Author's Notes: Thanks to TheSparklingDiamond-GreenFairy for reviewing! J There's one more part to this story, and I should have it up pretty soon!

Part Two:

Friendly Rivalry

~ * ~

Charlie glanced up at the heavy grey mass of storm clouds and pulled his cloak tighter around him as he hurried out through the front doors of the castle. Fifteen minutes earlier the sky had been almost clear, the clouds merely a dark, silent blur far in the distance. Now they dominated the sky and flickers of light danced from horizon to horizon.

Before he'd gone halfway across the grounds, there was an almighty clap of thunder, so loud it seemed to be living in his heart, and torrents of rain poured from the sky. It was a very drenched Charlie Weasley who knocked -- forcefully -- on Hagrid's door thirty seconds later.

Fang's resounding bark was drowned out by another particularly loud blast of thunder just as the door opened.

"Charlie!" Hagrid shouted over the noise of the rainstorm, a happy and somewhat amused grin lighting his hairy face at the sight of Charlie standing dripping wet on his doorstep, blinking water out of his eyes.

"'Lo, Hagrid!" Charlie bellowed back.

"Come on -- back, Fang! -- come on in." He opened the door wider for Charlie to step inside.

Once through the door, Charlie threw off his hood and shook his head like a wet dog. Fang sprang at him in a transport of joy, placed his front paws against his shoulders, and presented him with a close-up view of a wide doggy grin and lolling tongue.

"Hallooooo, there, Fang!" Charlie rumbled in the rough voice he always unconsciously adopted when talking to dogs. "It's good to see you, too. Yes, it is."

Fang licked his face.

"Yes, it is."

He rubbed the dog roughly around the ears and growled. Fang, delighted by the attention, gave a joyous bark and knocked Charlie onto the floor, where they engaged in a merry wrestling match. Moments later Charlie was lying on his back in ignominious defeat, laughing and trying to fend off the victor, who was licking his face triumphantly between ecstatic barks.

"Okay, Fang, that's enough -- gah! Geroff -- let me up, will you?"

With some difficulty he managed to get to his feet. Fang wagged his tail, his warm brown eyes laughing and ready for more.

"Yeh'll never get him ter leave yeh alone after that," Hagrid said as he took the copper teakettle off the fire. "I think he likes yeh better'n me sometimes."

"Not true!" Charlie protested, pulling up a chair. "He just wants someone his own size to play with -- isn't that right, mate?" Fang barked in happy agreement.

Hagrid grinned over at Charlie, who was sitting with Fang sprawled contentedly at his feet and one hand resting idly on the boarhound's head, and added, "Blimey, I think yeh like him better'n yeh like me.

"He has four legs," Charlie said with a shrug, his tone of voice implying that he was puzzled that there had been any question in Hagrid's mind. "Of course I do."

Hagrid chuckled as he put out two cups. "So, ready fer the big match tomorrow? Can't wait -- I got me binoculars all ready."

Charlie moaned and let his forehead fall onto the table with a thunk. "I don't even want to think about it, Hagrid," he said, his voice muffled.

"Count to ten, Charlie," Hagrid said cheerfully. "Don' know why yer so worried. From everythin' I've seen since yeh firs' joined the team, Slytherin's got a lot more reason to be worried than you have."

Charlie felt immeasurably better. Hagrid always had that effect on him. "Cheers, Hagrid."

"Anytime. Chin up, mate. I'll miss yeh, next year -- any idea what yer goin' to be doing?"

The smile on Charlie's face disappeared, to be replaced with a pensive frown.

"No, not yet."

"Got a few offers, didn' yeh? What was it -- Puddlemere an' Wimbourne?"

"Yeah." Charlie didn't mention that a week and a half ago, an owl had arrived hinting that he was a top candidate to play Seeker for England in the next World Cup.

Something in his tone must have betrayed something he hadn't said, because Hagrid looked at him sharply. Charlie stared moodily into his cup.

"Everythin' all righ' with yeh, mate?" Hagrid asked slowly, his beetle-black eyes crinkled in concern.

Charlie shook himself and blinked. "Yeah. Just nerves, you know. About the match."

Hagrid watched him a moment longer. He looked dubious. Charlie continued to scowl at his tea.

"All righ'," Hagrid said finally. "Treacle fudge?"

"Sure," said Charlie absently.

Hagrid turned to fetch the tin of fudge.

"I don't know if I want to play Quidditch next year."

The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. There, he'd said it.

