Chapter 5- Three Seekers And One Snitch

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Smith could already feel the Golden Snitch against his fingertips.

Victory was inches away.

He leaned further over his broom, stretching out his hand as the tiny golden ball fluttered desperately ahead of him. His fingers were just about to close around it when something struck him violently from the side.

Smith was thrown away from the Snitch.

He rolled through the air, desperately clinging to his broom as the world spun around him. Before he could regain control, his body slammed hard against one of the rocky mountains on the outskirts of the school grounds.

His broom fell to one side.

Smith crashed to the ground on the other.

He groaned and grabbed his knee. Pain shot through his leg, but nothing seemed broken. After a few seconds, he rolled onto his back and looked towards the sky.

A dark silhouette stood above him.

Ivan Karkaroff.

Smith hurried to his feet. His wand wasn’t with him, so instinctively, he clenched his bare hands into fists.

Ivan looked at him and smirked.

Then he burst out laughing.

“Did you know,” Ivan said, “that a wizard can cast magic with nothing but his sight? Wands only channel the energy.”

“Oh, really?” Smith replied firmly. “My fist might bump into your head long before you manage to cast anything with your bare sight.”

Ivan chuckled.

“So you’re their best?”

Smith frowned.

“I thought it was that other boy. The one who lost his powers.”

Smith’s expression immediately changed.

“You dare not speak about Peter.”

Then something occurred to him.

His anger disappeared for a moment.

“How do you know he lost his powers?”

Ivan stared at him.

Then he laughed again.

Smith’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you laughing?”

Ivan took his time before answering.

“How do you think your friend lost his powers?”

Smith didn’t speak.

His mind immediately returned to Ivan’s first day at Hogwarts. He remembered sitting in the Great Hall. Peter had been staring across the room at Ivan, and eventually Ivan had stared back.

That strange, prolonged stare.

Smith remembered what Ivan had just told him.

A wizard can cast magic with nothing but his sight.

The realisation struck him.

“It was you.”

Ivan’s smile widened.

Smith’s eyes grew wide. “It was you who took away his powers?”

Ivan gave a quiet chuckle.

“How?” Smith asked. “How is that even possible?”

“And while we’re being honest,” Ivan continued casually, “I was also the one who put all those self-destructive thoughts into your head after your blonde girl embarrassed you.”

Smith froze.

His breakdown.

The thoughts that had appeared from nowhere.

The feeling that everyone hated him. That he was worthless. That nobody would ever love him.

“How…” Smith whispered.

Ivan shook his head.

“The question isn’t how, Smith. The question is why.”

Smith stared at him.

“Alright. Why?”

Ivan smiled.

“For fun.”

Smith couldn’t believe what he had heard.

“You know… experimenting,” Ivan continued. “Testing things. Preparing people for my ascension.”

“Ascension?”

Ivan seemed pleased by Smith’s confusion.

“Ascension to what?”

“Ah.” Ivan took a deep breath. “Now you’re curious.”

He sat comfortably on a nearby rock, as though they had suddenly become two friends having a conversation rather than opponents in the middle of a Tournament.

“Well, alright. Everyone will know one day. You can know a little earlier.”

Smith remained where he was.

“Thirty-five years ago,” Ivan began, “Harry Potter killed Voldemort, and the wizarding world changed. The Ministry became stronger. Muggles learned more about us. New wizarding institutions were built. An entire world changed because one man died.”

His face twisted slightly at Voldemort’s name.

“Lord Voldemort.”

Ivan almost spat the words.

“They called him the Dark Lord. People were so frightened of him that they couldn’t even say his name.”

He laughed.

“And in the end, he was a joke.”

Smith watched him carefully.

“What did he even want?” Ivan continued. “What exactly was his great vision? What would he have accomplished if he had won? Remove every house except Slytherin from a children’s school?”

Ivan shook his head, amused.

“What a joke.”

There was something different in the way he was speaking now. Smith had seen Ivan arrogant, mocking and cruel before, but never like this. There was passion behind every word.

“He tore his soul apart and hid it inside seven different objects because he was so terrified of dying. And after all of that…” Ivan laughed again. “He lost to a seventeen-year-old boy.”

His voice grew louder.

“If that isn’t pathetic, I don’t know what is.”

Then his laughter stopped.

“But I won’t make his mistakes.”

Something about those words sent a chill through Smith.

