Chapter 10
The first Quidditch match of the season had the entire school buzzing. Slytherin versus Gryffindor—the most volatile of rivalries, and both houses were out in full force. Tensions ran high, and more than one heated argument between students had already been broken up by patrolling professors.
Some were already making their way to the stands, eager to claim good seats, but Felicia wasn't in any rush. She had her priorities—namely, sweets.
She had written home earlier that week to lament the Hogwarts kitchens' distinct lack of sweetcakes. Her parents, ever indulgent when it came to her most specific cravings, had responded in kind.
That morning's owl delivery had brought a beautifully wrapped basket, filled with her favorite confections—and sitting at the very top: a generous stack of sweetcakes.
Felicia's eyes had lit up with childlike delight. Her parents knew her too well. Her ultimate weakness had always been her sweet tooth.
Now, as she strolled through the courtyard with her prize in hand, the basket tucked neatly at her side, she was blissfully unaware of any looming House drama.
At least, until she spotted them.
Fred and George Weasley—geared up and clearly ready for the match.
She paused instinctively. Her shoulders tensed, hand tightening on the handle of the basket. With the rivalry between their houses boiling over, she wasn't sure if she was about to be teased, challenged, or hexed.
Fred spotted her first. His grin was immediate.
"Felicia Forester," he said, sounding far too pleased.
"Funny running into you before the match," George chimed in with a matching smile.
She blinked, looking between them, then down at their Quidditch gear. The helmets, the pads—Beater uniforms.
Of course.
She remembered now—Adrien had similar gear. The twins weren't just mischievous troublemakers. They were Gryffindor's Beaters.
"So you're both Beaters?" Felicia asked, her tone betraying a hint of uncertainty. She wasn't familiar enough with Quidditch positions to speak with confidence.
"Yep," George said proudly, puffing his chest a little. "The best two Beaters this school's ever seen."
"Which is a shame," Fred added with a smirk, glancing down at her. There was no malice in it, just his usual brand of teasing. "You're currently the enemy. Too bad you weren't sorted into a better house."
"Oh? Is that so?" Felicia raised a brow. "I think I suit my house quite well, despite its reputation."
The twins didn't usually linger on these sorts of conversations—but something about the way she said it gave them pause. Calm. Assured. Unapologetic.
If anyone was going to change the way people saw Slytherin... maybe it would be her.
Still, privately, they both kind of wished she'd ended up in Gryffindor. She seemed a lot more interesting than most.
"Oh, here," Felicia added, reaching into her bag and pulling out two perfectly wrapped sweetcakes. "Something to have after the match. Eating before might upset your stomach. Anyway—good luck."
She handed them off without ceremony and turned to leave, walking away with the same quiet confidence she always seemed to carry.
The twins blinked, staring down at the unexpected sweets.
George gave a low whistle. "Well, that was... unexpected."
Fred didn't answer—still watching her retreating figure with a thoughtful look.
"Slytherin really lucked out with that one," George muttered, snickering as he nudged his brother. Then he grinned. "We do still have a match, mate. Try not to completely blank out before it, yeah?"
Fred finally tore his gaze away and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah…"
But he didn't throw the sweetcake away.
Felicia spotted Penelope and Dedalus talking near the base of the stands, loitering before the crowd really started to settle into their designated House sections. Everyone would have to take their places eventually, but for now, the rules were still relaxed.
As Felicia approached, the two looked up and immediately noticed the bag in her hand.
"My father sent me more sweets than I can possibly eat," she said casually, handing out a small bundle to each of them. "Figured I'd share before the match starts. Still got an hour to kill."
Penelope's eyes lit up as she peered into the bundle. "Oh, Forester, you absolute legend," she grinned, practically swooning over the pumpkin pasties, chocolate frogs, and a neatly wrapped box of Every Flavor Beans.
