Chapter 33: The Secret
The weather had grown steadily colder lately, but the atmosphere at Hogwarts had taken on a sudden, electric buzz—Quidditch season had begun.
Michael, a diehard Quidditch fan, had even attended the Quidditch World Cup last year—the match had lasted five full days and nights. He’d gone on for seven straight times about how Scotland had narrowly missed victory, and how Canada had scraped through to claim the championship in the final moments.
Thanks to his endless, breathless retellings, Wade had become surprisingly familiar with several legendary teams: Germany’s Heidelberg Hounds, Bulgaria’s Vratza Eagles, the United States’ Fitchburg Swallows, and even the once-great Chadley Cannons, now fading into obscurity. He’d also picked up terms like the Eagle Head Formation and Plynton Back-Catch, though he had no idea how to execute them.
Yet despite Michael’s encyclopedic knowledge of Quidditch tactics and thrilling plays, the moment he mounted a broomstick, he turned into a nervous wreck—tense as if standing on a minefield, moving at barely more than a galloping foal’s pace, and never daring to rise above ten meters. Wade suspected that even by second year, when they’d first been allowed to bring flying brooms into school, Michael had still been forced to climb the stairs back to Ravenclaw Tower—given that the tower stood several times taller than ten meters.
Because Michael never stopped talking about Quidditch, and his topics were always things Wade neither understood nor cared about, he’d started avoiding him—perhaps only tolerating his presence after Ravenclaw’s match against Hufflepuff, when Michael would finally calm down and become human again.
Hermione, too, had been busier lately. Her desk now held several Quidditch-related books—Harry Potter was about to play his first match ever, and he’d been so anxious he couldn’t eat. Their friendship had grown stronger, and Hermione, ever the helper, was pouring through books trying to find ways to support her friend.
Wade thought Michael and Hermione would make a perfect pair—Michael loved to talk, and Hermione loved to listen. But the two Houses didn’t share schedules, so Wade ended up stuck with the endless “Quidditch Recap Broadcast” most of the time. Thankfully, Padma had recently started joining their conversations, and when she and Michael got lost in a heated debate about tactics, Wade finally got some peace.
Hogwarts Castle was a sprawling complex—finding an empty corner was child’s play. Wade had discovered a secret spot on the sixth floor near the library: an unused classroom with a small balcony outside. From the window, he could step onto a narrow platform, shielded by taller buildings and tucked away from view. It was hidden, windproof, and offered a stunning view of the distant Quidditch pitch and the Forbidden Forest.
Tiny figures darted across the sky above the pitch, weaving through the air like industrious bees. The flash of gold and red hinted at the Gryffindor Quidditch team training.
Speaking of which—last night, Hermione had shared something in the Umbrella Room: Gryffindor’s captain, Wood, had stormed into the common room in a rage. He’d asked the entire House to keep Harry Potter’s joining the team a secret, hoping to use it as a surprise weapon. But now, it seemed, everyone knew. Wood suspected a leak and now glared at every young lion, hunting for the “spy.” Several girls had even burst into tears—because they’d been caught talking about Harry to someone in another House.
But really, the truth was obvious. Gryffindor trained three times a week, rain or shine. Every time, Harry disappeared without a trace—only to return hours later, exhausted and covered in dirt. After a few such incidents, anyone with eyes could guess what was happening. And with the players flying so high, it wasn’t hard for a sharp-eyed student to spot Harry’s face.
Wade stared at the distant pitch, frowning. The players seemed chaotic, no clear Figure-8 Formation or Eagle Head Formation in sight. He shook his head—was it his eyes, or were they just that bad?
Compared to this, Alchemy was infinitely more satisfying. With a flick of his wand, a few small blue fireballs appeared in midair, radiating gentle warmth. Wade pulled out the book he’d borrowed from the library—On the Diversity of Species—and turned the stone pillar on the platform into a makeshift cushion. He leaned against the wall and began reading.
After some time, he suddenly heard footsteps.
At first, he didn’t care. But after reading two lines, his heart skipped.
A faint scent of garlic drifted through the air.
Before his mind could catch up, Wade instinctively canceled his fire spell and transfiguration. Silently and swiftly, he rose to his feet and pressed himself against the wall, hiding behind a protruding brick.
“What are you looking at…?”
A sharp, whispering voice cut through the silence—soft, but thick with malice and irritation, as if speaking directly into his ear.
Wade nearly thought he’d been seen. The words felt like they were meant for him.
But then, another voice answered—small, trembling, barely audible.
“Harry Potter, Master. He’s training with his teammates on the Quidditch pitch.”
Wade froze.
He understood instantly. Quirrell—and the thing behind his head, Voldemort—were standing just on the other side of the wall.
He held his breath, shrinking deeper into the shadow, not daring to move.
“—Harry Potter?” Voldemort hissed the name, voice low and venomous. “Yes… the boy who lived. The savior of the wizarding world… He stepped on my corpse and became a legend while I was nothing but a wisp of shadow. I bet Dumbledore has high hopes for him, doesn’t he?”
Quirrell trembled, too afraid to speak.
“Kill him, Quirrell.” Voldemort’s voice was ice. “When he’s in the spotlight—when everyone’s watching—kill him.”
“But… but Master—Dumbledore’s still there. I can’t do anything… You said we mustn’t draw his attention—” Quirrell stammered, terrified.
“Are you questioning me, Quirrell? Daring to defy me?” Voldemort’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Quirrell let out a guttural cry of agony.
“No—no! I won’t! I obey! I obey—Master, I’ll do anything—just spare me!”
He writhed on the ground, sobbing, rolling in pain.
But Voldemort didn’t stop. The torment lasted a few more moments before he finally “relented.”
“Use your brain, you fool,” Voldemort sneered, voice dripping with cruelty. “He’s going to play in a Quidditch match—flying at fifty meters in the air. Even if he falls off his broom, no one will suspect you—this stammering coward with no courage. No one will think twice about a boy who barely knows a single spell. If he dies… well, it wouldn’t be surprising, would it?”
“Yes—yes, I understand—I’ll do it—” Quirrell sobbed, crawling on the ground, trembling uncontrollably.
It took a long time before Wade heard the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor rise from the floor, adjusting his robes with a rustle, wiping away tears, and limping away.
Only then did Wade exhale—his breath coming in ragged gasps. Cold sweat soaked through his back.
(End of Chapter)
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