Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Seeker

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A/N: This chapter wasn't meant to be. It never existed in our notes - well, part of it did, but we had decided to cut it. Chapter twenty-eight, or the information therein, was supposed to be the next chapter (and it is therefore very nearly written). But then I picked up Zsenya from the train, and she and I went to dinner, and AtE came up, and it was rainy story weather… and…

Author's Notes: (From Zsenya) … we figured, you know, this story is already 8700 pages long, what are a few more chapters here and there?

~*~

It was colder than Penelope had expected. She pulled her hood up, shut her cloak against the bitter December wind, and stared at the slate gray sea.

She was unsure of why she had come. It had been one of those mornings - they'd been much less frequent since Leo's birth, but they still happened - when Percy's absence had weighed on her like an illness. She couldn't stay at the Burrow. She couldn't touch Leo without being overwhelmed by depression. It was wise, she knew, to leave him with Molly and to take a day alone, even if it made her feel like an unfit mother to need that.

She hadn't known where she was going when she had left the house. She'd merely walked toward the village until it had come into view, and then she had pulled her wand and given it a definite twist.

Now, sitting on a slab of stone and watching the cold tide roll along the rocks, she was no closer to understanding her choice of destination. But at least she could breathe, here. She shut her eyes and took icy air into her lungs, tasting the tang of salt and wind. Space. She needed it. To think, to plan, to become herself again. And Molly would understand about the new flat. After all, Penelope couldn't move out until after Christmas; the lease did not begin until February.

February. Penelope knew she'd tear the month out of her calendar and throw it away.

"Who's there? Identify yourself!"

The sharp voice startled Penelope; she jumped and turned to face it.

"Get that hood off your face." Mad-Eye Moody limped over the rocks towards her, wand out, eye rolling, eyebrows gathered so tightly in concentration that they looked like one wiry caterpillar in the middle of his forehead.

Penelope pushed back her hood with a slow, wandless hand, and showed herself.

Moody relaxed. His wand hand dropped and his scars shifted into something like a smile. "Pleasure to see you, Miss Clearwater - that is, Mrs. Weasley - " Moody stopped. His good eye winced and his face shifted again, becoming darker and more gnarled than usual. "What would you prefer to be called?" he asked, his voice warm and gruff.

"Penelope," she said, and stood up to give him her hand. "How are you, Professor?"

"Oh now." Moody flushed a bit and waved her off. "You're under no obligation to do that. You were never a student of mine. Just Moody'll do."

"All right."

"You've come out to have a look around, I expect. Thought you would. Arthur says you've had your notes out lately."

"Yes, I've been working - just a little."

"Care to see the place?"

Penelope nodded. She hadn't been to Culparrat, and though she was no further along in the process of formulating an Imprisonment Enchantment, she suddenly knew why she had come here. She needed to work again. Truly work, not just fiddle with the notes from last year, which were covered in Percy's slim, slanted writing.

She followed Moody away from the bay and around a hillside covered in sea grass, towards what looked to be a deep, well-hidden cove.

"Muggles can't see any of this," said Moody, without looking back. He scraped along the shore with the help of his walking stick. The weak sun glinted on his random patches of silver hair. "Looks like marsh bog to 'em."

Penelope thought immediately of her father, who had never been able to comprehend the idea that Hogwarts was hidden from those who refused to see it. It should have made perfect sense to him - he had refused to see it, believe in it, or pay for it. Penelope had been one of the very few scholarship students at the school; it was part of the reason she had often "volunteered" to help Madam Pince in the library, but few people knew that. And none her friends in Ravenclaw had known that Professor Vector had come, in person, to convince her mother that Hogwarts was a safe and appropriate place for a young witch.

Her mother had thought it was a cult. Penelope was almost amused, now, by the summers she had spent being prayed over, the hours she had listened to her mother beg heaven to save her daughter's soul. But it hadn't been amusing at twelve. Or thirteen, or fourteen. She might have gone mad if it hadn't been for Percy's fervent, daily letters, the summer of her fifteenth year. Every letter had come just when she needed it most, and each one had made her father's refusal and her mother's fear seem a little smaller. A little less important. When they'd got back to school, she had told Percy everything. He'd had a hard time believing that anyone's family could be so strange, and he had written to her parents, the minute she'd been Petrified. They had never written back. When she had awoken, Percy had promised she'd never have to live with them again after Hogwarts, if she didn't want to. And she never had. She'd rented her own flat near his, and it had all been so wonderful for a little while.

It would be nice to be back in a flat of her own.

"How's your son?"

Penelope snapped out of her thoughts, surprised at herself. It had been a long, long time since she'd reflected on those things. "He's doing very well, thank you. Getting perfectly huge."

"Cute kid."

"How do you -"

Moody snorted. "Seen enough pictures, haven't I? His grandfather's gone a bit loony in his old age. Seems to forget he showed me the album before."

Penelope smiled, and stepped over a boulder. Arthur was such a sweet man. Almost a father, really. "Well I'll bring Leo to meet you in person," she said. "Pictures really don't do him justice."

"Ah, it's a proud mum, is it? Well, that's the best sort. Right - there we are." Moody stopped walking and gestured with his cane towards the middle of the wide, deep cove, at the massive castle structure that was Culparrat. Penelope let out a breath of awe.

It rose from the sea, striking against the soft, grassy cliffs of the beach. It was smaller than Hogwarts and had none of that castle's clean, majestic beauty. Culparrat was impressive in the way that merpeople were impressive - powerfully built, slicked with algae, not as beautiful as it should have been and twice as imposing as it had the right to be. It looked as if it had once been white, but Penelope knew that it had been underwater for centuries and it was water-stained now; green and black streaks marred the white stone and made it appear as an enormous, rotting tooth set in gums of black water , which swirled and licked at its barnacled base. An endless, eerie moan issued from its gaping windows and echoed against the hills that sheltered the cove.

"Are there really merghosts in there?" she whispered, not sure why she was suddenly so nervous. This sort of thing had never been her forte. She would have liked to hold Percy's hand, to go in there - he never got scared of things like that.

"Sure," said Moody matter-of-factly. "We keep having to expel them. The dungeon floods, and the merghosts… well, they think it's a sort of joke, taking Stunned prisoners and setting them face down in the water. Turning them back over before they drown is mostly all there is for the trainees to do."

"Trainees?"

"Aurors in training. Not a bad lot, very eager, but - well."

"What?"

Moody scratched his head and appeared to be looking for a gentle way to put it. "Not the snappiest cards in the deck, are they?"

But it made Penelope feel better to know that there would be more people in that mad-looking castle than just herself and Moody. When they had made their way up the beach and across the water to its entrance, she was glad for the sight of young people in their official robes, guarding the castle doors and flanking the entrance hall.

"Elizabeth!" Penelope reached out her arms on instinct to hug a pretty Ravenclaw who had been three years her junior, and who now stood between her and the interior entrance doors.

Elizabeth did not smile or reach out; instead she pulled her wand in a flash and had disarmed Penelope within half a second. "Name?" she demanded. "Business?"

Penelope nearly fell back with surprise. She steadied herself. "Er… it's Penny, El. Don't you remember?"

Moody chuckled, just behind her. "She's doing her job. You could be disguised." He pointed to the wand. "It's fine, Miss Duzen. Good work, but we'll take that back now - she's with me. We'll go ahead through."

Elizabeth nodded curtly and handed Penelope her wand. She then muttered a password to the stone shark's head, which was mounted on the left side of the doors, and the doors swung open.

"Not the snappiest, are they?" Penelope whispered to Moody.

"Oh, there's one or two that make me proud. She'll pass her exam well before the rest of these duffers, I'll tell you that."

Penelope glanced over her shoulder to see that the doors were falling shut. Just before they did, Elizabeth peeked through the opening with a cheeky grin on her face and whispered, "Hi, Penny! Your hair looks great!"

The doors slammed. Moody made a sound of disgust that echoed in the wide, dark corridor. "Then again, I've been wrong. This way."

Penelope followed close, terrified of losing her guide. The walls were green-stained white marble, carved with strange fish and fanged octopi, and every bulging eye of every creature seemed to follow them as they walked.

"Well done finding the creepiest possible place," she muttered, and picked her way around a puddle. "Is that… seaweed on the ceiling?"

"You didn't see it hanging all over the turrets? We clean it out but it just comes back. Seems to be this place's equivalent of cobwebs. Prisoners're down here - now hang on."

Moody grabbed a torch from the wall and lit it, then led Penelope to the right, into a dank and narrow corridor that stunk of fish and spiraled down into the belly of the castle, pressing closer and darker with every step. She had the feeling that if she were to touch the walls, her fingers would come away covered with grime, and she decided not to test her theory. The narrow corridor emptied into a vast, flickering room where the marble had gone black all over, and the water was a foot deep. Penelope gasped at what she saw.

Hundreds upon hundreds of criminals - and innocents, she knew that some of them had to be - were here. Lying in rows, in cots too close together, not knowing how they invaded one another's personal space.

"Keeping 'em all in one spot until we can do something more effective," Moody growled. "Don't need to be running about trying to Stun them all in their own time. Easier to keep track this way. And then, when they're sorted and we've got a solid imprisonment charm, we'll shake 'em all out and make things more comfortable. After all -" Moody laughed darkly, "- some of them'll be here till they die."

Till they die. Penelope felt a rush of pity, followed very closely by one of terrific fury. She looked around the room at the silent men and women and wondered which of them had looked on as Percy had been tortured and killed.

It was too horrible a thought; her mind tried to repel it but Penelope stood still, staring at blank faces, as ice cold water seeped through her stockings. The frozen sea was getting into her shoes. It numbed her feet, but she could not move. Suddenly she found her voice.

"The most potent spells, on an Arithmantic scale, are all emotion-based," she heard herself say faintly. "We researched every major spell, and the thirty most powerful are variations on the same theme - each one operates on a highly personal level. No matter how the spell is crafted, no matter what words are chosen, or what quality of witch does the casting, no major spell can act without personal motivation on the part of an individual, or the collective emotional investment of a willing group. Expecto Patronum. Avada Kedavra. Amora Primus -- and now Expecto Sacrificum. All the same basic requirement. The only one we found that doesn't work that way is Priori Incantatem; that's purely element based."

Moody watched her, eyebrows lifted, mad eye shivering in its socket and seeming to focus right through her brain. "Go on."

"What I want to try to do is amalgamate existing imprisonment and locking spells, then infuse them with the appropriate emotional complexity, in order to create the most powerful spell possible. Based on my notes, I think I know which spells I need, but I haven't been able to commingle them - they won't work as one spell. Not yet. There's something missing, something… I can't tell. I'll get that, I know it, it's right on the tip of my tongue. I just have to think." Penelope drew a deep breath; this was more talking than she'd done in an age and more emotion than she'd felt towards anything other than Leo since Percy's death. "But the feeling of it - that's going to take the most work, and I'll tell you, I really am looking forward to having Hermione Granger back."

