Chapter 6: The Glory of Trolls

October 31, 1991 – Thursday

Charms Classroom

Buffy woke to the delicious smell of baking pumpkin drifting through the corridors, a warm, comforting aroma that promised the start of a good day. The scent was a welcome relief, a reminder that even the most mundane aspects of school life had their charms. As she stretched and rolled out of bed, she felt a spark of excitement about what the day had in store. The scent of pumpkin mingled with the crisp morning air, making her morning routine feel a bit more magical.

In Charms class, the anticipation was palpable. Professor Flitwick, with his usual enthusiasm, had announced that they were ready to start making objects fly—a skill they had all eagerly awaited ever since watching him make Neville's toad zoom around the room. The prospect of manipulating objects with just a flick of the wrist had captivated them all, turning mundane classroom exercises into thrilling challenges.

Professor Flitwick, as usual, was perched on a stack of books, his small stature giving him a commanding view of the classroom. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he began the lesson. "Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been practicing!" he squeaked, his voice as high-pitched and cheerful as ever. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too—never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."

Buffy and Dawn were paired together for practice, much to their relief. The girls had been hoping to work with each other, knowing their combined focus and determination might increase their chances of success. They faced their task with a mixture of enthusiasm and trepidation. As they attempted the spell, their wands moved in practiced swishes and flicks, but the feather they were supposed to levitate remained stubbornly grounded on the desk.

Frustration grew as their attempts yielded no results. Dawn, her patience wearing thin, poked the feather with her wand in a fit of exasperation. The wand's tip sparked, and the feather burst into flames. Buffy quickly sprang into action, extinguishing the fire with a well-timed wave of her wand. The classroom's warm, cinnamon-spiced atmosphere contrasted sharply with the small chaos that had erupted at their desk.

Nearby, Ron was struggling with his own feather. His voice was filled with desperation as he shouted, "Wingardium Leviosa!" His wand movements were erratic, his arms flailing about like a windmill in a storm.

Hermione, who was working at the next table, couldn't help but interject. "You're saying it wrong," she snapped, her tone carrying the edge of someone who had long since mastered the charm. "It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

Ron's frustration was evident as he retorted, "You do it, then, if you're so clever."

Hermione, with a resigned sigh, rolled up the sleeves of her gown. Her movements were smooth and confident as she flicked her wand and pronounced, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The feather on her desk rose gracefully from its resting place, hovering about four feet above their heads. The sight of it floating effortlessly through the air drew a collective gasp of awe from their classmates.

Professor Flitwick's eyes sparkled with delight as he clapped his tiny hands together, his applause echoing through the room. "Oh, well done!" he cried, his voice ringing with genuine pride. "Everyone see here, Miss Granger's done it!"

Ron was in a particularly foul mood by the end of the Charms class. As he, Willow, Harry, Buffy, and Dawn squeezed their way into the bustling corridor, his frustration was palpable. The hallway was packed with students, all chattering excitedly about their morning lessons, but Ron's mood cast a dark cloud over the festive atmosphere. "It's no wonder no one can stand her," he grumbled, directing his ire at Hermione, who had just hastened past them. "She's a nightmare, honestly."

As Hermione brushed by Harry, Buffy and Dawn caught a fleeting glimpse of her face. The sight was jarring: Hermione's usually composed demeanor was shattered, and tears glistened in her eyes, running down her cheeks. The normally studious and diligent girl looked utterly distraught, her vulnerability stark against the usual backdrop of school life.

Buffy's eyes narrowed in frustration as she watched Hermione disappear down the corridor. She turned to Willow, her face set in a firm expression of resolve. "Willow, tell your brother he is an idiot," Buffy said, her voice carrying a mix of exasperation and urgency.

Willow, her face a mask of disapproval, did not hesitate. She delivered a swift, corrective slap to Ron's head, the sound echoing in the crowded hallway. Ron, startled, looked up at Willow with confusion etched across his face. "What was that for?" he demanded, rubbing the back of his head.

Willow's frown deepened, her eyes flashing with a mixture of frustration and concern. "What do you think that was for?" she replied, her tone laden with disappointment. "You really hurt Hermione's feelings."

With that, Buffy took off in the direction Hermione had fled, her determined steps echoing down the corridor as she set out to find and comfort her friend. Meanwhile, Ron stood there, his confusion mingling with a dawning realization of the impact of his words.

The remaining group—Harry, Ron, Willow, and Dawn—moved on toward their dormitories to drop off their books. The air around them was charged with a mixture of tension and anticipation as they prepared for the Halloween feast in the Great Hall.

Girls' Bathroom

Buffy found Hermione in the girl's bathroom, a small sanctuary away from the bustling corridors of Hogwarts. The room was dimly lit by flickering candles mounted on the walls, their soft light casting a warm, comforting glow over the stone surfaces. The air was thick with the faint scent of lavender, an attempt at making the space more inviting, yet it couldn't completely mask the tension that lingered.

Hermione was standing at the sink, her face still streaked with the traces of tears. She looked up as Buffy entered, her eyes red-rimmed and reflecting the hurt she had been trying to hide. Buffy approached her with a gentle, reassuring smile, her own expression full of sympathy. She reached out and enveloped Hermione in a comforting hug, holding her close as if to shield her from the pain she was feeling.

"Ron's an idiot, Hermione," Buffy said softly, her voice filled with warmth and understanding. "Even Willow agrees he can be a tad bit thick sometimes." Her tone was light, meant to soothe, and she patted Hermione's back in a gesture of support.

