Disclaimer: This may come as quite a shock, I know, but I don't own Charlie Weasley or any of the many wonderful characters of the world of Harry Potter, nor am I profiting in any way from this beyond the joy of writing and sharing my story.
Author's Notes: I actually posted this story a while back under a different name, so if you've seen this before, I'm not plagiarizing! I just want to have all my stories together under Sugar Thief, and in any case, I've made some changes and added some scenes since first I posted it last year. Enjoy!
Part One:
Visions of Snitches
~ * ~
"I need you to keep us more than forty points up, all right? Or else I can't go for the Snitch because we'll win the match but lose the Cup. You hear me? I can't stress this enough. You must keep us more than forty -"
"WE KNOW, CHARLIE!" Mickey yelled.
Charlie glowered. "Listen here, you lot," he said fiercely. "This is no time to be getting cocky. We cannot afford to underestimate our opponent. Slytherin's put together a strong side this year! We must win!"
"Charlie," the three Gryffindor Chasers chorused. "We. Know."
It was late afternoon. Orange light slanted through the arched windows of the crowded Gryffindor common room, illuminating the fond exasperation on the faces of Shea Doherty, Paddy Quinn, and Fiona "Mickey" McBroome. All three were flushed from a particularly windy practice session and still in their scarlet Quidditch robes.
"Listen, mate," Shea said, looking at Charlie's popping eyes with some alarm. "You need to relax. Really. The match isn't for three more days."
Charlie blinked and stared at them for a moment with unfocused eyes. Then he gave a moan and sank back into a squashy armchair with his face in his hands.
"I know," he said, his voice muffled. "I'm sorry. I just keep thinking of all the things that could go wrong . . ."
"Charlie." Mickey's voice was sharp. "Have you slept at all in the last forty-eight hours?"
Charlie heaved a sigh and looked up at her. She had her arms crossed and was watching him through narrowed eyes.
"No," he admitted.
"I thought so. Look, obsessing isn't going to do us any good if our Seeker falls asleep on his broom on Saturday."
"I'm not about to fall --" Charlie began indignantly.
Paddy cut him off swiftly. "Get your arse into bed, Weasley," he ordered.
"But . . ."
"Shut it, Charlie," Mickey interrupted authoritatively, tossing back her wild mane of brown curls. "Shea, Paddy, you have my permission to drag him if he doesn't cooperate."
Charlie could tell she was serious, but he rallied one last time.
"I have homework!" he protested, a little half-heartedly. Bed actually sounded rather good, now that they mentioned it.
"Like hell you've got homework," Paddy scoffed. "The holidays just ended. It can wait. Out with you, or I'll get Drake," he added threateningly.
Charlie had to smile. Drake Donnelly was a Gryffindor Beater who could probably take on Hagrid in a wrestling match and pull out a draw. He conceded defeat.
"Okay, okay," he muttered. "I'm going. Happy?"
"Yeah," Shea said cheerfully. "Now sod off, Weasley. We'll bring you some dinner if you're still conscious later." He clapped Charlie on the back. "I know it's probably useless to say so, but try not to dream about Quidditch. Get your mind off it for a while."
"Thanks," said Charlie dryly. "I'll do that."
"Well, I'm off," Paddy said brightly. "Think I'll head off to a dark closet somewhere -- care to join me, Mickey?" He waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively.
She rolled her eyes with a bit of a grin and dug an elbow into his ribs, and with an "Oof!" he withdrew the arm that had been snaking across her shoulders as he spoke.
Charlie trudged up the spiral stair slowly, carrying his pride and joy, his Cleansweep Five, over his shoulder. He entered the circular seventh-year dormitory and was placing his broomstick reverently in his trunk when a grumpy voice spoke from the other side of the room.
"Well, would you look at what the cat dragged in. Merlin's beard, do you look like hell."
"Spare me the editorial, Morrie," Charlie muttered without turning around.
"Oh, excuse me," was the testy reply. "You know, I get no appreciation whatsoever around here. I'm just trying to do my job, be helpful, but, nooo. If you'd rather wander around scruffy and disgusting all the time, then fine, by all means, I'll just keep my comments to myself."
"Yeah, thanks," Charlie said, pulling off his robes and reaching for a T-shirt.
"Yeah, thanks," the voice mimicked peevishly. "You do realize you have bags under your eyes the size of Snitches, don't you?"
"That," Charlie said shortly, "would be why I am going to sleep now."
"Without showering?" the voice said slyly. "I bet the ladies really go for that."
