A/N: Greetings again…

***

A week passed relatively painlessly. The tryouts had gone by on Friday the Thirteenth without another problem—the Fighters Keeper had woken in time to play the second game, and the Seeker tryouts had been quick.

Jill took a deep breath as she left Charms, her last class of the day. Phoebe, walking alongside, glanced at her oddly. "What's wrong with you?"

"Tryout results are out today, remember?"

"As if you wanted to be on the team," Phoebe said, shaking her head. "Working with the enemies, remember?"

"Well, still…" Jill's voice faded. "Still."

Greg, one of the Beaters, caught up with them in the hallway. "Results today," he said, just those two words, and then nothing.

Surprising herself, Phoebe sighed gustily. "It's not supposed to matter this much! You're going ballistic, spastic about getting on this team that requires working with a bunch of otherschooly weirdos!"

"Maybe we just want to see the results to make sure we didn't get on the team," he shot back. "You're the one going ballistic about us going ballistic."

Jill sighed, too, but not quite as loudly. "What are we arguing about?" she demanded.

"Nothing," Phoebe snapped. "Absolutely, positively, negatively, whatever-ily, nothing." Purposely knocking her elbow into Jill's shoulder, she swept away, head and shoulders above most of the kids in the freshman hallway.

The smaller girl sighed again, and wished she knew some of the extra-strong curses her brother was learning in senior-level Charms. Phoebe could seriously use a Horn-Sprouting Hex to her head.

***

Pet nervously polished his wand, which was currently employed with a recording spell, and taking care not to look up during class. Ms. Tinn was known to jump on anyone showing any kind of attention, and as Pet hadn't really read chapter four, section three of Sorcerer's Stone: Material or Myth?, he didn't want to be asked for a summary. Besides the fact that Rachel Avery, three rows over, had trained her school-wide infamous evil eye in his direction at the beginning of class, and hadn't removed it since.

He had no idea why she was teed off at him. The team lists would be posted on the bulletin board at the dismissal bell, it was true, but that explained nothing. It couldn't just be nerves. Rachel had made it widely known back in elementary school that she only gave the Eye if she had a very good reason to do so.

Well.

Professor Tinn stopped speaking exactly five seconds before the bell rang. She seemed to have an internal clock that stopped a lecture short right then.

The bell went off, resulting in a mass exodus to lockers, and subsequently home. With considerably more nervousness than he cared to admit, Pet just shouldered his bag (it held everything he needed for home), and slouched out of the room. Rachel, like some kind of electromagnetic tick, grabbed the strap of his bag and hissed, "I'm coming too."
"It would take an idiot not to realize the fact," Pet said coldly. "And may I ask why you've been scowling at me all afternoon?"

She rolled her eyes. "That," she replied huffily, "should be obvious. Furthermore, it wasn't a scowl, it was a glare. You, being such an insufferable genius, should know that, don't you think?"

"What are you—are you still annoyed about that Potions test?"

"Hah! That was simply petty irritation," Rachel explained, tone dismissive. "There's more important things than flunked tests. Like a certain list that will be posted right about now."

Pet was, understandably, totally lost. "What does the results list have to do with anything?"

The Eye trained itself on him once more. "You've been wandering around like you don't care, that's what! And we the more dedicated people do! It's really annoying, having an apathetic team captain!"

"Oh."

He couldn't think of anything else to say.

Rachel waited for about another minute, then muttered, "I don't have time for this," and brushed past him.

He didn't let himself be bothered. Just some gifted-sophomore-girl tantrum.

***

Wendy and Emerson didn't fight, unlike their prospective teammates at the other schools. Rather, they wandered over to the bulletin board trading jokes about Professoress Aviss, a quite eccentric teacher of Charms at Morwenna Elmira Robinson Academy. None of the jokes are worth recording.

Both were laughing at the other's miserable attempts at humor when the crowds sort of cleared in the lobby hallway, and a clear shot formed from their position to the bulletin board. Immediately Wendy stopped laughing.