Moody grinned. "From the Thinker. Yes, she'll be an asset."

"I think that between the two of us…" Penelope faltered slightly at the thought of bouncing her ideas off of anyone but Percy, but she recovered herself and continued. "Arthur wants to hire her on to help me, and if she says yes, then we'll make quick work of this thing."

"I'm glad to hear it." Moody's expression was unreadable. He searched her face for a moment and then: "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he shouted, making Penelope shriek with surprise.

Across the chamber, two Aurors in training, who had been sleeping in chairs with their heads in their hands, leapt to their feet and sent twin looks of terror across the room. "Sorry!" they called in unison, and went sloshing back to their posts.

Moody growled and turned away. "Sorry," he spat, leading the way out of the prisoners' terrible waiting room. "Sorry? I'll tell you when they'll be sorry. When they're facing down the wrong end of a wand, that's when. And where'll their sorries get them at that moment? Six feet under, that's where."

Moody's wasted reprimands reverberated from the damp walls until they were out in the main corridor, and Penelope found that she had to repress a snicker. He was a funny old man, when he was annoyed. She wondered if he knew that, and thought it better not to ask.

"Thank you for the tour," said Penelope, holding out her hand to Moody, who looked surprised, but pleased. It had been the right decision, coming here. Her mind was much clearer, and she wanted nothing more now than to get back home and start working. She had to get everything in order for Hermione's return. She didn't want to waste any more time, and silently cursed herself for being so slack up until now.

"I'll walk you out," said Moody, offering his arm. Penelope was just about to take it, when someone called out from behind her.

"Penny! What are you doing here?" said a familiar voice.

"Where's Leo?" said another, and Penelope turned to see Cho Chang and Charlie standing just inside the entrance hall.

"How'd you get in here?" Moody growled, drawing his wand.

"He's with your mum," Penelope said, noticing with concern that both Cho's and Charlie's clothes were soaked. Cho shivered, and Charlie removed his cloak and made a motion to put it around her shoulders, despite her murmur of protest. "You're wet, too," she said, and before he could say anything, Cho grabbed one end and threw it over both their shoulders.

"Answer my question or I'll blast you both to the other side of the country." Moody took a step closer and fixed his real eye on the pair. The other appeared to be trying to focus on the newspaper in Charlie's hand.

"Please, sir." One of the Aurors-in-training, a mousy-haired man around Penelope's age, stepped into view from the doorway. Penelope could see Elizabeth behind him, peeking through a slit in the doorway. "Their identification is positive and they're not on the restricted list."

"They're not approved either!" exclaimed Moody, and flicked his wand in the man's direction. Elizabeth's face disappeared from the crack in the door, just in time to miss a jet of red sparks, which narrowly missed the young Auror's head, although Penelope could smell a faint tinge of burnt hair in the air.

Penelope had to give the man, whom she now recognized as a Hufflepuff three years her senior, credit. He didn't run, but remained standing in front of them. "Please, sir," he repeated, "They're on the map." He pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it to Moody. Penelope could have sworn she saw a grin pass across the old Auror's face, but all he said was, "Hmph," and then, "Dismissed," and the Auror went back outside, but not before drawing his wand and muttering some sort of password.

"Black's idea," said Moody, examining the parchment, on which, Penelope could see some sort of floor plan. "We're still testing it, but it seems to work. If you know the password, you can use this map to see who's in every room in this castle. Unfortunately, it doesn't enable us to track people down if they should happen to escape. Still, it sees through Invisibility Cloaks and Polyjuice Potion, and, according to the map, you two are who you say you are."

Moody's eye wobbled in its socket to rest once again on the copy of the Daily Prophet in Charlie's hand. "So, you're here," he grunted. "Is there a good reason? You both look a mess."

"Everyone's okay," said Charlie, "despite what this so-called journalist claims. I don't know how he got past the barriers to make any sort of a report, but there is some truth to what he says."

Charlie handed the newspaper to Moody, who unfolded it to the front page. A flash of light caught Penelope's eye and she leaned in to see that the photograph that covered most of the front page was a rare color one and it appeared to be of a large jet of fire from a dragon. The flame was so powerful that it managed to break through its photograph border and light up the words in the headline above.

QUIDDITCH CHAMPION VIKTOR KRUM NARROWLY ESCAPES DEATH: Has the Ministry of Magic gone too far?

Story by: N. Flummery

Photo by: Crispin R. Peltier

Penelope smirked. It was the same photographer who'd taken the pictures of Harry and Ginny for Charmed Life.

"Go ahead," said Charlie, "read it out loud. I want to make sure that the text hasn't already changed. I've never seen the Prophet get out news in such a timely manner."

Moody cleared his voice to read, but ended up coughing instead. Penelope took the paper from him, and began,

Early this morning, at 4:12 a.m., an incident of grave danger occurred at Azkaban. It seems that the dragons in use by the Permanent Azkaban Patrol to control rogue Dementors at the former prison may not be as effective as originally claimed. Many expressed doubt when Acting Minister of Magic Arthur Weasley employed a team of dragon riders led by none other than his own son Chad and family friend, Michelle O'Malley.

"He let his own children run wild – they couldn't keep gnomes out of their garden, how do they expect to keep Dementors in Azkaban?" reported a neighbor of the Weasleys who asked not to be identified.

"I know who that is," said Charlie. "We don't have any close wizarding neighbors. That's my friend Dave's mum. Hit her in the head with a gnome once when he was over during the summer holiday. She never forgave me." Cho patted Charlie's arm sympathetically, and Penny continued reading.

Evidence that the dragon scheme was not working according to plan apparently came just before Halloween, when a group of Dementors rushed towards a dragon ridden by none other than Harry Potter. The other riders eventually pushed the Dementors away, and the incident was kept quiet. The official report states that Potter's dragon, Norbert, was suffering from a minor head cold.

"That true?" Moody asked. "Do you really think it was a cold?"

"Yes," said Charlie. "Mick looked him over and he's been fine ever since. I never heard of a dragon cold that lasted only one day, but then, this is the first time we've ever put dragons in this particular situation, so who knows what could happen? Go on, Penny – you haven't come to the good bits yet."

It must have been something more dramatic than a cold that caused Bevan, Krum's Welsh Green, to act up early this morning. The three nightshift riders, Chad Weasley, Chong Chung, and World Champion Viktor Krum had already been on duty for six hours when Krum's dragon started to act as one might expect an enormous Class XXXXX creature to act. Several keepers noticed that Krum, who was flying on the side of the castle closest to the dragon hangars, seemed to be having trouble controlling the beast.

The dragon began to breathe large plumes of fire, something the animals are supposedly trained not to do at Azkaban. Weasley, who was able to see what was happening, flew towards Krum on his dragon, and several keepers also approached Krum on broomsticks. Chung managed to control the Dementors on the far side of the island alone. Even Dementors, it seems, like to sleep at 3am.

"Where the hell were the Aurors?" boomed Moody. "They're supposed to be there to help in case something like this happens."

"They were there," said Cho. "Don't worry. They helped. He just didn't mention it. But it is true that the Dementors pretty much stayed inside the whole time. The Aurors didn't have to use a Patronus at all."

Several keepers tried to get close enough to help Krum climb off of the dragon, but the dragon began to fly up and down in an erratic fashion, blowing fire so hot that it was impossible to get close. One of the reserve flyers had been contacted by this time, an experienced war flyer named Lisa Morgan, and she flew to the scene with a dragon, intent on trying to control Bevan.

Both Weasley and Morgan were unsuccessful, and Krum climbed out of his harness and made a move for his broom, once it became clear that he must either evacuate or die by fire. It was only when Draco Malfoy, a rider on the morning shift, arrived early for work that the situation took a turn for the better. Malfoy's Chinese Fireball, Mordor, seemed able to succeed where the Welsh Greens had failed. He managed to control Bevan enough to lead him to land, although not before the dragon bucked once and sent Krum plummeting towards the depths of the sea below.

Krum, who is a World Champion Quidditch player, was unable to grab his broom in time. He most certainly would have died, had Malfoy not uttered a well-formed Levitation Charm at the last minute. Weasley was able to pick up Krum on his dragon, and they both flew to safety.

Shaken, but unharmed physically (except for the loss of his eyebrows), Krum claims that he is well enough to fly his next shift, which begins this evening at 8pm. It's a good thing. We're not sure who else would be crazy enough to take the job. If Arthur Weasley would like to retain his position as Minister when the Reconstruction officially ends next June, then he might want to reevaluate his decision to keep things in the family.

"Oh Charlie! Cho!" Penelope handed the Daily Prophet back to Moody and rushed forward to hug them both. Realizing that they were still damp, and Cho was shivering despite the heavy cloak, Penelope pulled her wand and sent a drying charm in their direction.

"Thanks!" said Cho, laughing. "I can't believe we didn't think of that."

"You're tired," said Penelope. "Moody, is there anywhere in here to sit down, and perhaps to get a cup of tea?"

Moody led them back down the hall to the Auror's lounge, which was sparsely furnished, but by far the most livable room they had yet entered. He sent three young trainees running and motioned to Penelope, Charlie and Cho to sit in the vacated chairs, while he perched himself against a table, using his cane for support. Before sitting, Penelope searched the room for a teapot and teacups, and quickly whipped up a few cups of tea for them.

"How's Krum's dragon now?" asked Moody, finishing his tea in one gulp. Cho cradled hers between her hands, still trying to warm up, and Charlie threw the cloak over her shoulders once more.

Charlie shrugged. "He seems fine. Mick checked him out before he started his shift, and Bevan is acting like nothing happened. He ate all his food, drank all his water, and as far as I know, is taking a nap."

"And you've no idea what might have caused him to act that way?"

"None. He seems a bit more tired than usual, but other than that, everything checked out normal."

"You don't think the Dementors are affecting them somehow, do you?"

This time, Cho shook her head and spoke up. "The Dementors seem to have been growing more passive over the past few weeks. They've been staying near or inside the castle, except for the time they rushed at Harry. There weren't even any Dementors near Viktor last night. We'd only seen two the entire shift, and they were on my side of Azkaban."

Moody didn't look like this information made him any happier. "Do you think they could be plotting anything? Planning any sort of grand takeover?"

"That would be unprecedented," said Penelope. "I've done a lot of research on the Dementors. Percy and I studied them early on when Fudge was trying to find a way to control them. Although they work together as a group, they tend to go where they're told. They've never started anything before, although I don't know if they've ever been this hungry before. They were never even heard of until about eight-hundred years ago, when a Turkish wizard named Hunderbab united them to help his Muggle soldiers in war. Before that, there's no account, and many suspect that this Hunderbab actually created them, using some sort of mutation potion combining Muggle corpses and the Lethifold. There's some inconsistency in that theory, since the first written account of the Lethifold isn't until about two hundred years ago, but it's highly likely that they or similar creatures existed before then."

