Chapter 36: Who Ordered the Buffet?!
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As eleven o’clock drew nearer, it seemed that the entire student body and faculty had gathered in the stands surrounding the Quidditch pitch.
Quite a few students had even brought binoculars. The field was simply too large—Cohen was beginning to think he should have brought a pair himself. Picking Harry out from among several distant figures dressed in the same colors was surprisingly difficult...
When the two teams emerged from the changing rooms below, the entire pitch was drowned beneath the spectators’ deafening cheers.
Compared with those exhilarated spectators, Cohen was in a somewhat different state.
He felt... hungry.
Thirsty, too.
More intensely than ever before.
The students’ faces and all their voices vanished. All that remained were the colorful, cottony emotions floating through the air, soft and fluffy as marshmallows.
Food was everywhere!
Under ordinary circumstances, Cohen could easily ignore the hunger through sheer reason. But when he was actually placed in a location stuffed to the brim with positive emotions, it became rather difficult not to give in.
That was simply how little gluttons were...
No wonder the Dementors in the books could not resist drifting into the Quidditch pitch. This place really was a buffet.
“Cohen? Cohen! Harry’s taken off!”
Ron’s voice came from Cohen’s left, but when Cohen turned his head, all he saw was “edible happiness,” perhaps mixed with a little “nervousness” and “anxiety”...
Cohen shook his head. The sensation was rather like being on drugs. So was this what the world looked like to sightless Dementors?
He had no intention of indulging himself. Being “forced” to attack Harry was one thing; losing control in front of an entire crowd was another.
If Dumbledore came after him later, Cohen could explain that he had secretly been casting counter-curses to protect Harry. But if he actually began devouring emotions in the middle of the pitch, there would be no explaining that away.
He was only a first-year, after all. He had to establish a decent reputation.
Cohen took a sweet from his pocket and placed it in his mouth. A wave of sweetness flooded his throat.
Wonderful!
Another day of saving Hogwarts with his own hands.
“Where’s Harry?”
Cohen’s eyes had finally returned to normal—or rather, he was no longer quite so hungry.
“He’s flying around the pitch looking for the Snitch—but it looks like he hasn’t seen it yet...” Ron said worriedly.
“That’s barbaric!”
Hermione had seen Flint from the Slytherin team deliberately ram into Harry. Harry’s broom had lurched violently off course, but fortunately, he had held on tight.
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“Foul!”
The Gryffindors around them erupted in furious shouts.
“Send him off! Referee! Red card!” Dean Thomas shouted from the row in front of Cohen.
“This isn’t football, Dean.” Ron had nearly leaned all the way out of the stands. Keeping his eyes fixed on the action below, he reminded Dean, “You can’t send people off in Quidditch—and what’s a red card?”
“Now, following that blatant and despicable act of cheating—” Lee Jordan, the Gryffindor commentator, was finding it difficult to remain impartial.
“Jordan!” Professor McGonagall growled from beside the commentary box.
“I mean, following that blatant and disgusting foul—”
“Jordan, I’m warning you—”
“All right, all right. Flint nearly killed Gryffindor’s Seeker. I’m sure that sort of thing could happen to anyone, so Gryffindor gets a penalty!”
Around that moment, Cohen, who had been watching Harry closely, caught sight of the traces of a curse.
While studying the Dark Arts under Quirrell, Cohen had also learned how to identify the traces left by magic. He was particularly gifted in that regard, for magic truly was closely connected to the soul. All he had to do was open that soul-observing sight of his, and he could clearly see the magical trails hanging in the air, some dense and others faint.
Quirrell had made his move.
Harry’s broom suddenly gave a frightening shudder. Then it began darting wildly through the air, veering left and right without any pattern.
“I don’t know what Harry thinks he’s doing...” Hagrid muttered, peering carefully at Harry through his binoculars. “If I didn’t know him so well, I’d think he’d lost control of his broom—but he couldn’t possibly...”
Cohen followed Quirrell’s lead and cast the curse toward Harry for three seconds. That was enough, now that the magical trail had appeared—otherwise, Quirrell and Voldemort might think he was slacking off.
Harry’s broom began shaking even more violently. It seemed he might fall at any moment. He was now suspended in the air only because he was clinging to the handle with both arms.
Cohen saw a third spell strike Harry’s broom. It had come from the staff stand as well.
Snape was exerting himself!
“Did something happen to the broom when Flint rammed into him?” Seamus asked quietly from the front row.
“Impossible.” Hagrid shook his head. “Nothing short of powerful Dark magic could interfere with a broomstick. No child could cast that sort of spell on a Nimbus Two Thousand.”
Suddenly, Hermione snatched Hagrid’s binoculars away. She did not look up at Harry. Instead, she began anxiously scanning the crowd.
“What are you doing—” Ron had just begun to ask.
“I knew it!” Hermione gasped. “It’s Snape—look.”
She handed the binoculars to Ron.
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“He’s up to something—Cohen, what are you doing?!”
Hermione had caught sight of Cohen, whose movements were almost identical to Snape’s.
“What? I’m up to something—no, I’m protecting Harry! Stop fussing. If I stop the counter-curse, he’ll fall—”
Cohen hurriedly began casting the counter-curse.
“You know how to do that?!” Hermione asked in astonishment, though she still chose to believe him.
Someone had to be casting a counter-curse, otherwise Harry should have fallen by now. At present, his broom was maintaining an unstable balance. It was neither spinning like a washing machine nor hovering steadily enough for Harry to climb back onto it.
It was as if two invisible people were fighting over control of the broom.
“I’ve got an idea!”
After letting out a cry, Hermione vanished into the stands.
In less than two minutes, a commotion broke out around the staff stand.
Snape was on fire—quite literally.
Hermione had sneaked over and set his robes alight.
At the same time, Cohen stopped casting as well, since Quirrell’s curse had also ceased.
Harry finally managed to climb back onto his broom.
“Neville, you can look now!” Ron said excitedly.
Until then, Neville had been sobbing inside Hagrid’s jacket.
The instant Harry got back onto his broom, he began plunging rapidly toward the ground—and then...
Harry covered his mouth with one hand as if he were about to be sick. Then he landed on all fours.
“I caught it!”
He spat a golden object out of his mouth.
“Gryffindor wins!” Madam Hooch announced.
Ding! Goodwill increased by 100.
[Note: You have recovered a tiny bit of your conscience. Not much, but enough.]