The castle was alive before dawn.
Even the ghosts seemed restless, drifting through the corridors whispering predictions. Gryffindors wore scarlet scarves at breakfast, Slytherins answered with sneers and green banners that shimmered enchantingly with silver snakes.
Harry ate little. His nerves weren't fear — more like energy wound too tight. Flying had always been his language, his rhythm. And now, with his magic sharper and more sensitive than ever, he wondered how the broom would feel.
Would it still answer him the same way?
Across the table, Hermione glanced up from her book. "You'll do fine," she said, as if reading his thoughts.
Harry smiled faintly. "Fine's not good enough. I want to understand what I'm doing."
"You're thinking like Flitwick," Ron muttered. "You just have to fly, mate."
Harry chuckled, but the thought lingered. He didn't just want to win — he wanted to feel the magic in motion.
⸻
By the time they stepped onto the pitch, the crowd was electric.
Wood gave a roaring speech, Fred and George cracked jokes about "not dying," and Harry stood still, breathing in the sharp November air. The broom in his hand thrummed faintly, its energy brushing against his fingers like a pulse.
The whistle blew.
And the world leapt.
Harry kicked off and the ground vanished. Wind rushed over his face, wild and glorious. His broom moved beneath him like a thought made solid — effortless, fluid, alive.
The game blurred around him: Quaffles spinning, Bludgers whistling, Wood shouting orders that vanished into wind. The stands were a storm of voices — green jeers, red cheers.
He could hear Malfoy's voice, shrill and smug, cutting through the din.
"Nice broom, Potter! Try not to fall off!"
Harry grinned without looking down. "Not today."
He rose higher, scanning the field. His senses stretched outward — not just eyes but something deeper, a resonance with the broom, with the air itself. It was like hearing the heartbeat of the match through the wind.
And then the beat faltered.
⸻
It began as a faint wrongness under his hands.
The broom wobbled — just slightly — but it wasn't the wind. It was pressure, pushing from nowhere.
He frowned. His instincts, honed by two lifetimes, screamed that this wasn't chance.
He reached out with that invisible awareness McGonagall had helped him cultivate — that listening sense he called resonance. And there it was: a foreign rhythm, slimy and cold, clawing its way along the magical current between him and the broom.
A curse.
He followed it — mentally, not physically — and felt two streams of magic locked in struggle somewhere below the stands.
One was the parasite — thin, rasping, hateful. Voldemort's echo, wrapped around Quirrell like rot in cloth.
The other was sharp, disciplined — a countercurrent of precision and force.
Snape.
They were fighting through him, through his broom, their conflict thrumming in his bones.
The broom jerked violently, nearly unseating him. He clenched the handle, knuckles white.
The crowd gasped. Ron stood up in the stands, face pale. "What's happening?!"
⸻
Hermione's eyes were scanning the teacher's stand.
Something was off.
Professor Snape stood at the very front, cloak whipping around his legs, lips moving — muttering, focused entirely on Harry.
Her blood ran cold.
Snape had always been after Harry. He'd mocked him, glared at him, sneered every chance he got. And now here he was, eyes locked on Harry's broom, whispering spells under his breath.
"He's jinxing it," she said, voice trembling. "Snape's jinxing the broom!"
Ron gaped. "What?!"
"I saw him muttering — look!"
Hermione didn't wait for Ron to argue. She bolted.
Down the steps, through the crowd, her heart hammering in her throat. She didn't know what she'd do — she only knew she had to stop him.
⸻
The broom twisted again.
Harry fought it with everything he had, forcing his will to sync with the broom's heartbeat.
"It's me," he whispered. "It's my rhythm. Listen."
The broom trembled — but steadied slightly.
He could feel Quirrell's malice pulsing, trying to tear that connection away. The air vibrated with dark static.
Then came the whisper — that thin, poisonous voice that lived in memory and nightmare both.
"You again… boy…"
Harry's scar flared, a white-hot sting. But the pain only sharpened his focus.
He forced his breathing into rhythm, matching the wind, the broom, the pulse of the pitch beneath him.
He wasn't fighting the curse anymore. He was absorbing it — letting his magic shape and redirect the chaos rather than resist it.
Below, Hermione had reached the staff section.
Snape was still muttering, completely unaware of her behind him.
She drew her wand, took aim at his robes, and whispered, "Lacarnum Inflamarae."
The hem of Snape's cloak burst into flame.
He jerked back, eyes widening. The concentration broke — and the curse snapped like a cut wire.
Up above, the broom stopped bucking.
Harry steadied, the sudden silence of balance almost deafening after the chaos.
The Snitch glimmered nearby, spinning lazily as if waiting.
Harry didn't hesitate. He leaned forward — felt the broom surge — and reached out.
The golden wings brushed his fingertips, then folded obediently into his palm.
⸻
The roar from the stands hit like thunder.
Gryffindor red erupted everywhere; Fred and George whooped until they lost their voices. Wood nearly lifted Harry off the ground in a bear hug.
Hermione and Ron came rushing down from the stands — Ron beaming, Hermione half-livid, half-relieved.
"You nearly died!" she said, grabbing his arm. "Your broom went berserk!"
Harry smiled faintly. "I noticed."
She scowled — then deflated. "I thought Snape was cursing you. I set his cloak on fire."
Ron doubled over laughing. "You what?"
"Not on purpose!" she protested, flushing.
Harry chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Actually… he might've been helping."
Hermione blinked. "Helping? Snape?!"
Harry hesitated. "It's complicated. I felt… two spells. One dark. One trying to hold it back."
She frowned, confused. "How could you possibly know that?"
He met her gaze quietly. "Let's just say I'm learning to listen."
⸻
That night, long after the victory feast, Harry sat in the dim common room with his journal open.
The fire had burned low; embers pulsed like sleeping hearts.
He wrote:
Observation — Resonance under Pressure:
A broom's balance can be disrupted by opposing magical frequencies.
Felt two sources — one predatory, one stabilizing.
Both fought through me.
I kept my balance by surrendering — by listening instead of resisting.
Magic wants harmony, not dominance.
Even curses can be redirected if you stay in rhythm.
He paused, then added:
Snape… might not be the villain this time.
But something darker is awake — sooner than it should be.
He closed the notebook.
Outside, the wind rustled against the tower, and the castle's heartbeat pulsed softly through the stone — steady, alive, and waiting.