No one said anything for a moment.

"We need to monitor Azkaban more closely, just in case," said Moody. "I can assign some of these young Aurors to the task – they could use a long, boring job to teach them a little endurance."

"I don't know how much more we can patrol," said Charlie, sounding defensive. "We've got twenty-four hour supervision of the perimeter – three dragons, three riders, and a host of keepers and Aurors at any given time."

Moody banged his cane on the floor. "Stop your whinging, boy. I know you've had a long night. I'm talking about monitoring inside Azkaban. We need a way to figure out what they're doing when we can't see them."

"We can't go in there!" objected Charlie. "You saw it yourself when you pulled the last prisoners out. The place is falling apart. Besides, if any human tried to waltz in there and have a look around now, they'd be spit right back out again without a soul. Those Dementors are starving."

Moody ignored Charlie. "We need to see if they're plotting anything. Are they sleeping? Are they agitated? Are they communicating at all? Have they started Kissing each other? Maybe Black can work on a map of Azkaban like the one he made for us at Culparrat… though it would be a strain on him."

Charlie threw up his hands in annoyance and Penelope shook her head. "I don't think it's a good idea to give Sirius an excuse to go to Azkaban. He's obsessed with the idea of getting rid of the Dementors. We spoke quite a bit at Halloween, and… well – " Penelope searched for a tactful way to state her feelings "- he was very… intense."

Chuckling, Moody nodded his head in agreement. "True that," he said. "Do you have a better idea, Miss Chung?"

Charlie snorted and Cho elbowed him in the ribs. "Oi!" said Charlie. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. It is funny."

At the mention of the word 'knickers', Penelope caught Cho's eye, and both of them smiled, apparently coming to the same realization at once.

"Do you think it would work?" asked Cho.

"I don't know," said Penelope. "We'd have to give it a bit more power, but it might."

"Maybe it only works in locker rooms and toilets," said Cho. "I never thought of trying it anywhere else, especially not outside Hogwarts."

"Don't forget about dormitories," said Penelope, and both girls erupted into laughter.

The two men looked at each other in confusion. Penelope sighed. "I'm about to divulge a great Ravenclaw secret to both of you Gryffindor men. I only do this in the name of wizarding security."

"You must both promise, no, swear not to leak the intricate nature of this charm to anyone," said Cho, her voice solemn.

"Great things have come from Ravenclaw," said Moody. "I promise."

"Well," began Penelope, standing. "I think it might just be better to give a demonstration. Give us a second." She motioned to Cho to join her in the corner, and the two girls devised their plan. Penelope closed her eyes and concentrated as hard as she could on a room she had never seen before in the Culparrat castle – the basement dungeons, where the merghosts lived. When she had formed an image of what she thought it looked like, she opened her eyes and nodded at Cho, who drew her wand and loudly spoke the words to the charm. For a moment, nothing happened, and then, an image appeared on the opposite wall, blurry at first, but growing clearer every second.

It was a darkened room – the seaweed on the ceiling was much thicker and darker than that on the upper levels. The water was very deep and there was only a thin band of dryness that ran around the top of the walls. Pale, silvery figures floated through the columns that supported the dungeon ceiling, sometimes passing right through each other.

"That's the dungeon…" said Moody, the awe in his voice evident. "But how – "

The image faded, and then disappeared.

"Sorry," said Penelope. "I'm a bit out of practice. Haven't had the urge to spy on anyone lately. Although come to think of it, this charm might be useful for when Leo gets a bit older."

"What do you mean, spy?" asked Charlie.

Cho took a deep breath and said, "I guess our reputations will be ruined. This is an old spell that's handed down to each female Ravenclaw class. I don't know when it started, but if you're in Ravenclaw, then you know how to do it. It takes a while to learn."

Penelope continued, "It's a Peeping Charm, at least, that's what we called it. The brilliant thing is that you don't have to be anywhere near the target – you could spy on someone in Gryffindor Tower from the Forbidden Forest if you wanted – and you don't have to ever have seen the place you're spying on. You just have to know where it is and imagine it."

"How is that possible?" asked Charlie, looking a bit red. "Wouldn't you have to charm the room as well?"

He had a right to be nervous, thought Penelope, wondering how many Ravenclaw girls who were at Hogwarts with her brother-in-law had spied him in the Quidditch locker room. She herself had managed to catch Percy in the Prefect's Bathroom one evening – reading in the tub – and she knew that Cho had used the charm under the pretense of trying to figure out Hufflepuff's Quidditch plans, and had seemed disappointed when all that had happened had been that she'd actually seen the diagrams and not their star Seeker.

Shaking her head, Penelope explained. "That's the brilliance of it. You don't have to have seen the room. You just have to know where it is. It's like your mind finds it, and is able to place the charm from afar. The only problem is that we've only ever used it for short periods of time. You can see," she pointed to the blank wall, "the image disappears after a few seconds."

Cho's eyes were bright with determination. "I'm sure we could figure it out," she said. "We could set up a permanent monitoring station and it doesn't have to be at Azkaban. It can be here, or at the Ministry, or anywhere!"

"We've got floor plans of Azkaban," said Moody. "You think we could fix that charm so that it would continuously rotate through all of them? And stop in one place if we needed it to?"

"We'd have to train each of the Aurors to concentrate," said Penelope. "But Elizabeth, for instance, was in Ravenclaw, so she'd be easier to train than the others."

"Wait a second," said Charlie, standing up. "You mean to tell me that only Ravenclaws will be able to operate the spell? If you're going to make modifications, then you might as well make it so that anyone can use it. It can't be that hard!"

Cho crossed her arms. "It can't?" she asked, sounding sweet but looking fierce.

He laughed. "Let me try." Closing his eyes, he said, "I'm thinking of a room. Say your spell, or whatever."

"All right." Cho pointed her wand at Charlie and said the incantation. Charlie opened his eyes and stared expectantly at the wall in front of him. It was blank. "Must not have been trying hard enough," he muttered. "Do it again," he said to Cho, screwing his eyes shut. Penelope stifled a giggle. This time, something did appear on the wall. A dark patch that resembled an ink spill.

Moody guffawed and clapped Charlie on the back. "Better luck next time," he said.

"I'm just tired," Charlie mumbled to no one in particular, slumping into the nearest chair. "How soon can you fix that thing up to work?"

"We-ell," said Penelope, biting her lip. "Not too long. Would it be possible to borrow Cho for a few days? Would that be okay?" She addressed Cho, who nodded her head.

Charlie shrugged. "Why not? We'll get one of the reserves to fly your shift, Cho. And who knows, maybe we'll have some new applicants. I'm sure everyone's really eager to fly with Viktor Krum. Thrill seekers and lunatics from around the country'll be breaking down our doors."

"There you are," said Moody, patting Penelope on the back. "It looks like you've got something to keep you occupied until Miss Granger's return. I'll be expecting a prototype soon. And as for you -" Moody pointed a gnarled finger at Charlie. "Keep a close eye on those dragons. I don't care how well they seem, something's not right, and I don't like it. I don't like it at all."

***

December 10

Dear Ginny,

Nasty weather today, but that's all right. When the Secretary Privy came out last week and saw us flying in the sleet without protection, she had a fit, and now the dragons have had tent things attached to their harnesses. They look sketchy - just bits of tarp on four poles, really - but mine keeps me dry and I still have peripheral vision, so I'm not complaining. Norbert doesn't seem too keen on it, but then, he's been edgy for the last few days, ever since what happened to Viktor. Hope I don't get thrown too, ho ho. Don't worry, don't worry, don't worry. I won't fall. And even if I do, I'm a good swimmer, but don't look like that. It's not going to happen.

You should see Malfoy under his tent. He thinks he's a maharajah. I notice Mordor - that's his dragon - is the only one that never gets sick or nervous, and I can't help wondering why. (Don't tell Ron about that, because it'll just give him more fuel for the fire.) Malfoy says his dragon's just better quality and that you get what you pay for, with animals, but that's crap. Norbert came free and he's the strongest dragon out here, because Hagrid was good to him, and then Charlie was. I do feel a bit badly for Malfoy, though. He looks bored. Mick and I talk back and forth, but Malfoy never says a word. And when it's quiet out here, Mick reads creature handbooks and I write to you. I never see Malfoy doing anything. I still don't get why he's out here. If he were anyone else, I'd say he just couldn't stand to be idle while everyone else was rebuilding, but Malfoy? No.

I walked by Lupin Lodge last night. Just to stretch my legs after work, you know. Saw you through the dining room window, it looked like you were doing some homework. Studying? Practicing? What are you doing now? I want to say I hope it's going at top speed, but you know I don't want you to hurt yourself. It was good to see you, even if we didn't get to talk. I don't know how you get anything done when your hair's in your face like that. I miss you.

Love,

Harry

***

December 11

Dear Harry,

Don't joke! Don't fall. Do you think you should be writing up there? I'd miss your letters if you stopped, of course, but I'd rather have you in one piece. And don't bother feeling sorry for Malfoy. I hope you haven't forgotten that he's a prize git, even if he hasn't caused any proper mischief in awhile. Keep your eyes on him and keep your wand-hand ready.

I sound like Professor Moody! Perhaps I'll stop studying Healing, and ask McGonagall if she'll let me teach Defense. Can't you just see that? Or you could teach it, Harry, and scare the first years to death with stories. Or we could switch off - I'll do a year and then you can have it. I'm sure the position's going to be cursed like that forever - no one can do more than one turn in that job.

My studies are coming along though, and quickly. I think you know I worked on Ron, a bit, and Remus says it's all right for me to keep working with people a little at a time, as long as their emotional wounds aren't too dire. The only problem is that everyone's so stricken, since the war, that there's no one safe to work on. I don't know who I could possibly help without hurting myself, but I think that just living in the same house with Sirius and Remus is making me stronger all the time. I don't open up to them, or try to help them, but I can still feel their old experiences, to some extent. I have to find ways to propel my own energy out around me, to hold their auras back. It's good practice, because they've both got pasts that… well. You know.

But about you and me in particular, which you won't ask about but I have to tell you anyway - I finally found another book on Healing - "Open Hands" by Namita Vibhushan. She was born in the 1700s and was India's only Healer for nearly two centuries. It's a very short book, but it's a personal account, and it's so nice to finally know about someone else's experience with empathic magic. She talks about everything - about how tiring it was at first, about how long it took her to handle human feeling with any success, and about how she dealt with Jivukti Kanesh, who was her - partner, sort of. Well. He was her lover. Anyway, it's a helpful book. You can read it if you want.

I'm glad there are tents on the dragons. It's much nicer weather today, though - crisp and cool, my favorite. Ron mentioned that you two are going to see the Cannons play the Kestrels tonight - have fun! I'll be listening on the wireless to make sure Ron doesn't do anything stupid, like throw himself onto the pitch.