Dedalus, ever the more composed of the two, accepted his selection with a nod. But his expression warmed slightly when he saw what she'd chosen for him—crystallized pineapple, peppermint toads, and a pair of Golden Snitch Truffles. Things he actually liked.
"Much appreciated," he said, examining the truffles. "I assume you're here to avoid Malfoy and his ever-expanding ego. He's been going on for days about how Slytherin's going to trounce Gryffindor... which is standard, I suppose. But lately, he's starting to sound like Flint."
Felicia looked faintly amused. She was already aware. Ever since their race, Marcus had been pulling Draco closer into the Quidditch circle—talking him up, inviting him to sit with the team, fueling the fire. Draco had taken to it like a dragon to gold.
And of course, his nose had never been higher.
"Don't remind me," she muttered, just before taking a generous bite of her sweetcake.
Penelope snorted. "I bet Malfoy's strutting around like Slytherin's already won the match."
Dedalus smirked slightly, turning his gaze to Felicia. "Speaking of Malfoy... I heard you two had a little midnight broom race the other night."
Felicia's shoulders stiffened. She glanced at him, catching the knowing glint in his eyes.
"And I also heard," he added, folding his arms, "that Draco won."
Penelope's eyes widened. "What? Draco beat you? Of all people?"
Felicia didn't answer right away, and that silence was enough for Dedalus. His smirk turned subtle, more thoughtful than mocking.
"He didn't win, did he?"
Penelope leaned in, eyebrows raised expectantly.
Felicia sighed.
Quietly, she told them the truth—the real version. What happened during the race. The fall. The catch. The lie she let stand.
Dedalus scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. "Malfoy's lucky," he muttered. "Lucky someone like you was there to pull his pride—and his body—out of the sky."
Penelope's eyes sparkled with wide-eyed excitement. She whispered, not-so-quietly, "You won? And then told everyone he did?"
They both stared at her in disbelief, one more amused, the other more awed.
Felicia didn't expect them to understand. Truth be told, she wasn't entirely sure she understood it herself. At first, she'd told herself it was leverage—a future card to play. Something to dangle over Malfoy's head.
But she hadn't used it.
Because the truth was simpler... and more complicated.
He wanted to rise. To matter. And somewhere between rivalry and reluctant friendship, she'd wanted to help him do it.
Still, she was a Slytherin. And a Forester.
Someone of her standing couldn't be seen as sentimental.
So she kept her expression unreadable and shrugged, voice dry. "It might come in handy one day. You know—just in case he needs reminding."
They didn't need to know she never would.
"You think Potter will do well?" Dedalus asked, more out of curiosity than enthusiasm. He wasn't especially interested in Quidditch—but the youngest Seeker in a century was hard to ignore.
Felicia nodded, her tone calm and assured. "He has a natural talent for flying. I'm sure he'll hold his own."
Then her lips curved into a small, sly smirk. "But I am a Slytherin, so I can't wish him too much luck."
The pride in her voice was unmistakable.
That was the thing—people outside Slytherin rarely understood what it meant to be one. They saw ambition as arrogance, self-preservation as cowardice, and cunning as cruelty. And admittedly, those who did play the villain didn't help the House's reputation.
To the rest of the school, Slytherins were always cast as the bad guys.
Felicia's gaze drifted toward the pitch, where both teams were beginning to emerge, heading for their respective prep areas. Her eyes landed on Marcus Flint's ever-ominous smirk.
She sighed. And people wonder why the stereotype sticks.
"I think the game's about to start," she said, rising to her feet and brushing off her robes. She looked to Penelope and Dedalus. "I'll see you both after."
"Try not to hex anyone before the match begins," Dedalus said dryly, giving her a small nod.
Penelope grinned. "See you after Slytherin's-totally-inevitable-undisputed victory," she said, mimicking Flint's and Malfoy's pompous tone with impressive accuracy.
Felicia rolled her eyes—but couldn't help laughing as she walked off.
