Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

Chapter 14: Flight and Fight

- September 27, 1976 –

"Wake up, Vassilyev," Snape said.

George groaned. "It's Saturday," he complained.

"Your mastery of the calendar astounds me," Snape drawled. "Nevertheless, Black asked me to ensure that you were awake."

"Why?"

"Quidditch tryouts," Snape said. He did not sound enthused.

That managed to jolt George from his sleepy stupor. But then he remembered which House he was in, and he let him head fall back to his pillow. "So? I wasn't planning on joining the team." Nearly a full month into the school year, George was horribly, profoundly sick of Slytherin. Staying on the straight and narrow to avoid losing House points – and the "training" that would result – had led to a miserable few weeks, for all that Fred kept trying to buoy his spirits.

Admittedly, the enchanted torches outside the Charms classroom that made everyone passing by start singing opera had been brilliant. Even Flitwick had thought so. His aria in praise of student creativity had been so passionate that the class had sung out a collective request for an encore. It had apparently encouraged more students than usual to enroll in the music club, and Flitwick had awarded them ten points each for "excellence in enchanting and a knack for advertisement / bravo for your incanting, please take under advisement."

Slughorn had been impressed, too, when he heard about it. He had invited both Fred and George to some dinner party that he was throwing on Halloween. It had earned the twins a few jealous glances from other students, so they assumed that Slughorn's parties were probably a blast and accepted.

"It's mandatory," Snape said, his tone flat. "Surely you saw the notice in the common room? Only first, fifth, and seventh years are exempt." George vaguely recalled seeing something about tryouts, but he had not read through it as he had no desire to join the Slytherin team. Apparently recognizing this, Snape added testily, "First years aren't allowed brooms, fifth years have OWLs, and seventh years have NEWTs." Huh, George though, Snape must have changed that rule when he took over from Slughorn. Fifth and seventh years can definitely compete now. Or maybe it's just that tryouts aren't mandatory for those years?

Then again, I have a hard time seeing Slughorn enforce anything like mandatory quidditch tryouts. Unless it's some sort of longstanding Slytherin tradition?

"I don't have a broom," he protested, even as a part of him thought, But it'd be nice to play quidditch again. Wonder if Fred's trying out. He didn't mention anything.

Snape shrugged. "Then congratulations on getting to risk death and dismemberment on a school broom." George shuddered, and Snape smirked. "Look, Vassilyev, Black told me to tell you, and I did." He paused, and then added, almost as an afterthought, "Quidditch scores factor into House points."

Oh. Well, that did make a difference. "Fine," George grumbled. "I'm coming." As Snape nodded and turned, George asked, "What's the competition for beater look like?" Being encouraged to hit bludgers towards Slytherin team members in practice would certainly go a long way towards working off his less-than-pleasant feelings towards his Housemates.

Without bothering to turn back, Snape said, "Over half the House is competing for six slots on the team. Take a guess."

"Quidditch has seven players," George corrected, vaguely smug that he knew something that Snape apparently did not.

"I doubt the captain's position is in jeopardy," Snape sneered back. "But by all means do feel free to try out for seeker if you disagree." And with that, he left the dormitory.

George quickly dressed and went down to the quidditch pitch. It seemed that Snape was right – at least half of Slytherin House had shown up, including some students that he recognized as fifth and seventh years. Regulus Black, the fifth year prefect, was there, holding one of the nicer-looking brooms. A brief glance confirmed that about half of the people there had their own brooms. The rest, including Snape, clustered around a pile of decrepit-looking school brooms. They seemed, if anything, even worse than the ones George remembered from his own time, and at least a quarter of those had been genuine safety hazards even for experienced fliers. His hopes for a beater position dimmed.

I wonder who's captain?

The question was swiftly answered when Black cast a sonorus on himself and proclaimed, "Alright. So let's start with some basic tests to weed out the dross. Second years first. Let's see one lap around the pitch."