Oooh. Remus just slapped a bit of parchment in front of me with a lot of red ink on it. Let me see… yes, it's my Potions midterm. "How is it possible to flawlessly brew the most difficult potion on record, yet very nearly fail my test?" he just said. He would also like me to know that if I can't find as much time to study for my N.E.W.T.s as I find to write to you, then I might find myself unemployed in seven months' time.

He is looking at me in a way that says I should put down this quill. Bye.

Love,

Ginny

Harry stuffed the letter into the pocket of his cloak, where it crumpled against the others he carried around with him, and wrapped his cold hands around the steaming butterbeer that Ron had just shoved under his nose.

"Reading?" Ron asked innocently, thudding into his seat.

"Shut up," was Harry's eloquent reply. He propped his feet on the seat in front of him and surveyed the pitch.

It was the second Cannons game he'd come to. He hadn't expected to have so much fun at the first one, but there was nothing quite like sitting next to Ron when the Chudley Cannons won a match. Ron became a shouting blur of orange flag and ginger hair and wild, flailing arms; Harry imagined that even Oliver was less excited by the team's undefeated status.

"Undefeated," Ron was saying now, thumping his own feet onto the seat before him and slapping his knee with his free hand. "Unde-bloody-feated. But then, I always knew."

"Top marks for Divination."

Ron laughed, and swigged his butterbeer. "I made top marks in Divination. I've got the Inner Eye, Potter, and don't you forget it."

"Right," Harry answered mildly, and sniffed his own butterbeer. He didn't drink it. Just now it was a perfect hand-heater. It was winter now, darkness was falling, and the wind in the stands cut across the crowd like a frozen knife. Most of the fans on this side of the stadium were bundled up in shocking orange blankets and fuzzy orange hats. Those who weren't were shivering madly. "Let's make predictions then."

Ron made a happy sound, and sat up straighter. "That was always good fun," he agreed. "All right - when I'm a hundred and eighty seven, I'll be slaughtered by a falling comet."

"Er - a falling comet would take out half the world, wouldn't it?"

"You're stalling."

Harry grinned. "Okay… I'll get thrown into the Atlantic next week, and catch pneumonia by Christmas."

"Not a chance," Ron said staunchly. "None of that. If you want to get thrown, let's have it be from a Firebolt at a professional Quidditch match, because you're going out for another team when this madness with dragons is done, Harry." Ron nudged him. "Aren't you?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. But if I do, I predict I'll be killed by a hailstorm of enchanted Bludgers."

"Oh, nice one. How about this, then - I'll be captured and tortured and eaten alive by a band of ferocious veela!"

"Hermione'd kill you first. Oh, I've got one -" Harry sniggered. "I predict that I'll be doing some silencing charms on your room, when Hermione comes home."

Ron went scarlet. "Very funny, ha HA," he muttered. "I'm sure I could make the same prediction, but I don't want to think about you in a dark room with my sister."

Harry sputtered, and sprayed the foam of his butterbeer all over the fat neck of the squat man in front of him. "Sorry," he said quickly, when the man turned around looking irritated.

The irritation faded in an instant. "Are you -?" asked the man, his round, bald head flushing red above the black fringe of his hair as his gaze fixed on Harry's forehead. "You are! Harry Potter! And you must be - " his small, black eyes darted to Ron. "Ron Weasley, is it?"

"Yeah." Ron sounded like he wanted to be modest and withdrawn, but Harry knew better. This sort of thing made Ron walk on air for weeks on end, and he envied his friend that excitement. Other people seemed to get such a rush out of fame. He felt like he'd been cheated out of the fun parts.

"What an honor this is!" cheeped the man, his fleshy cheeks dimpling as he smiled. He clapped the ends of his orange blanket together. "Oh, tell me, lads. Would you sign a scrap of parchment for an old bloke?"

"Sure," said Ron. "What's your name?"

"It's Flicket Gladrag," said the man, handing over a quill and small scroll.

Harry peered at the man for a moment, while Ron signed his name. "Gladrag?" he repeated. "Like the wizardwear?"

"The very one! You've heard of it!" Mr. Gladrag beamed. "Own any of my line?" he asked hopefully.

"Heard of it?" Ron repeated, passing the scroll to Harry and looking up. "Who hasn't heard of it? That's yours?"

Mr. Gladrag nodded. "All mine."

For the first time, Harry noticed the beautiful, black-haired woman who sat beside Mr. Gladrag. She had to be a foot taller, four stone lighter, and fifty years younger than he was, and yet her diamond-encrusted left hand caressed the old tycoon's knee. Harry hid a smirk and bent his head to sign his name, thinking again of how odd fame and fortune really were.

He looked at the scroll and barely bit back a laugh. "Dear Flicket, Good to meet you! Yours truly, Ron Weasley" The "Weasley" had more curlicues than Harry had ever seen in it. He didn't know where Ron got that stuff. "Harry Potter" he signed quickly, and handed it all back to Mr. Gladrag.

"You two boys ought to be wearing the best of the best," Mr. Gladrag was saying to Ron. "Being who you are, it only makes sense. Or perhaps you'd like something for your young lady?" His eyes darted to Harry. "Hermione Granger, isn't it?"

Harry glanced at Ron. "She's our friend, yes."

"Yes, your friend, tee hee, don't I know about that. Well, I've seen her picture, and she'd do well in a little red thing or two we've got in stock this season."

Ron's fists clenched, but before he could do anything, Mr. Gladrag's eyes went wide and he wagged a finger at Harry.

"Oh ho, no, that's right, you've got the other one! The Minister's little girl - I saw that edition of Charmed Life magazine, and my, my, Mr. Potter! Yes, you'll certainly want to dress her up for the smart parties. Lovely figure."

Ron made a strangled noise, and Harry's blood burned. He had a vision of himself yanking the last dregs of hair out of Mr. Gladrag's head.

"Here's my card - and no cost to you, of course." Still beaming, and obviously oblivious to having caused any offense, Mr. Gladrags handed a card to Harry and one to Ron, who barely took it. "Good for business, people like yourselves showing up in Gladrags! And you've no idea what these autographs mean to me." He sighed, and touched the little scroll to his orange-jumpered chest. "It'd be an honor to give something back to the people who - ah well. You know what you've done. Just grateful, that's all." He gave them each a humble look, and Harry felt suddenly much less violent.

They were all quiet for a moment, and then:

"You want to give them to us free?" Ron asked. "Dress robes?"

Mr. Gladrag chuckled. "For yourself, for the ladies - just call." He stretched a short, pudgy arm around his companion's slim back. It barely reached. "And now lads, back to the pitch. Game'll be on soon, and I haven't missed a Cannons game in nearly forty years."

Ron's eyebrows shot up. "He must be all right," he whispered to Harry, when Mr. Gladrag was safely involved with the black-haired woman beside him, and no longer listening to them. "He's a Cannons man. And he's giving us free stuff. To think, my season tickets are right behind his - and it was nice of him to ask for our autographs and everything." Ron cleared his throat and tried to look casual.

Harry shrugged. "He didn't notice us last time."

"You didn't spit butterbeer all over him last time. Look!" Ron had forgot Flicket Gladrag. He pointed to the pitch, mouth hanging open, eyes saucer-wide, as if he'd never seen the Cannons come out of the tunnel before. They weren't even in full gear, Harry noted. But then, they were still warming up, and so were the Kestrels, whose leprechaun mascots had not yet begun to wreak havoc. Ron had insisted on getting there an hour early to watch everything.

Harry checked his watch. Five-thirty. Half an hour until the game began. He lifted his butterbeer to his mouth.

CRACK!

Harry was on his feet in an instant and so was Ron, both of them straining their necks to see what was happening on the pitch. A Bludger zoomed away from Maureen Knight, who slumped, dropped from her broom and tumbled towards the ground. The sparse crowd of Cannons fans who had arrived early all shot to their feet and gasped, and even the opposing Kestrel fans stopped playing their harps long enough to look horrified.

"Lentes!" cried Oliver Wood, pointing his wand and rushing towards her.

To Harry's relief, Knight's body slowed down considerably and hit the grass with a thud that didn't sound too painful. But she lay there, deathly still, with her nose gushing blood and her arms and legs at odd angles, and Harry had a feeling that the Bludger injury was as bad as it had sounded. Above her, the Kestrels' team captain and first Beater hovered close together. Harry thought he had just seen them grin at each other.

"Get out of the way," Oliver shouted at the mediwizards who had gathered around the unconscious Seeker. "Give her room -"

"Mr. Wood, back away - away, I said! We are trained professionals," said one of the witches in white. Still, it took two referees to hold Oliver away from Knight, whose prone body was by now surrounded by a crowd so dense that Harry couldn't see through it. They examined her for a long time, as an uneasy murmur rippled through the crowd.

"She can't be out," Gladrag muttered, in front of them. "She can't be out. She's our good luck charm. Come on, love. Pick yourself up."

"Pick yourself up," Ron repeated. He gripped Harry's shoulder. "She has to play," he said mechanically. "She has to play."

The mediwizards ended their conference and stood around Knight's body. Two of them floated her into the air and towards the tunnel. As they disappeared along with Knight, two other mediwizards approached the referee and officials. They were a long time talking and then the referee tapped his throat with his wand.

"Sonorous. All right, ladies and gentlemen. Maureen Knight has experienced damage to her cranium and to her neck, and must recover fully before she plays another game - which won't be tonight."

There was an outcry on the Cannons side - fans shouted and swore and threw their butterbeer cups at the field. The Kestrels fans cheered and swept their hands across their harps, while their leprechauns let out high pitched noises of glee and shot skyrockets of clover into the stands.

Ron moaned, dropped into his seat and put his head in his hands, and Harry sat down next to him, not sure whether to laugh or vomit. After all, it wasn't the end of the world. It was only the Chudley Cannons.

But he had signed a contract.

Harry swallowed the swarm of butterflies that fought to get out of his stomach.

"Oliver Wood, you have one half hour to prepare your reserve player and your team," the referee continued. "Play will begin with a penalty shot on the Kestrels for the deliberate disabling of an opposing player."

"WHAT?" shouted Kyle Kirkpatrick, the Kestrels' captain. He pushed sandy hair out of his eyes and glared at the referee. "But that was just bad luck! You're not allowed to - That's a load of - "

But his curses were lost on the small man in striped robes, who had tapped his throat again and walked away. Looking hostile but confident, Kirkpatrick returned to his team and gathered them into an airborne huddle.

Oliver, on the other hand, didn't do anything. He stood on the pitch, staring towards the tunnel into which Knight had just been taken, looking very lost. Even when Cole Kerry flew down and tapped his shoulder, he didn't seem to remember where he was.

"I'd better go down there and see if… if Oliver needs me," Harry managed, standing up and edging past Ron to the aisle, holding his stomach with one hand to stop it from jumping around.

