp as a hawk.
"What's that you've got there, Potter?"
Harry's stomach dropped. It wasn't the fire Snape had noticed, but the book in his hand: Quidditch Through the Ages, which Hermione had borrowed for him.
"Library books aren't to be taken outside the school," Snape drawled. "Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor."
"Pardon me, sir," Elian said smoothly, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Snape turned his gaze on him, voice low and dangerous. "Vale."
"As far as I understand the rules of Hogwarts," Elian said, sounding perfectly innocent, "a student may borrow a book so long as it's returned on time and in good condition. Which means"—he paused deliberately—"there's no restriction on where it's read."
"Are you saying I'm wrong?" Snape snarled.
"Oh no, sir," Elian replied, widening his eyes in mock respect. "I'd never dare. I'm simply repeating what we've all been taught by our professors. Of course, if there's doubt, Madam Pince would know the precise borrowing conditions…"
Snape's nostrils flared. He didn't return the points, but after a tense beat, he said curtly, "Come by my office later to retrieve it. I want it for the Slytherins right now."
Elian opened his mouth again, but Hermione jabbed her elbow sharply into his ribs.
"Don't push it," she hissed, as Snape limped away.
The Gryffindor common room buzzed with noise that evening. Harry, Ron, Elian, and Hermione sat together near a window. Hermione was poring over Ron and Harry's Charms homework, correcting their mistakes with brisk efficiency, while Elian idly twisted his bracelet around his wrist, lost in thought. Hermione would never let Ron and Harry copy ("How will you learn like that?"), but simply by asking her to "check it," they managed to end up with all the right answers anyway.
Harry, however, couldn't settle. His stomach churned every time he thought of tomorrow's Quidditch match. Quidditch Through the Ages might have helped calm his nerves, and the thought of it lying in Snape's office made him fidget all the more.
Finally, he turned to Elian. "Think you could grab the book for me?" he asked, half-hopeful.
Elian raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh no, Potter. I've already pressed Snape far enough to make sure we even get it back. Now…" his voice dripped with mock solemnity, "…as Gryffindor's Seeker, this is your first great challenge. Consider it your opening move against Slytherin."
Ron and Hermione both chuckled. Harry didn't, but he got the message. With a resigned sigh, he pushed himself up and headed out alone.
He made his way down to the staff room and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing. Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was worth a try. He pushed the door ajar and peered inside—and a horrible scene met his eyes. Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled.
Filch was handing Snape bandages.
"Blasted thing," Snape was saying. 'How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?' Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but—
"POTTER!"
Snape's face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped.
"You told me to get my book later."
"GET OUT! OUT!"
Harry left before Snape could take any more points from Gryffindor. He sprinted back upstairs.
"Did you get it?" Ron asked as Harry rejoined them. "What's the matter?"
In a low whisper, Harry told them what he'd seen.
"You know what this means?" he finished breathlessly. "He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Hallowe'en! That's where he was going when we saw him—he's after whatever it's guarding! And I'd bet my broomstick he let that troll in to create a diversion!"
"Then when are we selling your broomstick, Potter?" Elian asked flatly.
"You don't believe me?" Harry said, frowning.
"I don't even believe myself," Elian replied smoothly. "For all we know, Snape was just… playing fetch with the three-headed dog. Not exactly an everyday hobby."
"Are you serious?" Ron gaped, half in disbelief, half in irritation.
"Of course not, Weasley" Elian said. "I'm saying maybe the professors know what the dog's guarding, and Snape could've been checking if anyone had tried to steal it during the troll attack."
"I also think that Elian is right," Hermione said. "I know Snape's not very nice, but he wouldn't try to steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe."
"Honestly, you two, you think all teachers are saints or something," snapped Ron. "I'm with Harry. I wouldn't put anything past Snape. But what's he after? What's that dog guarding?"
"Not saints, Weasley," Elian interjected, idly rotating his bracelet, "but also not foolish enough to go against someone like Dumbledore... unless, of course, an outsider is involved."
Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with questions about Snape; Elian's thoughts, however, were elsewhere entirely. What was the connection between his bracelet and Professor Quirrell? He had half a mind to start tailing Quirrell in his free time, but before he could plan anything further, sleep claimed him.
The next morning dawned bright and bitterly cold. The Great Hall was thick with the smell of fried sausages and filled with the cheerful chatter of students excited for the Quidditch match.
"You've got to eat some breakfast," Hermione urged Harry.
"I don't want anything," Harry muttered.