Hermione returned the embrace, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she took in Buffy's words. She nodded, a small, wistful smile touching her lips despite the tears. "I guess you're right," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Still, what he said hurt. I thought he was a friend." The words were a confession of her disillusionment, the pain of feeling let down by someone she had considered an ally.

Buffy held her friend close, her heart aching for Hermione. "I know," she said, her voice gentle and soothing. She rubbed Hermione's back in slow, reassuring circles, offering what comfort she could.

Great Hall

A thousand live bats erupted from the dark corners of the Great Hall, their wings creating a cacophony of fluttering chaos as they flitted from the walls and ceiling. They swept in low, dark clouds over the tables, causing the candles embedded in the carved pumpkins to flicker and stutter, casting eerie, shifting shadows across the room. The feast, a grand display of shimmering dishes and gleaming silverware, had appeared on the golden plates with the same magical flourish as it had at the start-of-term banquet.

Dawn was just reaching for a baked potato, her fingers eagerly grasping the warm, fluffy food, when Professor Quirrell burst into the hall. His usually pristine turban was askew, and his face was a mask of sheer terror, eyes wide with panic. The sight was so startling that the noise in the hall fell away as everyone turned to watch him. He stumbled towards Professor Dumbledore's chair, collapsing against the table in a heap, breathless and frantic. "Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know," he gasped out in a strained voice before he slumped to the floor, fainting dramatically.

The room erupted into a frenzy of confused murmurs and alarmed shouts. The chaos was only quelled when Professor Dumbledore, his usually serene demeanor unruffled by the commotion, cast several purple firecrackers from the tip of his wand. The explosions lit up the hall with dazzling flashes of violet light, drawing the attention of the students and restoring a semblance of order. "Prefects," Dumbledore's deep voice rumbled over the din, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

Percy Weasley, reveling in the sudden urgency, sprang into action with his usual sense of authority. "Follow me! Stick together, first years!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the noise. "No need to fear the troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind me, now. Make way, first years coming through! Excuse me, I'm a prefect!"

As Harry, Dawn, Willow, and Ron scrambled up the stairs, their hearts pounding with the adrenaline of the situation, Harry couldn't help but wonder aloud, "How could a troll get in?"

Ron, his face set in a worried frown, replied, "Don't ask me, they're supposed to be really stupid."

Willow, her brows furrowed in thought, added, "Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween joke."

The corridors were a maze of frantic students moving in every direction, adding to the confusion. As they navigated through a crowd of disoriented Hufflepuffs, jostling and bumping into one another, Dawn suddenly gripped Harry's arm, her face a picture of alarm. "Harry, Buffy's with Hermione," she said urgently. "They don't know about the troll."

"Go get Faith," Harry said, his voice tight with urgency. "Ron and I will look for Buffy and Hermione."

Ron bit his lip, the worry etched deep in his features. "Oh, all right," he relented, casting a nervous glance around. "But Percy'd better not see us."

With a swift nod, Dawn turned on her heel and dashed toward the Muggle Defense classroom. The corridors were a chaotic whirl of anxious students and echoing footsteps.

Muggle Defense Classroom

As she reached the door, she burst in, her breath coming in short, hurried gasps. Inside, Wesley and Faith were engaged in an intense discussion, their expressions set with grim determination as they prepared to confront the troll.

"Faith," Dawn said, slightly out of breath from her sprint through the castle. "Buffy and Hermione don't know about the troll."

Faith's eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked to Wesley's. "Wes," she said decisively, her voice steady despite the tension, "go to the dungeons and help the teachers with the troll. I will go with Dawn."

Wesley nodded, his face a mask of determination. "Be careful," he said, already moving towards the door.

Faith turned back to Dawn, her demeanor shifting to one of resolute focus. "Let's go," she said, her voice low and urgent. Together, they raced down the corridors, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls as they made their way to find Buffy and Hermione.

Girls' Bathroom

"Can you smell something?" Ron asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Harry tilted his head, closing his eyes momentarily as he inhaled deeply. A rancid odor seeped into his senses, a grotesque blend of old socks and the stench of a neglected public toilet. The smell was overpowering, making his stomach churn.

And then they heard it—a low, guttural grunting that reverberated through the stone walls, accompanied by the heavy, shuffling footsteps of something enormous. Ron pointed with a trembling finger. At the end of the passage, to the left, something massive was lumbering toward them. They shrank back into the shadows, their breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps, as they watched in horrified fascination.

As the creature emerged into a patch of moonlight, the sight was almost too much to bear. Standing twelve feet tall, its skin was a dull, granite gray, with a texture that seemed to absorb light. Its grotesque, lumpy body resembled a boulder, with its small bald head perched on top like a grotesque coconut. The legs were short, thick as tree trunks, ending in flat, horny feet that seemed to barely lift off the ground. The stench it emanated was unbearable, a pungent odor of decay and rot. In its gnarled hands, it clutched a huge wooden club, which trailed heavily along the floor due to its excessively long arms.

The troll stopped next to a doorway, its beady eyes scanning the surroundings with a primitive curiosity. It waggled its long, floppy ears, as if trying to make a decision, before slouching heavily into the room.

"The key's in the lock," Harry muttered urgently. "We could lock it in."

"Good idea," Ron agreed, his voice tight with anxiety.