"You can't do anything," Ron moaned without looking up. "He has to put in his reserve. And it was such a beautiful season."

"I'm second reserve." Harry had said it so faintly that he wasn't sure Ron would hear it. He was wrong. Ron was on his feet, holding him by the collar, before he could take a step towards the pitch.

"You're… what?" Ron whispered. He shook Harry a little. "What did you just say?"

"I'm second reserve. Oliver made me sign it. I only said yes because I didn't imagine it would ever - and I'm sure it won't. I haven't been working out with the team. And he'd put in his first reserve anyway, I'm sure that's the rule."

Ron's eyes had nearly fallen out of his head. He tightened his grip on Harry's collar so that Harry had to fight for air. "You didn't tell me that," Ron hissed. "And there's no rule - don't you even know the - damn it - Wood can put in any player he wants! This happened before play commenced, understand - before play commenced - so he can make a substitution." Ron shook Harry again. "Any legal substitution." Ron looked a little scary now. "That could mean you."

"Let go," Harry rasped, and yanked at Ron's wrists.

Ron didn't seem to notice that Harry was asphyxiating. "You get down there," he commanded. "Get down there now." He pushed Harry in the direction of the pitch.

Harry fled, rubbing his neck and wondering if there was some sort of charm Hermione could do, when she got home, to make Ron a little less obsessive. When he got to the edge of the pitch, a burly official strode towards him, wand out.

"Get away from the sideline."

"But I'm -"

"You can't be down here, kid, get back to your seat."

Harry bristled. "Look, I'm the second reserve for the Cannons -"

The official snorted and his moustache flapped, making him look a little too much like Uncle Vernon for Harry's tastes. "Sure you are." He eyed the butterbeer in Harry's hand. "Just thought you'd pop by and play, eh? Get back to your seat." And when Harry didn't move, the official tried to grab his arm.

Harry took a sharp step back. "My name's Harry Potter," he said through clenched teeth, and for the first time in his life he felt satisfied to see someone's mouth drop open. "And I'd like to speak to Oliver Wood."

The official seemed unable to think up a reply. His moustache quivered and he opened the gate that separated the pitch from the stands. "G-go ahead," he stammered. "Sorry about that, but I didn't recognize -"

"'S'all right," Harry muttered, and strode past him onto the pitch. Oliver was still standing, looking dazed, surrounded now by all his players and reserves, and Harry slipped into place behind Marty Gudgeon without anyone seeming to notice. Among the Cannons was a trembling man about his own size that Harry didn't recognize.

"Oliver, are you going to play?" asked Michaela Pummelfront in a low voice. "We've only got twenty-five minutes. Are you going to suit up, or should one of us?"

"He'll suit up," said Firoza Newland. "Look, Oliver, it'll be fine. We can play without Maureen. We've got Ross, after all."

Oliver made a devastated noise. He didn't seem to be focused on anything. "If we had more time…" he mumbled. "Perhaps if I called the time out now and bought two hours -"

"She's not going to recover in two hours," Cole Kerry said gently. "Come on, Oliver, put Ross on the pitch, he's worked out as hard as the rest of us."

"I…" Oliver swung around to look at the slender, trembling man, who Harry now realized must be the first reserve Seeker. "Right," he said, sounding more like himself. He smiled weakly. "Go on, Doylan. Suit up."

Ross Doylan made a noise very like the one Oliver had just made, and slunk away towards the tunnel.

When Ross was gone, Oliver slumped again and let out a cry. "Undefeated," was all he said.

Marty Gudgeon, who had been standing alongside him with a frown on his pug-like face, now glared at Oliver and punched him hard in the arm. "We need a CAPTAIN, man!" he roared. "SNAP OUT OF IT! You want to be undefeated? You'd better take the next twenty minutes and do something about it!"

Oliver stared at him, then focused over Marty's shoulder, at Harry. "Potter?" he asked faintly, looking like a man in a dream.

The team whirled around as one body, and face after face cracked into wide grins at the sight of Harry standing there.

"Harry! Mate, too good to see you!" Firoza reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

"We're in a state, aren't we?" added Paul Wyeth.

"How'd you get on the pitch?" Medusa Francis asked, laughing and smacking her bat against her open palm. "Hex someone?"

"QUIET!" Oliver bellowed. The manic gleam had returned to his eyes, his mouth hung open, and he shook his head. "I can put you in, Potter," he breathed, sounding very much like Ron. There was a shocked, excited murmur from everyone, but Oliver silenced them again. "He's second reserve," he explained shortly. "But I promised he'd never have to play if he didn't want to -- or unless there was a dire emergency."

"This is a dire emergency!" Cole Kerry piped up, hugging her broom. "And you want to play, don't you, Harry?" The whole team grinned at him and nodded.

Harry fidgeted. "You've got a first reserve, Oliver. I'm sure he'll want to -"

"I don't." Ross Doylan had returned, all in orange, looking terrified. "I'm not nearly good enough, and everyone knows it. I've worked hard -" he shot a frightened look at Oliver. "But I'm no Maureen Knight, and I'd rather we didn't lose the undefeated status. I know you're the better player, I saw you in tryouts."

"You were at tryouts?" Harry asked. He couldn't remember.

"I was cut in the third week," Ross said. "Please say you're playing."

Harry didn't know what to do. "But I haven't practiced," he said slowly. "I haven't worked out with all of you, I don't know the plays, I haven't been following Kestrel, I'm not up to speed, this isn't… this isn't school."

"You're damn right it's not." Oliver laughed harshly. "But you're a natural, Potter, you're a natural."

"And you've been flying every day, haven't you?" asked Firoza. "Up at Azkaban?"

"Yes, and I imagine that's even more difficult in some ways," added Paul.

Harry thought of the Dementors, and gave a dry laugh. But Paul was right - he did fly all day, and was often called on to dive and pull off complicated maneuvers… still, dragon riding wasn't like Quidditch. "I do," he finally answered, "but it's not the same thing -"

"Oh, come on - give it a go," Cole pleaded.

"It'll be great to have you with us again," Medusa said.

"Do it, Potter. Come on," Marty said, elbowing him in the side. "You know you want to."

"Make your choice," said Oliver, "but you've got to make it now." He gave Harry a pleading look.

Harry looked around at their faces, then up into the stands, where Ron, both hands gripping his hair, was standing beside Mr. Gladrag and staring down at their huddle. Harry swallowed and glanced out at the pitch, which shone green under the floodlamps. A bolt of terrified excitement shot through him. It was dark now, and the Snitch would be near-impossible to see - he knew nothing of the Kestrels' strategies, or even of how the Cannons' had developed since summer workouts. He hadn't even played a scrimmage game in three months.

His fingers itched for his Firebolt.

"Okay," he said faintly. "I'll play." There was a deafening whoop from all sides of him, and Harry looked at Oliver. "Don't make me want to kill myself if I don't catch it," he muttered.

"Oh you'll catch it," Oliver said, coming towards him and clapping both hands on Harry's shoulders. "Or you'll die trying." He grinned, and turned to face the rest of the team. "GET IN GEAR!" he shouted. "I'm going to go and call an early time out - give Potter a few extra minutes to get himself in order - I SAID MOVE!"

The Chudley Cannons scrambled back to the tunnel and Harry was carried along with them, numb with disbelief, the butterbeer he still clutched in his hand sloshing all down his arm. It was a good thing he hadn't drunk any of it. He was going to play. Quidditch. Professionally. Now. For an undefeated team. In front of everyone.

He was out of his mind.

"Your uniform's in this locker, Potter." Oliver steered Harry to the spot. "Everyone else, get yourselves dressed and get back up there! Drills, team! Marty, you're in charge!"

The other players quickly traded in their practice gear for their uniforms and left the lockers, shouting encouraging things to Harry as they left. He tried to smile at them, but had a hard time of it.

"And you'll take Maureen's broom, Harry," Oliver called, heading for the door.

Harry's stomach clenched. "I - I was thinking my Firebolt - perhaps Ron could -"

"Sorry. I'd prefer you to fly what you're used to, but there are regulations. You'll have to use a league-approved broom. I'll grab it while you suit up."

Dazed, Harry pulled on the long, woolen socks, the knickerbockers, the jumper and the sleek, rubbery black trainers. He strapped on the shin, elbow, knee and hand guards, and shoved his fingers into the half-gloves. When everything was in place, he reached into the locker and lifted out the cloak. It was dazzling orange, the color and sheen of Hagrid's pumpkins, and it was heavier than the one he'd worn for Gryffindor. Harry grabbed it by the top and swirled it back over his shoulders, clasping it at the base of his throat. He shut the locker and turned to the mirror.

There he was, double C's and speeding cannon ball emblazoned across his chest, looking every inch like someone who belonged on Ron's bedroom wall at the Burrow. He pulled his wand and tapped his glasses, muttering the spell Hermione had taught him to repel rain, in case there was any, and then he did the charm she had later taught him for keeping his glasses snug to his head, so they'd never fall off. He owed her for that one. He shook out his arms and legs, and stretched his neck. His heart raced nervously, but the uniform felt natural. Comfortable. He liked the weight of it and always had.

"Ready?"

Oliver had returned, holding out the most beautiful broom Harry had ever touched. Its dark, polished cherry wood handle had a slimmer grip than his own broom, and there were slender, golden rods sticking out a few inches in either direction, just under the spot where Harry knew the cushioning charm to be. The tail swept and curved into what had to be the most aerodynamic shape on the market. "Firebolt 5" it said in gold script on the handle.

"She had these put in," Oliver explained, pointing to the golden rods. "Footholds. You've seen her do it - bend her knees and keep her feet pulled up under her bum for speed. These keep her feet up the whole game without tiring her out - just rest the tops of your feet there. Dead useful speed strategy."

"She won't mind?" Harry asked doubtfully, not sure he'd want another Seeker riding his broom, if it were as nice as this one. Especially a Seeker who didn't know what the hell he was doing.

"She's unconscious," Oliver replied. "Take the broom. You're going to run drills on it for half an hour before the game starts so you can get used to it. But first, Harry, listen close. The Kestrels had a by last game - that means they didn't play. It's been four weeks since their last match, and while that doesn't mean they're out of shape, it means they've lost competitive momentum." Oliver began to pace. "Plus which, they're two and two - two wins, two losses. Their last game before their by was a loss. Not in a good mental state, I'd say. We, on the other hand, are undefeated." He gave Harry a meaningful look. "Undefeated. Five-oh."

"I get it, Oliver," Harry said, wishing very much that Fred and George Weasley would appear over Oliver's shoulders and start waggling their eyebrows and making rude comments. No one but Oliver Wood had the power to make him feel quite so eleven.

"They're going to be feeling confident, now that they've put Maureen out of play." Oliver growled. "Deliberate bunch of dirty bastards. I've always thought well of Kyle Kirkpatrick's team, but Boomer must've finally rubbed off on him."