Charlie dropped his robes in a heap on the floor, turned around, walked directly to the mirror over his bed, took it down off the wall, and, ignoring its yells of protest, shut it away in his trunk.
Mirrors, he thought resentfully. Pah. Who needs them?
As he turned away, however, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror that hung over Shea's bed.
He didn't look that bad, he thought defensively, studying the mirror, which, unlike the smart-mouthed gift from his mother, remained silent. A strong, freckle-faced young man looked back at him. Sure, there were bags under his eyes, and, okay, his hair was looking more wildly rumpled and curly than usual, and, yes, he needed to shave, but … oh, all right, he looked like hell.
He turned away with a sigh, collapsed on his four-poster, and stared at the ceiling, deep in thought.
He had been on the Gryffindor House Quidditch team since his second year, beginning as a reserve Seeker. Before the year was out, however, the Captain had granted him the first-string spot over a fifth-year veteran who had never really forgiven him. He'd never been quite as brilliant at his studies as Bill had; the only subject in which he really excelled was Care of Magical Creatures with Professor Kettleburn. He shared Hagrid's love of fantastic beasts, and the bigger the better. He could never quite understand how Bill found Ancient Runes and Arithmancy so fascinating; to Charlie, they were a load of abstract nonsense he could never quite wrap his brain around. He had to be able to see and touch what he was studying for it to make sense. Quidditch made a lot of sense. He had eaten, slept, and breathed it since he was old enough to understand the rules.
And now he was Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He'd waited years for the honor, for all the older players to graduate, and now, in his final year at Hogwarts, it was finally his. He hated to admit it even to himself, but he was terrified. Absolutely, completely, scream-your-lungs-out terrified. He couldn't shake the ominous feeling that when the whistle blew on Saturday he was going to pass out.
Gryffindor's name had been on the coveted Cup for the last four years, and if it was Slytherin's this year, Charlie was going to dive himself down to the bottom of the lake.
He hadn't realized it was so much pressure, being Captain. If they lost . . . If he let everyone down . . .
But he shouldn't worry, he told himself. His team was close-knit and confident, a small army of smart players that wasn't afraid to try something absolutely crazy if the situation called for it. They'd worked damn hard the last few months, and he was fiercely proud of them. They were quite a group.
Although he was a fifth-year, this was only Drake's second year on the team. A shy Muggle-born student, he'd come out for the team only when Charlie's old Captain, Chester Martin, had literally dragged him onto the pitch, thrust a club into his hand, and set him loose on a pair of Bludgers. He was such a natural and his size so intimidating that he was one of Gryffindor's deadliest weapons.
Wes Payton was the other Beater. The physical contrast between Wes and Drake could hardly have been greater; Drake was taller than Wes by a head, with great muscular arms, while Wes, a fourth-year, was lean and wiry but deceptively powerful, and his aim was absolutely deadly.
Emma Chapman, the Keeper, was petite and blond, but opposing teams had quickly learned not to underestimate her because of her size. She was quick and agile and would literally do anything to stop the other team from scoring. Charlie grinned to himself as he thought back to a particularly memorable game last year in which she had actually jumped off her broom to stop the Quaffle. Luckily, a few teachers had been sitting fairly close by and they'd been able to slow her down enough that she'd escaped with just a sprained ankle.
And as for Shea, Paddy, and Mickey, well, they were the strongest Chaser threesome Hogwarts had seen in a long time. They knew each other inside and out and could practically read each other's thoughts, but it was a wonder they got anything done at practice, with Mickey having to spend half her time fending Paddy off. Charlie scowled. Sometimes that bothered him more than he cared to admit. Paddy was one of those devilishly charming blokes who had girls coming out his ears. Why did he have to go chasing Mickey? Not that it really made much difference; she was having none of it. In fact, it had become sort of a game between the two of them. Innocent fun. Nothing to get worked up about.
"Charlie?"
He came to with a jolt, realizing that he'd been drifting off to sleep. "What?" he mumbled rather thickly.
The dormitory door opened and a small, red-headed figure with horn-rimmed glasses poked his head in. Charlie groaned.
"Not now, Perce, I'm trying to sleep."
Percy's face fell. "Oh," he said dejectedly, and closed the door slowly.
Charlie frowned as his big brother instincts kicked in, telling him something wasn't quite right. Was that a quiver he'd heard in Percy's voice? Was that a sniffle he heard now from behind the door?
"Percy?"