"Just a bit of toast," wheedled Hermione.
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat something, Potter; this might be your last meal," Elian said solemnly, wiping at imaginary tears.
Harry went pale.
"Shut up, Elian. Stop making it worse for him," Hermione scolded sharply.
"I was just showing concern for our dear Harry!" Elian gasped, then raised his hands in mock surrender when Hermione shot him a glare that could rival Professor McGonagall's.
Seamus Finnigan, who had been listening with a smirk, rolled his eyes at Elian's usual antics before leaning toward Harry.
"Harry, you need strength," he said, plopping ketchup onto Harry's untouched sausage. "Seekers are usually the ones who get nobbled by the other team."
"Thanks for the encouragement, Seamus," Harry replied dryly.
By eleven o'clock the whole school seemed to be out in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many students had binoculars. The seats might be raised high in the air but it was still difficult to see what was going on sometimes.
Elian, Ron, and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean—the die-hard West Ham fan—up in the top row. To surprise Harry, they had painted a huge banner on one of the sheets Scabbers had chewed through. In bold letters it read: "Potter for President."
Of course, Elian couldn't resist meddling. Without telling anyone, he slipped in a charm so that the words would flicker and twist into "Try not to die, Potter" the moment Harry glanced up at it.
Dean, who had a real talent for drawing, had added a massive Gryffindor lion underneath. Hermione, not wanting to be outdone, had layered a clever charm so that the paint shimmered and flashed in shifting colors—scarlet, gold, and even streaks of silver light.
Meanwhile, in the locker room, Harry and the rest of the team were changing into their scarlet Quidditch robes (Slytherin would be playing in green).
Oliver Wood Gryffindor team current captain cleared his throat for silence.
"Okay, men," he said.
"And women," said Chaser Angelina Johnson.
"And women," Wood agreed. "This is it."
"The big one," said Fred Weasley.
"The one we've all been waiting for," said George.
"We know Oliver's speech by heart," Fred told Harry, "we were on the team last year."
"Shut up, you two," said Wood. "This is the best team Gryffindor's had in years. We're going to win. I know it."
He glared at them all as if to say, "Or else."
"Right. It's time. Good luck, all of you."
Harry followed Fred and George out of the locker room and, hoping his knees weren't going to give way, walked onto the field to loud cheers.
Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the field waiting for the two teams, her broom in her hand.
"Now, I want a nice, fair game, all of you," Madam Hooch said, once the players had gathered around her. Harry noticed she seemed to be speaking particularly to the Slytherin captain, Marcus Flint, a hulking sixth year who looked as though he had a trace of troll blood in him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught sight of a banner high above the stands, fluttering in the wind. It flashed in bold letters: "Try not to die, Potter." His heart skipped, but the unease faded almost instantly. Elian was there, grinning and giving him a confident thumbs-up. Beside him, Hermione was clearly scolding Elian for meddling with the banner—her words drowned out by the roar of the crowd—while Ron laughed so hard he nearly fell off his seat. Everything felt strangely normal again. Normal because everyone believed in him.
Harry clambered on to his Nimbus Two Thousand.
Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle. Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were off.
"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor – what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather
attractive, too –"
'JORDAN!'
"Sorry, Professor."
The Weasley twins' friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the commentary for the match, closely watched by Professor McGonagall.
"And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood's, last year only a reserve – back to Johnson and – no, Slytherin have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes – Flint flying like an eagle up there – he's going to sc– no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and Gryffindor take the Quaffle – that's Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and – OUCH – that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger – Quaffle taken by Slytherin – that's Adrian Pucey speeding off towards the goalposts, but he's blocked by a second Bludger – sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can't tell which – nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes – she's really flying – dodges a speeding Bludger – the goalposts are ahead – come on, now, Angelina – Keeper Bletchley dives – misses – GRYFFINDOR SCORE!"
"Budge up there, move along."
"Hagrid!"
Ron and Hermione shuffled aside, giving Hagrid room to squeeze in. Elian, however, was squashed further into the bench.
"Hagrid, you ever tried this thing called dieting?" Elian said with an exaggerated gasp, clutching his ribs. "Because I think I just lost two of mine."
Hagrid let out a booming laugh. "Witty as always, Elian." He patted the massive binoculars hanging round his neck. "But watchin' from me hut just isn't the same as bein' with the crowd. No sign o' the Snitch yet, eh?"
"Nope," Ron answered. "Harry hasn't had much to do yet."
