Author's Note: If you all have read Confessions, this story's predecessor, you should have an idea which character will be popping up in this chapter. I know Occamy and sbys have done so; I'm not sure about HoGwArTs fLiRt13. Prod your brains one last time, then read on for the answer.
***
"How's Ron doing?" Hermione asked as she seated herself beside Harry on a bench at the edge of the Quidditch field.
"Not good," Harry sighed despondently. "I dunno what's wrong. I'm using the same training techniques that Wood used on me. I'm doing everything right -- at least, I think I am -- but it's just not working out the way it should."
"Ron's not catching the Snitch?" Hermione said in a worried voice.
"No," Harry said with an even deeper sigh, his worry matching Hermione's line for line. "During mock games, I play opposing Seeker against Ron while Fred and George pelt Bludgers at the both of us. Ron isn't swerving quickly enough, and in the time it takes him to evade the Bludgers, he loses sight of the Snitch. I've beaten him to it at least a dozen times, riding one of the school brooms. He's starting to get discouraged. Blimey, I'm way past discouraged."
"We need this game to win the House Championship, don't we?" Hermione asked, laying a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder.
"The points have never been closer," Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "The only house officially eliminated is Hufflepuff. Everything hinges on the outcome of this last match."
"You know," Hermione mused in her uniquely thoughtful way, "maybe you're too good."
Harry blinked, confused. Hermione smiled.
"You know the old saying: 'Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.' I'm not saying you don't work hard, Harry. I've seen how tired you can get after practice. But I've noticed that a good part of your success comes because you act without thinking. I don't mean you act rashly," Hermione said quickly, seeing the challenging look on Harry's face. "What I mean is, in a given situation, you don't think about what needs to be done -- you just do it. And if someone were to ask you later why you did what you did, you wouldn't be able to tell them. Because you honestly don't know. I suppose you'd call it Flier's Instinct. And that's something you simply can't teach."
"Are you saying that Ron needs to be trained by someone who doesn't actually play Quidditch?" Harry asked.
"I wouldn't go that far," Hermione said with an amused smile. "But it's a simple fact that the best players don't always make the best coaches. Ron obviously needs something that you can't give him. We just need to find someone who can."
"An ideas?" Harry said in a hopeful voice.
Hermione's lips pursed tightly, as they always did when she was deep in thought. "I'll let you know," she said through a small, cryptic smile.
Harry knew better than to ask. He merely laughed softly and pulled her against him so he could plant a light kiss on her smiling lips, causing them to smile even more broadly.
"What was that for?" she asked, a pink tinge coloring her cheeks.
"No reason," Harry smirked.
"Right, then," Hermione said as she tightened her hold on Harry's waist. "Just wondering."
*
Following classes the next day, Ron plodded up to his dormitory to dump his books before going off to Quidditch practice. There seemed little point, he mused, as the past week's practices had grown progressively worse with each passing day. But there was nothing for it. Harry would not be able to play in the big game, leaving only Ron to fill the void. But right now, Ron felt like a very small plug trying to stop a very big drain.
Ron found the Fifth-Year dormitory deserted. This was not surprising, as Harry was usually first on the field on a practice day. Dumping his books into his trunk, Ron retrieved the Firebolt from Harry's trunk and trudged downstairs, holding the broomstick protectively against his body. Only two days ago, a staircase had shifted suddenly so that the Firebolt had nearly been pitched over the railing. Henceforth, Ron was taking no chances. Whatever might befall the broomstick in future would be shared by Ron himself. And if worst came to worst, at least Madam Pomfrey might prevent Harry from getting close enough to strangle him.
He descended the many flights of stairs in a sort of funk. Before he knew it he was approaching the Quidditch field, and immediately he spied a tiny figure darting through the air between the goalposts, black robes a-flutter and raven hair tossing in the backwash.
'Blimey,' Ron thought with a touch of envy, 'Harry really can fly.' As he walked onto the field, he shouted a greeting at the top of his lungs, waving his arm lazily. The flier halted in mid-air with a skill Ron could not help but admire, even through his melancholy. He watched as Harry descended lazily to the grass and walked unhurriedly toward him, broomstick in hand. Only -- something was wrong. The figure approaching him didn't seem right somehow. It was too short, for one thing. And there was something odd about that smooth, rolling walk, not at all like Harry's jerky, long-legged stride. It was as if --
Ron's mouth suddenly fell open. It wasn't Harry! It was --
"CHO?"