The door opened again immediately. "Yes?" Percy said hopefully.
Charlie sighed. "C'mere. What's the matter?"
Percy pressed his mouth into a trembling line, an eleven-year-old boy struggling desperately not to give in to the ultimate humiliation of crying.
"In . . . in . . ." he choked out. "I mean . . ."
He lost the battle. His face crumpled and tears trickled down his cheeks as he flung himself onto the bed beside Charlie and sobbed.
Charlie put a comforting arm around his brother's scrawny, shaking shoulders. "Easy, Perce. What happened?"
"T-today, in Double Transfiguration-"
"Ah," Charlie said with a frown. "Say no more. Which one of the little maggots was it this time?"
"Cecil Avery and Eben Marston," Percy wailed, dashing away angry tears. "They were making fun of me because I read the next chapter ahead of time, the one that talks about transfiguring mice into snuffboxes, and then they made fun of my robes because they're secondhand, and they said Dad can't earn enough to support us because he's a poor excuse for a wizard, and he ought to snap his wand in half and live as a Muggle, if he loves them so much, and . . ."
Charlie was seeing red. Who did these kids think they were, anyway? Just because a kid was smarter than them and wore glasses, they thought that gave them the right to make his life a living hell. It never ceased to amaze him how cruel children could be. He'd dealt with his share of unpleasantness in his first few years at Hogwarts -- still did, as a matter of fact -- but he'd never had to endure what Percy did.
". . . so then I told Professor McGonagall that the quills they were sucking on were sugar quills and she got mad and took ten points from Slytherin apiece."
Charlie winced. "Oh, now, maybe that wasn't such a good move, Perce. No one likes a snitch -- well, except for the golden kind," he amended with a grin.
"They deserved it," Percy said defiantly. "Sugar quills aren't allowed in class -- and Eben pulled Penny Clearwater's braids yesterday in Flying and made her cry, so I'm glad I told. I'd do it again, too. But then after I left class they hexed me from behind -- Leg-Locker Curse."
"Those little . . ." Charlie growled.
"And then," Percy said, his tears beginning to fall faster, "they took my bag and poured ink all over my books, and I think they stole my Charms homework because it wasn't there when it was time to turn it in, and it's the first time I've ever missed handing in a homework assignment, and now Professor Flitwick hates me, and I won't get to be a prefect and take points off Eben and Cecil!" His voice rose passionately as he spoke and he finished with a loud wail.
Charlie's eyes blazed. Weasley pride had been insulted. This could not be borne.
"Percy," he said grimly, "you can tell those little pricks that the next time they hex you, make fun of you, or bother you in any way, your big brother Charlie is going to personally hunt them down and bang their miserable little heads together. Okay?"
Percy lit up. "Really?" he said, giving a little hiccoughing laugh of delight.
"Really."
Percy beamed up at him, his freckled face red and splotchy with tears. "Thanks, Charlie!"
"No problem. And trust me, Professor Flitwick does not hate you. It's just one homework assignment." He peered down at his brother. "You going to be all right?"
Percy nodded, took off his glasses, and wiped his eyes. He took a deep breath to bring himself under control, clearly trying to eliminate all traces of his tears before he walked back out into the crowded common room.
"Good. Then get out of here and leave me in peace," Charlie said, grinning so Percy would know he was joking. "You're nothing but a bloody whinging pain in the arse."
Percy, who disapproved of such language, jumped to his feet and opened his mouth to say something, but Charlie swatted his behind and sent him on his way toward the door with an affectionate "See you later, runt."
"See you, Charlie!" Percy called. The door closed, and Charlie stretched out again on his bed with a yawn and a chuckle.
As he dozed off, visions of Snitches danced in his head.
~ * ~
In all of his years on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Charlie had never seen anything like the anticipation surrounding this match. The excitement in the corridors was palpable; everyone felt it. Everywhere Charlie went, Gryffindors and Slytherins were looking daggers at one another and prefects were busily deducting House points for everything from hexes to outright brawling on the way to classes. In Herbology with the Slytherins on Thursday, the Slytherin Keeper, Wade Warrington, tried to prick Charlie with a thorn from a Somnolent Shrub; Shea tackled him from behind and a riot ensued. Branches and thorns flew thickly, and when the dust cleared, about half the class was slumbering peacefully on the greenhouse floor.