He was aghast. Before he'd voiced it, he'd been faintly annoyed with himself for thinking such a ridiculous thought. Of course he wanted to play Quidditch next year. It was a fabulous opportunity, something that most people only dreamed about. But with the words still hanging in the air, he felt the truth of them.

He stole a glance at Hagrid, feeling sure this must have floored him. After all, he'd told Hagrid a hundred times how excited he was that he had the chance to play Quidditch professionally. His mouth would be hanging open.

Hagrid cocked an eyebrow at him. "Oh," he said. "Why?"

Charlie felt a rush of relief; at least there was one person who wasn't going to ask him if he'd gone off his rocker.

"Well . . ." He hesitated. He'd never had to articulate this. "I don't . . . that is, I love Quidditch, you know I do. It's just that . . . I think I might have been so… er… that is, I just… knew. It was always there, the fact that I wanted to be a Quidditch player, for such a long time, that I kind of fell in love with the idea and not the reality of it, and I never really thought about doing anything else. Sorry, I'm not making sense, I'm blathering . . ."

"Makes sense ter me," said Hagrid placidly. "Go on."

Charlie blew out his cheeks. "Right. So. I mean, it sounds glorious and everything, but I don't want to end up losing half my brain cells to Bludgers by the time I'm thirty. And I have a feeling fame isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'd always be on the move, I wouldn't have time for anything but Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch, and then I'm afraid that it would become something I did for a job and not something I loved to do. I hear so many stories of burned out athletes, and I really don't want to end up like that. And . . . I think that, maybe a little bit, I've wanted to do this because my whole family is just dotty about Quidditch, and it would give them the thrill of a lifetime to have a brother who played Seeker for a league team." He winced. "My family. Oh, bloody hell, I don't want to have to tell them this!" He sighed. "But then, I haven't completely made up my mind yet. Maybe I won't have to."

Hagrid nodded. "All righ'. What were yeh thinkin' of doin' instead?"

Charlie grinned and glanced fondly down at Fang. "Guess. If anyone can, you can."

Hagrid suddenly looked excited. "Are yeh tellin' me that yeh . . ?"

Charlie laughed at the thunderstruck expression on Hagrid's face and nodded.

"Crikey!"

"Well, I've been coming down to talk to you about magical creatures for seven years now -- it was bound to rub off. You've made me just as nutty about dragons as you are."

"Blimey, where are yeh goin' to start?" Hagrid was literally trembling with excitement.

"Well," Charlie said, beginning to talk faster in his enthusiasm, "a friend of Bill's who graduated last year was telling me about this group of specialists who've been doing some research in Romania. Wizards really don't know that much about dragons; I mean, we know the twelve uses of their blood and that they're big and they breathe fire and they're protective of their eggs, but we don't know that much about how they communicate, because obviously they do somehow, they're incredibly intelligent, or about their social roles in their own environments. They really are amazing creatures, and I have a feeling riding a dragon will be even more exciting than riding a broomstick." He grinned. "Mum is going to have kittens."

"That she will, if everythin' yeh've tol' me about her is true," said Hagrid, his eyes crinkling again in merriment. "But listen, don' put too much pressure on yerself to make a decision righ' away. Plenty o' time fer all that after the match."

Charlie felt a familiar shiver as he remembered what would take place on the morrow.

By the time he'd finished his tea and looked out the window, the wind and rain had ceased and the sky was beginning to clear.

"I need to get going -- practice," Charlie said, swinging his still damp cloak around his shoulders.

"Hope it don't rain like that tomorrow," Hagrid observed.

"I dunno," Charlie said thoughtfully. "I reckon it would give us an advantage. Our team's been practicing in all weathers."

"Good luck, if I don' see yeh before then," Hagrid said cheerily. "Yeh'll be fine, mate, no worries."

"Hope so," Charlie said, opening the door to a breath of rain-washed, breezy air, but he stopped halfway through and turned around.

"You'll be the first to know what I decide, all right? I mean, if it wasn't for you I'd probably have signed with Puddlemere or something by now and I wouldn't even be thinking about dragons, and maybe it's crazy anyway, but …" He shrugged awkwardly. "Thanks for everything, I mean."

Hagrid didn't say anything.

"Hagrid?' Charlie said tentatively, looking with some concern at the big man, who was staring, motionless at the table. But then Hagrid gave an unmistakable sniff and pulled out a tent-like handkerchief.

            "I'm just – so – ruddy – proud of yeh!" he sobbed, and got to his feet to crush a very startled Charlie against him in a mighty hug.

~ * ~

Charlie flattened himself to his broom handle and went into a screaming dive, eyes intent on a spot on the pitch far below.

