Sorcerer in the world of magic

From the very first seconds, the match assaulted Stephen with a deluge of sounds and impressions. This wasn't just noise; it was chaos. Thousands of voices merged into a single deafening chorus, the whistle of the wind in the ears of the players on brooms pierced the air, and the low, dull thuds of Bludgers against Beaters' bats seemed to shake the very foundations of the stands. Stephen, accustomed to the silence of libraries and the focused work in his room, felt completely out of place. Every sound echoed in his head, causing slight irritation, and the continuous movement around him tired his eyes. He tried his best to maintain his usual composed demeanor, but inside, everything tightened from this madness.

Zhou, sitting beside him, was his complete opposite. She literally glowed with excitement, her eyes sparkling as if she were seeing this spectacle for the first time. Every successful move by the Gryffindors elicited a storm of emotions from her: she leaped from her seat, punched the air as if she herself wanted to snatch the Quaffle, and let out piercing, joyful screams that almost drowned out Lee Jordan's commentary. Her energy was contagious, but for Stephen, it was exhausting. He found himself thinking that his own reaction to any event on the field was minimal, almost absent. Chasers zoomed past, Beaters chased Bludgers, but it all seemed to him like meaningless flickering.

Once again, when the stands erupted in cheers after a phenomenal Gryffindor throw that earned them ten points, Zhou, flushed with excitement, turned to Stephen. Her voice was hoarse from screaming, but it carried genuine joy.

"Well, Stephen? Isn't it fun?" she exclaimed, almost shouting to be heard over the general roar, her eyes gleaming, awaiting confirmation of her delight.

Stephen forced a fake smile that didn't reach his eyes, which remained cold and distant. "Very," he replied sarcastically, trying to make his voice sound somewhat convincing, though he knew Zhou would hardly notice the deception in her ecstasy. "I can't imagine how I ever managed without Quidditch. My life before this was meaningless." The last phrase was uttered almost in a whisper, more to himself than to her, and was swallowed by a new surge of noise.

Zhou, it seemed, noticed neither the sarcasm nor his hidden displeasure. She merely nodded in response, already turning back to the field so as not to miss a second of the "thrilling spectacle."

At that very moment, new, more unsettling cries rippled through the stadium, different from the usual triumphant or disappointed shouts. There was a hint of panic in them. Stephen, involuntarily intrigued, looked at the field. What he saw made him inwardly cold. Harry Potter's broom, the Nimbus 2000, began to jerk and vibrate wildly. It bucked as if possessed, sometimes soaring to dizzying heights, then plummeting sharply, stopping only a few feet from the ground. Harry struggled to hold on, his body contorting into unnatural positions, his hands frantically clinging to the broomstick. The crowd, which had been noisy and jubilant, fell silent. The deafening roar was replaced by a stunned, frightened murmur, punctuated by cries of horror.

At that moment, Stephen realized: he had completely forgotten about this episode. It was an annoying oversight. He shifted his gaze to the teachers' platform above the field. There, among Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape, sat... Quirrell. Pale, nervously fiddling with his turban, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

"Bingo," flashed through Stephen's mind. He knew who was behind this. And this was a perfect moment for a small experiment. He had long wanted to test the limits of his mental abilities, his non-verbal magic, which he had so diligently honed at night.

Without drawing his wand, Stephen focused. His gaze locked onto Quirrell's figure. In his mind, a complex mental image began to form, a spell he had perfected. He muttered a word, completely inaudible amidst the stadium's general din, more internally than aloud. It was an ancient word that only a wizard highly skilled in the Dark Arts would understand. At that very instant, his pupils flashed emerald green for a moment, but it was only a fleeting, almost imperceptible shimmer. If anyone other than himself had heard what he uttered, or seen that glint in his eyes, Stephen would have been immediately sent to feed the Dementors in Azkaban. So dark and forbidden was that word, so powerful was its effect.

In the same second, Quirrell, sitting in the teachers' stands, began to writhe in agony. He twitched, his body shaking as if struck by an invisible electric current. The professor clutched his head with both hands, his face contorted in unbearable pain, and he let out a muffled, desperate groan that, fortunately, was drowned out by the general noise. His turban nearly fell off his head, revealing a strange bulge at the back of his skull.

The teachers sitting nearby immediately became alarmed. Professor McGonagall, with her usually strict and composed demeanor, jumped up, her face full of anxiety. "Medic! A medic, quickly!" one of the teachers shouted, and a Healer, who always attended Quidditch matches in case of player injuries, hurried to Quirrell.

The tension in the stands reached its peak. All eyes were fixed either on Harry, who was still desperately clinging to his broom, or on the writhing Quirrell. Time seemed to stand still.

Meanwhile, on the field, Harry's broom suddenly calmed down. Its convulsive movements ceased, and it hovered in the air as if nothing had happened. Harry, exhausted from the struggle, was breathing heavily, his face pale and covered in sweat, but now he could fully control his flight.

Stephen, observing all this with a stony face, stopped his mental influence. He detached himself from the stream of another's pain, mentally reflecting on his little experiment. Using the Cruciatus Curse without a wand, solely through the power of thought, mentally—this was a new, incredible level of control over magic. He felt a strange, slightly disturbing, yet pleasant warmth inside, realizing the immense power he had just wielded. However, he immediately dismissed this thought, pushing it to the furthest corner of his mind. Now was not the time for self-analysis.

Quirrell, supported by the Healer and McGonagall, slowly got to his feet. He was as pale as a sheet, his forehead covered in perspiration, but he tried to maintain his composure. He pretended that everything was fine and tried to reassure those around him, mumbling something about a sudden indisposition or a migraine attack. "It's all right, it's all right, just... a dizzy spell," he mumbled, nervously adjusting his turban. But his eyes, despite his assurances, nervously darted around, as if searching for an invisible opponent, something that had inflicted this unbearable pain upon him. He was frightened, and Stephen felt it.

The match continued, and soon, after several tense minutes during which Harry the Seeker and the Slytherin Seeker engaged in a fierce chase, Harry, performing an incredible pirouette that made the entire stadium gasp, caught the Snitch. The Snitch appeared right in front of him, and Harry, without hesitation, caught it.

The stadium erupted. This was no longer an anxious murmur, but a triumphant roar. Hundreds of voices shouted, "Gryffindor! Gryffindor!" Scarlet and gold scarves flew into the air, people embraced, jumping with joy.

Stephen mentally began to pray to Merlin for this endless, deafening noise to finally end. He could barely wait to return to the quiet of his room, his usual sanctuary from human bustle and loud emotions, and resume his true research, which was far more important to him than any Quidditch. He glanced at Zhou, who was hugging one of her friends, jumping with happiness. "Finally," he muttered to himself, feeling his nerves stretched to their limit. "Time to get back to real business."