The Secret Lives of Sinful Girls
Original Sin, Part I
© All Rights Reserved
May
The late spring air, usually balmy, was crisp and biting when Isobel Beckett made her way down to the Quidditch pitch at an ungodly hour of the morning. It was still dark outdoors. As usual, Beckett was up before the sun (and, also as usual, Dominique had just about lost the plot when Beckett had woken her up while leaving the Gryffindor fifth year girls' dormitory).
Beckett couldn't sleep, and she hadn't been sleeping well for weeks. Her life was simply too stressful. The Quidditch final against Ravenclaw was quickly approaching, and the Captain was about to have a breakdown because Beckett, Potter, and Anderson kept mucking up the Hawkshead Formation. Hey, it wasn't Beckett's fault if Potter came to practice drunk on stolen Firewhiskey! Also, she was on the road to failing out of Potions…literally. Beckett was fairly certain that her current grade in the blasted class was a T. And no matter how much she copied off Rose's homework, Beckett just couldn't seem to wrap her head around the difference between an antidote and a draught and an elixir. They were all just vials filled with bubbling shit! It didn't help that the Potions professor, Stimpson, was a sadistic bitch out to make Beckett's life a living hell until the day she graduated. Longbottom had called Beckett into his office the other day and reluctantly told her that unless she brought her grade up, she might not be allowed to play in the Quidditch match! And on top of all that, Beckett's best friend Nicola had disappeared barely a month ago.
It's too bloody much for a sixteen-year-old witch to handle, mused Beckett gloomily as she trudged toward the broomshed.
The only thing that kept her sane these days was flying. Beckett loved to fly – she had ever since she was a kid. Now the freckled brunette was a Chaser for the Gryffindor side, and she literally lived for practices and matches. Plus, she thrived on the knowledge that her enemies, like Stimpson or the obnoxious Niamh "My father is a famous Quidditch player" Connolly, would be begging for Beckett's autograph in a few years when she was a professional Chaser for the Magpies.
Bloody tossers, Beckett thought. Why do I know so many annoying people?
Her angry musings quickly ceased when she reached the doors of the old broomshed. Cracking open a door, Beckett breathed in the familiar smell of mud, sweat, and broomstick polish. Ah, heaven.
Stumbling a bit in the dark, Beckett made her way over to the wall where she kept her trusty Cleansweep Thirty-three by memory. Feeling her way along the brooms, she nearly took Wood's well-varnished Lightning by accident. He'd have a fucking coronary, thought Beckett, and she grinned a bit at the thought.
Just as Beckett's fingertips grazed the handle of her broom, she heard the door to the shed slam shut. Whirling around, Beckett squinted in an attempt to see through the darkness. From across the shed, she could just barely make out two cloaked figures standing near the doorway.
"Er…hello?" she called out. This was a bit weird.
No answer.
"Who's there?" she called again. "Wood? Is that you?" Who else would awake to practice in the wee hours of the morning besides Beckett and Alistair Wood, after all? "If it is, this isn't funny. Stop this rubbish and say something."
Beckett reached into her pocket for her wand, but she quickly paused when she heard a voice. "Leave your wand where it is."
She wrinkled her eyebrows. It was a bloke's voice, but it certainly didn't sound like Wood. "What? Who are you?"
"Not important. Leave your wand or I'll disarm you," commanded the taller figure.
Beckett gulped. What the bloody fuck… "What's going on? Seriously, who are you and what do you want?" If she could only use Lumos she would be able to see who was under those dark hoods, but she had been warned not to touch her wand, of course. Beckett didn't get scared often, and while she wasn't exactly frightened, she was starting to become a bit nervous.
"Like he said," came the response – a female voice, this time, "don't worry about who we are. It isn't important."
"And as for what we want," the bloke added, "we have quite the proposition for you."
What in buggering hell is happening? Is this one of the Slytherin side's creepy hazing rituals? Beckett was confused. "I'm confused," she voiced, never one to mince words.
The taller figure chuckled. "Oh, take it easy, this isn't Potions class, after all."
"What?" Beckett asked sharply. "What do you mean about Potions?" This was getting all too bizarre. Who were these people?