A Bludger came pelting his way and he swerved to avoid it, never taking his eyes off the pitch. The cold afternoon spring air howled in his ears, painting his nose red as he dived.

A blur wearing scarlet Quidditch robes suddenly flew into his path, so close and at such speed that he had to wrench his Cleansweep to the right and nearly spun off course; but with a furious effort he maintained control and shot toward the ground like a bird of prey toward a mouse scurrying for cover.

The twiggy tail of his Cleansweep brushed the grass as he pulled out of his dive, his heart hammering from the rush of adrenaline and a tiny gold ball with fluttering wings clenched in his fist. He could hear whooping above him and he grinned with satisfaction. His nerves hadn't thrown off his game one bit.

"You're slacking tonight, Weasley!" Shea shouted from the other side of the pitch. "That dive was ruddy awful. Get your head into the game!"

"Shut it, Doherty, and keep your eyes on the Quaffle where they belong!" Charlie hollered amiably.

A dark-haired figure shot past him in the opposite direction. "You almost had me there, Mickey!" he called. "Nice blocking!"

"Thanks, Cap'n!" she shouted over her shoulder.

The sun sank lower and, finally, Charlie called for practice to end. The team gathered round, their faces flushed and sweaty and their breath making silvery clouds in the early evening air.

"Good practice, all of you," he said, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering furiously around in his stomach. "I . . . I think we ought to do fine tomorrow."

They looked at him.

"Your confidence in us is overwhelming," Paddy said.

"Charlie, are you okay?" Emma asked, squinting at him through the glare of the setting sun.

His mouth was dry. "I'm fine," he managed.

"Your face is green."

"I'm fine," he insisted.

"Horse shite," Mickey said frankly. "My dead grandmother looked more fine at her funer--"

"So," Charlie said loudly, "I want everyone to be well rested for tomorrow. Early bedtime tonight, all right?"

"Says the insomniac," muttered Shea.

~ * ~

Gryffindor Tower positively seethed with excitement that night. The common room was packed to the brim with noisy people, tension, and high spirits; those who would be watching the action from the stands were looking forward to a good Quidditch match with typical Gryffindor confidence and exuberance. A Gryffindor victory was toasted with glasses of water and the Slytherin team were burned in effigy in the roaring fireplace.

Each member of the team was dealing with the pressure in his or her own particular way. A number of boys of all different years had queued up for the opportunity to arm-wrestle with Drake, who was a half-head taller than anyone else in the room. There were also a few girls, but from the admiring looks they were casting at Drake, it wasn't the thrill of competition that was motivating them. A crowd had gathered, cheering madly as he neatly dispatched one opponent after another.

Shea and Wes were locked in silent but deadly combat over a chess board. Their chess games had reached an almost legendary status over the years; each was a brilliant player and they were very evenly matched. With every game their rivalry had intensified until each one, to them, was a matter of life and death. Their honour was at stake, and they growled and paced and swore as they did their damnedest to outthink one another.

Emma was on the floor, stretching. She claimed it helped her to relax and prepare for a match mentally; she felt more confident when she was limbered up and ready to go. She really was incredibly flexible; she could put both feet behind her head at once. It was seriously disturbing to watch.

Mickey was curled up in an armchair by the fire. There was a book in her hands but she wasn't reading it. She was staring into the fire, her face pensive.

Paddy was snogging with Adelaide West, his girl du jour.

Charlie was sitting motionless in a corner apart from all the noise and confusion, hugging his knees and staring unseeingly at the wall.

He hadn't moved in more than an hour; his whole body was rigid and tense. His back and arms ached, but he couldn't bring himself to relax and rest his weight against the wall. It was ridiculous. He was eighteen years old, he was the best damn Seeker Gryffindor had ever seen, he was muscular and tall as a man, he was about to graduate and start his own life, and he wanted nothing more than to run yammering to his mother so she could hug him and tell him everything would be all right.

But she was home at the Burrow, and all he could do was close his eyes and hug his knees even more tightly. Although it was quite warm in the common room, he couldn't seem to stop shivering.

Bloody hell bloody hell bloody hell bloody hell . . .

"How're you holding up?"

He was living so much on the edge of his nerves that the quiet sentence made him start violently and bump his head against the wall. It was Mickey.

He tried several times to speak, but it was as if his vocal chords had forgotten how to work.

"All right," he croaked finally.

She didn't say anything, just sat cross-legged on the floor and tugged absently at the carpet. Time elapsed and neither said a word.