Felicia made her way toward the Slytherin stands, weaving through the growing crowd of students. As she passed through the outer courtyard, her eyes landed on Professor Quirrell.
Redscale, hidden beneath her hair, began to hiss—low and warning, just like he had in the bathroom.
Felicia paused, her brow furrowing. She had dismissed his earlier behavior as lingering defensiveness from the troll incident, but this felt different.
She glanced toward Quirrell. He was facing away from her, murmuring something under his breath—not the anxious stammering of the man she'd grown used to, but something darker. His face, partially shadowed, looked tense. Twisted. There was no sign of the quivering, nervous professor.
Just... stillness. And something off.
Felicia didn't linger. She gently stroked Redscale to quiet him and continued up the stairs toward the elevated Slytherin box. All the Houses had their own viewing platforms suspended above the pitch—each offering an unobstructed view of the game.
As she reached the top, she immediately spotted Draco seated in the front row, his usual entourage at his sides. Crabbe and Goyle were directing others to sit behind them, apparently taking it upon themselves to control the seating order.
Felicia stepped forward to claim a seat beside Draco—but the two boys moved to block her path.
"Sit in the back, Forester," Goyle said, puffing up slightly, clearly trying to impress someone.
Draco glanced over, his brow twitching. He hadn't told them to say that—and he was about to speak up when Felicia fixed Goyle with a look.
Her voice was calm, cool, and razor-sharp.
"What was that, Goyle?" she asked. "I suggest you take a moment… remember exactly who you're talking to… and try again."
The chill in her tone landed like a silencing charm.
Both boys froze. They looked as if they'd suddenly remembered not just who Felicia was—but who her family was. Goyle flushed with embarrassment, muttering something unintelligible as he and Crabbe hastily stepped aside.
Felicia moved past them without another word, taking her seat beside Draco with effortless composure.
Behind them, a few older Slytherins chuckled quietly—half amused, half impressed.
"Finally decided to grace us with your presence?" Draco drawled, leaning back slightly in his seat. He made a show of casual disinterest, pretending not to notice the quiet authority Felicia had just exerted.
"Flint's been going on all morning about strategy," he added, "as if Gryffindor actually stands a chance."
Felicia slid into the seat beside him, her tone low and teasing. "And I bet you loved every second of being included."
Draco shot her a look, scowling slightly—his cheeks tinged the faintest pink. He couldn't argue. She was right.
He sniffed and crossed his arms. "As a future teammate, it's only appropriate I listen in. Preparation is essential for next year."
Felicia's smirk deepened, but she didn't reply. She knew he was thrilled to finally be included in team discussions—finally seen as part of something that mattered.
Her gaze drifted to the pitch below, where the players were starting to take flight for warm-ups. The air shimmered with movement and anticipation.
Adrien caught sight of her mid-hover and veered slightly in her direction, grinning from above.
"Ready for your first Quidditch match?" he called out.
"I am," Felicia replied, her voice cool but genuine. Despite her composed exterior, she was quietly excited. "Just try not to get pummeled too badly by the twins."
Adrien's grin turned smug. "Please. As if I'd let the Weasleys land a hit on me."
Felicia rolled her eyes and laughed under her breath. Typical Slytherin—confident to a fault. The mere thought of a Gryffindor gaining the upper hand was enough to ignite his competitive streak.
This match was going to be interesting.
As the announcements of the match coming to a start were booming through the pitch. Lee Gordon's voice carried with excitement as he riled up the tension of the match between Slytherin and Gryffindor.
Felicia pulled out candied apple sliced and handed them over to Draco. He wasn't allowed to have sweets at home, and his father would flay him if he ever found him snacking on too many sweets in school. However, Felicia was never really scared of Lucius as other kids would have been. Draco loved green apples, so she asked her parents for candied green apples, knowing she would share them with him.
Draco blinked in surprise, glancing at the sweets that were now in his hand. For a brief second, his usual sharp remarks faltered, replaced by something unreadable. Then quickly masking it, he smirked.