At lunch (he had been fortunate enough to escape without being pricked, but he was nursing a few bruises and scrapes), Charlie picked at his food, wishing Shea was there -- he was off being revived by Madam Pomfrey after his heroic stand in Greenhouse Four. They'd been best friends since meeting their very first day at Hogwarts, and he really needed somebody to take his mind off Quidditch for a while.
He forced himself to eat because eating was something necessary that one did, and it would be a bad idea to starve himself before the biggest match of his life. He'd never been able to eat much before Quidditch matches, but his appetite had set a new record this time by deserting him a full week before the big day. He choked down a few bites of steak-and-kidney pie, eyed his plate, decided that was plenty, and left for Gryffindor Tower to talk to his broom for the fifth time that day.
~ * ~
On Friday, Charlie woke to find that he'd tossed and turned so much during the night that he'd fallen out of bed. He was lying on the floor in a tangle of blankets, his Cleansweep tucked under his arm.
Shea had left without waking him. Probably making sure I get enough rest, Charlie thought dryly. Thanks, Mum.
He decided -- rather unwisely -- to go down to breakfast alone.
On his way down to the Great Hall, three Slytherins tried to trip him, a girl almost put his eye out with her wand, and three well-placed hexes shot at him from behind. Luckily, he'd always been rather good at Hex Deflection and he managed to block the first two, but the third left him flicking frantically through the pages of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7 for the countercurse to an Itching Hex. Ah, well. All in a day's work.
"What happened to you?" Mickey asked in some surprise as he slid into a seat at the Gryffindor table by his teammates.
He realized that he was looking slightly the worse for wear after running the gauntlet to get downstairs. His face was slightly raw from scratching, his robes were hanging off his shoulder, and he could feel a bruise starting on one cheek where the girl had attempted to remove his eye. He shrugged.
"Nothing," he said. "Just some Slytherins trying to put me out of action for tomorrow." At the look on her face, he added hastily, "It's nothing I can't handle. It comes with the territory."
Mickey made a noise of disgust. "Right," she said, getting up, wand in hand. "This is getting ridiculous. First Herbology -- yes, I heard about that, the whole school knows -- and now this. It's about bloody time somebody --"
"Mickey," Charlie said sharply. "Sit down. The last thing I need is for you to be suspended from the team right before the Quidditch final."
She gave an aggravated sigh and sat. "Oh, you're right, I suppose, as usual." She threw a dark look over her shoulder at the Slytherin table. "Can't we just . . . oh, I don't know, hit them with a Pantsing Spell on the way to class, or something?"
Charlie gave a spluttering laugh and sprayed the table with pumpkin juice. "Don't tempt me."
She ignored him. "Or how about something more subtle?" she suggested, her mischievous grin widening. "Let me see . . . there are so many possibilities. My brother was telling me about this hex that'll give you a burning rash -- if we aimed right we could make it really uncomfortable for them on their brooms tomorrow . . ."
Charlie chuckled at the mental image of the Slytherin team wincing in discomfort as they sat gingerly on their broomsticks. "Good one," he sniggered, beginning to get into the spirit himself. "Okay, how about this: we slip them some Flatulence Brew in their pumpkin juice tomorrow morning."
Mickey giggled so hard she put her face down on the table and pounded it with her fist. "Oh," she gasped, coming up for air. "We have to, it'll be so great."
"Mickey!" Charlie exclaimed, trying to be stern but unable to stop laughing. "I was joking!"
"I know, but admit it, it's just too good to waste. Come on, Charlie, it'll be priceless! If you won't do it then I will."
"You wouldn't," he said, staring at her.
"Oh, yes, I would," she retorted in mild indignation, tossing her head and glaring at him, challenging him to doubt her daring again.
He swallowed; he'd been trying to summon the nerve to ask her out for the last month, and it always threw him off badly when she became flushed and dangerous like this. Was she joking or was she really annoyed? It was always so bloody hard to tell with girls.
Come on, you idiot, it's Mickey. You've known her for ages. Just do it. Ask her.
He looked down at his plate of food, feeling a flush creep up his face and burn the tips of his ears. He searched for something to say and seized on Quidditch.
"All right, listen up, everyone," he said, raising his voice so the whole team could hear. Mickey sat back in her chair, looking faintly disappointed. "Good practice yesterday, men . . . and women," he added hastily, as both Emma and Mickey gave him a Look. "Just show me the same stuff tonight and I'll feel confident tomorrow. Wes, Drake, that Dopplebeater Defense is looking brilliant, but you need to tighten things up a bit, work on your coordination. You have to be on the same page tomorrow . . ."