They edged toward the open door, every creak of the old wood seeming to echo loudly in the tense silence. Their mouths felt dry, their hearts pounding in their chests as they hoped the troll wouldn't notice them. With one swift, decisive move, Harry lunged for the key, his fingers closing around it with a desperate grip. He slammed the door shut and twisted the key into the lock with a satisfying click. "Yes!" he breathed in relief, the adrenaline surging through him.

Flush with their small victory, they turned to flee back up the passage. But as they rounded the corner, their exhilaration turned to terror. The sound of two high, terrified screams pierced the air, slicing through the corridor with a chilling clarity. The screams came from the very chamber they had just locked.

"Oh, no," Harry whispered, his face draining of color as he recognized one of the cries as belonging to Buffy. "Bells!"

Wheeling around, they sprinted back to the door, their hearts racing with adrenaline. The key felt clumsy in their shaking hands as they fumbled with it, struggling to unlock the door under the pressure. Dawn and Faith, breathless and wide-eyed from their sprint, arrived just as Harry managed to wrench the door open. Without a moment's hesitation, they burst into the room.

Inside, the scene was chaotic. Hermione and Buffy were huddled against the far wall, their faces pale and stricken with terror. The troll, an enormous and lumbering monstrosity, was wreaking havoc in the bathroom. It smashed its way through the rows of sinks, sending porcelain shards and water cascading in every direction. The loud crashes and splashes filled the air with a cacophony of destruction.

Faith's sharp eyes darted around the room, assessing the situation. She turned to Harry with a determined expression. "Harry, is there something you can do about his club?" she asked urgently.

Harry's mind raced as he processed the request. After a brief moment of intense concentration, he nodded. "I think so."

"Good," Faith said. "Do it and then you, B, Ron, and Hermione get as far away from the troll as possible."

Harry didn't waste a second. He took a deep breath and, with a firm flick of his wand, intoned, "Wingardium Leviosa!" The club, which had been dragging along the floor, was suddenly lifted off the ground and hovered precariously above the troll's head. The troll, momentarily bewildered, stared up at the floating club, its confusion evident.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Faith sprang into action. With a swift and powerful movement, she leaped toward the troll and, using the very club that was now suspended in mid-air, struck it decisively. The troll crumpled to the floor, knocked unconscious by the impact of its own weapon.

The commotion had drawn attention. Moments later, several professors burst into the room. Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape were among them, their faces etched with concern and confusion. McGonagall's eyes swept over the scene— the unconscious troll, the mess strewn across the bathroom, Faith standing victorious, and the quartet huddled in the corner.

"Would someone tell me what happened here?" McGonagall demanded, her voice steady but tinged with irritation.

Hermione, her face a mix of shame and worry, spoke up first. "It was me, Professor. I've read about trolls and—"

Buffy cut in, her voice firm but strained. "No, Professor, it was me. I thought with the training Mr. Wyndham-Pryce and Ms. Lehane had been giving me, I could handle it myself. If Faith, Dawn, Ron, Hermione, and Harry hadn't arrived when they did, I'd probably be dead right now."

Faith, who had been listening intently, added the real events. "Actually, M, there were some personal issues Herm was dealing with, and B came to find her and offer comfort. This was before the troll was let into the castle. Harry and Ron sent Dawn to get me when we learned about the troll. Ron and Harry then searched for B and Herm. Dawn and I found them just as they were getting ready to come in here. I handled the troll myself, with a bit of help from Harry who used a spell to disarm it."

Professor McGonagall considered the explanation, her stern gaze softening slightly. "Very well. Miss Potter and Miss Granger, five points will be deducted from Gryffindor for attempting to deceive me. However, to Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and Miss Summers, for their quick thinking in finding Faith and bringing her here, ten points will be awarded to Gryffindor. Now, the five of you should return to your dormitory. Faith, can you assist us in removing the troll from the castle?"

Faith nodded in agreement, and as Dawn, Ron, Hermione, Buffy, and Harry began to leave, the tension of the situation began to ease. Faith stayed behind with the professors, ready to help with the aftermath of the troll's intrusion.

Glory's Apartment, Sunnydale, California

Glory's expression darkened as she scrutinized the demon before her, her lips pressed into a thin line. The creature, Jink, stood before her, visibly trembling. Its skin was mottled and covered in pockmarks, giving it an almost grotesque appearance. Glory's gaze was piercing, filled with an unsettling mix of impatience and fury.

"Jink," she said, her voice a dangerous purr, "tell me where my Key is."

Jink shifted uncomfortably under her intense stare, his eyes darting around nervously. "Oh, Magnificent Glorificus, it is not here," he stammered, his voice quavering. "It appears the Slayer may have taken it with her."

Glory's eyes flared with anger at the mispronunciation of her name. Her frustration was palpable, her frustration morphing into a dangerous, simmering rage. "Glory," she snapped, her tone edged with a lethal sharpness. "How many times do I have to tell you it's Glory. And where did the Slayer go?"

Jink's fear intensified, his entire body trembling under her seething gaze. "Yes, Magnificent Glory," he said hastily, his voice barely a whisper. "According to some demons, they believe she may now be in England and took the Key with her."

A slow, calculating smile spread across Glory's face, her eyes narrowing as she processed the information. Her anger seemed to dissolve into a cold, triumphant resolve. "Then that is where we are going," she declared, her tone resolute and decisive. Her demeanor shifted from one of intense frustration to a confident determination, as if the challenge had only sharpened her focus.

November 1, 2001 – Friday

Gryffindor Girls' Dormitory

Buffy sat straight up in bed, the covers rustling around her as she propped herself up on her elbows. The dim light of early morning filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on her face. Her eyes, wide with newfound determination, sparkled with the thrill of revelation. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, reflecting a mixture of satisfaction and relief.