Cho Chang glided up to Ron, her onyx eyes bright as her smile.
"Up for a bit of flying today, Ron?" she said in a musical voice that made Ron's brain go numb.
"What?" Ron said stupidly. "You? I mean -- where's Harry?"
"Harry's schedule was getting a bit crowded," Cho said. "He asked me to fill in for him as Seeker Coach. You don't mind, do you?"
Standing this close to the beautiful Ravenclaw, Ron could easily understand why Harry had fancied her for most of two years. Ron remembered Seamus remarking before last year's Yule Ball that Ron's and Harry's partners, the Patil twins, were "the best-looking girls in the year." If that were true, then surely Cho was the "best-looking girl" in her year.
"Uh..." Ron said at last, "No...no problem."
"Smashing," Cho said with a smile and a firm, no-nonsense nod. "Let's see what you've got."
Cho mounted her broom -- a Comet 260, Ron noted -- and shot into the air. Ron stared after her for a moment, then followed on the Firebolt.
Ron saw at once that his earlier assessment had been dead on -- Cho was an excellent flier. Even on what was undeniably a superior broomstick, Ron was only just able to keep up with her as she cavorted through the air like a wingless pixie. Cho executed a dozen difficult maneuvers with textbook precision, looking back each time to observe Ron as he copied her every move -- or tried to. A sick feeling was churning in the pit of his stomach. Was everyone at Hogwarts a better flier than he? Here he was, sitting astride what was unarguably the best racing broom in the world -- the same broomstick which the Irish National Team had ridden to victory in the Quidditch World Cup two years ago -- yet, no matter the competition, Ron always seemed to come out second best.
Cho was hovering now, a look of deep thought on her oval face.
"I can see we have a lot of work to do," she said amiably.
"We do?" Ron said as he hung motionless directly in front of Cho.
"The real problem," Cho said, "is that Harry never should have been coaching you in the first place."
"Harry's a great Seeker," Ron said defensively. 'He's beaten you often enough,' he added silently, not wanting to offend Cho, for whom he held no true animosity.
"Yes," Cho agreed pleasantly. "With a bit more seasoning, he could play for England. I'd say he's better than Viktor Krum was at the same age."
Ron's face brightened perceptibly.
"But," Cho added pointedly, "he's been making the mistake of trying to turn YOU into another him. And there's only one Harry Potter."
Ron found himself liking Cho more every minute.
"What we need to do," Cho declared, "is define and develop your natural style. So -- fly around the pitch a few times. Do whatever you want. Let your instincts take over. Don't think -- just fly."
With a nod and a smile, Ron took off and flew back and forth, between and around the two sets of fifty-foot-high goalposts. Clearing his mind, Ron melded to his broomstick, doing loops and rolls, diving and climbing, swinging wide one moment, cutting razor-sharp turns the next. When at last he returned to hover expectantly before Cho, she was nodding her head slowly, and, it seemed to Ron, decisively.
"I was right," she said confidently. "Harry's style is all wrong for you. You're taller than Harry, stronger, heavier. What works for him is the Killing Curse for you. In fact, if I were to make a comparison, I'd say your style very much resembles -- Cedric's."
"Cedric's?" Ron gaped slightly, quite as startled as if she had spoken Voldemort's name aloud.
"Yes," Cho said in a ghostly voice. "Cedric was -- very strong. He had an aggressive style that served him very well. Not so much finesse. Bold. Very bold." Cho paused a moment as she resumed the slow nodding motion Ron had observed earlier. "Yes," she said with quiet decisiveness. "That's what we'll do.
"So, at the risk of repeating myself," she smiled, her face suddenly glowing as brightly as the afternoon sun, "are you up for a bit of flying today?"
The ease with which Cho's radiant smile spread across her face prompted Ron to reciprocate with his trademark grin.
"Right, Coach. Let's have a bash."
***
Author's Note: Did you figure it out? If so, boast about it in a review. Smart readers always compel a writer to work harder, and that's a winning proposition for both sides.
To sbys: I've been trying for a week to review your last chapter (among others), but the site won't accept my reviews. I WILL find a way. Work as good as yours deserves all the reviews it can get.
