"Did you hear?"
"I still can't believe it, Harry Potter made the team as Seeker. First year. First years never get on the team."
"Yeah, but he's Harry Potter. I mean, he probably got special treatment."
"You really think so? I heard that he showed his skill and they begged him join the team."
Ethan passed through the murmuring students. The corridor was brimming with excitement, voices rising and falling like the swell of an eager tide. The first Quidditch match of the year, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, was about to begin, and Hogwarts was alight with anticipation. House rivalries flared, bets were placed, and scarves fluttered in the cold morning breeze.
He wasn't Gryffindor. He wasn't Slytherin either. Technically, this match had nothing to do with him. But Ethan was going anyway.
He made his way across the lawn with a slow, steady gait, weaving between groups of laughing students wrapped in red and green. The morning air was sharp, a crisp chill settling into his robes. Far above, the stands loomed like a crown around the Quidditch pitch, already filling with students. Banners waved, spells launched colored smoke into the sky, and the atmosphere vibrated with energy.
Climbing the stairs into the stands, he choose a seat among an eager cluster of Gryffindors. No one questioned his presence. The energy was too high. Laughter, chanting, and the stomping of boots against wood drowned out any suspicion. He folded his arms and settled in. Flying wasn't really his thing, sports even less so, but Quidditch was the magical sport. Watching it live was a rite of passage. And maybe… maybe he'd even enjoy it.
The idea of attending the Quidditch World Cup someday tugged at the corner of his thoughts.
Below, the field shimmered under the mid-morning sun, blades of grass catching the light like fine needles. Madam Hooch stood at center, whistle already in hand, posture severe. The players marched onto the pitch in two columns, clad in crimson and emerald. Gryffindor's team was met with roaring approval, especially from the younger students. And there, bringing up the rear, broom in hand and eyes wide with focus, was Harry.
He looked small. Too small to be flying. But not insignificant.
Across from him, the Slytherin team looked smug, sneers already in place.
Ethan's eyes never left Harry.
The whistle blew.
The stadium exploded into noise. The players surged upward in a blur of movement, robes snapping, brooms streaking across the sky. The Quaffle was in play instantly, moving between Chasers like lightning. Bludgers whistled dangerously through the air, beaten back with brutal swings. The Keepers orbited their hoops like sentries. It was chaos, all of it choreographed madness.
Ethan leaned slightly forward, narrowing his gaze to find the small figure zipping through the sky.
Harry wasn't chasing the Quaffle. He hovered just above the fray, watching with a hawk's focus. The Nimbus beneath him was smooth, precise, even for a first-year, yet he kept his seat effortlessly. Ethan could see the calculation in the boy's movements. He might not know the rules, but instinct guided him.
The game continued on.
Then something changed.
Ethan noticed it before most of the crowd. A twitch. Small, but wrong. Harry's broom jerked. Once. Twice. Then harder. Harry grabbed at it, knuckles whitening, posture buckling as the broom bucked beneath him like a wild horse.
Gasps rose. A few students screamed. Something , or rather someone, was interfering.
His gaze scanned the faculty stand, ignoring the players. And there, exactly as he expected, stood Professor Snape. His lips moved, eyes narrowed, focused entirely on Harry.
But Ethan knew better.
Beside Snape was Professor Quirrell, his hands trembling, eyes darting, mouth barely moving. It was easy to dismiss, he always looked like that, but the rhythm of his murmurs, the set of his shoulders, the subtle rigidity in his spine… it was spellwork. Controlled. Measured. Quiet.
A dark, parasitic whisper of a curse.
Ethan exhaled through his nose, fingers flexing.
He didn't interfere. This wasn't an actual emergency, yet. He knew how it would play out. And besides… Snape was already working to break the curse, a counter-incantation hidden behind his glare.
The crowd hadn't figured it out. Most didn't even know what was happening.
Hermione Granger, however, was not most.
She broke from her seat, determination etched across her face. Ron trailed behind her, confused and concerned. Ethan watched them slip along the stands, weaving through the legs of older students. They reached the edge of the pitch. Hermione disappeared under the staff platform.
A moment later, a flicker of flame barely burst into view.
"Fire!"
Snape startled, flailing at his suddenly smoking robes. His chant faltered, and Harry's broom steadied.
The curse apparently ended. The moment passed.
Harry, realizing his broom was back to normal, resumed his search. He flew low, darting between players, his eyes scanning. A moment later, he froze.
The Snitch.
Ethan saw it too, just barely, a blur of gold, gleaming like a drop of sun. Harry leaned forward, his broom angled into a dive. Slytherins seeker also noticed this and the two began a chase towards the snitch.
Back and forth the went trying to throw off, to make them mess up, until the two plummeted through the air like shooting stars, closing on the golden flicker that danced just ahead.
The stadium was silent.
Who was going to bail first? They got closer and ground to meeting the ground, playing chicken with the other. Whoever pulls up first would be the loser.
Then it happened.
The Slytherin seeker lifted his broom sharply, worried about hitting the ground. Yet Harry Potter kept going. Mere moments away from diving right into the ground, he pulled up to level himself, barely making it.
Straight ahead he went until Harry decided to stand on his broom. It bucked, tilted, but he balanced.
He reached.
Then choked.
For a split second, everyone thought he had missed. He tumbled, crashed to the ground with a thud that rippled through the crowd. The match seemed to pause. Then-
He sat up.
Coughed.
And spat the Snitch into his hand.
The eruption of sound nearly knocked Ethan back in his seat. Gryffindors screamed with joy, Slytherins groaned, and students from every house leapt to their feet. The match was over. Gryffindor had won. Their team hoisted Harry into the air, shouting his name. Confetti exploded from the enchanted stands, falling like metallic snow.
Ethan clapped, once, twice, then folded his arms again.
He smiled faintly.
Absurd, but effective. The moment had delivered. Seeing it firsthand had made all the difference.
Later that night, the common room buzzed with energy. Ethan sat apart, tucked into a corner with parchment and ink under the soft glow of candlelight. His quill scratched calmly as he composed a short letter. It was addressed to his mother.
He talked about the quidditch match and how much he had enjoyed it compared to flying himself.
Then, he went on to ask his mother how things were going at home. Most importantly, how the investigation was going into Lockhart.