Black cut about two-thirds of the second years. A few looked disappointed, but most just shrugged as if unsurprised. As the rejects made their way to the stands to watch their fellows or back to the castle for breakfast, Black called the third years up to fly a lap. He kept more of them, and even more of the fourth years. Only two fifth years tried out, and Black held both of them for the next round.

And then it was the sixth years' turn. George looked dubiously at his school broom. It was not the worst of the lot, but it was hardly the best, either. Even so, he mounted it without much difficulty and managed a decent, if not fantastic, lap around the pitch.

"Wilkes, you're out," Black said at once. Wilkes had nearly crashed into the ground twice, but George suspected that was as much the fault of the broom as the rider. "Flourish, Peters, you can go, too. Peters, give Vassilyev your broom for the next round." Peters, a dull-faced girl, nodded and wordlessly handed it to George. It was another school broom, but it seemed like a better one than he had been using. "The rest can stay."

Snape, George noticed, did not look particularly pleased to have made the first cut.

Three seventh years tried out, and all of them were allowed to continue to the next round. George privately thought that one of them, a burly redheaded boy, should have been cut due to poor control of his broom – and not a school broom, either – but imagined that internal House politics might be in play. Merlin knew that Slytherin certainly had more of that going on than Gryffindor ever did.

"Okay," Black said. "Sort yourselves into positions. Keepers form up here. Beaters here. Chasers over there." The remaining students moved to the indicated locations. Rosier, Snape, and Avery all went to the chasers section. Mulciber stood a little in front of George along with the others trying out for beater.

"Let's start with the chasers. Three at a time, show me basic passes," Rosier ordered.

About thirty minutes later, Black had cut about half of the chaser hopefuls. To George's surprise, Snape was still a contender. Then again, he was handling the school broom with more skill than George had expected, although without any particular flair. Given a decent broom and some practice, he might even have had a shot at a place on the team. Watching the others, though, George doubted that Snape would remain in the running for much longer.

"Alright, I'm going to throw some bludgers into the mix now. Elroy and Mulciber, you first. Try to knock the chasers off their stride."

After a few more minutes, Black cut Elroy and two of the chasers, and then called George and a cheerful, muscular-looking seventh year girl up. George hefted the familiar weight of the beater's bat as he took off, and he soon lobbed a bludger towards Rosier, whose quick dodge out of the way momentarily disrupted the chaser formation. George grinned. Maybe next time I'll hit the slimy bastard.

The girl he had been paired with was talented. She hit the second bludger between Rosier's new position and one of the third years trying out, and both swerved out of its way. George decided to up his game. He was no longer in a good position to hit Rosier, which was a pity. Instead, he threw his strength into the next hit, and with a resounding crack, the bludger hurtled towards Snape, who barely managed to dip out of its path in time. The bludger sailed past mere inches from him, but the necessary dodge caused Snape to drop the quaffle. Snape seemed paler, too, as if the near miss had scared him.

George blinked. There was something wrong with Snape's right arm. He was cradling it to his chest, steering his broom only with his left hand.

Black blew on a whistle, and they all returned to the ground. "Snape, you're out. Go see Pomfrey about that arm. Nice hit, Vassilyev." But I didn't, George thought. The bludger missed. And yet Snape's arm was unmistakably broken.

Snape nodded and left. He looked, George thought, almost relieved to have been cut from the team. But then, he was hurt, and he was being dismissed to get healed. Besides, Snape had never seemed particularly interested in quidditch, at least not beyond his token engagement as a Head of House. Not the way McGonagall had been so deeply invested in the Gryffindor team's prospects, or so smug whenever they won a match. Indeed, the only time George had ever seen him on a broom before today was when Snape had refereed the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match in his and Fred's third year.

You'd think he'd want to be on the team for the House points, though, if nothing else.

Tryouts lasted another two hours. George had made it until almost the final cut, but ultimately better brooms won out. Black had even apologized and told him that he would reconsider if George could get himself a better broom before the first match. Given that he had not particularly wanted to join the Slytherin team in the first place, he felt surprisingly disappointed. Even so, he could not fault the captain for his decision. Those school brooms were terrible.

