Chapter One
The locker room was cold and damp. The rumble of the voices of seven energetic adolescents was only slightly muffled by the deafening roar of an impatient crowd; from which the only separation was a pair of wooden double-doors.
"You ready?" yelled a tall, blonde fifth-year, Louisa Reynolds, lifting her oiled broomstick high in the air. Her question was met with a confident cheer from her six teammates, who in turn shoved their mounts high above their heads.
"Ready, captain!" they yelled loudly, shaking the small room.
"Captain, then Keeper, then Chasers, then Beaters, then Seeker," she reminded them. "Got to keep up appearances, for McGonagall's sake," she said cheerily, referring to her team's Head of House, whose desire for propriety was feared and renowned among the entire student body.
Louisa faced her players. She saw what most captains hoped to see from a team—six determined, agile players—who knew their sport and exhibited the proper balance of confidence and caution—who were bent on winning, even though the odds were stacked against them. But there was nothing to guarantee that this group of players could overcome anyone, much less the skilled and militaristic Slytherin team.
There was Richard Simmons; Gryffindor's wily Keeper. He could block the goalposts as well as any, but there had been times when his own cleverness confused him. Greer Sinclair, Amelia Bones, and Dottie Tuckfield were her reliable Chasers. Herself and Raymond Fischer were the team's Beaters—with powerful swing, aim, and skill. And then there was their Seeker. Little Molly Prewett, only twelve years old, but possessing most unusual sight, skill, and speed, was the youngest player on the team. Her fiery red mane was visible from clear across the Quidditch field, but resembled more a shooting star when she sighted the elusive Snitch.
"Alright then," said Louisa. "Play well, play hard, and play fair."
She swung open the heavy wooden double-doors and led her team, decked in glittering red and gold, out onto the Quidditch field.
Now, even though this had been her dream for coming on a year, butterflies exploded in Molly's stomach, and her vision became fuzzy. She held her broom, one of the school's shiny Cleansweep 5s, in a ferocious death grip—and although in just a moment, it would transport her high into the sky, for the moment it was the only thing that kept her solidly on the ground.
Around her, the stadium rose up imposingly. The Gryffindor side of the pitch boasted brilliant red and gold hangings. Opposite them was a solid sea of green and silver Slytherins, who jeered as the Gryffindor team marched forcefully across the field. In the middle was a sea of undetermined students, members of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff houses, who often opted to stay neutral in these games. In the commentator's tower, erected on the west side of the pitch, stood Rolanda Hooch, at the commentator's podium, and Professor McGonagall, anxiously surveying her house's team.
Molly's eyes next swiveled to the Gryffindors. From the solid sea of Gryffindors she sought out Mafalda Hopkirk, her best friend—and seeing her, let out an audible sight of relief. It was Mafalda who'd encouraged Molly to try out for the Quidditch team when she'd thought of giving it up—and Mafalda who'd been there for Molly whenever she needed a friend. Now, she gave Molly a reassuring wave.
Finally, Molly turned her gaze towards the center of the field, where Mr. Ferris, the Quidditch coach and referee, stood, hands on hips, waiting for the convergence of the two teams' captains.
"Shake hands!" ordered the Mr. Ferris. Molly saw Louisa clench her fists before offering one of them to the burly and commanding Slytherin captain—a tall seventh-year with long, silvery hair; Lucius Malfoy. He grinned, looking over the silent Gryffindor team with anticipation, as a hungry ogre would survey his next meal.
"Mount your brooms, players!" yelled Mr. Ferris.
Molly, heart pounding uncharacteristically fast, mounted her Cleansweep. Mr. Ferris blew the whistle, and with an almighty heave she pushed off of the soft green turf and into the air.
"And they're off!" came a cry from the commentator's podium. Rolanda Hooch lifted her wand high into the air, setting off a shower of green and red sparks that spelled THE GAME HAS BEGUN. The scoreboard suspended in midair next to the commentator's tower was set "0-0."