"Trying to bribe me, Forester?" he drawled, though he didn't lower his hand with the sweet in it. There was no reason to bribe, he knew, but he couldn't have onlookers suspecting it be anything else. Felicia gave a light laugh as she took out a Honeyduke's chocolate and unwrapped it before putting it in her mouth.
Draco took a bite of the candied apple and felt his tastebuds explode and his cheeks tinted in response. He didn't say anything, but he did chew more vigorously. Felicia side glanced, but didn't draw attention to him, knowing he'd restrain himself if she did.
Madam Hooch started to walk to the center of the field as the two teams took their places on their brooms. Felicia was watching wide eyed and fully invested as she slowly chewed on the chocolate.
The whistle blew and the game started.
Felicia watched the match with growing fascination.
Despite having been invited to Quidditch games before—usually by Draco—she'd never actually attended one. Now, she was starting to understand why the sport was so beloved. Her eyes tracked the players with intensity, following every sharp dive, coordinated pass, and mid-air clash.
Even as Slytherin pulled off a few questionable maneuvers—bordering on fouls, if she was honest—Felicia couldn't deny how impressive it was. Marcus Flint, in particular, had mastered the art of control on a broom, his aggressive style honed to near perfection. Her eyes widened as she watched him fly.
A blur of motion caught her attention.
Adrien whipped past Marcus and smacked the Bludger away just as the Weasley twins flanked either side of Flint, clearly trying to throw him off. Moments later, the second Slytherin Beater swooped in, aiming a counter-attack straight at one of the twins.
Fred and George—grinning like maniacs—dodged with synchronized flair, clearly reveling in the chaos. Their competitive energy crackled through the air.
Up in the commentary booth, Lee Jordan's voice rang out, narrating the match with wild enthusiasm and unfiltered flair. His commentary painted every dodge and dive with vivid color, stoking the crowd's excitement.
Felicia and Draco were both leaning forward now, eyes fixed on the sky. Draco stole a glance at her, half expecting to see her growing bored or detached—but instead, he found her completely engrossed.
Something about that caught him off guard.
Then—a flash of movement.
Harry Potter zipped past the Slytherin stands, broom angled sharply downward. Draco's attention snapped to him. Felicia looked, too, following the line of his trajectory.
"Did he already spot the Snitch?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "Don't those usually take longer to find?"
Draco frowned, his jaw tight. "Beginner's luck," he muttered, though the edge in his voice made it clear: he didn't believe that.
Not for a second.
On the field, Adrien narrowly dodged a Bludger aimed squarely at his head. Marcus Flint tore past him with the Quaffle in hand, barreling forward in a determined streak of green and silver. He launched the ball toward the goal—
—but Oliver Wood blocked it. Again.
Flint scowled, frustrated beyond belief. That was the fifth time he'd aimed perfectly, only for Wood to deflect it with surgical precision.
"Queensbury, what are you doing?" Marcus snapped, rounding back with a glare.
Adrien had been expecting that. Flint always needed someone to blame when things didn't go his way.
He sighed—just as Marcus snatched the Beater's bat out of his hand and, without hesitation, smashed a Bludger directly at Oliver Wood.
Crack.
The hit landed clean. Wood went down hard.
The crowd erupted—at least, the Slytherin side did. Cheers rang out as their only real defensive obstacle was taken out of play.
Felicia, however, didn't join in.
"Typical," she muttered under her breath, unimpressed by Flint's tactics.
Around her, the cheering swelled. But Redscale—hidden beneath her collar—began to hiss again, low and agitated.
Felicia's brow furrowed. She glanced down at her enchanted companion, then let her gaze sweep the pitch.
That's when she saw it.
Harry.
Something was wrong.
His broom was bucking and jerking in ways that defied logic—sudden, violent movements, as if someone else had taken control. No rider, no matter how inexperienced, would handle a broom that way. And certainly not by choice.