"Kept outta trouble, though, that's worth somethin'," Hagrid said, lifting his binoculars to the sky where Harry was just a speck of gold and scarlet.
Elian had little interest in the match. To him, the players darting across the sky were nothing more than houseflies buzzing aimlessly. He was just about to excuse himself and slip away when his bracelet tightened sharply around his wrist.
The grip grew harsher, biting into his skin. A hiss escaped him before he instinctively scanned the stands for Professor Quirrell. With a few whispered healing charms, the pain dulled, but the unease lingered. Leaving was no longer an option—he finally had a reason to stay.
His gaze roamed absently through the crowd, searching for the professor while ignoring the cheers and groans that rippled across the pitch. Then—
"Foul!" the Gryffindors roared.
Elian's head snapped toward the field just in time to see Madam Hooch berating Marcus Flint for his underhanded tactics. He had missed the play itself, but the tension on the ground was unmistakable.
Harry looked like the very life had been drained out of him. Elian turned his head toward Hermione and Ron, who were making animated, angry noises in perfect sync, like some sort of furious duet.
Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was shouting, "Send him off, ref! Red card!"
"Or better yet, make him play without the broom," Elian added, mock-serious, quickly deducing that Slytherin's real tactic had been trying to knock Harry out of the sky.
"Not funny, Elian!" Hermione snapped.
"Not trying to be, Granger," he replied smoothly, unfazed.
Hagrid, at least, was firmly on Elian's side.
"They oughta change the rules, Flint could've knocked Harry clean outta the air!"
Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides.
"So – after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating –"
"Jordan!" growled Professor McGonagall.
"I mean, after that open and revolting foul –"
"Jordan, I'm warning you –"
"All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession."
Elian was about to return to scanning the stands for Quirrell when his attention snapped to another problem—Harry's broomstick. The Nimbus Two Thousand was jerking wildly, as though it had a will of its own, bucking and swerving to throw him off. Each violent jolt nearly unseated Harry, and yet Lee Jordan's commentary went on, oblivious.
What struck Elian as odd was how no one else seemed to notice the unnatural movements. The broom wasn't just misbehaving, it was climbing steadily higher, as if dragging Harry somewhere.
Frowning, Elian leaned forward and tapped Lavender Brown on the shoulder. "Mind if I borrow these?" Without waiting for much of an answer, he snatched her binoculars and raised them to his eyes.
His gaze swept the stands until he found him, Professor Quirrell. The man stood unnaturally still in the throng, lips twitching as he muttered under his breath. Before Elian could act, a collective gasp rippled through the stands. Harry's broom gave a savage lurch, and suddenly he was dangling from it, one hand gripping the handle for dear life.
"Nothing could interfere with a broomstick except powerful Dark magic," Hagrid muttered, his voice trembling.
At once, Hermione snatched Hagrid's binoculars and began scanning the stands frantically. Elian smirked slightly—she had caught on.
"What are you doing?" Ron asked, his face ashen.
"She's realized who's behind it," Elian said quickly. "It's Qu—"
"Snape—look!" Hermione gasped, cutting him off.
Elian blinked. "Huh?" He raised his own binoculars again and froze. Sure enough, Snape was on the opposite side of the pitch, lips moving non-stop, eyes locked on Harry.
Ron snatched the binoculars from him, panic rising. "What should we do?"
Elian hesitated. He wanted to tell them about Quirrell, but now he wasn't certain. Two professors muttering incantations? Which one was the culprit? Before he could decide, Hermione pushed past them.
"I'll handle this," she said firmly, vanishing into the crowd.
Ron swung the binoculars back toward Harry. The broom was shuddering so violently it was a miracle Harry was still holding on. All around them, the crowd had risen to their feet, shouting and screaming. The Weasley twins streaked up on their brooms, trying desperately to grab Harry, but the Nimbus bucked higher every time they drew close. Forced back, they hovered beneath him, ready to catch him if he fell. No one noticed Marcus Flint take advantage of the chaos, scoring five easy goals in rapid succession.
Elian sighed and slipped one of his wands into his hand.
"Weasley," he said, holding up two fingers, "pick one."
"What—?"
"Quickly," Elian cut him off, his voice flat. "Or Potter dies."
Panicked, Ron grabbed Elian's right finger.
"Right it is, then," Elian muttered, angling his wand toward Harry.
"What are you doing?" Ron demanded, instantly regretting his choice.
"If it works, I help," Elian replied without a blink. "If not... then it's murder."
