Harry Potter and the Exchange Student
by Christine Morgan
christine@sabledrake.com
http://www.christine-morgan.org



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Author's Note: the characters of the Harry Potter novels are the property of their creator, J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. All other characters property of the author, with the exceptions of Becca Morgan and her parents, who are themselves. November 2001. 35,000 words.
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For Becca, with love.
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Chapter Six – Foul Play

Hermione didn't believe it when they told her that Snape had actually smiled. She believed it even less when they admitted, grudgingly, that smiling made the Potions teacher almost handsome. What fascinated her, though, was their description of Ophidia Winterwind. She hurried to the library first thing to look her up.
The rest of them, in the meantime, stuffed down a quick breakfast in a Great Hall bubbling with talk about the upcoming game. Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor team ate quickest of all and were the first ones to leave their table. At the door, they ran into the Slytherin team. They were all grinning in a way that made Harry's skin creep. Malfoy looked especially pleased with himself.
"Feeling good, Potter?" he asked snidely. "Enjoy it while you can, because they'll be carting you off of the field on a stretcher today."
"We'll see about that, Malfoy."
"You might as well forfeit now," the Slytherin captain told them. "Save you looking bad in front of all the relatives."
"That won't bother Potter," Malfoy said. "He hasn't any."
"Well, then," said the captain, "we'll have to settle for making him look bad in front of all his Muggle friends."
"Laugh it up," Fred Weasley told the Slytherins. "We'll accept your apology later."
"Accept this," growled a Slytherin Beater, making a rude gesture.
Fred bridled and stepped toward him, but George held him back. "Save it for the field, brother."
"Care to put some money where your forked-tongue mouth is, Slytherin snake-boy?" Fred asked hotly.
"Tsk, tsk, Gryffindor," the Slytherin captain said. He was another Flint, Byron, and they all looked as if a troll was lurking somewhere in the family tree. "You know wagering money's not allowed. How about this? When we win, you lot have to launder all our Quidditch robes. By hand, mind you. No magic, no help from the house elves."
"And when we win," Fred said, "you'll have to put underpants on your heads and sing the Gryffindor House song tonight at dinner."
"Done!" They shook on it, over the dismayed grimaces of the rest of the teams.
"Now it's even more important we win," Alicia Spinnet, the Gryffindor captain who'd taken over from Oliver Wood, said as they continued on to the locker room. "I'm not spending my evening elbow-deep in Slytherin laundry."
Harry didn't so much care about that. All he wanted was what he usually wanted – to beat Slytherin and increase Gryffindor's chances for the House Cup. He got into his red robes and joined the others, broomstick in hand, as they proceeded onto the field.
Temporary bleachers had been set up in addition to the regular stands, allowing seating for all the guests. It made the field seem like a huge stadium, and the noise of the spectators was increased to a rumbling roar reminiscent of crashing surf. Harry swallowed. That made for an awful lot of people to be watching them.
Alicia must have read his mind. "It's not so bad," she said cheerfully. "The professional players see crowds ten times this size, and they do all right. Just stick to the game and you'll be fine, Harry."
Harry scanned the stands, seeing Ron, Hermione, and Becca struggling to unroll a large sign that read: The Snitch can't hide from Harry! in bold lettering. They were surrounded by their families and Hagrid, bulking large among the smaller people. Most of them in that section waved Gryffindor pennants. Each visitor had been offered a program booklet outlining the Quidditch rules and naming the players and their positions, for the sake of the Muggles who'd never seen the game before. Now they were rustling those programs irritably, impatient for the start of the game.
Madame Hooch finally appeared, moving slowly instead of with her ordinarily brisk stride. She whistled the teams to attention and the whistle sounded weak and half-hearted rather than the sharp shriek they were familiar with. The teams kicked off, Seekers soaring high above the rest of their teammates to have the best vantage point for the appearance of the Snitch. Madame Hooch tossed the Quaffle and blew another lukewarm blast, and the game was on.
Right away, Slytherin came out swinging. The players usually tried to pace themselves, because there was no way of knowing how long a game might go. It all depended on the Snitch and the Seekers. Sometimes the Snitch would be caught before a single goal was scored, sometimes it could flit around and hide itself for an hour or more. But the Slytherins launched a brutal series of offensive plays, Beaters beating the Bludgers hard toward the other team, Chasers flying too close to their opponents, bumping broomsticks, flapping the sleeves of their robes in the other team's face. In less than five minutes, Slytherin had scored forty points to Gryffindor's ten.
Draco Malfoy, the other Seeker, hovered high like Harry, but he wasn't content to wait in one place watching for the Snitch. He zipped this way and that, sometimes passing right in front of or right under Gryffindors, making them veer to avoid a collision. To stop him, Harry suddenly dove as if he'd seen the Snitch, and Malfoy at once set after him in hot pursuit.
