Early November had brought a bitter turn in the weather. The mountains surrounding the castle had lost their green, replaced by somber gray, the lake now resembling frozen steel, and each morning the earth lay white with frost. From the castle windows, one could occasionally catch sight of Hagrid—this enormous, lumbering man whom I would never have trusted with children—thawing the brooms on the flying practice field. He was wrapped in a long mole-skin coat, enormous boots lined with beaver fur, and thick rabbit-wool mittens, bracing himself against the cold as if expecting it to last forever.
I had briefly considered setting up a betting pool, given that the school's Quidditch season was just beginning—the Gryffindor team facing off against Slytherin—but after a moment's thought, I dismissed the idea. Who in their right mind would trust a first-year with their money? It would have been a waste of time.
Quidditch itself had never interested me much, though Malfoy's incessant chatter had managed to pique my curiosity—though his tales were, for the most part, childish and naive. Still, there was something amusing in watching the Bludgers at work—the enchanted balls that sought out players with aggressive intent—entertaining at least in the way one might find American football spectacles.
That morning was cold, yet the sun shone brightly. The Great Hall smelled of roasted sausages and hummed with excited chatter; everyone anticipated the thrill of the upcoming match. I sat lazily at the long table, poking at my omelet with a fork. Voices and the clatter of utensils merged into a dull hum. Suddenly, a small, white owl landed gracefully beside me, dropping an envelope directly onto my plate. At first, I frowned, but as I summoned the remnants of the previous body's memory, I immediately recognized the careful handwriting of my younger sister.
I opened the letter carefully, unrolling the parchment:
"Dear Greg,How are you at Hogwarts? Father says you are grown-up now, but I still worry about you. You're there alone… I hope it's not too frightening. Father mentioned that strange voice you sometimes hear. Is it true? It scares me, Greg. Please be careful! Promise me you'll be safe.Everything here is as usual, but the house feels too quiet without you. Even Father has become stricter than ever. He's made me practice with this silly wand again. Remember when the garden gnomes attacked me, and you scattered them without magic? You always protected me. I'm trying to be strong, but it's hard without you. Promise you'll write back, okay? I miss you so much!Also, I found your old wooden amulet in the garden—the one you made when we were kids. Remember when I accidentally broke it, and you said it didn't matter because it was still "magical"? I left it on your shelf. Perhaps it will help you when you come home for Christmas. I believe in you.Your sister, Alice."
I read the letter several times, a warm wave of the former Goyle's memories washing over me, until I suddenly saw her—little Alice, her light hair tousled, hiding behind him.
Her face was streaked with tears, and Father loomed over them, his expression stern. I remembered the day I had failed yet another fencing exercise, a trivial pursuit in the twentieth century, certainly unnecessary for a wizard. But the punishment was severe: hours spent in a cold cellar without reprieve or chance to explain.
"You're the reason you messed up that maneuver!" Father had roared. "You must be stronger, Greg! You are the heir of our line!"
But Alice had refused to back down. She stepped forward, arms spread wide."Father, it's my fault! I distracted him! Don't punish Greg!" Her voice trembled, yet she stood firm.
I had felt both anger and pride—anger at my own weakness, pride at her courage. I had sworn to myself I would never again give her cause to protect me.
Another memory flickered through my mind: Alice smiling as she offered me a piece of cake she had hidden from Mother's watchful eye. "You earned this," she had whispered, winking. In that moment, the world had seemed a little less harsh, simply because she was there.
And then the garden, where I taught her to use my homemade slingshot. Her laughter, ringing clear as she finally hit the target, echoed in my memory. Those moments were so vivid that I almost smelled the grass and heard her bright voice.
Now, reading her letter, I felt a strange mix of relief and longing. I had never imagined I would miss someone in this new body, never expected to feel a sister's warmth again. Alice… she had always been extraordinary, a steadfast support and refuge for the former Greg. After the body swap, I remembered her, but those warm recollections had been pushed to the back of my mind. Now, I realized I had to see her—this unexpected human connection strengthened my resolve.
"Soon, Alice," I whispered to myself, folding the letter carefully and tucking it into my pocket. "I've taken your brother from you; let's see if I can replace him."
"You said something, Goyle?" Malfoy asked lazily. "Important letter?"
"Just… a note from my sister," I said, waving it off, unwilling to discuss the warm, lingering memories of someone I had never truly met.
"I see," he muttered, uninterested, turning back to chat with Nott, another first-year Slytherin. "So, what do you think about the match? Derrick and Bulw should crush them, and Flint…"
I tuned him out, observing the Gryffindor table instead—Ron Weasley, as usual after that incident, casting hostile glances my way, though cautious not to approach, still unwilling to forgive. Longbottom still kept to himself, attending only classes and often skipping communal meals.
