Lyla spent the majority of her time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever she saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. In the days that preceded the first few days of classes, she'd learned and experienced just how horrendous of a teacher the man was. She was also made weary of the existence of little Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized both Arabella's and Lyla's schedule, ambushing the two out of nowhere at times. Nothing seemed to give the boy a bigger thrill than to say, "All right there Lyla? How are you doing today Arabella?" six or seven times a day. He always seemed so thrilled to hear "hello, Colin," back, however exasperated they sounded when they responded.

Merlin was still sulking from the disastrous car journey, and Ron's wand was still badly malfunctioning. By the first Friday of the second week, Lyla had heard the tale of how his wand shot out of his hand during charms and smacked directly into tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had struck. So with one thing and another, Lyla and Arabella Potter were equally as excited to reach the long swayed weekend. Daphne had planned on visiting Hagrid on Saturday morning.

However, Lyla was shaken awake several hours earlier than she would have liked by Tracy.

"Whassamatter?" she asked groggily.

"Sorry to wake you, but Marcus Flint told me you've got Quidditch practice," the girl whispered back, awkwardly looking away. "Says he expects you down on the pitch in half an hour."

Huffing as she sat up, Lyla squinted out through the window that looked directly into the Great Lake. The water was pitch black.

"Oh, Tracy," she croaked. "It's the crack of dawn."

Tracy only shrugged.

"Marcus said it's part of your new training program or something. Come on now, grab your broom, before he gets impatient."

Yawning loudly and shivering slightly, Lyla climbed out of bed and tried to find her Quidditch robes without any more preamble.

Ten minutes later, she'd found her dark green robes, and another five minutes, she scribbled down a quick explanation where she'd gone. As she marched down the early morning corridors, her Nimbus Two Thousand slung over her shoulder. As she turned the corner that led outside to the pitch, she heard a sudden clattering. Colin Creevey came dashing down from the other end of the hallway, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.

"I heard from someone saying you'd be having practice!" he squeaked excitedly, "Lyla! look at what I've got here! I've had it developed, and I wanted to show you—"

Lyla looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under her nose.

A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm of an arm she recognized as her sisters. She was pleased to see that her photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. The more Lyla watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.

"Do you think Arabella will sign it?" said Colin eagerly.

"No," said Lyla flatly, glancing around to check that the corridor was deserted. "Sorry, Colin, but I'm in a bit of a hurry— Quidditch practice—"

The boy's face brightened.

"Oh, wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a Quidditch game before!"

"It'll be really boring," she said quickly, but Colin ignored her, his face shining with excitement.

"You were one of the youngest students to play for your House in a hundred years, weren't you?" said Colin, trotting alongside her. "You and Arabella must be brilliant! I've never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is that the best one there is?"

Lyla just didn't know how to get rid of the jittery first year. It was like having an extremely talkative shadow.

"I don't really understand Quidditch," said Colin breathlessly. "Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?"

"Yes," said Lyla politely, resigned to explaining the complicated rules of Quidditch. "They're called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters, while Lucian Bole and Darrick Peregrine are Slytherins."

"And what are the other balls for?" Colin asked, tripping down a couple of steps because he was gazing open-mouthed at Lyla.

"Well, the Quaffle— that's the biggish red one— is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try to get it through the goalposts at the end of the pitch — they're three long poles with hoops on the end."

"And you're the one of the Slytherin Chasers, aren't you?

"Yes," replied Lyla as they shuffled along the dew-drenched grass.

"And the fourth ball —"

"— is the Golden Snitch," said Lyla, "and it's very small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that's what the Seeker's got to do because a game of Quidditch doesn't end until the Snitch has been caught. And whichever team's Seeker gets the Snitch earns his team an extra hundred and fifty points."

"That's the position Arabella has on the House team, right?"

Lyla nodded.

"And there's the Keeper, too. They guard the goalposts. That's it, really."

But Colin didn't stop questioning the Slytherin Chaser, and the only way she could shake him off was when she reached the changing rooms; Colin called after her in a piping voice, "I'll go and get a good seat, Lyla!" and hurried off to the stands.