As he swung low and banked steeply near the bottom of the stands, Harry saw Madame Hooch swaying on her feet. She was trying to follow the action above, but as he flashed by, Harry noticed that her face was turning a sickly green.
He called out, but just then Malfoy caught up with him and slammed his elbow into Harry's side. Distracted by Madame Hooch, Harry slipped and lost control of his broom. It sped straight toward the stands. Yelping, he pulled up hard and skimmed over the heads of the crowd as they ducked and shouted and waved their fists at him.
Harry came around in a tight circle just as Slytherin scored another ten points and Madame Hooch collapsed in a flurry of black and white cloth. Everyone saw that, the audience shooting to its feet.
"And the referee is down!" Lee Jordan cried from the announcer's booth. "Hold the game! Hold the game, I say!" Lee thrust his fingers in his mouth and blew, and the screeching whistle brought all the players to a halt, made the spectators stuff their fingers in their ears, and from Hagrid's cottage, Fang the boarhound howled in counterpoint.
Madame Pomfrey was first to reach Madame Hooch, simply Apparating from her seat to the grass, where she knelt beside the stricken referee. Dumbledore joined her an instant later, while the Gryffindors and the Slytherins touched down nearby. A concerned babble came from the crowd, everyone leaning and trying to get a better look.
Nobody knew what to do as Madame Pomfrey checked Madame Hooch and spoke to Dumbledore in tones too low to hear. Dumbledore nodded and straightened up, looking around at the stands.
"Ladies and gentlemen, guests, students, teachers," he proclaimed in a carrying voice. "It seems our coach and referee, Madame Hooch, has been taken ill. There will be a short delay while we move her to the infirmary."
"A delay?" asked Flint, his eyes hard with slyness. "Shouldn't we call the game?"
Harry sucked in a breath. So that was it! They'd done it! He was even sure he knew how, the answer hitting him like a slap to the face. He sprang back on his broom and sped toward the locker room entrance, hunching low to avoid taking off the top of his head on the underside of the doorjamb. It was tricky work flying a broom down the narrow hall, but he did, and took the corner so fast that his robes whipped out to the side.
The door to Madame Hooch's office was dead ahead. Harry stuck out a foot, hoping it wasn't locked because if it was, he was about to splatter himself all over the place and probably break his broom. But it wasn't. His foot kicked it open so hard that the door bounced off the wall and came back, but by then Harry had zoomed into the middle of the room and jerked to a stop.
Hooch's office was a mess, with spare brooms hanging on hooks on one wall, a rack of Quaffles, another of Bludgers clamped down to keep them from going wild, a broken goal propped against the window, and the chalkboard and wizard's chalk that she used to diagram plays. A shelf held books like Quidditch Through the Ages, 1001 Little-Known Quidditch Facts, Broom Handling Basics, and The Wizard Sports Book of World Records. The desk was tucked in the corner as an afterthought, buried under papers.
Playing Quidditch was hard enough, she'd told them. But refereeing it, trying to keep track of all the action, was even harder. Before each game, she always had a nice mug of Alert-Ade, a drink designed to heighten her sight and concentration so she didn't miss a thing.
A mug sat on the desk, with a little bit of a fizzy liquid still in it. Harry sniffed and recognized Alert-Ade. But the smell wasn't right. Bitter, somehow.
Harry grabbed it and ran back to the door. He was on his broom before he'd fully cleared the frame, streaking toward the field while trying not to spill the contents of the mug.
Madames Hooch and Pomfrey were both gone, but Dumbledore was still there, talking to the audience, assuring them that everything was going to be fine.
"I'll have more information as time warrants," he said. "For now, Madame Hooch's health is the important thing. I'm sure she'd want the game to go on as planned."
"We can't play without a referee!" Byron Flint protested. "You have to call the game. Let the final score stand."
The Gryffindor team yelled in outrage at this.
"The game can't end until the Snitch is caught!" Alicia said firmly. "Those are the rules. If the game's cancelled, the score is nullified."
"They're only saying that because they were ahead," Angelina said. The Gryffindor Chaser was holding her broom like she wanted to smack somebody with it. "If we'd been leading, they'd be singing a different tune."
Harry approached Dumbledore with the mug. "Professor?"
"Just a moment, Harry." Dumbledore motioned the arguing players to hush. "The game will continue," he announced. "We'll have a five-minute break and resume shortly. All players please report to your locker rooms. All spectators, now might be a fine time to avail yourselves of the refreshment table."
There hadn't been a refreshment table, but now there was. House-elves, all wearing little paper hats with the school crest printed on the front, capered around it hawking juice and snacks. "Snapcorn! Get your Snapcorn!"
