Due to a complicated set of circumstances...er...well...I accidentally wrote a chapter out of its correct chronological order. Yes, there are now eleven chapters, but the new one is Chapter Ten. So, if you started reading this story before Chapter Eleven was up, I suggest you start over at Eight or Nine, to de-confuse-ify yourself. If there is any sort of plot discrepancy, please inform me and I would be happy to try to fix it. Thanks!! Please review!!

Chapter Eleven: Machinations

In November, the Quidditch season began. Coincidentally, the first game of the year pitted Slytherin against Gryffindor. Of course, Flint was confident that our House would win, but I was still worried. The captain of the team hadn't seen Potter's spectacular dive to catch the Rememberall in Flying class! Then again, I had never seen the Slytherin Seeker in action, so I couldn't make a very good comparison.

From Draco's attitude, you would have thought that Gryffindor had already forfeited the match. "So what if old scar-head has a nice broom?" he said to me, rolling his eyes. "No one else on the team does! Besides, I'm betting he'd fall off his broom if there was a stiff breeze outside."

Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed, and joined in on the pre-game festivities taking place in the Slytherin common room. Trikkit had managed to "borrow" a small feast from the kitchen; although I'm not sure how she and fifteen upperclassmen had arranged to parade through Hogwarts carrying loads of food, without being noticed. Trays of cakes, tarts, puddings, and other desserts were passed around the room, amidst cheerful laughter and conversation.

I was amazed. "Uh, Draco?"

"Hmmm?" he mumbled, having just stuffed a giant brownie in his mouth.

"Well, I was wondering...why are we celebrating before the game?"
"Why not?" he replied, after swallowing.

My mouth twisted into a half-frown. "Perhaps because we haven't won yet. Perhaps because we don't want our players be overconfident for the game. Oh, and perhaps we don't want a Beater on a sugar-high either," I finished sarcastically. Draco shook his head, grinning madly.

"Oh, come off it!" he chortled. "Slytherin won't lose. Slytherin can't lose. You'll see." Then he went off to give the Keeper some advice that he had found in a very obscure Quidditch book.

Realizing there was nothing I could do to change his mind, or any of the other partying Slytherins', I sat down to enjoy a butterscotch pudding. Presently, another wave of "waiters" arrived, this time carrying pitchers of hot chocolate, pumpkin cider, and a drink I'd never tried before called butterbeer.

Several people on the victuals crew were weaving around the room handing out drinks.

"What would you like, Andromeda?" I heard an older boy's voice say. I looked up quickly. It was Bram Aurvail, as handsome as ever. Pushing my glasses back up my nose, I frantically tried to think of something intelligent to say. What did I want to drink? I had known a minute ago...

The prefect smiled lopsidedly. "I know. The choice range is daunting. Me, I can never decide between butterbeer and pumpkin cider. But, thinking on your recent experiences with pumpkin juice..." (I grimaced inwardly as I remembered the start of term feast) "...I would recommend the butterbeer. It's great stuff. Have a mug."

Taking the frothy drink with a nervous smile and a stiff nod, I sipped cautiously. Instantly, a warm feeling spread throughout my entire body, as if summer had come early. Glancing up to thank Bram, I found that he had moved on to another part of the room, still handing out beverages. With chagrin, I wished I had said "thank you" or even "thanks" instead of just nodding like a mute.

However, I couldn't stay gloomy long with a mug of butterbeer in my hands and a House full of Slytherins throwing magical confetti with their wands. Draco returned to tell me about the team's strategies, which involved speed, difficult maneuvers, and taking advantage of slight loop-holes in the rules.

From across the room, I saw Carol Adett glance at her wristwatch and pale. "The game's about the start!" she yelled to the group. "Flint, get your team down to the field, you have to be ready to fly in ten minutes!" A murmur of distress arose, but Flint just smirked.

"Ten!" he said. "You should have seen the time we did it in three." However, he and the team left the House right away, accompanied by about half of the Slytherins. I decided to change before leaving, to wear something more spirited than the honey-colored robes I had on at the moment.

Once I was all decked out in Slytherin robes, a bright green hat, and a green and silver scarf, I headed through the common room and out its stone door. Outside, I found Draco waiting for me, with Crabbe at his side.

"I sent Goyle ahead to save us some seats," he explained. "Come on, or we'll miss the beginning!" We raced down the halls as fast as we could, and sprinted across the field to the Quidditch stadium. After climbing a very long set of stairs, we reached the top of the stands. Huge banners with Slytherin's emblem hung from the sides. As Flint and his team flew into sight, everyone in the stands wearing green erupted in a roar of applause. Strangely, it seemed that about three-quarters of the spectators were wearing red; there couldn't be that many Gryffindors at Hogwarts...