Tune in next time to see if Ron's NEW coach has better luck than his OLD one did. See you then.
"How's Ron doing?" Hermione asked as she seated herself beside Harry on a bench at the edge of the Quidditch field.
"Not good," Harry sighed despondently. "I dunno what's wrong. I'm using the same training techniques that Wood used on me. I'm doing everything right -- at least, I think I am -- but it's just not working out the way it should."
"Ron's not catching the Snitch?" Hermione said in a worried voice.
"No," Harry said with an even deeper sigh, his worry matching Hermione's line for line. "During mock games, I play opposing Seeker against Ron while Fred and George pelt Bludgers at the both of us. Ron isn't swerving quickly enough, and in the time it takes him to evade the Bludgers, he loses sight of the Snitch. I've beaten him to it at least a dozen times, riding one of the school brooms. He's starting to get discouraged. Blimey, I'm way past discouraged."
"We need this game to win the House Championship, don't we?" Hermione asked, laying a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder.
"The points have never been closer," Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "The only house officially eliminated is Hufflepuff. Everything hinges on the outcome of this last match."
"You know," Hermione mused in her uniquely thoughtful way, "maybe you're too good."
Harry blinked, confused. Hermione smiled.
"You know the old saying: 'Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.' I'm not saying you don't work hard, Harry. I've seen how tired you can get after practice. But I've noticed that a good part of your success comes because you act without thinking. I don't mean you act rashly," Hermione said quickly, seeing the challenging look on Harry's face. "What I mean is, in a given situation, you don't think about what needs to be done -- you just do it. And if someone were to ask you later why you did what you did, you wouldn't be able to tell them. Because you honestly don't know. I suppose you'd call it Flier's Instinct. And that's something you simply can't teach."
"Are you saying that Ron needs to be trained by someone who doesn't actually play Quidditch?" Harry asked.
"I wouldn't go that far," Hermione said with an amused smile. "But it's a simple fact that the best players don't always make the best coaches. Ron obviously needs something that you can't give him. We just need to find someone who can."
"An ideas?" Harry said in a hopeful voice.
Hermione's lips pursed tightly, as they always did when she was deep in thought. "I'll let you know," she said through a small, cryptic smile.
Harry knew better than to ask. He merely laughed softly and pulled her against him so he could plant a light kiss on her smiling lips, causing them to smile even more broadly.
"What was that for?" she asked, a pink tinge coloring her cheeks.
"No reason," Harry smirked.
"Right, then," Hermione said as she tightened her hold on Harry's waist. "Just wondering."
Following classes the next day, Ron plodded up to his dormitory to dump his books before going off to Quidditch practice. There seemed little point, he mused, as the past week's practices had grown progressively worse with each passing day. But there was nothing for it. Harry would not be able to play in the big game, leaving only Ron to fill the void. But right now, Ron felt like a very small plug trying to stop a very big drain.
Ron found the Fifth-Year dormitory deserted. This was not surprising, as Harry was usually first on the field on a practice day. Dumping his books into his trunk, Ron retrieved the Firebolt from Harry's trunk and trudged downstairs, holding the broomstick protectively against his body. Only two days ago, a staircase had shifted suddenly so that the Firebolt had nearly been pitched over the railing. Henceforth, Ron was taking no chances. Whatever might befall the broomstick in future would be shared by Ron himself. And if worst came to worst, at least Madam Pomfrey might prevent Harry from getting close enough to strangle him.
He descended the many flights of stairs in a sort of funk. Before he knew it he was approaching the Quidditch field, and immediately he spied a tiny figure darting through the air between the goalposts, black robes a-flutter and raven hair tossing in the backwash.
'Blimey,' Ron thought with a touch of envy, 'Harry really can fly.' As he walked onto the field, he shouted a greeting at the top of his lungs, waving his arm lazily. The flier halted in mid-air with a skill Ron could not help but admire, even through his melancholy. He watched as Harry descended lazily to the grass and walked unhurriedly toward him, broomstick in hand. Only -- something was wrong. The figure approaching him didn't seem right somehow. It was too short, for one thing. And there was something odd about that smooth, rolling walk, not at all like Harry's jerky, long-legged stride. It was as if --
Ron's mouth suddenly fell open. It wasn't Harry! It was --
"CHO?"