"But, Professor," Harry tried again as the rest of the team trudged toward the locker room. "I found this in Madame Hooch's office. I think it's been tampered with."
Dumbledore took the mug, sniffed it, and his eyebrows drew together fiercely. "Thank you, Harry. I'll see that Madame Pomfrey is aware of this at once."
"Has it been poisoned, sir?"
"Leave this one to me, my boy."
His tone brooked no dispute. Harry slowly steered his broom back to the Gryffindor team entrance, craning his neck to look at the Slytherins. They were clustered together, grumbling and shooting dark glances at Dumbledore. Lee Jordan suddenly started chattering brightly about the history of Quidditch and the past performance of the various school teams, no doubt prompted by Professor McGonagall. Once back in the locker room, Harry told his teammates what he'd found, and they all scowled furiously.
"It's the Slytherins," said Fred Weasley. "They must have done it. Did you hear how eager they were to call the game and let the score stand? Did you see how hard they played to get those points? And they always get the best marks in Potions, too."
They waited anxiously until the five minutes were up. When Dumbledore had Lee Jordan ask for everyone's attention, they filed back onto the field and were greeted by the astonishing sight of Professor Reginald Winterwind standing beside the headmaster, in ill-fitting referee robes that had probably come from Madame Hooch's closet. He was fingering the whistle that hung on a silver cord around his neck, and was all flushed and flustered.
"Thank you for your patience," Dumbledore said. "I'm pleased to announce that Professor Winterwind will take over as referee for the remainder of the game. Thank you, Professor. If the players will take their places, please?"
"Winterwind?" Angelina said dubiously. "The one who only knows that single spell?"
"He's got experience," Harry said, and told them quickly what Hermione had found out.
"Looks like the Slytherins aren't too happy," said Fred in great satisfaction.
Winterwind blew the whistle, and the game was on again. The former reckless abandon with which the Slytherins had played was absent now, though they remained as aggressive as ever. Malfoy didn't waste time trying to distract the other players but watched for the Snitch with fearful intensity. Harry was not about to let him get it, not about to let Slytherin win after the unfair stunt they'd pulled. It was the most despicable form of cheating he could think of.
At least, until one of the Slytherin Chasers threw a packet of something that puffed twinkly red dust into Alicia's face. It was quick, barely noticeable, and when Alicia reeled back pawing at her eyes, it only looked like she'd gotten the sun in them. The Quaffle scored another goal, but Reginald Winterwind's whistle screamed.
"Foul. Slytherin, illegal use of magic, ten point penalty!"
The Slytherin fans in the stands booed, and the team looked so dangerous that for a moment Winterwind paled beneath their combined hateful expressions. He held firm, though, and Lee Jordan waxed ecstatic as he announced the point reduction.
Gryffindor scored again and again, and soon it was tied at 80 to 80. Harry still hadn't spotted the Snitch. He saw Angelina whiz past with the Quaffle, going for a goal, with a Slytherin on her tail. The Slytherin player dove under her, came up, and reached out to grip the leading end of his broom in a funny way. His lips moved.
The Quaffle popped out of Angelina's grasp, startling her. A Slytherin Beater, waiting for just that moment, whacked the Quaffle with his stick and sent it careening the other way. It came right at Harry, who'd sunk a bit to try and see what had happened. Rather than duck or dodge, he pivoted his broom in mid-air and hit the Quaffle back to Angelina. She caught it as neatly as if they'd planned it.
Harry grinned triumphantly as she scored, bringing Gryffindor into the lead. A moment later, Draco Malfoy collided with him out of his blind spot and quick as a snake, scattered a handful of scorpion-ants onto Harry's robes.
The fast, mean-tempered little bugs swarmed up Harry's arm and down his leg, their pincers digging at him even through the cloth. They skittered toward his unprotected skin with their jointed tails flexing eagerly and drops of venom glistening on their barbed stingers.
Trying not to scream, Harry shook his arm and flailed at his robe in hopes of dislodging them. It partially worked; a few fell but they dropped right toward George Weasley as he went after a Bludger that was bearing down on Katie, another Chaser. They missed landing on George by inches, but that didn't solve Harry's own problem. One had reached his hand and stabbed the stinger deep.
Biting his lip against the pain, Harry shot away from the rest of his team and tried to shake the scorpion-ants off. The one that was on the back of his hand, he squashed by smacking his own hand against the broomstick, almost breaking his bones.
Something tickled at the side of his neck. He slapped at it wildly and earned a sting in the palm of the other hand, but flattened the scorpion-ant into brown paste. More were on him, all over him, and he realized his broom was veering crazily all over the field. To make matters worse, he spied a golden glimmer and Malfoy closing in.