"Now we have a name, Glorificus," she said, her voice carrying an undercurrent of resolve. The name seemed to resonate with her, filling her with a sense of purpose.

Dumbledore's Office

Buffy, Wesley, Harry, Dawn, and Faith were gathered in the expansive, warmly lit office of Professor Dumbledore. The room was filled with the soft hum of enchanted candles and the comforting scent of old books and polished wood. The walls were lined with shelves brimming with ancient tomes and curiosities, and the grand desk in the center held an assortment of intriguing artifacts and a large, silvery instrument that seemed to be ticking softly.

Buffy had just finished recounting the details of her latest dream, her voice tinged with the lingering edge of urgency. The room was silent as the gravity of her words settled over them. Dumbledore, seated behind his desk, looked thoughtful, his piercing eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. He stroked his long, silver beard as he weighed the implications of the information Buffy had shared.

"That is good and bad news," Dumbledore finally said, his tone measured and calm despite the seriousness of the situation. "It is good that we now have her name. With this knowledge, we can begin our research, delve into the lore, and uncover more about her weaknesses and strengths. However," he continued, his gaze growing somber, "it is bad that she is aware that Ms. Lehane is no longer in California and that she is coming to England."

Wesley, standing slightly to the side with an air of grim determination, nodded in agreement. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes were filled with the burden of the task ahead. "We must find a way to defeat the woman as quickly as possible," he said. His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of urgency, reflecting the weight of the responsibility they all felt.

November 9, 1991 – Saturday

Great Hall

The morning at Hogwarts was a scene of vibrant, early autumn splendor. The crisp, invigorating chill in the air brought a refreshing bite that hinted at the changing seasons. The sun's rays streamed through the high, arched windows of the Great Hall, casting a warm, golden glow over the expansive room. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the clear, bright sky outside, with fluffy clouds drifting lazily across its surface, adding to the feeling of boundless possibility that seemed to permeate the morning.

The mouthwatering aroma of fried sausages and sizzling bacon filled the hall, a savory prelude to the day's excitement. This rich scent mingled with the buzzing hum of animated conversations and the clattering of dishes, creating a symphony of sound that resonated with the collective anticipation of the students. They eagerly discussed the upcoming Quidditch match, their voices a mix of nervousness and enthusiasm as they prepared for the game that would unfold later in the day.

Buffy's voice cut through the lively chatter as she spoke to Harry, her tone carrying a note of concern. "You've got to eat some breakfast," she insisted.

Harry, however, seemed distant, his focus elsewhere. "I don't want anything," he replied, his eyes clouded with apprehension.

Dawn, ever persistent, tried to persuade him with a gentle nudge. "Just a bit of toast," she wheedled.

Harry shook his head, his unease palpable. "I'm not hungry," he said. The thought of walking onto the Quidditch field in less than an hour made his stomach churn with anxiety.

Seamus Finnigan, seated nearby and busy dousing his sausages with a generous helping of ketchup, chimed in with pragmatic advice. "Harry, you need your strength," he said, his voice tinged with the urgency of experience. "Seekers are always the ones who get clobbered by the other team."

"Thanks, Seamus," Harry replied, managing a faint smile despite his unease.

Amid the lively chatter and the clamor of cutlery, the sound of familiar voices rose above the din. "Buffy! Harry! Dawn!" The call was clear and affectionate, cutting through the buzz of conversation. Buffy, Dawn, and Harry turned in unison, their eyes searching the crowd.

They spotted Joyce walking toward them with a warm, welcoming smile. The sight of her amidst the sea of students brought a comforting sense of familiarity and home. Dawn's face lit up with joy. She jumped up from her seat, her eyes shining with excitement, and dashed over to Joyce. In an instant, Joyce enveloped Dawn in a loving embrace, her arms wrapping around her daughter with a tenderness that spoke of deep affection and pride.

Buffy and Harry joined them, moving to greet Joyce with smiles of their own. The trio had written to Joyce about Harry's new role on the Quidditch team, and Joyce had responded with a promise to attend the first match. It was a gesture of support and love, a reminder of the family bonds that tied them all together despite the complexities of their relationships.

"Hi, Aunt Joyce," Harry said as he hugged Joyce, his voice filled with genuine warmth. The affectionate title was still something he was adjusting to, but it was clear that Joyce's presence brought him a sense of comfort and reassurance.

"Hi," Buffy echoed, also reaching out to hug Joyce. The embrace was filled with a mix of emotions—gratitude, relief, and the complicated feelings of navigating their unique family dynamic.

Joyce returned Buffy's hug with a reassuring smile. "Still trying to figure out what to call me I see," she said, her tone gentle and understanding. "That's all right, Buffy. As I said in my first letter, take your time. It doesn't matter to me either way. You will always be my daughter, even if you are actually my niece."

Quidditch Pitch

By eleven o'clock, the Quidditch pitch had transformed into a vibrant spectacle of color and excitement. The stands were packed with students, their chatter and laughter a continuous hum that filled the crisp, autumn air. The sky was a brilliant blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds that drifted lazily across the expanse, providing a picturesque backdrop for the match. The elevated seats, though high and offering a sweeping view of the field, made it challenging at times to catch all the action, prompting many students to equip themselves with binoculars to get a closer look at the game.