Felicia's frown deepened. It's been jinxed.
Draco noticed it too. At first, he smirked—assuming it was Harry's luck finally running out.
But then... his expression shifted.
The smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed, watching more closely.
"What's Potter doing?" he muttered.
Because Harry wasn't chasing the Snitch anymore.
His broom was moving on its own.
Adrien cast a glance toward the stands between plays. Even from the pitch, he could tell—something was off.
Felicia's sharp gaze scanned the crowd, drawn by Redscale's agitated hissing. She didn't know why, not yet, but instinct—fueled by the creature's warning—told her someone in the stands was responsible.
Then she saw him.
Professor Quirrell.
Still as stone in the chaos. His lips moved silently, and his fingers twitched ever so slightly.
Felicia rose from her seat.
"I'll be back," she said quietly.
Draco tore his eyes from Harry's wild broom just in time to catch her movement. "In the middle of the match? Where are you even going?"
"I ate too many sweetcakes, alright?" she shot back, as if excusing herself for a quick trip to the loo.
Draco frowned, disappointed despite himself. He'd actually been enjoying her company—for once, without judgment or the usual House politics.
"Well, hurry back," he drawled, trying to sound indifferent. "You'll miss the best parts if you're gone too long."
Felicia didn't respond. She slipped down the stairs and into the main path with purpose.
She shouldn't interfere. She knew that. But she also couldn't ignore what she'd just seen.
Her instincts clawed at her—one part of her told her to let it go. The other screamed to do something.
As she approached the faculty viewing box, she paused. Hermione and Ron were there too—hunched and whispering, clearly on edge.
Too convenient.
"You two actually know what's going on?" Felicia asked flatly, stepping into their line of sight.
Ron and Hermione both jumped, spinning around in alarm.
"Bloody hell, Forester!" Ron clutched his chest. "You trying to kill me? A bit of warning next time!"
Hermione, however, looked relieved—like someone who'd just realized she wasn't going mad.
"You saw it too?" she asked. "The broom?"
"It's impossible not to notice," Felicia replied, eyes narrowing. "I think a professor's behind it."
Ron and Hermione exchanged a quick look. They didn't mention the conspiracy they'd been chasing—about the troll, about Snape, about everything that didn't add up.
Felicia hadn't named who she suspected.
But Hermione didn't hesitate.
"We think it's Snape," she said, voice tense. "He's staring at Harry—hasn't blinked—and his lips are moving."
She pulled out her wand. There wasn't time for explanations.
Only action.
Felicia arched a brow but followed them without question. Redscale had never once reacted to Professor Snape—not with the same unease or warning hiss he gave around others of real danger. She knew Snape wasn't exactly fond of Harry, but she highly doubted he was trying to get the boy killed.
Still, they needed to act—fast.
"We just have to break the caster's focus," Hermione explained quickly as they hurried beneath the stands. "I read about it in Defensive Counter-Curses and Hex Reversal."
Felicia gave her another look, but said nothing. Hermione was right—but it was still unnerving. Felicia had grown up around this kind of magical theory, raised in it, steeped in it. Hermione had been here mere months and was already catching up.
That, Felicia thought, is what makes her dangerous.
They reached the underside of the stands, where the shadows cast jagged lines across the ground. Hermione spotted Snape's robes hanging just above their heads through the slats in the platform.
Without hesitation, she raised her wand.
"Incendio!"
The hem of Snape's robes erupted in flames.
Gasps rang out from the crowd as professors scrambled to react, some casting counter-spells as the fire drew immediate attention—and most importantly, drew Quirrell's eyes away from Harry.
High above, Harry had been dangling from his bucking broom, barely holding on. But the moment Quirrell's concentration broke, the broom stilled. He clambered back up, his chest heaving with relief.
The Snitch zipped around his head—mocking, glinting.
Then it darted forward.
