Ravenclaw's second Quidditch match of the year took place in spring, this time against the notoriously ruthless Slytherin team.
Even Fred and George — who weren't exactly known for being models of fairness themselves — considered Slytherin the embodiment of foul play.
The Slytherin team's brooms were top-tier, thanks to the generous backing of several pure-blood families. Every three to five years, their equipment was quietly upgraded, giving them a technological edge over most other houses.
Ordinarily, Quidditch players prioritized broomstick agility — a necessity for rapid directional changes and evasive flight.
But the Slytherins had a different philosophy: what they lacked in flexibility, they made up for in raw broom power and brute force.
Their recruitment strategy was obvious — "muscles over minds." The team was built like a squad of trolls in matching uniforms, favoring large, powerful players over finesse or speed.
And their playing style? Borderline barbaric.
They frequently used their size and bulk to block opponents and then slipped in sneaky fouls under the cover of chaos. It was a tactic so obvious and effective that it made other teams furious — and it was all perfectly legal if you didn't get caught.
This less-than-glorious profile of the Slytherin team came straight from Oliver Wood — Gryffindor's ever-passionate Quidditch captain, and self-proclaimed "Quidditch-Know-It-All."
Although Gryffindor and Slytherin had a rivalry older than the castle walls, Wood still made time to quietly pass along strategy notes to Andre, Ravenclaw's captain. He'd claimed it was for "the good of the game," though it was clear he just wanted to see Slytherin lose.
There was no doubt about it: this was going to be a hard match.
From the opening whistle, Slytherin's superior broomsticks, rough tactics, and clever coordination put Ravenclaw on the defensive. Their aggressive maneuvers earned them early points — and injuries.
Roger and Jeremy both took hits bad enough to injure their arms.
Andre called for a timeout, and Vizet wasted no time. He rushed in, wand raised, and cast quick healing charms that eased the pain and mended the worst of the damage.
With Wood's tactical advice still fresh and Andre's fierce rallying cries, the Ravenclaw team changed their approach.
They adopted a strategy similar to Hufflepuff's: a tight, defensive formation outside the scoring zone. The idea was to absorb pressure and strike only when opportunity knocked.
This formation had Vizet, with his unmatched agility and rapid maneuvering, to break through openings and reclaim precious points one after another.
The match dragged on for nearly twenty tense minutes.
Then — finally — Cho Chang, who had been quietly circling high above the chaos, found her rhythm. With a sudden dive, she snatched the Golden Snitch a full second before the Slytherin Seeker could close in.
The crowd roared. The match was over.
Victory hadn't come easy — but that only made it sweeter. The battle, the teamwork, the grit — it all settled into Vizet's heart like another glowing stone, built into the foundation of his growing Soul Labyrinth.
After the game, a few unexpected things happened.
Snape abruptly canceled their weekly private lesson — without explanation.
And when classes resumed the following week, he returned with a vengeance. His sarcasm was sharper than ever, his corrections more cutting, and his tone had reverted to that of the early days of school.
But then again, as Head of Slytherin House, it made perfect sense he'd be in a foul mood after watching his team lose.
Vizet, however, had already grown used to Snape's temperament. A small, knowing smile was the best response.
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Snape shoved Quirrell into an empty classroom and, without hesitation, barked a curse:"Expelliarmus!"
A flash of crimson light erupted in the air. Quirrell's wand soared from his grasp, landing neatly in Snape's hand.
Quirrell crumpled to the floor under the force of the spell, his face contorting into a panicked, almost pathetic grin.
"P-Professor Snape… you — what are you doing?"
Snape loomed over him, his voice low and cold.
"Three months, and still you haven't figured it out?" He sneered. "Have you forgotten what you promised me?"
Quirrell looked around frantically, sweat beading on his forehead.
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Let me jog your memory. You've already learned how to get past the cerberus Hagrid keeps, haven't you?"
"Ha… hehe…" Quirrell gave a weak chuckle, but his panic was clear. His eyes darted around the room, searching for escape. His wandless fingers trembled against the cold flagstones.
Snape's voice turned sharp and commanding."This is the final week! If you don't act — if you fail to seize the Philosopher's Stone for the Dark Lord — then you will not survive this."
Quirrell's breath caught. "Y-you know… everything?!"
"Don't insult my intelligence," Snape said flatly, arms crossed. "The dragon egg Hagrid received — let me guess. That was your little bait?"
"You have one option left, Quirrell." His eyes glinted. "Tell me where the Dark Lord is, and I'll tell you how to pass the potion trial. Otherwise... you won't leave this room."
Quirrell sagged against the wall, as if the strength had been drained from his bones. His eyes, glassy and vacant, stared into nothing.
"I-I don't know where he is," he muttered. "Not yet… He only contacts me right before a mission. He said he'll reveal his location once I get the Stone."
Snape stared at him for a long moment, then tossed the wand back at his chest.
"This is the last time I place any trust in you." His voice was like acid. "You'll get your potion answer when the time comes."
"O-okay! Yes! Thank you!" Quirrell scrambled to grab his wand, clutched it to his chest like a lifeline, and bolted from the room.
He didn't stop running until he'd reached his office. Panting heavily, he slammed the door, cast the locking charm with trembling hands, and yanked aside the turban.
The air behind it turned cold.
He swallowed hard, breathing in great gulps until a low, irritated sigh echoed from the back of his head. Voldemort stirred.
"Well?" came the voice, slow and drawling. "You look like a mutt kicked out in the rain."
Quirrell forced himself to speak. His voice trembled. "Master… Snape — he knows. He confronted me. Demanded to know the plan…"
Voldemort chuckled lazily, as if amused. "It seems…" he drawled, "that the stray is desperate to return home."
Quirrell shivered, though the room wasn't cold. "What shall I do now, my Lord?"
"If he wishes to help," Voldemort mused, eyes glinting crimson in the gloom, "then let him prove it."
"Wait one more week. Once the students finish their exams, they'll be free — easier to distract. Easier for you to create chaos."
Quirrell nodded weakly. "Yes, Master… you are wise beyond compare…"
Voldemort gave a satisfied hiss. "Send him a list of potion ingredients. And an address. If he delivers, and gives a real method for passing the potion trial, we will consider him… useful."
His smile turned feral.
"I may let the stray dog come home."
He yawned, long and slow. "Now… we must lure Dumbledore away. That part falls to you."
"I… understand," Quirrell whispered, his head bowed. He could feel the iron grip of obedience tightening around his heart. Resistance, once fiery, was now little more than ash.
"One more thing…" Voldemort murmured. "Tomorrow, I will go to the Forbidden Forest. I need unicorn blood."
Quirrell's eyes widened in horror. "But — but, my Lord… the blood of a unicorn carries a fatal curse!"
Voldemort's voice sharpened, cutting through him. "This is what happens when you fail to acquire the Obscurial to brew the elixir. This is the price, Quirinus."
His tone turned mocking. "You wanted to play professor. Now live with the consequences."
There was a pause.
"Fetch the unicorn. I won't repeat myself."
His words slithered like poison. "This is the last mercy I offer. Your body… is still of some use."
And then, as suddenly as he had stirred, Voldemort went silent. The crimson glow vanished.
But Quirrell didn't dare move.
Two months ago, he had tried to resist — once. The pain that followed had shattered him.
Even now, recalling that torture brought flashes of phantom agony, pain so vivid it made his limbs tremble and his breath come shallow.
He stood motionless in the gloom of his office, staring into nothing, and waited for the last echo of Voldemort's voice to fade.