Ron, Willow, and Hermione made their way up to the top row, where they joined Buffy, Dawn, and Joyce, who had already settled into their seats. The top row offered a panoramic view of the pitch, making it an ideal spot for watching the match unfold. As a special surprise for Harry, they had worked together to create a large, eye-catching banner from one of the sheets that Scabbers had previously ruined. Hermione had meticulously cast a charm on the banner, making the paint flash and shift through a dazzling array of colors, adding a vibrant display to their cheers of support.

Harry, along with the rest of the Gryffindor team, emerged from the locker room to the roar of enthusiastic cheers from the crowd. The players, clad in their scarlet and gold uniforms, took to the field with a sense of purpose and excitement.

Madam Hooch, the Quidditch referee, stood at the center of the field with an air of authority. Her broom was held firmly in her hand as she addressed the teams gathered around her. Her voice, firm and commanding, cut through the buzz of the crowd as she instructed, "Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you. Mount your brooms, please."

Harry mounted his Nimbus Two Thousand with practiced ease, his heart pounding with anticipation. The sound of Madam Hooch's silver whistle pierced the air, signaling the start of the game. Instantly, fifteen brooms shot up into the sky, a flurry of colors and movement as the players took to the air.

Lee Jordan, the enthusiastic commentator and friend of the Weasley twins, took over the role of narrating the game. His voice carried over the crowd, capturing the action with a mix of excitement and occasional mischief. "And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor—what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too—"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor." Lee's quick apology was followed by a swift resumption of his commentary. "And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood's, last year only a reserve—back to Johnson and—no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes—Flint flying like an eagle up there—he's going to sc—no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle—that's Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and—OUCH—that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger—Quaffle taken by the Slytherins—that's Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he's blocked by a second Bludger—sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can't tell which—nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes—she's really flying—dodges a speeding Bludger—the goal posts are ahead—come on, now, Angelina—Keeper Bletchley dives—misses—GRYFFINDORS SCORE!"

Gryffindor cheers filled the chilly air with an infectious energy, creating a vibrant symphony of excitement and jubilation that reverberated across the stands. The cold wind whipped through the pitch, carrying with it the collective roar of Gryffindor supporters, their voices raised in enthusiastic praise for their team. In sharp contrast, the Slytherins' responses were a series of disgruntled howls and moans, their frustration palpable as they watched their rivals soar ahead.

"Budge up there, move along," came Hagrid's deep, resonant voice, cutting through the din. The giant of a man made his way through the crowd, his booming footsteps and commanding presence making it easy for him to push through the throng of students.

"Hagrid!" Dawn, Buffy, Ron, and Hermione called out in unison, their voices filled with warmth and recognition. As Hagrid approached, Ron and Hermione scooted closer together, making ample room for the beloved gamekeeper to join them.

"Bin watchin' from me hut," Hagrid said with a broad grin, patting the large pair of binoculars that hung around his neck. "But it isn't the same as bein' in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch yet, eh?"

"Nope," Joyce replied, her gaze fixed on the match below. "Harry hasn't had much to do yet."

"Kept outta trouble, though, that's somethin'," Hagrid added with a chuckle, lifting his binoculars and peering skyward at the diminutive figure of Harry, who was a mere speck against the vast expanse of the sky.

Far above them, Harry was a solitary figure gliding over the swirling mass of players and action. His eyes darted around, scanning the field for any hint of the elusive Snitch. The chill wind tousled his hair as he maneuvered his Nimbus Two Thousand, deftly avoiding the chaotic fray below. When Angelina had scored a goal, Harry had performed a couple of celebratory loop-the-loops, a gesture of relief and excitement. Now, he was back to the intense task of searching for the Snitch, his focus unwavering.

At one point, Harry caught a brief glimmer of gold in his peripheral vision, but it turned out to be nothing more than a flash from one of the Weasleys' wristwatches, reflecting the sunlight in a deceptive manner. The brief distraction was followed by a sudden, high-speed Bludger, which came hurtling towards him like a cannonball. Harry's reflexes kicked in, and he deftly dodged the incoming projectile, while Fred Weasley, one of the Beaters, raced after it with a determined look on his face.

"All right there, Harry?" Fred managed to shout over the noise, his voice strained but filled with camaraderie as he beat the Bludger fiercely towards Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Captain.

Meanwhile, Lee Jordan's enthusiastic commentary echoed across the pitch, his voice capturing the action with dynamic energy. "Slytherin in possession," he announced, his tone full of excitement. "Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the—wait a moment—was that the Snitch?"

A murmur rippled through the stands as Adrian Pucey, momentarily distracted, let the Quaffle slip from his grasp. His eyes had caught the flash of gold that darted past him, just missing his left ear. The sudden shift in focus was enough to draw the collective attention of every player on the field.

Harry's heart raced with a surge of adrenaline as he spotted the elusive Snitch. With a burst of speed, he dived toward the tiny, glimmering golden ball. The Snitch was fluttering erratically, its wings beating rapidly as it maneuvered through the air. Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs, equally determined, matched Harry's descent with a fierce resolve. The two Seekers were neck and neck, their brooms cutting through the air in a high-stakes chase.

Meanwhile, the Chasers seemed to have momentarily forgotten their roles in the game, their attention fixed on the dramatic duel between the Seekers. They hovered in midair, their focus drawn to the spectacle unfolding before them.

Harry's Nimbus Two Thousand streaked through the sky with remarkable speed, and he could almost feel the Snitch's tiny, fluttering wings in his grasp. With a determined push, he accelerated, his focus unwavering. But just as victory seemed within reach—WHAM! A deafening roar of frustration erupted from the Gryffindor supporters below. Marcus Flint, with a deliberate and ruthless move, had collided with Harry, purposefully blocking his path. Harry's broom was jolted off course, and he struggled to maintain his grip, fighting to stay on his seat as the broom wobbled dangerously.