“I won’t hide pieces of my soul inside silly little objects. I don’t need to. I have something that nobody can take away from me.”

Ivan stood.

Smith watched him approach.

“And what’s that?”

Ivan smiled.

“Knowledge.”

He stopped only a few feet away.

“Knowledge greater than anything Hogwarts, Durmstrang or any other school could ever teach you.”

Smith’s grip tightened around his fist.

“Some Muggles call us party clowns,” Ivan continued. “Magic tricks. Entertainment. Because they have forgotten what we are capable of. They have nobody to fear.”

His voice became quieter.

“Once they understand fear, they will think twice before even imagining themselves equal to us.”

Ivan stepped closer.

“This world needs fear, George Smith.”

He looked directly into Smith’s eyes.

“Fear.”

Smith said nothing.

“I will ascend far beyond that clown Voldemort ever did. And when I do, they will all fear me. Those who try to destroy me will suffer fates worse than anything this world has ever witnessed.”

Ivan’s expression softened into an almost welcoming smile.

“But those who seek shelter beneath my glory will have everything they could ever want.”

He extended his hand.

“Wouldn’t you want to be with the person you love?”

Smith’s eyes flickered.

For a brief moment, he thought of Miranda.

“A world where you get whatever you want,” Ivan continued. “A world where nobody laughs at you. Nobody rejects you. Nobody makes you feel small.”

Smith looked at Ivan’s outstretched hand.

“They would fear you instead.”

Ivan smiled.

“Join me, Smith. And we will ascend together.”

For several seconds, Smith remained silent.

Then Ivan seemed to realise what was holding him back.

“Oh, are you worried about that overconfident fool you call a friend?”

Smith immediately looked up.

Ivan laughed.

“Don’t worry about him. I’ll remove him before I remove anyone else.”

Smith’s expression hardened.

“I remember him now. That fire in his eyes during the Tournament two years ago. Yes…” Ivan’s smile disappeared. “I remember that prick.”

His hand remained extended.

“He deserves to die before anyone else.”

Smith stared at him.

“Don’t overthink this. Join me, and one day even Peter Harrow will fear you.”

Ivan moved his hand slightly closer.

Smith looked down at it.

Then back at Ivan.

“No thanks.”

Ivan’s smile disappeared.

“You’re dreaming in broad daylight,” Smith continued. “And don’t you ever think about hurting my friends again.”

For perhaps the first time, Ivan looked genuinely stunned.

In his eyes, George Smith represented everything he despised—weakness, sentiment, cowardice. Here stood a boy who had been humiliated in front of his school, who had spent days believing himself worthless, and who had just been offered power over everyone who had ever made him feel small.

And he had refused it.

“Idiot,” Smith muttered.

He extended his hand towards his fallen broom, caught it and climbed on.

Ivan remained motionless.

Smith kicked away from the ground and soared back towards the Quidditch pitch.

For a few seconds, Ivan simply watched him leave.

Then his expression changed.

He stared at Smith.

And this time, it wasn’t an ordinary stare.

Smith was halfway back to the pitch when he began to feel uncomfortable on his broom.

He adjusted his position.

The broom shook beneath him.

Smith frowned and tightened his grip.

By the time he returned above the Quidditch pitch, Ivan was still nowhere to be seen. The spectators immediately began cheering when they spotted Smith. With the Durmstrang Seeker absent, everyone assumed Hogwarts now had the perfect opportunity to find the Snitch and win.

But Smith wasn’t looking for the Snitch anymore.

His broom jerked sharply to the left.

He pulled it back.

It jerked right.

“What the hell?”

The broom suddenly began moving in a strange zigzag pattern, twisting through the air like a snake.

Smith’s stomach dropped.

He gripped the handle with both hands as the broom violently changed direction again.

Then it shot upwards.

Smith screamed.

A moment later, it plunged towards the ground.

The audience gasped.

Smith pulled desperately at the handle, but the broom no longer responded to him. It tore across the pitch at full speed, narrowly missing the spectator stands before twisting towards the goal hoops.

He passed straight between them.

Then the broom turned again.

Back towards the stands.

Students ducked as Smith shot past them.

“MOVE!” someone screamed.

The broom climbed again before diving towards the grass.

Smith pulled with everything he had.

Nothing.

His fear turned into certainty.

Ivan.

Ivan was doing this.

From the officials’ stand, Professor Flamel rose from his seat.