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and the game began. Instantly, fourteen blurs sped through the air. The Quaffle flew back and forth, as a pair of Slytherin Chasers passed it to each other, drawing nearer to the goal hoops. Suddenly, an angry Bludger forced one of the Chasers to veer sideways; he couldn't catch the Quaffle in time. It soared right into the hands of a Gryffindor Chaser, who raced to the opposite end of the field, flanked by two Beaters who looked remarkably alike.

The game continued at a furious pace, and Slytherin quickly took the lead. No one had seen the Snitch yet. All of a sudden, I noticed that Potter's flying style was very odd. Maybe he was trying to show off, but it looked like his broom was dancing about like a marionette. Then I realized that he had no control over his broomstick; perhaps someone was hexing him!

I poked Draco in the ribs with my elbow and pointed at Potter. "Look, his broom's gone crazy!"

Draco stared in disbelief, Inge Fernfrond shrieked and covered her eyes, and Joel Shema pulled out The Pocket Field Guide to Identifying Unusual Spells. The chubby little book looked very similar to a bird-watcher's reference that Mother owned, and a volume about precious stones that Father enjoyed so much. Joel flipped through the pages until he found a picture of a Quidditch player dangling off her broom, which was jerking around madly.

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "It's a Bucking Broom hex! Apparently, a pretty strong one. You have to recite an incantation and keep eye contact for it to work."

"Who would want to kill Harry Potter?" Inge asked in a quavering voice. Since she had never shown a great liking of Potter, I think she was more worried that the killer would come after her next.

Draco snorted. "Hmmm, let's see...everyone?!"

Carol interrupted before he could continue. "It probably won't kill him. Besides, this is Dark magic! There's not much that can interfere with a broomstick, because its own magic is so unshakable. The real question is: who would risk using the Dark Arts to kill Harry Potter, while Dumbledore is here?"

Everyone was silent for a moment. Only a very foolish witch or wizard would try to pull something shady with Hogwarts' Headmaster around. After examining the teacher's stand for a moment, I came to a startling conclusion.

"Dumbledore's not here!" I exclaimed. "He must be away on some kind of important business. But..." I squinted across the field. "O my goodness!" I breathed.

Draco swore, seeing it at the same time I did. Professor Snape's robes had somehow caught fire! Almost instantly, most of the adults were helping him extinguish the flames. Timid Professor Quirrell looked terrified; I suddenly realized that he and Inge probably had the same mindset.

"Not only is someone trying to kill Potter," I said, "but they're also after Professor Snape. I bet it's the same person that let the troll in on Halloween! But, if Snape could slay a dragon, a bit of fire on his robes wouldn't hurt him. Come to think of it, neither would a mountain troll. This is getting weird."

Draco hesitated. "Despite Father being...well...indisposed...I wish he was here," he said at last. "He could tell us...Bloody hell!" he shouted, pointing to the field.

Ignoring Inge's shrieks of protest, I whipped around to face the Quidditch game. Potter was lying on the ground, holding in one hand...the Golden Snitch! The crowd went absolutely wild.

"How did that happen!?" Draco yelled. "One minute, he was about to fall off his broom, then suddenly he wins the game!"

Carol grinned devilishly. "Maybe he did fall, and he just caught the Snitch on the way down."

Ironically, very few of the Slytherins had seen what had happened, because most were too distracted by the fact that the Head of Slytherin House had caught fire. Or, they had been watching the Quaffle instead. As the students drained slowly out of the stands and back into the school, Troy Hatter recounted the end of the game to everyone.

"It was like this," he began. "First, Potter's broom was like, poof! And it stopped dancing around. So then the dude looked around, and he saw the Snitch. He did this awesome thing, it was like, the best dive I've ever seen. And when he crashed on the ground, there was no Snitch! And, wouldn't you know, he looked like he was gonna hurl. Only, instead of being sick, he, like, spat out the Snitch! It was like, in his mouth, man!"

By November, I had gotten used to Troy's unusual manner of speaking. However, it never failed to make me laugh. I stifled a chuckle as he drew out the word "man" to several times its normal length. Unlike Professor Quirrell, Troy came from America, where everyone talked funny; Quirrell's problem was serious, but Troy's was just plain hilarious.

When we got back to the common room, no one was in the mood to celebrate, probably because the game had ended in a miserable defeat for Slytherin. Flint glared daggers at Troy, looking like he would maim the first year if he so much as said, "Potter" or "the dude" one more time. Troy noticed the hostility of many of the Slytherins, and put up his hands defensively.

"Hey, man, I'm not rooting for Gryffindor! I'm just telling it like it happened!" he said quickly. But after that, he kept his Quidditch storytelling to a minimum, especially when Flint was around.

To Be Continued...

Disclaimer: I own Andromeda, Inge Fernfrond, Carol Adett, Bram Aurvail, Trikkit, Troy Hatter, Joel Shema, The Pocket Field Guide to Identifying Unusual Spells, and anything else that you can't find in JKR's works or the movies. And I am not insulting Americans, just pointing out a peculiarity in the way some of them speak. Chloe Simmons belongs to WildMage42...the story will be up someday, I'll tell you when.