Cho Chang glided up to Ron, her onyx eyes bright as her smile.
"Up for a bit of flying today, Ron?" she said in a musical voice that made Ron's brain go numb.
"What?" Ron said stupidly. "You? I mean -- where's Harry?"
"Harry's schedule was getting a bit crowded," Cho said. "He asked me to fill in for him as Seeker Coach. You don't mind, do you?"
Standing this close to the beautiful Ravenclaw, Ron could easily understand why Harry had fancied her for most of two years. Ron remembered Seamus remarking before last year's Yule Ball that Ron's and Harry's partners, the Patil twins, were "the best-looking girls in the year." If that were true, then surely Cho was the "best-looking girl" in her year.
"Uh..." Ron said at last, "No...no problem."
"Smashing," Cho said with a smile and a firm, no-nonsense nod. "Let's see what you've got."
Cho mounted her broom -- a Comet 260, Ron noted -- and shot into the air. Ron stared after her for a moment, then followed on the Firebolt.
Ron saw at once that his earlier assessment had been dead on -- Cho was an excellent flier. Even on what was undeniably a superior broomstick, Ron was only just able to keep up with her as she cavorted through the air like a wingless pixie. Cho executed a dozen difficult maneuvers with textbook precision, looking back each time to observe Ron as he copied her every move -- or tried to. A sick feeling was churning in the pit of his stomach. Was everyone at Hogwarts a better flier than he? Here he was, sitting astride what was unarguably the best racing broom in the world -- the same broomstick which the Irish National Team had ridden to victory in the Quidditch World Cup two years ago -- yet, no matter the competition, Ron always seemed to come out second best.
Cho was hovering now, a look of deep thought on her oval face.
"I can see we have a lot of work to do," she said amiably.
"We do?" Ron said as he hung motionless directly in front of Cho.
"The real problem," Cho said, "is that Harry never should have been coaching you in the first place."
"Harry's a great Seeker," Ron said defensively. 'He's beaten you often enough,' he added silently, not wanting to offend Cho, for whom he held no true animosity.
"Yes," Cho agreed pleasantly. "With a bit more seasoning, he could play for England. I'd say he's better than Viktor Krum was at the same age."
Ron's face brightened perceptibly.
"But," Cho added pointedly, "he's been making the mistake of trying to turn YOU into another him. And there's only one Harry Potter."
Ron found himself liking Cho more every minute.
"What we need to do," Cho declared, "is define and develop your natural style. So -- fly around the pitch a few times. Do whatever you want. Let your instincts take over. Don't think -- just fly."
With a nod and a smile, Ron took off and flew back and forth, between and around the two sets of fifty-foot-high goalposts. Clearing his mind, Ron melded to his broomstick, doing loops and rolls, diving and climbing, swinging wide one moment, cutting razor-sharp turns the next. When at last he returned to hover expectantly before Cho, she was nodding her head slowly, and, it seemed to Ron, decisively.
"I was right," she said confidently. "Harry's style is all wrong for you. You're taller than Harry, stronger, heavier. What works for him is the Killing Curse for you. In fact, if I were to make a comparison, I'd say your style very much resembles -- Cedric's."
"Cedric's?" Ron gaped slightly, quite as startled as if she had spoken Voldemort's name aloud.
"Yes," Cho said in a ghostly voice. "Cedric was -- very strong. He had an aggressive style that served him very well. Not so much finesse. Bold. Very bold." Cho paused a moment as she resumed the slow nodding motion Ron had observed earlier. "Yes," she said with quiet decisiveness. "That's what we'll do.
"So, at the risk of repeating myself," she smiled, her face suddenly glowing as brightly as the afternoon sun, "are you up for a bit of flying today?"
The ease with which Cho's radiant smile spread across her face prompted Ron to reciprocate with his trademark grin.
"Right, Coach. Let's have a bash."
Author's Note: Did you figure it out? If so, boast about it in a review. Smart readers always compel a writer to work harder, and that's a winning proposition for both sides.
To sbys: I've been trying for a week to review your last chapter (among others), but the site won't accept my reviews. I WILL find a way. Work as good as yours deserves all the reviews it can get.
Tune in next time to see if Ron's NEW coach has better luck than his OLD one did. See you then.