"No!" Buffy's anguished cry pierced the air. Her eyes were locked on Harry, and she felt Joyce's comforting arms encircle her, grounding her amid the chaos.

"Foul!" came the collective shout from the Gryffindor stands, a chorus of outrage at Flint's blatant interference.

Madam Hooch, her face a mask of stern determination, swiftly addressed Flint, her voice laced with anger. She then awarded Gryffindor a free shot at the goalposts as punishment. But in the ensuing confusion and the disruption of the game's flow, the elusive Golden Snitch had once again vanished from sight, slipping away as if mocking their efforts.

In the stands, Dawn's frustration reached a boiling point. "Send him off, ref! Red card!" she yelled, her voice tinged with exasperation and urgency.

"What are you talking about, Dawn?" Ron asked, his confusion evident as he looked at her.

"Red card!" Dawn insisted, her face flushed with anger. "In soccer, you get shown the red card and you're out of the game!"

"But this isn't soccer, Dawn," Ron reminded her, his tone a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

Hagrid, towering among the spectators, voiced his frustration with uncharacteristic fervor. "They oughta change the rules," he bellowed, his rugged face creased in a frown. "Flint coulda knocked Harry outta the air. It's not right!" His voice, filled with a mix of anger and concern, carried across the stands, resonating with the sentiment of many Gryffindor supporters.

In the commentary box, Lee Jordan was struggling to maintain his neutrality, his voice tinged with barely concealed bias. "So—after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating—"

"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall's sharp rebuke cut through the air, a stern reminder of the need for impartiality.

"I mean, after that open and revolting foul—" Lee Jordan persisted, his voice trailing off under McGonagall's gaze.

"Jordan, I'm warning you—" Professor McGonagall's tone was a low growl, a clear indication of her displeasure.

"All right, all right," Lee Jordan conceded, attempting to regain his composure. "Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure. So, a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession." His commentary, while trying to be fair, still betrayed his bias towards the Gryffindors.

As Harry soared through the sky, the game continued with relentless intensity. Just as he was narrowly avoiding a Bludger that whizzed past his head with alarming force, an unsettling jolt ran through his broom. For a heart-stopping moment, Harry thought he might be thrown off. He gripped the broom with white-knuckled hands and clenched his knees tightly around the shaft. The sudden, violent movement of the broom was unlike anything he had ever experienced; it felt as if the broom had developed a mind of its own, intent on bucking him off.

The broom lurched again, this time with an even more violent shake. Harry's stomach dropped as he struggled to maintain control. Nimbus Two Thousands were renowned for their exceptional stability and precision; they didn't just start misbehaving. Panic began to seep into Harry's thoughts as he tried to maneuver back toward the Gryffindor goal posts. His attempts to steer the broom proved futile; it seemed to zigzag erratically through the air, making sudden, sharp swishes that nearly unseated him.

"What's wrong with Harry's broom?" Dawn's voice was filled with alarm as she, Buffy, Joyce, Ron, Willow, Hagrid, and Hermione all turned their worried gazes toward Harry, their faces reflecting their growing concern.

Lee Jordan, oblivious to the growing tension among the spectators, continued his commentary with a mix of excitement and irreverence. "Slytherin in possession—Flint with the Quaffle—passes Spinnet—passes Bell—hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose—only joking, Professor—Slytherins score—oh no…"

The Slytherins erupted in a cacophony of cheers, their faces alight with a mixture of schadenfreude and exhilaration. Their joy seemed to blind them to the peculiar and alarming behavior of Harry's broom, which was drifting away from the game in a disconcerting fashion. The broom, once a model of sleek efficiency, now jerked and twitched erratically, lifting Harry slowly higher into the cold, clear sky.

Hagrid, a hulking figure amidst the sea of spectators, was peering intently through his binoculars, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Dunno what Harry thinks he's doing," he muttered, his voice tinged with concern. "If I didn' know better, I'd say he'd lost control of his broom…" His large hands gripped the binoculars tightly, his gaze unwavering as he followed the unfolding disaster.

Joyce, her face etched with worry, was watching her nephew's struggle with a growing sense of dread. "That's impossible," she said, her voice strained. "The only way anything could interfere with a broom is powerful Dark magic." Her eyes flicked anxiously between Harry and the chaotic scene unfolding below.

Panic began to spread through the stands as people started pointing upward, their gasps of alarm piercing the hum of the crowd. Harry's broom, seemingly possessed by a malevolent force, began to roll and twist uncontrollably. Harry clung desperately to the broom, his knuckles white with the effort. The crowd collectively held its breath as the broom gave a violent, unpredictable jerk, throwing Harry into a perilous position. He was now dangling precariously from it, his grip tenuous with only one hand.

Hermione, her face pale with fear, snatched Ron's binoculars from his grip. But rather than continuing to monitor Harry, she began to scan the stands with frantic urgency. "What are you doing?" Ron's voice was a mixture of confusion and dread, his face a ghostly shade of gray.

"I knew it," Hermione gasped, her voice trembling with a mix of realization and horror. "Snape—look." She handed the binoculars to Ron, her eyes wide with worry.