"Boomer?"

"Tim Boomer, first Beater for the Kestrels - plays the left side of the pitch for the most part, and plays dirty. Filthy dirty. There's no doubt in my mind he sent that Bludger at Maureen's head on purpose, and he'll do the same to you. Keep your eyes on him."

Harry nodded, feeling suddenly that perhaps riding dragons was no more dangerous than playing Quidditch, after all.

"Duncan's the other Beater, but don't pay too much attention to him. He's nothing on Marty and Medusa. Leave Friar to the Chasers - she's a fine Keeper but they'll destroy her. And leave their Chasers to me." Oliver's eyes flashed. "I know all their stunts."

"Who's their Seeker?" Harry asked, wishing he had followed the season a bit more closely. Ron would've known all this off the top of his head.

"Adam Holgate. And he's very, very good, Harry. Their losses are Chaser-based, not Seeker. Even if he'd caught the Snitch in the last game, the Kestrels would have lost by a hundred and ten points."

Harry gave a low whistle.

"And bear in mind that the Kestrels are famous for distracting opposing Seekers. Those leprechauns are nasty, clever little beasts. Don't go throwing yourself at a bit of leprechaun gold, thinking it's the Snitch."

Harry had never considered that. "But if I see something shine -" he began. "I can't waste time trying to work out if -"

"They're forbidden to toss the coins over the boundary lines, so just keep to your boundaries and don't let 'em lure you out. They've got quite talented at throwing the things straight up in the air, the little buggers - just centimeters away from the pitch. But if it's over the line, it's not the Snitch. Don't waste your energy."

"I'll try."

"No." Oliver stopped pacing and glared at him. "There's no trying here, Harry. There's just winning. Are you ready?"

"I…" Harry glanced at himself in the mirror. "No."

"Too bad. Chat's over. Time to play." Oliver strode past him to the locker room door, and Harry followed his captain out. Together they hiked up the dark corridor of the tunnel, and towards the pitch.

Harry felt his stomach lurch and growl with every step. He had to be mad. A lunatic. The lights from the pitch were growing brighter - it was fully dark now, and that was only going to make things more complicated - the murmur of the crowd had increased tenfold, and he dreaded what he would see when they walked out into the light...

Oliver stopped short and turned around, nearly knocking Harry over. "How did you know to show up?" he demanded. "I would've got round to sending for you, but you got here before anyone even -"

"I was here to watch the match," Harry said. "Ron has season tickets."

Oliver nodded, then peered at Harry. He sniffed, frowned, and sniffed again. "You didn't go drinking anything while you were in the stands, did you?"

"No." Harry waited until Oliver had turned around, then rolled his eyes and followed him onto the pitch.

No sooner did he squint against the bright lights than a noise unlike anything Harry had ever heard erupted in the Quidditch stands. It was a roar - a wall of frenzied sound that began in the stands and rushed down to press Harry on all sides, filling his ears, nearly blowing back his hair. He staggered, and looked up.

"AND IT'S TRUE!" came a familiar announcer's voice, blasting above all the others, filling the stadium. "RUMOR CONFIRMED! HARRY POTTER, SECOND RESERVE SEEKER FOR THE CHUDLEY CANNONS, WILL BE PLAYING IN PLACE OF MAUREEN KNIGHT!" The crowd's mighty cheer doubled, drowning out the sound of the Kestrel supporters' harps and causing their leprechauns to scowl and stop throwing gold. Somewhere, someone began chanting Harry's name. Within seconds, everyone had taken up the chant, and the air was full of "HAR - RY POT - TER" punctuated by the rhythmic noise of thousands of hands clapping.

Harry's heart thudded into his stomach and his stomach dropped into his feet. He took a step closer to Oliver. "But I haven't done anything," he whispered.

"Looks like you'd better, then," was Oliver's comforting reply.

"THE MATCH WILL BEGIN IN FIFTEEN MINUTES" the referee called from the center of the pitch. "WRAP UP THE DRILLS."

Oliver clapped a hand on Harry's back. "Get used to the broom. Go on."

Doing his best to ignore the chanting crowd and the disturbing screams of "Harry, I love you!" and "Marry me, Harry!" Harry mounted the Firebolt 5. It felt like his own broom, only sleeker. He tucked his feet onto the golden rods and lifted off, getting the feel of the handle.

Perfect.

There was no other way to describe it. Harry knew that he would still be flying his old Nimbus 2000, if it hadn't been destroyed; that broom had been his first and it still grieved him to think about it. And he'd never give up his own Firebolt; it was an excellent broom, and it meant the world to him because of who it had come from and what he had done on it. But he couldn't pretend that either broom came up to this.

This was flying. He barely pressed left - he faced the left side of the pitch. He put both thumbs on the handle and gave the slightest hint of downward pressure - a flawless dive. Harry grinned and pulled up, adjusting to the feeling of having his feet tucked beneath him. He dove again, shooting towards the pitch, pulling up only when he knew he'd break his face if he didn't - he shot into the air, tried a sloth grip roll, and dropped into a dive so steep that the Firebolt 5 made a right angle with the pitch. He pulled up short and hovered as close to the ground as he could, rolled again, and climbed back into the sky to join his teammates. His heart was lighter than it had been in weeks, and he couldn't get the smile off his face. Why, oh, why, had he ever chosen the dragons? Dimly, he heard the continuing roar of the crowd, but he didn't care about them. He was going to play Quidditch and it was going to be fun. He sought out Ron among the now teeming crowd, and waved. Ron's fist shot into the air, and Harry could have sworn he heard his friend's voice shout above everyone else's.

He wished Ginny were here. And Hermione. Everyone.

"TEAM!" It was Oliver's voice, and Harry spun towards it. "HUDDLE!"

The Chudley Cannons made a tight circle, and all eyes were on Oliver. He looked at them each in turn, his face alight with confidence.

"We're going to do this," he said. "We've come up from nothing, we've beaten the odds, we've shown them all a thing or two, and are we going to stop now, when we're five up?"

"NO!" they shouted.

"Are we going to let them take out our Seeker and throw us off?"

"NO!"

"Are we going to march down to that mediwizarding wing when this is through, and put that Snitch in Maureen's hand?"

"YES!" Harry choked it out with everyone else, though his heart had slammed up into his throat.

"Give me your hands!" Oliver stuck out his own, and every player put a hand in the center. "And give me our motto!"

"WE! SHALL! CONQUER!"

The last word rang in the air, full of strength and vibrancy. It was contagious, and to Harry's relief the Cannons fans began chanting the team motto, rather than his name. They were still chanting a minute later; their determined voices pitted against the spirited strumming of the Kestrels' fans, when the two teams formed their semi-circles around the center of the pitch to wait for the release of the Quaffle.

"Ready, Harry?" Firoza whispered on his right, elbowing his arm.

"Yes," Harry lied.

"Good. Let's kick some arse."

The small referee appeared below them. He mounted his broom, blew his whistle and kicked open the crate at his feet - four balls sped into the air: two Bludgers, one Quaffle and (Harry barely got a glimpse of it before it flickered out of sight) the Golden Snitch.

"THERE THEY GO, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN - WYETH, KERRY, NEWLAND, POTTER - HOLLWEDEL, KIRKPATRICK, DE GOODE, HOLGATE - FRIAR AND WOOD AT THE GOALHOOPS -"

Chaos. That was how it felt to Harry, who had never played Quidditch like this. Obviously Oliver hadn't been joking at the end of summer tryouts, when he'd said that they were only just getting to the real practices. Harry knew enough to lift out of the circle as quickly as possible before he was smashed, and he pulled up on the nose of his broom. Still, he didn't escape the fray without getting jostled so hard on all sides that he had to work to keep his balance. He was slammed left and right by the Kestrel Chasers as they went in pursuit of the Quaffle, and he fought upwards, gripping the broom handle for dear life.

"NEWLAND WITH THE QUAFFLE - REVERSE PASS TO WYETH - WYETH TO THE HOOPS AND - OOOH, BLUDGER TO THE BROOMTAIL! NO GOAL!"

Harry was high enough now to see the game below him without getting tangled up in it, and he was amazed by the zigzagging speed with which the two teams had launched into play. Formations of orange and emerald green swerved around each other in vibrant, clashing patterns that Harry could hardly follow - a few were drills that he'd seen in the summer, but now the moves were faster than lightning and almost unrecognizable.

Tim Boomer, wearing a look of ugly determination, sped after the Bludger he'd just hit at Firoza. He swung around behind it and raised his bat. Only when Boomer glanced up and adjusted his arm did Harry realize that the Beater was aiming for him.

Smack! The Bludger flew with a force and speed that Harry had never had to worry about in school. Luckily, he had been watching, and dodged the iron ball with ease.

"NICE ROLL, POTTER! WELL, IT LOOKS LIKE BOOMER'S TAKING THE FIRST RULE IN THE BEATER'S BIBLE A BIT LITERALLY THIS EVENING. KIRKPATRICK WITH THE QUAFFLE AND A PASS TO HOLLWEDEL - SHE'S A WHIZ WITH THE WOOLLONGONG SHIMMY - YES, THERE IT IS, FAKING LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT AND AGAIN - SHE SHOOTS! BUT WOOD SAW IT COMING A MILE AWAY! GREAT SAVE!"

The Cannons' side of the stadium exploded in cheers. Orange flags waved, and banners bearing Oliver's name were unfurled and shaken madly. Oliver had grabbed the Quaffle with both hands; he lobbed it to Cole, who made herself as flat as possible and sped towards Paul and Medusa. The three closed into formation. With Medusa in the lead beating back interference, and Paul cutting between Cole and the opposing Chasers, they made it to the scoring area in record time. Medusa dove to catch a Bludger before it could interrupt at the crucial moment, and Paul pulled off to let Cole into the scoring area alone. She dove right, pulled up, and hurled the Quaffle.

"CANNONS SCORE!"

Friar had missed it by an inch. Cole, Paul and Medusa flew back to mid pitch with no time for celebration and play resumed in seconds.

Harry scanned the air around him, trying to memorize the area. Something shone - he caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye and pivoted - but no. It was the goal posts. There was another glint of something far below and Harry swung towards that - no again. Referee's whistle. Rapidly he catalogued every metallic flash: Marty's wedding band, the foil wrappers of the fans' crisps, the gleaming strings of the Kestrel supporters' harps and the bright yellow Ks on their players' robes. Under the glare of the ultra bright stadium flood lanterns, everything seemed to shine, and the additional distraction of flashbulbs, which popped madly from the press booth and on the sidelines, didn't help matters at all.