"Fans of the reigning Slytherin team will be pleased to note that it has added a new all-star player to its ranks; Bellatrix Black, an agile fourth-year who isn't afraid to push her limits. She's the new Seeker." The Slytherin side of the stands exploded as their new player flew about madly in a wild attempt at a victory lap.
Molly looked up, searching for the opposing Seeker. Her brown eyes met the startling black ones of Bellatrix, who grinned eerily, pulling her broom into a long, choppy dive. Molly shook her head, her violent fiery hair whipping in the early September breeze, trying to dismiss the sudden dizziness that had overcome her.
"Gryffindor has also added a Seeker, Molly Prewett, who replaced Yves Scragg, after he graduated last spring," added the Rolanda. Loud cheers erupted from the Gryffindor side, flags and scarves waving madly, the wind generously fueling their excitement.
"And Greer Sinclair has taken the Quaffle!" yelled Rolanda. "She's speeding towards the Slytherin hoops. She passes to Dottie Tuckfield, who dodges Slytherin Keeper Antonin Crowley—she scores! 10 points to Gryffindor!"
The stands exploded. Molly watched Bellatrix. She was moving with the deftness of a Quidditch player, but she had no obvious skill. The Slytherin Seeker was merely brute force; a bull on a broom, and Molly was positive she could beat her if only she kept her eyes open for the elusive Snitch.
The wind howled menacingly around the young Seeker, as if itching to throw her off her broom. As she swooped about the field, eyes searching desperately for the Snitch, she noticed a slight change in Bellatrix's attitude. Previously nonchalant, she had stiffened slightly, her eyes wide and a small grin playing at the edges of her thin mouth.
Molly followed her gaze, slowly realizing that she had sighted the object of her search. Carefully, so as not to around Bellatrix's suspicion, she drifted aimlessly in the other direction. She could almost feel her opponent's glee as she believed she had tricked Molly; but with a reel of power, Molly swung her broom around, racing towards the Snitch, now within yards of her longing grasp.
Bellatrix, eyes wide in fury, raced to catch up, her angry screams echoing in the stadium as if a crowd of banshees had joined the teams. Molly's breath rushed from her mouth in short gasps. She saw the Snitch, just feet ahead, and reached out an arm to grab the fluttering golden ball.
With a yell of anger and a flash of light, the Gryffindor Seeker fell towards the grassy ground. She saw her rider-less broom above her. She saw Bellatrix's triumphant gaze as she watched her opponent fall—and turn to look for the Snitch. She saw the sky, stretching out like a warm blanket. But the falling girl realized with a rush of hope that her right hand was clutching a wriggling, winged golden ball.
The world went black.
Arthur Weasley lifted his eyes from the small book resting in his palms as the roar of the crowd snapped into silence. He saw the girl fall. She was two years his junior—they had never spoken before, his relation to her nonexistent.
But as he watched her fall he felt his heart stop, his face slacken, his shoulders shake with an uncontrollable fear. He rose to his feet, dropping the book, his action mirrored by the other watching Gryffindors around him. Arthur realized then that this was the most scared he'd ever been in his life, watching this unknown, fiery-haired Seeker plunge to her fate.
Thoughts flitted through his mind in the few seconds of her descent. Why was she falling? He noticed the black-haired girl, circling above her gleefully, and his fists clenched angrily. Question answered. But then, why was nobody reaching out a wand to save her. They were all frozen bastards, unsure of when to act, what to do.
Arthur lifted his left arm, his wand arm, high up in the air, pointing at the girl. He flicked his wrist, hurriedly crying "Arresto Momentum!"
She hovered, inches from the ground, her face turned upwards towards the shining sun. Her long, brilliant red hair grazed the turf beneath her. Her robes hung down from her body, her broom, smashed on the ground beside her.
Across the field, high in the stands, Arthur shivered. Although the late summer breeze did not bother him, he felt chills travel up and down his spine as he stood, shaking, his eyes watering.
Silence enveloped the field. All eyes were drawn to the girl who hung suspended in midair, inches from death.