"Okay, this is mostly it," she said, taking a deep breath. "If we're on it, then we're…"

"Dead, but that's all right," Emerson replied offhandedly. "C'mon!" They sped up, glancing around furtively, drawing to a stop at the bulletin board.

It was the same kind of flier, easy-to-miss on white paper with black block print, hovering around the top corner of the board. The heading read simply ALL-STAR QUIDDITCH TEAM MEMBERS, and below it four columns listed the members, reserves in a paragraph at the bottom of the page.

"C'mon, Beaters, Beaters, Beaters…there's us…oh my God, Em, there's us! The both of us!" Wendy yelped excitedly. "We're on the team!"

Emerson carefully looked at the list. Unknown name…unknown, unknown, didn't know that one, or that one either… "Crap."

"What? Em, we made it!"

He tossed an exasperated look at her. "And we're the only ones who did from our team."

Wendy pulled up short. "Wait—you're—you're sure?"

"Look at it."

She obliged. "Oh, rotten…"

"Exactly, my friend." Emerson glanced at his watch. "First meeting is on Monday…so…In three days and twenty-seven minutes, we, Emerson Smith and Wendelin Gillman, will be officially declared dead."

***

Phoebe, with the advantage of a head start (obtained rather rudely, but still there), finished at her locker ahead of the others, and pretended not to see them attempting to flag her down in the hallway. It wasn't her problem if they were jerks.

Which didn't make a whole lot of sense, but that's okay.

She pushed through the crowded hallways, bag under her arm and carefully ignoring anyone who waved. If their feelings were hurt, too bad. She'd catch up with them Monday. Or over the weekend. Something like that.

Eventually, the bulletin board came in view. For a minute or so, Phoebe meandered around, waiting for the lobby to empty a little more. The flier, again the only plain black-and-white, exclamation point-free, sans flashing-ink or -stars paper on the board, was easily located. Which meant no skimming through Wizards' Chess Club updates, Dragon Enthusiasts International meeting schedules, or ads for the new and not-very-well-attended Council for the Analysis of A History of Magic.

The flow of young wizards and witches carrying backpacks finally ebbed to a trickle. There were only about five people in the lobby when Phoebe walked over to the board and started reading the list eagerly.

Chasers were the first players listed, of course. Three people in the column. Phoebe Marx.

She sighed, angry with herself for caring that yeah, she had made it on the team.

Antonio Capelli.

"No!"

Jillian Devin.

Hang on. It might not be so horrible. Now at least she sort of had comrades. People who insured that she wouldn't be the only freshman on the team. Which was a good thing.

And darn. She was on the team.

***

Rachel was about to go to her locker when suddenly, out of nowhere, she jerked to the right, through a pack of little froshie girls who all yelped and fluttered. In a short fit of malicious mischief, she pinched a little toy off one's backpack—a tiny teddy bear, bug-eyed and pink. Sickening, but the girl would be going ballistic trying to find it.

Pushing through the forest of packs and people, Rachel shouldered and slithered into the lobby. Easy as pie, if you're small—and here was the bulletin board. Right down there hung the AMERICAN MINORS QUIDDITCH LEAGUE flier, listing all the players in neat columns.

Keeper: Rachel W. Avery.

Right there in the hallway, she let out an earsplitting squeak. "I'm on! I made it! Yeaaahahahaha!"

She grinned at everyone who edged away, giving her a wide berth.

Except for one obstinate junior. Pet marched into the empty semicircle around her and started scanning the list. "Seeker…hmm…look what that says. Peter Ghanippe III. That would be me."

Rachel turned so quickly she almost fell over. "Oh."

And then she stalked off.

***

A/N: Okay. The entire purpose of this chapter was to get the results out of the way, and I do believe I've handled that well. What do YOU think? Reviews always welcome, hint-hint…