Ron took the binoculars and focused them on Snape, who was conspicuously situated in the stands opposite them. Snape's eyes were locked onto Harry with an unsettling intensity, his lips moving in a rapid, continuous murmur. The sight was deeply unsettling; Snape's demeanor was eerily calm, even as the chaos unfolded on the field.

"What?" Joyce asked, her voice tinged with concern as Ron passed her the binoculars and pointed toward Snape. Her gaze followed the direction, her frown deepening as she took in the scene. "I never did trust him even in school," she murmured, her voice low and troubled.

"He's doing something—jinxing the broom," Hermione said, her voice now filled with determination. Her mind was racing, trying to piece together the situation. "We have to do something!"

"What should we do?" Dawn's voice was urgent, her eyes scanning the stands for any sign of a plan.

"Leave it to me," Hermione said, her resolve hardening. But as she started to rise, she noticed Buffy's absence. "Where's Buffy?" Her voice was suddenly filled with alarm.

The group turned their eyes toward the empty spot next to Joyce, their hearts sinking as they realized Buffy was no longer there. The space was eerily vacant, and a sense of foreboding settled over them as they searched for any sign of Buffy's whereabouts.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Buffy maneuvered with swift determination through the stands, her focus locked on Snape's position. The crowd was dense, and she pushed past students who were too stunned to react, not pausing to apologize as she roughly jostled Professor Quirrell, sending him sprawling headfirst into the row in front. The professor's surprised shout was barely noticed amid the chaos of the Quidditch match.

Reaching the row behind Snape, Buffy crouched low, her breath quickening with the urgency of the moment. She pulled her wand from her pocket with a practiced flick, murmuring a series of carefully chosen incantations. A burst of bright blue flames erupted from her wand, searing onto the hem of Snape's dark robes. The flames danced menacingly, casting an eerie blue glow against the fabric.

Snape's reaction was not immediate. The flames had to linger for a moment before their heat registered. It was only when the intense warmth began to burn through the layers of his robes that Snape realized he was ablaze. His sudden yelp of shock and pain confirmed that Buffy had achieved her goal. She wasted no time; with a swift, practiced motion, she captured the flames in a small jar hidden in her pocket. The jar sealed with a faint click, and Buffy scrambled back along the row, making her way with a sense of urgency and relief.

By the time Snape fully grasped what had happened, the flames were gone, and the evidence of Buffy's interference had vanished. Snape was left bewildered and flustered, his attempt to ascertain the source of the mysterious fire proving futile.

In the midst of the chaotic upheaval, the impact on the game was immediate. Up in the air, Harry's broom suddenly stabilized. With renewed control and a surge of adrenaline, Harry managed to clamber back onto his broom. The relief was palpable as he steadied himself, the world around him coming back into focus.

Down in the stands, Joyce turned to Dawn, who had been clinging to her mother's jacket, her face streaked with tears of worry. "Dawn, you can look!" Joyce said, her voice carrying a note of cautious optimism. Dawn wiped her eyes and turned her gaze back to the field.

What she saw was astonishing. Harry, having regained control of his broom, was speeding toward the ground with a determined focus. As he descended, he clapped his hand to his mouth in a dramatic gesture that made the crowd gasp. He hit the field on all fours, his body heaving as if he were about to be sick. The tension built to a fever pitch, and then, with a final, dramatic cough, something gold tumbled into his hand.

"I've got the Snitch!" Harry's triumphant shout pierced through the confusion, and he held the tiny, golden ball high above his head. The announcement sent the stands into a frenzy of cheers and applause. The match ended abruptly, with the crowd in a state of ecstatic bewilderment, celebrating the unexpected and thrilling conclusion to the game.

Hagrid's Hut

"He didn't catch it, he nearly swallowed it," Flint was still howling with indignation, his voice echoing through the corridors, but his protests fell on deaf ears. The outcome had already been decided: Gryffindor had triumphed with a resounding victory, ending the match with a score of one hundred and seventy points to sixty. The cheers of the Gryffindor supporters had long faded into the distance, and the mood was one of celebration rather than contention.

Buffy, Harry, Dawn, Joyce, Ron, Willow, and Hermione were oblivious to Flint's continued complaints. Instead, they were nestled comfortably in Hagrid's cozy hut, a warm sanctuary from the crisp, cool air outside. The scent of freshly brewed tea mingled with the rich aroma of Hagrid's cooking, creating a homely atmosphere. The large table was cluttered with mugs, plates of scones, and bowls of treacle tart, each item adding to the comforting ambiance of the room.

Joyce, who had come to support her family and cheer on Harry's Quidditch debut, was now preparing to leave for London. She needed to return to finalize the details of the house she were buying. As the group sipped their tea, the conversation turned to the unsettling events of the match and the strange occurrences surrounding it.

"It was Snape," Ron explained, his voice low and serious as he recounted their suspicions. "We're sure he was the one who was jinxing Harry's broom."

"It looked like he was cursing your broomstick," Joyce said, her eyes narrowing with a mix of anger and disbelief. The idea of a teacher—especially one as enigmatic as Snape—engaging in such underhanded tactics was deeply unsettling. Her protective instincts toward her niece and nephew were clear, and the notion that someone in a position of authority would jeopardize their safety was infuriating.

"Rubbish," said Hagrid, shaking his head in denial. "Why would Snape do somethin' like that?" His voice was tinged with genuine confusion, as though he couldn't fathom the motivations behind such an action. Hagrid's loyalty to the Hogwarts staff was evident, and he struggled to reconcile the idea of Snape engaging in foul play.