“Mr Gibbs, something is wrong with Smith’s broom. We need to intervene.”

Iris Karkaroff immediately turned towards him.

“I don’t believe that is permitted under the rules, Professor. No offence, but handling a broom under difficult conditions is taught in the first year.”

Flamel stared at him.

“This isn’t a difficult condition. Look at the boy!”

“I’m sorry, Flamel,” Gibbs said. “We cannot interfere. If this were an ordinary Hogwarts match, things would be different, but this is the Triwizard Tournament. We can’t stop a task because a student is struggling to control his broom.”

Flamel looked back towards Smith.

His face was filled with helpless anger.

The broom suddenly pointed directly towards the sky.

Then it shot upwards.

Smith’s entire body was pushed against the handle as he climbed higher and higher. The Quidditch pitch rapidly shrank beneath him. The castle became smaller. The spectators became nothing more than dots.

His heart was in his throat.

He no longer cared about the Tournament.

He no longer cared about the Snitch.

All he could think about was whether he was going to survive.

As the broom carried him higher, Smith looked towards the mountains.

Ivan Karkaroff stood there.

A dark figure against the rocks, watching him like a Grim Reaper waiting patiently for the end.

Then, without warning, Smith’s broom stopped.

For a fraction of a second, he hung motionless in the sky.

The broom went completely lifeless.

And Smith began to fall.

From the ground, the spectators could barely see him.

Smith dropped through the sky like a shooting star, desperately clutching a broom that no longer responded to him.

“Mr Gibbs, please!” Flamel shouted. “We need to stop this!”

“The boy has a broom!” Gibbs shouted back. “The broom will not let him fall!”

“It isn’t working!”

Smith fell faster.

Wind tore against his face. He tried pulling the broom upwards, tried kicking it, tried anything he could think of.

Nothing worked.

He looked down.

The ground was rushing towards him.

For a moment, Smith wondered whether someone would save him. Perhaps a professor would cast something. Perhaps the Ministry would finally intervene.

Nobody came.

Smith stopped fighting.

He closed his eyes.

And suddenly, everything became quiet.

There was a light ahead of him.

Smith couldn’t feel the wind anymore. He couldn’t hear the screaming crowd or the roar of the air around him.

There were two people standing inside the light.

Smith stared at them.

His father stood tall and strong, with the same red hair Smith saw whenever he looked in a mirror. Beside him stood his mother, her familiar face covered in the freckles he had inherited from her.

Smith’s eyes filled with tears.

His mother smiled and opened her arms.

“It’s okay, baby. Come to Mum.”

Smith was seven years old again.

He ran towards her.

His mother wrapped her arms around him, and Smith held onto her with all his strength. His father placed a hand against his head and gently kissed his forehead.

Smith cried into his mother’s shoulder.

He didn’t feel unwanted anymore.

He didn’t feel alone.

He didn’t need the Tournament. He didn’t need people cheering his name. He didn’t need anyone to fear him.

He had everything he wanted.

Smith held his mother tighter.

And slowly, the three of them disappeared into the light.

The broom struck the ground.

Miranda closed her eyes and screamed.

Alison screamed beside her.

Stewart, still hovering above the pitch, froze at the sight below.

Professor Flamel’s face went pale.

“Someone call the healers!”

He rushed from the officials’ stand towards the field.

Students began panicking as the stands emptied. Stewart landed beside Smith before anyone else could reach him and immediately dropped to his knees.

“George?”

He grabbed Smith and carefully turned him over.

Stewart fell backwards.

Smith’s face was covered in blood.

Flamel arrived seconds later, followed by three healers. Miranda and Alison fought their way through the gathering crowd, desperate to reach him.

One healer knelt beside Smith and searched for a pulse. Another checked his breathing.

The few seconds that followed felt endless.

Then the healer slowly looked up.

“He’s dead.”

Nobody moved.

“The boy is dead.”

Flamel’s eyes widened.

Miranda almost collapsed. Alison covered her mouth with both hands, desperately trying to hold back her cries.

Stewart simply stared at Smith.

Only minutes ago, they had been competing together.

Now George lay motionless before him.

Flamel slowly turned towards Gibbs.

“End the Tournament.”

Gibbs stared back at him, pale and shaking.

Flamel’s grief turned into rage.

“END THE GODDAMN TOURNAMENT!”

Gibbs gave a weak nod.

Around them, the Quidditch pitch had fallen silent.

George Smith was no more.