November at Hogwarts was marked by chill winds and whispering fog that clung to the castle walls like a lingering spectre. The sky over the Quidditch pitch remained a sullen grey, often threatening rain or snow. But the cold did little to dampen the excitement building through the halls. The first Quidditch match of the season was fast approaching: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.
Elias Blackthorn, as ever, stayed distant from the growing buzz. He'd read about Quidditch in Quidditch Through the Ages, found its mechanics interesting, and even appreciated the sport's historical significance—but he couldn't bring himself to care much about house rivalries or flying after a tiny golden ball.
It wasn't for lack of skill. Elias had already shown he could handle a broom with effortless grace in their first flying class. He was precise, controlled, and calm—traits Madam Hooch had noticed, though Elias made no attempt to stand out. Still, he preferred his time in the Room of Requirement, perfecting silent casting, refining wand movements, and pushing the limits of his mana reserves. Power, not popularity, was his goal.
But it seemed he wouldn't be able to ignore Quidditch entirely.
"You're coming to the match, aren't you?" Daphne Greengrass asked him as they walked back from Charms class. Her voice held the faintest edge of expectation.
Elias arched a brow. "I'm not particularly interested in watching a bunch of people chasing balls in the sky."
Daphne smirked. "Oh come on, it's tradition. Even you should see what all the noise is about. Besides... Gryffindor's Seeker is the Boy-Who-Lived."
He gave a soft scoff. "So? The Golden Boy riding a broom doesn't make the game any more interesting."
"Maybe not to you," she said with a teasing tone. "But I want to see if he's as good as they say. You know Slytherin's out for blood."
Elias didn't reply immediately, but after a moment of silence, he nodded. "Fine. I'll go."
The sky above the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch was a pale, wintery blue, streaked with the occasional drift of cloud. A cold wind rolled down from the mountains, scattering leaves across the stands and sending cloaks fluttering. Despite the bite in the air, the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation. It was the first official Quidditch match of the season—Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
Banners in House colors hung from the stands. Green and silver clashed boldly with red and gold, and enchanted flags waved themselves in sync with House chants. Excited students wrapped in scarves jostled for the best views, and the air rang with drums, trumpets, and excited chatter.
Elias Blackthorn sat on the Slytherin side, nestled comfortably beside Daphne Greengrass. His hands were gloved in dragonhide, though he wasn't cold. His gaze flicked toward the pitch and back to the crowd, scanning—not in excitement, but calculation.
"You're not even pretending to enjoy this," Daphne said, watching him from the corner of her eye.
"I am pretending. Poorly," Elias replied dryly. "Besides, I came for the company, not the sport."
She rolled her eyes but smiled. "You're insufferable."
"I've been called worse."
The teams strode onto the field, broomsticks in hand. Cheers erupted from all sides. The Gryffindor team, clad in scarlet robes, was led by Oliver Wood, followed closely by Harry Potter—noticeably the youngest player on the field. The whispers about his appointment as Seeker had barely died down since McGonagall's surprising recruitment.
Elias tilted his head as Harry mounted the sleek Nimbus 2000, its polished surface gleaming in the sun. For all his indifference to the sport, he couldn't deny the power in that broom.
Madam Hooch's whistle pierced the air. With a roar from the stands, the players shot into the sky.
The game started fast—bludgers whipping dangerously close to players, chasers streaking toward the hoops, and the commentary echoing enthusiastically across the pitch, courtesy of Lee Jordan.
"And it's Angelina Johnson with the Quaffle—nice dodge past Montague!—Slytherin trying to intercept—!"
Elias watched the motions dispassionately. Unlike most first-years, who gasped at every near-collision, he was more focused on something else—the way magic shifted subtly in the air, drawn by the tension and adrenaline. Quidditch, for all its noise and theatrics, had its own kind of rhythm.
Beside him, Daphne leaned forward in her seat. "You can't seriously think this is boring. Look at that move!"