They launched into an animated discussion on tactics. Charlie was debating with Shea the wisdom of scattering the Slytherin Chasers on a few key plays with a well-timed dive -- if it was worth momentarily taking his attention away from Seeking -- when he happened to glance over to the Slytherin table. Angus Boyd, the Slytherin Captain, was sitting in the midst of his teammates, who were huddled at the table with their heads together. He was watching Charlie.
Boyd looked away at once and bent his head to say something to Cole Biggs, pointedly ignoring Charlie, who watched him for a moment longer, feeling vaguely uneasy.
Shea glanced up. "What're you …?" He followed Charlie's gaze. "Oh," he said with distaste.
"Never mind them," Charlie said, still inexplicably unsettled. "What do you think the odds are that…"
But Shea wasn't listening. He was watching the Slytherins out of the corner of his eye.
"Don't know what they think they're doing," he muttered. "They keep looking at you and then acting all secretive."
"They're talking about Quidditch, you prat," said Charlie.
"I dunno," Shea said, frowning. "They look a bit dodgy to me."
Drake leaned over. "What's up, you two? You look much too serious."
"It's the Slytherins -- don't look now, they're looking this way -- they keep watching Charlie."
"Who keeps watching Charlie?" asked Wes.
"The Slytherins. Don't they look dodgy?"
Wes craned his neck and stole a look. "They do look dodgy," he agreed.
"They're talking about Quidditch!" Charlie exclaimed irritably.
Drake ignored Charlie. "D'you reckon they're planning something?"
"They could be," said Wes.
"Who could be what?" Mickey asked curiously.
"Nothing," Charlie said through gritted teeth.
"The Slytherins," Shea said, ignoring Charlie. "They're planning something."
"Who's planning something?" Paddy and Emma asked together.
That was it. Charlie lost his head.
"Enough, already!" he shouted. Heads swiveled in his direction. He lowered his voice. "The Slytherins are not planning anything, they're talking about Quidditch, and they look dodgy because they'd look dodgy doing anything! We need to focus, people!"
Beater, Chaser, and Keeper exchanged glances.
"All right," said Drake, "but you'll understand when I say that we'll be escorting you to and from classes today."
Charlie rolled his eyes. "Drake, don't you think you're being just a bit paranoid?"
"No," the team chorused.
"Charlie," Wes said. "Come on. They tried to take you out on your way down to breakfast."
"It's not being paranoid, it's being sensible," Emma put in. "We can't have you in the hospital wing tomorrow. A lot of people have it in for you, you know."
"She's right," Mickey said seriously. "You're Charlie Weasley. The Slytherins know they haven't got a chance if they have to face you tomorrow."
Charlie felt himself going red. "That's not -- I don't . . ."
"Don't be so modest, Weasley," Paddy thundered jovially, slapping Charlie on the back. "Aw, look, his face matches his hair."
Charlie tried and failed to look annoyed. It was hard to get mad at Paddy.
"Oi, Charlie," Shea said suddenly, looking at his watch. "We're going to be late for Potions."
Charlie started. "Damn it, you're right," he said, glancing at his own. "We'd better go."
He stood up. The whole team followed suit, giving him stubborn looks that dared him to object.
"Right, this is stupid," he objected. "There's no need for all of you to come with me."
"Oh, go on, humor us," said Wes. "It'll make us feel useful."
"Oh, I see how it is," Paddy said in mock hurt. "You just don't want us around."
"Think of us as a sort of honor guard," said Emma. "We'll go along shouting, 'Make way for the legendary Charlie Weasley!'"
"If you even…"
"Kidding, Charlie. Just kidding."
"Oh." He reddened. "Fine, then."
And after all, he reflected as he picked up his bag, there were worse things than walking back and forth to class with a certain curly-haired sixth-year for the rest of the day.
As the day wore on, Slytherins lurked around wherever he went. They would narrow their eyes when they saw he was accompanied by his team and slink away looking disgruntled.
He had to admit to himself that the team had a point. As much as it made him uncomfortable when people started calling him "legendary," he knew it wasn't too far off the mark. He was the best Seeker with the best record to come through Hogwarts in the last few hundred years. In all his years on the team, he had only ever missed catching the Snitch twice, and one of those times he had been unconscious. Professional teams had been scouting him since his sixth year. He was sure there were any number of people who would gladly see him hospitalized for the match tomorrow.
Tomorrow. He felt his insides shrivel up. Tomorrow. Just one more day.
He was going to be sick.
~ * ~