Another shiny object, much larger and silver and not shaped at all like a Snitch, landed on Harry's leg. He nearly fell off his broom in alarm, thinking it was another Slytherin trick, but it was Quicksilver. The drake trilled cheerfully at Harry and went to work chomping scorpion-ants in his jaws.
"Thanks!" he said, and went after Malfoy.
The Snitch was performing its usual antics, dancing around teasingly out of reach, darting all about. Malfoy didn't even see Harry until Harry, laying flat on his broom, passed over him close enough that the wind of his passage messed up Malfoy's hair.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy grip his broomstick in that same strange way he'd noticed the Slytherin chaser doing, just before Angelina lost the Quaffle. He heard Malfoy's low utterance of "Leviosa!" just as Harry's hand was about to seize the Snitch.
The Snitch popped up like a champagne cork. As Malfoy soared after it, Harry saw a wand stuck to the side of his broom, probably held there with Insta-Gloo. They'd done it during that five-minute break, he realized. Madame Hooch always checked the brooms before a match to make sure no one had been tampering with them, but no one had thought to check again before the game resumed.
Outraged, Harry pursued. His hands, both of them, ached abominably and were starting to swell. If this kept on, he wouldn't be able to maintain his grip, let alone get hold of the Snitch. He had to end this now.
Malfoy saw him coming and swung at him. They'd gone so high that the other players were red and green specks, and they couldn't make out individual faces in the crowd. The Snitch frolicked tauntingly above them.
In a desperate lunge, Harry launched himself off his broom as if he meant to jump over the moon. At the height of his leap, he grabbed the Snitch in his puffed, painful hand. Its wings fluttered and it jerked as it tried to free itself, but he held it tight and landed on his broom again, neat as could be.
Dimly, Lee Jordan's amplified voice bellowed, but he sounded horrified rather than pleased. "The Snitch has been caught! Game over, but Slytherin wins!"
"What?" Harry looked at the scoreboard. The Snitch was worth one hundred and fifty points, but while he and Malfoy had been chasing it, Slytherin had regained their lead and extended it, until the final score even with the Snitch was Slytherin 310, Gryffindor 300.
"Hah!" jeered Malfoy exultantly. He dove past Harry to meet his teammates, who were cheering and clapping each other on the back as most of the crowd booed.
Harry caught many a look of hurt and disappointment from the Gryffindor fans, and from Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws too because everyone would rather see Slytherin trounced. He descended glumly and settled onto the grass, his hands throbbing and swollen like water balloons.
Winterwind's whistle split the air. He commanded the Slytherins to stop where they were as they were about to leave for their locker room. They looked like they might disobey and go anyway, but obeyed. He went to them and inspected their brooms, peeling off one wand after another that had been Glooed to the hafts. The audience booed and hissed. Winterwind's next act was to pat down Draco Malfoy and produce a box from a Knockturn Alley vermin shop, the source of the scorpion-ants.
"Multiple fouls for Slytherin. Illegal use of magic, illegal modification of game equipment, interference," he said. "Thirty-point penalty."
"WA-HOOOO!" Lee Jordan drowned out the eruption of cheers from the stands. "And in a last-minute decision, Gryffindor wins after all! Just going to show that cheaters never prosper, and virtue is its own reward! What a game! Ladies and gentlemen, what a game!"
The Gryffindor team blinked at each other, hardly able to believe their ears. Then, with a whoop of joy, Angelina hugged Harry and they were all over him, rubbing his head, smacking him on the shoulders, everybody talking at once. Harry tried to join in, but lances of pain were shooting up his arms and his hands were turning a vivid shade of red.
People were pouring out of the stands, running across the grass. In the confusion, only Harry saw the Slytherin team bunch together, and then chant and point all as one.
"Professor!" Harry yelled.
He never knew if Winterwind heard him or reacted on his own, but the next thing anyone knew, a dome of bright light bloomed around the substitute referee. It discolored in a black blotch where the spell hit it, and several feet away, a witch burst into flames as the spell bounced off randomly into the crowd.
"Aquaris!" cried two voices together.
A glowing pitcher of water appeared in the air, and upended over the burning witch, dousing the fire with a sizzle of steam.
Everyone stopped where they were, silent and shocked. Harry looked for the source of the voices and found, not to his surprise, Becca and Hermione standing side by side, wands in hand. They grinned at each other and gave a high five.
The Slytherins, shifty-eyed with guilt, were trying to slip away and lose themselves in the crowd when Dumbledore arrived, very much not amused.

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Continued in Chapter Seven -- The Grim Fate of Neville Longbottom



2001 / Christine Morgan / http://www.christine-morgan.org / christine@sabledrake.com