The rest of the Slytherin team were already in the changing room. Captain Marcus Flint was the only person who looked truly awake. Lucian Bole and Darrick Peregrine were sitting and yawning, while Miles Bletchley appeared to be nodding off against the wall behind them. Adrian Pucey looked to be completely asleep. To her surprise, Lyla gasped when she caught sight of a gray-eyed second year.

"Draco?" she asked. "What are you— where's Higgs?"

"He had to stop playing due to grades," yawned Bole drearily. "Malfoy was a reserve so, alas, our new Seeker."

"But tryouts—"

"There you are, Lyla," interrupted Flint steely, "what kept you?"

"I was—"

"Never mind that," waved away the Quidditch captain. "As I was saying, none of the other teams have started training yet; we're going to be first off the mark this year— Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent a large portion of the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference…"

He was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and crosses in different-colored inks. He took out his wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Flint launched into a speech about his new tactics, Derrick's head drooped right onto Bole's shoulder and he began to snore softly.

The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, and a third under that one. Lyla sank into the seat next to Draco and drifted into a bit of a daydream state, only hearing bits and pieces as Flint droned on and on. Who knew he took Quidditch so seriously.

"So," said Flint at long last, jerking Lyla from a wistful fantasy about what she could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. "Is that clear? Any questions?"

"I've got a question," said Miles, who had woken up with a start. "Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?"

Flint scowled.

"Now, listen here, you lot," he said, glowering at them all. "We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year. We were easily the best team. But unfortunately— owing to circumstances beyond our control—"

Flint took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him.

"So this year, we train harder than ever before… Okay, let's go and put our new theories into practice! Ah but before that, Draco's father here has gifted the Slytherin team a wonderful set of new brooms—"

That jerked the remaining team members awake. Flint brought forth a roll of seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One.

"Bloody hell," breathed out Bole, eyeing the brooms with awe. "They're beautiful."

Draco's cheeks tinged the slightest of pink.

"I told him not to," he mumbled, seeing Lyla's suspicious gaze, "but father insisted, so…"

Everyone circled the red brooms like they were gold. Moments later, only one remained.

"It's yours," said Flint, gesturing to the Nimbus Two Thousand and One eagerly.

Lyla slowly shook her head.

"No thanks, I don't think I particularly need a new broom," she said simply, brushing her fingers over her own. "This one's served me well, wouldn't you say?"

"But these come with much better features," said Miles, examining his own with enthusiasm. "Sleeker— faster— overall better control—"

Shaking her head, Lyla only stood and stretched. Stiff-legged and still yawning, she turned to Flint.

He nodded.

"Alright! Everyone out!" he roared.

They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Lyla walked onto the field, she saw Ron, Hermione, Daphne, Blaise, and Theo sitting in the stands.

"Aren't you finished yet?" called Ron incredulously.

"Haven't even started," yelled Lyla, looking jealousy at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall. "Flint's been teaching us a load of new moves."

She mounted her broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air whipped her face, waking her far more effectively than Flint's long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on the Quidditch field. She soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Bole and Draco, feeling extremely giddy.

"What's that funny clicking noise?" called Draco as they hurtled around the corner.

Lyla glanced into the stands and saw Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture. The sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.

"Look this way, Lyla! This way!" he cried shrilly.

"Who's that again?" Bole asked, puzzlement written all over his face.

"No idea," she lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took her as far away as possible from Colin.

"What's going on?" asked Flint, frowning, as he skimmed through the air toward them. "Why's that first-year taking pictures? I don't like it. He could be a Gryffindor spy, trying to find out about our new training program."

"He is in Gryffindor," said Lyla quickly, "but he's harmless, I promise."

"And the Gryffindors don't need a spy, Marcus," said Derrick with a sigh.

"What makes you say that?" said Flint testily.

"Because they're here in person," said Draco, pointing.

Several people in scarlet robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.

"I don't believe it!" Flint hissed in outrage. "I booked the field for today! We'll see about this!"

He shot toward the ground in the blink of an eye, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. The rest of the team followed suit.

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