Ron went pale as parchment.
Meanwhile, Hermione had fought her way across the stand to where Snape was. In her rush, she barreled straight into Professor Quirrell, knocking him headfirst into the row ahead. She didn't even stop to apologize. Reaching Snape, she crouched low, whipped out her wand, and whispered a sharp incantation. A tongue of bright blue flame burst onto the hem of Snape's robes.
At the same moment, Elian was channeling his own spell, weaving magic into the chaotic pull around Harry's broom. The violent jolts weakened, and Harry began to steady. It seems like Hermione did her work. The crowd erupted in cheers, but Elian didn't lower his wand.
Instead, his gaze slid to Marcus Flint. A twitch of his wrist, a faint ripple of disruption, and Flint's broom wobbled. He lost control just as a Bludger came screaming his way.
Crack!
It caught him square in the face.
The Slytherins groaned in dismay while Gryffindor's side roared with laughter.
"That's what he deserved!" Lee Jordan commented, almost jumping from his seat.
Elian grinned like a devil who had just stumbled upon his favorite new toy. Before he could unleash another round of torment on Flint, Ron cleared his throat.
"Um… Elian."
"Hold it, Weasley. Let me give this pest just a few more jolts of poetic justice."
Ron shifted uncomfortably. "She's behind you."
Elian froze mid-motion. Very slowly, he lowered his wand, his smirk sliding into something dangerously close to innocence. He turned his head, wide-eyed, putting on his best impression of a guilty puppy caught paw-deep in the biscuit jar.
Hermione had returned.
"Look, Granger, before you say something that ruins my fragile self-esteem, he did nearly kill Harry before," Elian said, a mock-offended tilt in his voice.
"I know," Hermione replied softly, sitting back down beside them, her expression tight but calm.
"Oh… that's it?" Elian muttered, feigning disbelief.
Ron, eager for a distraction, nudged Neville, who had been bawling into Hagrid's enormous jacket for the past five minutes.
"Neville, come on, look up! It's safe now!"
Harry was speeding towards the ground when the crowd saw him clap his hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick – he hit the pitch on all fours – coughed – and something gold fell into his hand.
'I've got the Snitch!' he shouted, waving it above his head.
"He didn't catch it—he nearly swallowed it!" Flint howled, clutching his nose.
But Elian had enough. He darted through the confused crowd, snatched the mic from a bewildered Lee Jordan, and raised his voice over the stunned silence.
"And Marcus Flint goes appealing for a foul—after nearly murdering the Gryffindor Seeker!" Elian declared, his words slicing through the confusion.
The stadium erupted into laughter and cheers.
"Mr Vale!" McGonagall's sharp voice rang out above the noise, but by then Elian was already slipping the mic back into Lee Jordan's hands. He winked, vanished into the crowd, and left chaos in his wake.
Lee Jordan's voice rang across the stadium, triumphant and hoarse from shouting.
"Gryffindor win! One hundred and seventy points to sixty!"
The stands erupted into cheers, scarlet banners whipping through the air like flames. Amidst the celebration, Harry, Elian, Ron, and Hermione slipped away to Hagrid's hut, where a kettle of tea and an enormous plate of rock cakes were waiting. Hagrid insisted it was a victory feast, but Harry hardly tasted anything. His mind kept circling back to the match.
"It was Snape," Ron said heatedly, for what felt like the fifth time. "Elian, Hermione, and I saw him. He was cursing your broomstick and muttering under his breath. He never once took his eyes off you."
"Rubbish," said Hagrid, who hadn't heard a word of what had gone on next to him in the stands. "Why would Snape do some
thin' like that?"
Elian stayed silent, absently turning his bracelet around his wrist. A part of him wondered whether he should tell them the truth about Quirrell, but as he watched the suspicion in Harry, Ron, and Hermione harden into certainty against Snape, he made his choice. Trust, he decided, was a luxury he couldn't afford with them right now.
Elian didn't involve himself in the argument between Hagrid and Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were relentlessly blaming Snape for what happened to Harry's broom, while Hagrid, with the same attitude, was defending him.
"I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I've read all about them! You've got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn't blinking at all, I saw him!" Hermione snapped.
"I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!' said Hagrid hotly. "I don' know why Harry's broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn' try an' kill a student! Now, listen to me – yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget what it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel –"
"Aha!" said Harry. "So there's someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?"
"They got you," Elian muttered to Hagrid, mock sympathy in his voice.
Hagrid looked furious with himself.