Adam Holgate didn't seem fazed by the lights and flashes, and Harry realized what an advantage his opponent had. Holgate had got used to night games in stadiums like this one; he hovered just outside the Kestrels' scoring area, hawk-eyeing every inch of pitch, his hands poised and ready on his broom. His gaze skimmed Harry. Their eyes locked - but only for the briefest moment before both of them looked away again, each intent on finding the Snitch. Harry felt the old competitive rush shoot through him, and he thrilled to it. He would catch it. He would.

"HOLLWEDEL, KIRKPATRICK AND DE GOODE IN THE HAWKSHEAD ATTACK FORMATION - NO SURPRISE THERE - AND DE GOODE'S GOT DE QUAFFLE! RIGHT, SORRY - THEY'VE SHUNTED THE CANNONS OUT OF THE WAY - NICE BLUDGER, GUDGEON! BUT DUNCAN BEATS IT BACK - DE GOODE SHOOTS - WOOD SAVES! BUT IT'S IN KIRKPATRICK'S HANDS NOW AND -"

Kyle Kirkpatrick lobbed the Quaffle with such force that, though Oliver managed to get a hand behind it, its momentum pushed his hand back through the goal hoop.

"KESTRELS SCORE! TEN ALL, AND THIS IS SHAPING UP TO BE A RIPPER OF A MATCH, YES SIR, THESE KESTRELS ARE HERE TO FIGHT!"

The teams pulled back. Oliver growled and chucked the Quaffle to Firoza, who pulled it under her arm and shot like a bullet straight at the goal, dodging Bludgers with incredible precision. Just as she flew under Harry, he saw Hollwedel approaching her from the right like a freight train, as Kirkpatrick closed in from the left, either to force Firoza off track or to smash her between them.

Harry dove. Before Hollwedel knew what had happened, Harry had zipped in front of her, barely missing being smashed himself. Hollwedel spun away, leaving Firoza open to dodge right. She looped under Kirkpatrick, and hurled the Quaffle through the goal hoop before Friar had time to recover. Twenty-ten.

"AND POTTER'S NOT ONLY A SEEKER, BUT A DIVERSIONARY TACTICIAN! EXCELLENT CHASING BY NEWLAND!"

Another announcer's voice joined in to counterpoint.

"YES, IT'S HARRY POTTER'S PROFESSIONAL DEBUT, AND IT REMAINS TO BE SEEN IF HIS POWERS EXTEND TO THE QUIDDITCH PITCH. HE'S UP AGAINST HOLGATE, WHO'S NO SLOUCH, LEE. POTTER WOULD DO BETTER TO KEEP HIS EYE ON THE PRIZE AND STAY OUT OF CHASER SKIRMISHES."

Just then, Holgate dove. Harry's whole body reacted - he followed instantly, hurtling after Holgate, who had a twenty-yard advantage. Harry couldn't see the Snitch yet, but he didn't care - he leaned forward and strained, pulling his feet up tight and shooting forward with increased speed. He gained five yards - ten - now he could have touched Holgate's broomtail - now he was nearly kissing the pitch -

There was no Snitch. Harry gripped the handle of the Firebolt 5 with both hands, and yanked up its nose not a second too soon. He was going too fast to pull out of the dive with any grace and he heard the crowd gasp as he fought to stay in control. He flipped over and clutched the broom with his knees, desperate to stay on.

Holgate had already soared off, cool as anything.

By the time Harry managed to sort himself out, breathing heavily and glaring after his opponent, play had already recommenced. His chest burned and he set his jaw - Holgate had played him for a fool, and won. He'd been Wronski Feinted, and very nearly killed. He heard a few jeers erupt from the stands.

"I'D SAY HE'S GOT HIS EYE ON THE PRIZE, SKIP!"

"WELL, HE'S CERTAINLY EAGER, LEE, BUT WHERE'S HIS HEAD? ANY SEEKER IN GOOD SHAPE WOULD'VE CALLED THAT FEINT TEN YARDS SOONER. IF THIS IS THE KIND OF PLAYING POTTER'S GOT TO OFFER, HE'LL BE LUCKY TO PULL AN ACCIDENTAL PLUMPTON PASS AND CATCH THE SNITCH UP HIS SLEEVE!"

"IF HE DOES IT LIKE THAT, HE'LL PULL A POTTER PASS, SKIP."

"SORRY - A POTTER PASS? I DON'T -"

"HE'LL SWALLOW IT."

The game rolled on and Firoza's deadly accurate reverse passes gave both Cole and Paul the opportunity to score again. Harry watched it all on high alert, but it wasn't until Cole scored a third time, bringing the score to fifty-ten and making the Cannons fans roar with delight, that Harry finally caught a telltale flash of gold in his peripheral vision.

He turned his head - yes. It was fluttering towards the pitch on the Kestrels' side, its color mingling with the strings of the harps in the stands. But Harry could distinguish it well enough; he flattened himself against his broom and sped at a downward angle towards the Snitch, flying so fast that the freezing wind cut against his face and made his ears ache. Holgate was nowhere in sight. He'd have it. Harry gained on the falling golden ball - he stretched out his hand, waiting to feel the cold, carved metal in his palm -

The Snitch had disappeared. Harry blinked and flew right over the boundary line.

"FOUL!" The referee's whistle blew. "PLAYER OUT OF BOUNDS! QUAFFLE TO THE KESTRELS!"

Below Harry there was an ugly, gleeful chorus of laughter. He looked down and saw the leprechaun mascots leering up at him, flicking their gold coins into the air. Harry's face burned. He pivoted and got back in bounds, feeling extremely stupid. Flashbulbs popped on all sides and the fans that had previously been shouting his name were now groaning and calling out inappropriate suggestions - "MIND YOU DON'T TRY FOR MY NOSE RING, POTTER!" - while the Kestrel fans tittered.

"Oi, SHUT IT, you great - dirty - " In the stands, Ron was beside himself. Both he and Mr. Gladrag stood pressed to the front wall of their box, totally ignoring the angry fans' repeated requests that they sit down, and railing at all those who dared to mock Harry.

"BETTER COVER UP MY SHOE BUCKLES!" yelled one chortling fan in the next aisle.

Ron clenched his teeth and drew his wand. "YOU - SODDING - "

"No, lad!" Gladrag grabbed Ron's arm. "You'll get thrown out, and you'll miss it! Put up those Omnioculars now, move!"

Ron recovered himself and refocused the Omnioculars on the game. He needed to save every second for Hermione, who would have a conniption fit if she missed any of it. "YOU'VE GOT IT, MATE!" he screamed, his voice getting hoarser by the second. "NEXT TIME, YOU'VE BLOODY WELL GOT IT!"

"You're doing great," Marty said, flying past Harry and giving him a wink. "Just you keep going for it."

Twice as on edge now, Harry returned to his bird's eye viewpoint of the game. He couldn't afford another distraction like that one - what if the real Snitch had appeared while he was busy with a bit of leprechaun gold? And after Oliver had warned him? He felt nauseated. Just the idea of it was enough to make him want to be sick.

"THE KESTRELS ARE BACK IN POSSESSION!"

Hollwedel took the Quaffle. Backed by De Goode, she made for Oliver and broke into another Shimmy right outside the scoring area. She faked right, released the Quaffle - Oliver nearly leapt off his broom to make the save. He missed. Irish harps began to play in victorious harmony.

"STODGING! NO GOAL!"

The harps came to a sour stop and the referee pointed to DeGoode, who had failed to pull back quickly enough, and was still half an inch inside the scoring area. DeGoode cursed freely and zoomed back to mid pitch.

"THE SCORE REMAINS FIFTY-TEN. QUAFFLE TO THE CANNONS."

Oliver, his face grim and glistening with sweat, retrieved the Quaffle and threw it to Paul, who passed off to Firoza. She shot upwards, out of the mob of Kestrels who threatened her on all sides, but they followed suit so quickly that it seemed she wouldn't have a chance to shoot for the hoops. Despite this, she pulled back her arm as if to throw. Kirkpatrick swept down on her, arm out to make a steal, but at the last second, she tossed the Quaffle straight down through all their feet, to where Cole was open and waiting. Cole put the Quaffle past a flustered Friar, and scored.

"SIXTY-TEN! AND AS GOOD A PORSKOFF PLOY AS I'VE EVER SEEN!"

Kirkpatrick recovered the Quaffle for the Kestrels and zoomed recklessly forward - but Paul sidled up behind him and snatched the Quaffle from under his arm. Boomer, who had been in a hover at the boundary-edge, just by the leprechauns, now pulled up and raced towards Paul. He had no Bludger, but managed to cut Paul off in the front by locking their broom handles.

"BLURTING!" cried the referee. "QUAFFLE TO THE CANNONS!"

The Kestrel fans complained loudly, and some began to chant Boomer's name.

"WHAT A DELIBERATE FOUL! LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE'S GETTING WORRIED, SKIP!"

"AND FOR NO GOOD REASON, LEE. IF THE SNITCH COMES OUT BEFORE THE CANNONS HAVE MANAGED ANOTHER TEN GOALS - AND IT'S LIKELY THAT IT WILL - THEN THE KESTRELS ARE PRACTICALLY A SHOE-IN FOR THE WIN."

"OH, IS THAT SO?"

"YES, THAT'S -" There was a loud blast of static, and the announcers were cut off in mid-sentence.

The Cannons took the Quaffle and Harry scoured the pitch, determined to miss nothing.

He was so focused that he didn't see the Bludger heading for his hand until it had almost crushed his fingers - he lurched forward in panic and felt the Bludger scrape along his back. Though he was protected by the heavy uniform cloak, there was enough pain to tell Harry that he was now missing a good stripe of skin. He grimaced and whirled to see Boomer not ten yards away, barely hiding laugher. Red-hot anger blazed in Harry, but he didn't have a chance to do anything about it.

Over Boomer's head, something glittered.

Harry felt a surge of triumph - Boomer had certainly got his attention at the wrong moment - this was it. He leaned forward and shot towards the Snitch, which was dropping lower and disappearing behind Boomer's head. Harry shifted angles and knocked Boomer to the side and out of his way. There was a painful - but somehow satisfying - collision of shoulder on shoulder and skull on skull; Harry's head began to throb but it didn't matter. He strained to find the Snitch. Where was it? It hadn't had time to disappear… it had to be right here…

The whole crowd gasped at once. They seemed to get to their feet as one body and lean towards the opposite end of the pitch. Harry's head snapped to the place where they were looking and his blood ran cold.

There was the Snitch. Half the pitch away, its silver wings unmistakable against the shining green grass. And Holgate was right on top of it.

There was no hope. Knowing that the game was over, and flooded with a bitter, sickening disappointment, Harry hurried forward anyway, determined to make an effort, unable to sit still when the Snitch was in sight. But Holgate's hand was already stretched out, and the Snitch was ten feet from his fingers.

THWACK!

Marty and Medusa had brought their bats down simultaneously on a Bludger. It went speeding towards the Snitch, flying straight and true and faster than Harry had ever seen a Bludger go. It grazed Holgate's outstretched fingers, making the Kestrels' Seeker yelp and recoil. Surprise and obvious pain threw Holgate off balance and he spiraled away from his target.