He followed her gaze just in time to see Harry perform a sharp dive, chasing a glimmer of gold. The Snitch.
But something was wrong.
Elias sat upright, the subtle sense of magical fluctuation suddenly twisting. Harry's broom, which had moments ago sliced cleanly through the air, jerked violently. The boy barely held on.
"What the—" Daphne muttered, frowning. "Is that… is that part of the strategy?"
"No," Elias said quietly, narrowing his eyes.
The broom jerked again, spinning unpredictably. The crowd began to murmur. Even the commentators faltered.
"He's not flying it," Elias said under his breath. "It's being controlled."
His eyes shifted instinctively toward the staff table. There sat Dumbledore, his expression sharp but calm, and next to him—Snape, staring directly at Harry without blinking.
"That's him," Daphne whispered. "Professor Snape. He's jinxing the broom, isn't he?"
But Elias's gaze moved past Snape.
Quirinus Quirrell sat a few seats down, hunched forward, his lips moving silently. Sweat glistened on his brow despite the chill, and his left hand clutched the edge of the table.
Elias frowned. That aura. Something darker coiled around Quirrell than any nervous tic or teaching anxiety could explain.
Hermione Granger suddenly leapt from her seat in the Gryffindor stands and disappeared into the crowd below. A few moments later, a burst of magic flickered from the staff area—unseen by most, but not unnoticed by Elias.
The broom steadied.
Harry, pale but determined, leaned into the dive and—against all odds—snatched the Snitch inches from the ground. The pitch exploded in cheers. Gryffindor had won.
The stands erupted into a frenzy of celebration. Students screamed, waved flags, and sang. The Gryffindor team swarmed Harry, lifting him off the ground in victory.
Elias sat motionless, watching Quirrell's face pale even further as he wiped at the sweat on his brow. Snape looked displeased, but not surprised. Dumbledore clapped politely, though his gaze swept over the crowd like a hawk.
"That was insane," Daphne breathed. "I thought he was going to die!"
"Someone wanted him to," Elias replied quietly, more to himself than to her.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing," he said, rising from his seat. "Come on. I've had enough noise for one morning."
They made their way out of the stands, though the chants of victory still echoed behind them. Elias kept his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.
He had seen the effects of dark magic before—in theory, through books, and once, from a distance in his past life.
But today, for the first time, he had felt it up close
The aftermath of the Quidditch match settled quickly over the castle. Gryffindor's victory—thanks to Harry's jaw-dropping first catch—had become the subject of hallway whispers and mealtime discussions. But Elias, true to his usual indifference, remained unmoved.
The excitement meant little to him. His goals were far beyond house points and flying brooms.
In the following days, Hogwarts shifted into a slower rhythm. The days grew shorter, and the air outside took on a biting chill. The scent of pine and frost began to linger in the corridors.
Elias spent his time as he always had: focused.
When he wasn't attending classes, he was buried in books—ones the average first-year wouldn't dare to touch. During his silent nightly walks to the seventh floor, he slipped into the Room of Requirement and emerged stronger each time.
His magical control was steadily improving. He had started transfiguring larger objects with greater ease, blending spells into fluid chains that could respond instinctively to imagined scenarios. He even began experimenting with layering protections on himself—small ones, nothing too obvious, but enough to give him an edge.
He wasn't just practicing spells. He was learning to fight. Efficiently. Quietly. Brutally, if necessary.
The other students hardly noticed. He'd carved out a space in Slytherin where he was respected, but distant. Daphne, perhaps, came the closest to understanding him. Their conversations had grown longer, more frequent—never too personal, but not empty either.
She asked him once, in a quiet corridor after Defense Against the Dark Arts, "What are you preparing for, really?"
He didn't answer immediately. Then he said, "The world doesn't stay peaceful forever. You prepare, or you perish."
She stared at him a little longer than usual but didn't press further. She just nodded.