He went back into the castle and headed down to the Slytherin dungeons for a much-needed shower. The common room was almost entirely deserted when he arrived, presumably because most of the House was either still at the pitch or had opted to grab some lunch before returning to the dorms. Snape sat in one of the armchairs, reading a thick book whose title forced George to stifle a laugh.

"Mental Arts for Mental Sorts?" he asked. "Really?"

Snape scowled. "What do you want, Vassilyev?"

"Pomfrey healed you up?" George asked. Snape gave a small shrug, not raising his eyes from his book. Annoyed at being ignored, George accused, "That bludger didn't hit you."

At that, Snape did look up. He glared at George. "So my arm broke of its own accord?"

Well, when you put it like that . . . . "That's not what I said. But I know what I saw. And you dodged that hit. Besides, it's not the first time you've gotten mysterious injured for no discernable reason."

Snape's entire body stilled. "What are you implying?" he hissed, voice barely above a whisper.

George immediately recognized the tone as presaging one of Snape's most vicious moods. He raised his hands in what he hoped would be taken as a placating gesture. Not that it had ever worked with Snape before. "Nothing," he said quickly. "I'm just concerned. You know," he added in a burst of inspiration, "since we're both Slytherins and therefore allies."

"In public," Snape snapped the correction, but he seemed less inclined to deduct massive amounts of House points. Or whatever the teenaged Snape's version of that would be. From what George had seen, that seemed mostly to consist of hexing people. Generally better connected people with a lot more allies than he had. Teenaged Snape was crazy. George could almost like him, if he weren't also a paranoid, ungrateful, possible Death Eater sympathizer. Or if he weren't destined to grow up and become the nastiest professor in the school.

"Look, I'm just concerned," George said. "Don't want my Defense partner to suddenly keel over and die in class and everyone blame me, do I?"

"Allow me to lay your concerns to rest. A broken arm or black eye will hardly prove fatal." Snape pointedly returned to his book.

"Is it that thing you cast on Peter?" George asked, suddenly remembering the incident from a few weeks ago.

"Pettigrew?" Snape asked, sneering from behind his book. "Why would I cast that on myself, Vassilyev? At least try and think, won't you?"

"A curse, then?" Snape ignored him. "I mean, it must be, right? Can't Dumbledore or Saint Mungo's or someone help? Does Pomfrey know, at least?" George could not pinpoint exactly why he cared so much. What does it matter? It's just Snape, and it's not like he won't be perfectly fine and free to terrorize first years to his non-existent heart's content in the future. But there was something about Snape's nonchalance about the situation that bothered him on some deeper, fundamental level. George knew he was missing some key piece that would make everything clear, and its absence felt like a sore tooth, painful to prod and yet impossible to ignore.

The mention of the school nurse finally provoked a reaction. Snape slammed his book shut and glared at him. George took an involuntary step back. "No," he snarled, "and if you tell her, I will disembowel you and see you hanged by the neck with your own entrails."

That was an oddly specific threat. George would have doubted it from the adult, thinking it just another way to frighten students. From this younger version, though . . . George could believe it. He remembered the single "training" session he had witnessed. He did believe it.

"It is not a curse," Snape continued, voice a low growl. "It is not a hex. It is – most of all – not any of your bloody business." Something about that phrasing tugged at George's memory. He frowned as he tried to recall what it could be, and was therefore unprepared for when Snape drew his wand and cast.

"Mmgth!" George protested angrily. His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. Snape smirked. "Ggrgrrhth," he tried again. He made a grab for Snape's book, but the other boy moved it out of reach. George snatched a quill from a nearby table and wrote furiously on a spare scrap of parchment, "FIX THIS."

"No."

"Thgthth ughthth."

"Go away or I'll make it permanent."

George knew when to give up. The shower could wait. He turned to leave the common room and find Madam Pomfrey. A pity the nurse never deducted House points. Bastard deserved to start the week at a deficit. George had nearly reached the door when he heard Snape whisper to himself, so quietly that he doubted he was meant to hear, "I just need to last until Easter. Just until Easter. And then I will make everything right."

A/N: Please review!