Harry didn't hesitate. He dove after it, flattening himself low over his broom. Felicia stood frozen below, her eyes tracking his flight. He was leaning forward too far—
Too far—
He overextended.
Harry tumbled through the air and hit the ground hard. Felicia winced. That looked painful, but thankfully, he'd been close to the ground when he fell.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then he stood up.
And promptly spat the Snitch out of his mouth.
Felicia grimaced. "Disgusting," she muttered.
Ron cheered at the top of his lungs, fists raised. Hermione let out a long, relieved breath.
As the crowd around them erupted in celebration, Felicia didn't share the same sense of closure. The fire might have been extinguished, the game won—but her mind hadn't stopped spinning.
She tugged Ron and Hermione back into the shadows beneath the stands, away from the noise.
"Why," she asked, voice low and precise, "did you two think it was Snape in particular?"
She needed to know.
Because aside from his brooding demeanor and strictness, there had been nothing about Snape that had set off her instincts.
Nothing—until now.
Hermione repeated her earlier point, her voice hushed but insistent. "Snape was staring at Harry the entire time! He wasn't blinking—and his lips were moving. He had to be the one jinxing the broom!"
Ron nodded eagerly. "Yeah! And he hates Harry—everyone knows that. Who else would've done it?"
Felicia let out a slow sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose, gathering her thoughts before looking at them both with sharp, measured focus.
"Snape's dislike for Harry makes him an obvious suspect," she said calmly, "but that's the problem. He's too obvious. And he's not stupid. If he wanted to sabotage Potter, he wouldn't do it in plain sight where anyone could see."
She glanced toward the stands as a cluster of staff members began making their way down the stairs—heading to the pitch for the post-match photo.
Her eyes found Snape first.
He looked irritated—clearly annoyed by the charred remains of his robes—but there was nothing guilty in his demeanor.
Then her gaze shifted to Quirrell.
And that's when she saw it.
His usual anxious expression had slipped. Just for a second, he wasn't the trembling, muttering professor. His brows were drawn, his posture tense. He looked... frustrated.
Like someone who'd lost control of something—and didn't know how to recover the performance.
Felicia exhaled sharply.
Hermione and Ron were locked on Snape. But Felicia's instincts were screaming that something didn't add up.
Something was wrong.
"Either way, it's over now. Harry's fine," Hermione said with a huff, arms crossed—but a flicker of doubt passed across her face. "Right?"
Ron, far less bothered by the details, grinned. "And Gryffindor won! That's what really matters!"
Felicia gave Hermione a thoughtful look, then turned a flatter one on Ron.
He and Draco would get along beautifully, she thought, if they didn't hate each other's last names so much.
Still, something about the entire situation felt... off. What irritated her most wasn't just the jinx or the chaos—it was that she'd gotten dragged into Gryffindor nonsense again.
Worse—this time, she'd jumped in willingly.
And something told her... it wouldn't be the last time.
"You Gryffindors are exhausting," she muttered, though there was no real venom in it.
Then she turned, her eyes meeting theirs—calm, serious, and just a little softer than usual.
"Be careful where you're poking," she said quietly. "You're dealing with fully trained witches and wizards. This isn't just some dumb troll."
With that, she turned and walked away, her cloak swaying behind her.
Hermione and Ron watched her go in silence.
That—that was probably the closest thing to concern they'd ever get from Felicia Forester.
As her figure faded into the crowd, Hermione exhaled and rubbed her temples. "She does have a point..."
Ron scoffed. "Oh, now you think so?"
Hermione ignored him, her gaze drifting back toward the pitch where the professors had gathered, being corralled by a frantic photographer from the Daily Prophet. In the center, Harry stood holding the Snitch—flushed, triumphant, and slightly dazed.
Gryffindor's victory had broken Slytherin's winning streak.
And The Boy Who Lived, now the youngest Seeker in a century, was officially front-page news.