The Snitch scarpered off.

"BRILLIANT!" Lee's voice was hoarse, and the whole crowd could now hear some kind of struggle happening in the press box, along with the announcements. "THE MOST ACCURATE DOPPLEBEATER DEFENSE I'VE EVER SEEN!"

"JUST AS IMPRESSIVE WAS HOLGATE'S PINPOINT PRECISION - THE MATCH WAS NEARLY OVER RIGHT THERE, WASN'T IT, LEE?"

"NOT A CHANCE, SKIP, YOU WANK-"

"AND CAN ANYONE TELL ME WHY POTTER WAS DANCING AROUND WITH BOOMER WHEN THE SNITCH FINALLY DECIDED TO SHOW ITSELF? HE'S CERTAINLY FORTUNATE TO BE FLYING WITH SUCH A FINE TEAM TONIGHT - APPARENTLY, WOOD'S RESERVES ARE WELL BELOW THE STANDARD OF HIS FIRST STRING -" There was another blast of static, and the announcer's voices cut out again.

It still didn't make sense. Harry's back ached and the uncomfortable stickiness inside his shirt told him he was bleeding hard. He glanced back at the spot where he'd been hit by the Bludger, and tried to work it out. He'd seen something. It hadn't been his imagination, and it had been the size of a Snitch.

Or a Galleon coin.

Harry narrowed his eyes at Boomer, who smirked up at him from below. Boomer had been hovering next to the leprechauns… Perhaps he'd taken a leaf out of their book and decided to try a diversionary tactic of his own, however illegal…

"Didn't you hear that, Harry?" Medusa said, flying up to him red faced and panting. "They're taking a penalty shot, we have to clear out."

"What for?" Harry asked, dismayed.

"Blatching and Cobbing. They're calling you on that collision with Boomer and a double foul's a penalty. Come on, get back behind center."

He'd been hit, he'd almost lost the game, and he'd been duped into fouling twice. Irritated with himself and furious with Boomer, Harry flew back to mid pitch and watched Kyle Kirkpatrick make toward Oliver, Quaffle in hand. Oliver flew a rapid double eight loop, seeming to block all three hoops at once. But of course that was impossible, and as soon as Oliver was as far right as his looping took him, Kirkpatrick shot left. Harry clutched his broom and winced - it didn't seem possible to stop the goal, but Oliver looped swiftly around again, curled his legs around his broom, and flung himself sideways in front of the Quaffle, taking it right in the chest.

"NO GOAL!"

The crowd stamped and cheered, and Harry exhaled. He hadn't even realized that he'd been holding his breath.

The match resumed at twice its previous speed and brutality. The Kestrels now threw themselves entirely into defense and Quaffle-stealing, but their efforts seemed to result in more accidental anatomy-seizing than anything else, and their errors put the Quaffle back in the hands of the Cannons again and again. Goal after goal went past Abbie Friar, who was wearing down with every shot. Not even Boomer, whose double-handed assaults on the Bludgers should have resulted in several serious injuries to the Cannons, seemed able to break their strength and focus. They were simply a stunning team; Oliver's harsh practice schedule had certainly paid off and Harry found himself wishing he could watch their maneuvers from the stands. As it was, he sped from corner to corner, unblinking, making sure to be on all sides of play so that nothing could escape his sight. He would not fail again.

"ONE HUNDRED FORTY - TEN!" cried the referee. "QUAFFLE TO THE KESTRELS!"

It hardly mattered, though, Harry reflected, whether he caught the Snitch or not. Unless it came out right now, there was a good chance that the Cannons were going to win it without him.

Something sparkled in the air on his right.

Harry swerved towards it, lurched forward - and stopped. Whatever it had been, it had already vanished, and Boomer was sitting close to the spot where he'd just seen it. The Kestrels' Beater was looking, perhaps too deliberately, in the other direction.

"What the hell are you doing?" Harry hollered at his back. Boomer didn't turn. But he was tossing out leprechaun gold, Harry was sure of it now, and he flew towards Oliver as fast as he could.

"Call a time out!" he yelled, approaching the goal hoops.

Oliver didn't look at him, so intent was he on watching the movements of the Quaffle, which was still in his Chasers' hands at the other end of the pitch. "Why?" he barked. "What's happening?"

"It's Boomer - he's got a pocket full of leprechaun gold and he's tossing it out as a distraction," Harry panted, watching Oliver's face go scarlet with rage.

"That ---" and Oliver called Boomer exactly what Ron would've.

"That's what had me going before," Harry explained hurriedly, still scanning the pitch for fear that the Snitch would choose this moment to flutter out and catch him off guard yet again. "Get the ref to check him, I'll bet he's still got some on him - call a time out -"

"Done."

Oliver raised his arms to make the giant T that signaled the need for a pause - but before he had done it, there was a flash of light in the center of the pitch.

Harry spun towards it as if magnetized, and strained his eyes as hard as he could. Was that… silver and gold…? And was it flying… up?

"DON'T CALL ANYTHING!" he shouted frantically. Without wasting another second, he shot forward towards what he knew was the Golden Snitch, and the closer he got, the more obvious it became; it shivered and hovered and threatened to dart at any second. It had to be his.

"YEAH, HARRY! IT'S YOURS!"

It was Ron's voice, and his single, hoarse cheer ignited an agitated hum which swept the stands. The noise started low and gained momentum as Harry did, buzzing and shrieking, the rumble of cheers and shouts growing until its volume made the air seem to vibrate, sending Harry forward even faster.

"GO ON, HARRY!" Oliver bellowed behind him. "CATCH IT, MAN!"

The dark world outside the pitch and the bright stadium around him seemed to narrow down to one walnut-sized point as Harry sped forward, his back throbbing, his fingers stiff with cold, his hair sleeking back in the wind. On the opposite side of the Snitch, equally as far from it as he was, Harry saw the dim blur of emerald green and yellow that he knew must be Adam Holgate, racing headlong towards him. It hardly mattered. Holgate would have to smash right into him if he wanted that Snitch.

Twenty yards - Harry flattened to his broom. The world was gone in a haze of speed. Fifteen - he stretched out one hand. His eyes stung in the wind, even behind his glasses, but he forced them to stay open; he would not blink. Ten - he let go with both hands and stretched towards the silver wings that uncurled and beat and flashed and toyed with him. Five yards - Harry rocketed forward without a care for his safety - there was Holgate, just on the other side of the Snitch, going just as fast as he was, looking just as unlikely to back away… Three yards…. Two…

Harry stretched until he thought his arm would come out of the socket.

CRUNCH!

Pain. Agonizing pain - his arm hadn't come out of the socket, but had gone into it instead. There was a gasp and groan from the crowd. Harry gripped the broom with his left hand which, for a moment, still seemed to be working, but it didn't last. The pain dulled every other sense, and Harry felt his muscles relax… gravity gave way…

Hitting the ground wasn't as bad as it should have been. Harry thought he'd heard someone yell when he was on his way down - maybe it had been Oliver. Oliver had managed to slow down Knight's body, after all. It was probably the same spell. Harry's thoughts grew fuzzier. The ultra bright stadium lanterns and the dark, dark sky swam above his head, mixing together in his blurred vision to make a lovely mess of light.

Beside him, someone groaned miserably. Harry managed to turn his head.

Holgate lay beside him, his eyes shut and his mouth open, blood gushing out of his left ear and scrape marks all along his face. Harry couldn't move his right hand. Perhaps his hand and Holgate's head had…

"Harry - oh, Harry -"

Harry couldn't turn his head far enough to see the owner of that voice, but he knew who it was, and regardless of the pain in his arm, a warm feeling flooded his stomach. "Ginny," he croaked. "You're… here?"

"Yes of course - I heard your name on the wireless and came right up - but they won't let me in there and oh, you're talking - thank god- I thought -"

"Shh, Ginny, it's all right." The voice was Ron's. He sounded shaken and subdued, not at all like he'd looked up there in the stands.

"Harry, can you hear what I'm saying?" It was a mediwizard. His kind, black face loomed above Harry's, and his white teeth flashed. "Can you tell me your name, son?"

"It's… Harry Potter."

"Good. And how old are you?"

Harry thought about it. "Eighteen?"

"Where do you live?"

"Stagsden."

"Who is the Minister of Magic?"

Harry laughed weakly. "Arthur Weasley. I… I don't have a concussion. It's my arm. My arm - hurts." He had a sudden vision of Lockhart, standing above him and nancying about with a shiny wand. He cringed at the memory. "Be careful," he muttered.

The mediwizard touched his arm gently, near the shoulder. "Here?" he said, but before had even got the word out, Harry had hollered in pain. "All right," said the mediwizard. "All right. We'll get you sorted. Just lie still now."

Moments later, Harry was floated into the air. He lay suspended, feeling surprisingly little pain. Mostly there was just a shadowy haze… and a funny thumping on his arm. It made the pain worse.

"Something…" he managed. "My arm - my elbow - is bouncing."

The mediwizard chuckled. "It may feel that way, but don't you worry, we'll get it all taken care of, Mr. Potter."

"No…" The thumping had greatly increased and it didn't seem to be a part of his arm. There was something…

Harry's heart froze with hope.

"There's something in my sleeve," he whispered. "Look up my sleeve. Hurry."

The mediwizard sighed. "Delirious," he muttered, but obligingly lifted the sleeve cuff of Harry's orange robes, and rolled them back.

Harry reached across his body with his left hand. He groped along his wrist guard to the hot, swollen skin of his elbow until his hand closed around something moving. Something alight. Something cold and small and -

"I caught it," he breathed. "I caught it."

The Snitch beat helplessly against his palm, shivering and twitching, and unfurling its wings between his fingers.

"I caught it," he rasped louder. "Oliver - where's Oliver Wood?"

"Yeah, Harry!" came Ron's strangled cry, from somewhere beyond Harry's field of vision.

Ginny gave a sob.

Oliver said nothing, but a moment later, his face came into view. His eyes were full of tears. "I knew you would," was all he said.

All around Harry, flashbulbs began to pop. He heard the sound of a thousand questions being asked at once, felt the careless, inhumane jostling of what could only have been the press. He shut his eyes.

Harry's hand uncurled. He felt the Snitch lift off, just before the world went black.

~*~

A/N II: Thanks to the beta readers of the month: Cap'n Kathy, CoKerry, Firelocks and Jedi B. Special thanks to Arabella's sister, Mosey Posey, who is an awesome athlete and who, in another grand effort to prove that she is NOT an obsessive Harry Potter fan, sat down and sorted out an elaborate Quidditch season schedule which makes it possible for us to be really exact.

A/N III: Yeah, we fudged PoV during the Quidditch match. But we can only blame JKR for setting such a horrible example of the same, in canon.