Card the moon
Chapter 37 – Blood and conquest
…
Time, as they say, flies when you are having fun. And anyone can tell you how it drags when you're not. Strange sort of creature time, part eagle, part slug, and all chameleon, since no one who's ever gone looking for it has ever managed to find it.
For Harry, who was constantly busy with something, the weeks approaching the quidditch match with Ravenclaw passed at a rapid pace. Youma, if good for nothing else, were excellent time fillers.
He wouldn't have thought much of it, if it didn't seem like they were stalking him; not like they usually stalked whoever happened by, but him specifically. It was a bit unsettling, like they'd figured out what he'd been doing.
Luna however, very helpfully pointed out if they did know it was him, they wouldn't need to stalk, they could just go up to the tower at night and smother him in his sleep. Helpful.
He was, ultimately, speaking to the cat again, begrudgingly.
The same couldn't be said for Ron and Hermione. He'd tried reasoning with his friend, which was similar to reasoning with the back end of a mule.
Ron hadn't gotten the tearful apology like Harry, but it wasn't his broom either. It was Harry's, for a few glorious seconds.
He was lucky, in some ways, having youma and Clow cards to distract him. They kept him from fixating on his confiscated broom. Not to say there wasn't fixation, Wood was very fixated.
He'd gotten quite the chewing out from McGonagall when he'd gone to her and tried to demand the broom back. That's right, demand the broom back, from McGonagall. Take a moment to let that sink in. Yeah, not his best idea.
And as days passed, the anointed time grew closer with no news, it looked like he'd have to buy a new broom or play Ravenclaw on one of the school's brooms. The best thing that could be said of the ancient Shooting stars was that they could fly, beyond that they were good for little but tidying up the floor.
He finally broke down, went looking for the catalogue. He was good but he wasn't a miracle worker. On his way to the owlery, he bumped into McGonagall, who was looking for him.
"Well, here it is. They couldn't find anything on it, so I see no reason not to return it to you."
He was dumbstruck, awestruck, angels sang in glorious chorus. His Firebolt. He took it with religious reverence, hardly believing it was true. Standing next to him Ron was having trouble operating the motor to his mouth, it was stuck on open.
"You'll let me have a go on it, won't you?" was the first thing that came out once he got it working again.
Harry didn't say he would, he was too busy smiling. Even the usual challenge from Sir Cadogan was ignored in favor of the magnificence held in his hand. Nothing could bring him down.
A notion that was challenged when Ron saw Hermione and wanted to go rub it in her face. Too happy to have his Firebolt returned he handed it off to Ron and sent him up to their dorm in order to keep the peace.
"I see you got it back," said Hermione as he approached her.
"Yep."
"That's good, I suppose."
"Mm, hm."
"I—I appreciate you not letting him come over here. He can be so childish about things sometimes."
"He's not perfect. Like someone else I know."
She flinched. Turning so he could see just enough of her face to tell how tired she was, anything she might have said was cut off by a ruckus from up the stairs, followed by the pounding of steps as Ron came thundering down.
"She did it! She finally did it!" he screamed right at Hermione.
"What are you talking about. I haven't done anything."
"That great brute of yours killed Scabbers. He's gone, and there's blood all over my sheets. She killed him."
It was a serious accusation, which Hermione was quick to deny. She gave numerous excuses, even told him to check under his bed. This only made things worse. Harry of course knew Luna hadn't eaten Scabbers. But there was no good way to explain that to Ron without telling him a lot of other things which he was definitely in no mood to hear.
It was hard to wrap the head around it. Ron had oft complained on how useless his rat was, it was how Harry had been introduced to the vermin. But none of that mattered now that he was gone. He may have been a hand me down, but he was Ron's, and to someone with so little that meant a lot.
Harry thought he understood. He'd felt similarly when his Nimbus was destroyed, he still had the pieces stowed in the bottom of his trunk. His Nimbus would never fly again, and Scabbers would never return.
The twins tried to cheer him up, in their own little way. But all their carrying on was a raindrop in a tempest, compared with what Harry could do.
Practice that day was an absolute treat. It would be the last one before the Ravenclaw game and Harry's first time on his Firebolt.
"Come on Harry, time to see if it lives up to the hype," said Katie, as they all stood around waiting to see.
Wood released the snitch, and the chase was on. Then the chase was over. The broom was just that fast. He released the snitch again, gave it a bit of a head start then went after it. It was almost unfair, and he kept on doing it.
The energy must have been contagious because the rest of the team was fully dialed in, pulling stunts like he'd rarely seen before. The presence of the Firebolt was getting everyone excited. Except perhaps Madam Hooch who continued to supervise (a.k.a. sleep through) each of their practices.
When practice was finally over, Harry handed Wood the snitch then handed his broom to Ron. His ginger friend was nearly vibrating with excitement. He shot into the air screaming like a maniac. He zipped, he zagged, he pulled up the zipper. He flew like he'd only ever dreamed of flying.
Harry was happy. He'd been able to find a good to ease the bad. And the good only kept on coming.
The stands roared with anticipation and the Firebolt hummed in his hand. He was ready. He was psyched.
"They don't stand a chance," said Fred.
"Let's show 'em what Gryffindor can do," said George.
"It's time," said Wood. "Let's go."
Marching onto the field he felt his spirit rise even before he'd mounted the broom. The day was bright and clear, not a cloud or dementor in sight. At last, things were finally looking up.