"Hagrid," Joyce said, her tone firm but troubled. "Do you not remember how much James hated him? It was mutual. It would not surprise me if his grudge with James has transferred to Buffy and Harry."

"I found out something about him," Harry interjected, his voice carrying a hint of revelation. "He tried to get past that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal whatever it's guarding." Harry's words were laden with the weight of the mystery they had uncovered, adding another layer to the already complex and troubling puzzle.

"What three-headed dog?" Joyce asked, her curiosity piqued. She had not heard of this before and looked to Harry for more information.

Hagrid's reaction was immediate and intense. He dropped the teapot, its contents spilling onto the table in a cascade of hot tea and startled gasps. "How do you know about Fluffy?" he said, his eyes wide with shock and concern.

"Fluffy?" Joyce echoed, her gaze shifting to Hagrid with a mixture of confusion and alarm.

"Yeah—he's mine—bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year—I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the—" Hagrid began, his voice trailing off as though he had suddenly remembered the weight of his own words. The sense of secrecy in his tone was palpable, the gravity of whatever was being guarded evident in his hesitation.

"Yes?" said Harry eagerly, leaning forward in his seat. His curiosity was barely contained, his eyes wide with anticipation as he sought more information.

"Now, don't ask me anymore," Hagrid said gruffly, his voice taking on a warning edge. "That's top secret, that is." His demeanor shifted to one of stern finality, as though the conversation had reached an impenetrable barrier. The sense of importance surrounding the secret was clear, and Hagrid's insistence on discretion left no room for further inquiry.

"Whatever it is it's guarding," Dawn said, her voice tinged with concern. "He's after it. He may even be working with that woman who's after me." Dawn's mind was racing, trying to piece together the connections between Snape, the mysterious object, and the threats against her. The urgency in her voice reflected her fear and determination to uncover the truth.

"Rubbish," said Hagrid again, shaking his head. "Snape's a Hogwarts teacher, he'd do nothin' of the sort." His voice was firm, but there was a note of frustration as he struggled to dismiss the accusations. Hagrid's belief in Snape's integrity was unwavering, though it seemed increasingly strained under the mounting evidence.

"Are you sure of that, Hagrid?" Joyce asked, her voice shaking with a mix of anger and disbelief. "I personally would not put it past him. After all, it looked like he was trying to kill Harry! I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid! You've got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn't blinking at all, I saw him!" Joyce's voice was filled with emotion, her protective instincts flaring up. The thought that Snape could endanger her niece and nephew was unacceptable, and her observations added a layer of urgency to the situation.

"Joyce, yeh have ter be wrong!" said Hagrid hotly, his face flushed with anger. "I don' know why Harry's broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn' try an' kill a student! As far as what Fluffy's guarding, forget it, that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel—" Hagrid's voice softened as he spoke of Flamel, a hint of reverence in his tone. The mention of Flamel's name carried its own weight, suggesting a history and significance that was not to be taken lightly.

"I recognize that name," Joyce said, her expression darkening with resolve. "Anyways I will take this up with Professor Dumbledore." With a determined stride, Joyce stood up and marched out of the hut, her decision clear and her anger palpable. The resolve in her step was unmistakable as she headed toward the castle to confront Dumbledore.

"Buffy," Hermione said as she, Harry, Dawn, Buffy, Ron, and Willow followed Joyce out of the hut. Hermione's voice was laced with curiosity and concern as she sought to understand the unfolding drama.

"What did you do to distract him?" Hermione asked, her eyes searching Buffy's face for an answer.

"Well, I made his robes catch on fire. I figured that would distract him enough to break eye contact," Buffy said, her voice steady but with a hint of satisfaction. Her actions, though unconventional, had been a calculated move to address the immediate threat.

Harry hugged his sister tightly, the gesture filled with gratitude and relief.

Dumbledore's Office

Joyce stormed into Albus Dumbledore's office, her footsteps echoing with purpose as she pushed the heavy oak door open. The tension in her posture was palpable, her face set in a scowl of determined fury. "You want to tell me why Severus Snape is trying to kill my nephew?" she demanded, her voice carrying the weight of her anger and concern.

Dumbledore looked up from his desk, his expression one of mild surprise mixed with curiosity. "What do you mean?" he asked, his tone calm but probing. "Are you talking about what happened to Harry's broom?" His eyes, twinkling behind half-moon spectacles, searched Joyce's face for understanding.

"Yes," Joyce said hotly, her voice trembling with frustration. "I saw him staring unblinking at Harry. I know a jinx when I see one, Professor. And I remember the feud between James and Severus. I do not for a second think it beyond the realm of possibility that he would not transfer the feud to Harry and Buffy." Her words were sharp, each one laced with the urgency of her protective instincts. The old grudges and personal vendettas seemed to echo in her mind, fueling her fears.

"I will look into this, Joyce, personally," Dumbledore said, his tone measured and reassuring. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady and sincere.

Joyce, still seething, stormed back out of the office, her steps brisk and purposeful. As she made her way down the corridors of Hogwarts, she passed Harry, Buffy, and Dawn, who were entering the castle through the grand front doors. The sight of her children brought a brief moment of softness to her expression. She stopped and enveloped each of them in a tight embrace, her arms wrapping around them with a fierce protectiveness.

"I will see the three of you at Christmas," Joyce said, her voice carrying a mix of reassurance and determination. "When they ask to know who's leaving, tell them you three are staying until I arrive. I'm still in the process of moving. Hopefully by then, I will be moved out of Hank's house and have a house here for us to go to for the rest of Christmas break."