The shorter person whispered to the other one. "Stop mucking about," Beckett could hear her whisper. Then the witch spoke to Beckett loudly. "You're Isobel Beckett, fifth year Gryffindor Chaser?"
"Yes," responded Beckett slowly and bemusedly.
"Then we can help you, if you'll let us," continued the female voice.
The wizard spoke next. "We can turn your T in Potions into a big fat O."
Beckett's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Hands down, this was the strangest thing that had ever happened to her. "How do you know I have a T in Potions? Who are you creeps?"
"We're scouts, Beckett," said the bloke. "We work for the Leader."
Okay, that's not creepy at all, Beckett thought sardonically. "The Leader?" she echoed.
"Yeah, you know, the Gryffindor Leader?" He paused, then when Beckett didn't respond, added, "Of the Ring?"
Beckett's eyes widened in understanding. The Hogwarts crime Ring was the stuff of legends. She had always heard about it, of course, but she had never received confirmation that it actually existed. Until now, that is. Supposedly, the Ring was a syndicate of certain students from all four Houses. They were in charge of anything illegal that went on at the school – cheating, gambling, betting, drug deals, you name it, they did it.
"What are you doing? Stop telling her everything!" hissed the girl.
"What do you guys want with me?" questioned Beckett.
The female figure came a little closer. "It's very simple. You need something. We can give you what you need. We need something. You can give us what we need."
Beckett mulled this over in her mind. "So you're saying that I need a better Potions grade, right?"
"Yeah…I mean anything'd be better than what you have right now," chortled the bloke. The girl next to him slapped him.
"And you can help me get it?"
"Not just help you get it," answered the witch. "We work for the Ring. We can change any grade we want."
Beckett forced herself to breathe. Here she was, constantly stressing out over her rubbish Potions grade when all she should be doing was focusing on preparing for the Quidditch final. And all of a sudden, the answer to her worries just magically appeared in the form of two sketchy criminals. They could get rid of her T! She could work on designing flying formations instead of poring over her Potions textbook in the common room at night! She could play in the match! It seemed too good to be true.
"That's…I mean, that would be…brilliant," Beckett gushed. She would give just about anything not to have to worry about Potions anymore. "But wait. What can I give you? What do you need?"
"This is one of the most anticipated Quidditch finals in years," began the wizard. "The points have never been this closely matched. And that means that the Ring is doing big business in taking bets on the outcome of the game."
Beckett nodded slowly. That all made sense. It was going to be a very close match, after all. Ravenclaw was good this year. Too good. Beckett had been practicing long goals and penalty shots for months in preparation.
"The point spread is strong. And some very important people would make a lot of money if Gryffindor didn't cover that point spread. Do you understand me?"
Frozen to the ground, Beckett felt unable to move or even breathe. Was he saying what she thought he was saying?
"Listen," said the girl, "all you have to do is miss a couple goals, shave a few points. It's not a big deal. Gryffindor could still win the match, you know, if Dooley catches the Snitch."
Beckett's mouth was so dry that she hardly trusted herself to speak. Fuck. This is just…fuck. It was Quidditch, her beloved Quidditch! She loved the game more than anything in the world. How could she live with herself if she betrayed everything she had always valued?
But like she said, you can still win the match, needled the little nagging voice in the back of Beckett's head, the one that always assured her it was okay to copy off Rose or hex Mulciber in the corridors or stick Drooble's in Gemma Sweeting's hair. And if your Potions grade isn't brought up, the team'll have to go to the Reserve for a replacement Chaser and they're all rubbish. Gryffindor would score even less then!
Her heart beating faster than it ever had, Beckett deliberated. If she agreed to the Ring's request, she would be a cheater. A point shaver. But professional athletes did it all the time, right? And it wasn't like Beckett was in this for major personal gain, to win thousands of Galleons or anything. She was just a girl who liked to play Quidditch. A girl who liked to play Quidditch who was failing Potions, and if her grade didn't improve, she might not get to play at all.
Deep breath. Lick lips. Chin up. "I'll do it," declared Beckett boldly, her heart hammering away.
It's the tiny little deeds that lead us toward the edge. One little slip and all of a sudden, you've sold your soul to the devil…
A/N: Next chapter is Rose. I love reviews so please tell me what you think!