Besides Neville, a new outcast had appeared in Gryffindor—Hermione Granger. She began at Hogwarts by lecturing everyone, not just in academics but in life, earning general irritation. Most classmates ignored her, and some even harassed her. Ron, in particular, vented his frustrations on Granger, while Lavender Brown, curiously, attached herself to Potter. The three became an inseparable trio. Potter had tried to reconcile them, but after witnessing Granger's temper, he quickly abandoned the effort.
By eleven o'clock, the stadium was packed, seemingly with the entire school. Many held Minokli—magical devices combining binoculars and video cameras. The stands towered above the field, yet even from that height, it was difficult to discern everything in the air.
Madam Hooch presided over the match, broom in hand, waiting for both teams to assemble."We need a clean, fair game—from all of you," she announced, signaling everyone closer.
Team captains Marcus Flint of Slytherin and Oliver Wood of Gryffindor shook hands, and Madam Hooch's whistle pierced the air, launching fourteen players into flight.
"…And the Quaffle is in Angelina Johnson's hands of Gryffindor. An excellent Chaser—and remarkably attractive besides…"
"JORDAN!" McGonagall's sharp voice cut through, as she had deliberately seated herself near the commentator Lee Jordan, friend of the Weasley twins. She knew Jordan's tendencies.
"Sorry, Professor," he corrected himself. "Angelina maneuvers expertly, passing to Alicia Spinnet—an Oliver Wood insight—and back to Johnson… No, intercepted by Slytherin. Marcus Flint charges forward. Flint soars like an eagle, about to score… No! The goalkeeper Wood intercepts, Gryffindor counters. Chaser Katie Bell moves deftly, dodging Flint… Ouch, a Bludger strike… Slytherin recovers, Adrian Pucey drives toward the goal, stopped by the second Bludger… Perhaps sent by Fred, or George—hard to tell…"
The game continued, fierce and intricate. Then suddenly—a flash of gold: the Snitch appeared for the first time during this match. Potter, reacting with uncanny speed, narrowly avoided an eye strike, but the Snitch returned, accompanied by Bludgers and the Quaffle. Chaos erupted.
Brown and Weasley ducked beneath benches; Gryffindor players jostled, trying to evade the frenzied balls. Both teams froze, uncertain how to proceed, and Madam Hooch was equally stunned—I clearly saw her scroll drop in surprise.
Others began shoving Gryffindor players; the stands erupted into a brawl, Potter at the center, dodging deadly projectiles like a frantic ballerina. Teachers froze, incredulous, while Dumbledore seemed amused. Snape recovered quickly, casting counter-spells to slow the balls. Dumbledore followed, clapping loudly, and all projectiles fell to the ground, as if stripped of magic. Professor Quirrell, startled, fainted along with a few other skittish students.
"CALM DOWN!" Dumbledore's voice rang, finally ending the pandemonium.
The aftermath left dozens injured, some bedridden for days. The match was postponed. Anticipation built for the rescheduled game. Then the next day, a bombshell: Potter was admitted to Gryffindor as Seeker, an exception to first-year rules.
Malfoy, predictably, lost his composure, venting loudly throughout dinner."What a surprise from that madman Dumbledore," he sneered, forcing a grimace of amusement. "Potter, a Seeker? He barely stands on a broom! What a circus. Did they lose their minds?"
Watching him, I noted the twisted rage on his face. His pride had been wounded; he considered himself the best first-year flyer. I avoided engaging him, though his venomous remarks continued.
"Look at him, Goyle," Malfoy said, nodding toward Potter, quietly slicing sausage. "He'll never manage in the air. A Seeker? More like a ballerina! That idiot can barely stay upright!"
I stayed silent. Malfoy was furious. He now saw Potter as an obstacle, a rival to be destroyed, at least verbally.
"Yes, he's a coward," Crabbe added, eating a few bites. "Remember, he didn't show up for the duel. After the first Bludger, he'll toss his broom and run."
"Perhaps," Malfoy continued, "he just got lucky. They only put him in because he dodged a few balls… Misunderstanding, nothing more. He can't defeat Slytherin. We're always stronger than those dimwitted lions. Too bad I can't play this year—but I'll show him what it means to be a Seeker."
The match approached, and despite Malfoy's irritation, I was curious to watch events unfold. Who could predict what would happen once Potter entered the game, despite being a first-year? For Malfoy, it was a blow to his pride.
Perhaps I, too, might try Quidditch. The chaos of balls smashing through the air intrigued me. Using a Beater's bat seemed entertaining—an opportunity to play a child's game I had never truly experienced before. In my previous life, sports existed, but soon the army consumed me. Here, I could finally indulge in a simpler thrill.