Her presence made Charlie feel even more on edge, if that was possible. Why had she chosen now, of all times, to come and sit with him? He just wasn't up to dealing with all of his conflicting feelings at the moment. With the way he was feeling, if she so much as looked at him he was going to start bawling like Percy.

The silence frayed his already ragged nerves. When he didn't think he could take it anymore, he said rather stiffly, "I thought you were reading?"

"Oh," she said, looking surprised and rather hurt at his tone. "I couldn't concentrate. Sorry, I can leave you alone if you'd rather."

  Charlie instantly regretted his words. He looked at Mickey more closely and realized, to his mild surprise, that she was looking rather pale and shaky herself. It made him feel obscurely glad.

"No, it's all right," he assured her. "I know how you feel. Believe me."

She tried to smile. "And there's no talking to either of those two," she said, indicating Wes and Shea, who were snarling at one another over their chess board. "I just thought I'd come and . . . are you sure you don't want me to leave? I know sometimes before a match I don't want to be bothered."

"No, no, it's fine," he said quickly. "I don't mind. Actually, I could use some distraction right about now."

"Yeah, I thought as much," she said, as a real smile chased away her solemnity. "I was watching you across the room and you looked like you were about to cry."

"Was not!" he protested, jolted out of his immobile state by the very alarming thought that she would even think him capable of such an unmanly action. Did she think he couldn't handle the pressure?

            "Sure, Charlie, sure," she said playfully, nudging him with her elbow. "Don't lie to me, you're pathetic at it. I saw you, you were practically bawling."

            Oh, wait, she was joking.

            "For your information," he said with dignity, "I was not 'practically bawling,' I was mentally preparing myself for the match tomorrow."

            As he spoke, her grin vanished and she had every appearance of listening to him with great seriousness. When he finished, she continued to regard him solemnly for a moment, then abruptly made a face.

            The unexpectedness of it made him snort with laughter and look away.

            "Ha!" she exclaimed gleefully. "I made you laugh!"

            "No, you didn't." He fought the grin pulling at his lips.

            "Yes, I did – look, you're still smiling."

            "I don't know what you're talking about."

            "Shut it, you. Admit it." She made another face. He laughed again.

"Okay, okay, I admit it."

She tickled him and he yelped, trying to fend her off. "Right, I surrender!"

            Satisfied, Mickey settled herself comfortably against the wall. "You were looking so grim, I had to do something. What are you so worried about? You're going to do great tomorrow."

            "Oh, come on," Charlie said disbelievingly. "You're nervous, too, and don't tell me you aren't, because I won't believe you."

            "Normal pre-game jitters," she replied with a shrug. "Of course I'm nervous. This is a big game. But you looked like your best friend just died. Are you sure you're okay?"

            Captains never showed weakness. "I'm fine," Charlie was about to say automatically, but he hesitated.

It was Mickey. And she made him feel like he could say anything and she would never judge him. She was funny and sarcastic and insane and she looked so damn cute with her hair in her face. He could talk to her. Maybe even ask her to … well, okay, not yet, but soon, he told himself, very soon.

He leaned against the wall and relaxed completely for the first time in days, feeling the tension drain out as a dam within him burst.

"I just never realized how much pressure being Captain was going to be, you know? It's my last year, and everyone's counting on us to win, and…"

~ * ~

Something was tickling his face. He wrinkled his nose, brushed at his face and rolled over.

Now it was tickling his ear. What the…?

He opened his eyes and saw a very feathery owl arse no more than two inches from his nose.

He let out a yelp and, jerking away in disgust, fell out of bed with a thump. As he swore and tried to extricate himself from his blankets for the second day in a row, he could hear Shea laughing.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," Shea said wickedly, brandishing a grey owl at him, an owl Charlie recognized as the Weasleys' own Errol. Errol hooted happily and preened his glossy feathers. Muffled snickering could be heard from inside Charlie's trunk.

"Run, or you won't be able to get out of bed for a month," Charlie growled, leaping to his feet. He wasn't a morning person even under the best of circumstances.

"Wait just a minute, there, mate. Remember before you club me unconscious with your broomstick that there's a Quidditch match we have to win today."

"Will you two do us a favor and shut up?" Glen Parsons' sleepy voice said from behind the scarlet hangings of a bed across the room.

"Hear, hear," mumbled Caleb Shaw.

"Sorry." Shea handed Charlie his letter, still grinning. "Truce?"

Charlie ignored Shea's proffered hand. "You just better watch your back once the match is over," he said darkly, retreating to his bed to open his letter from home.

    Charlie, dear,

I do hope you slept last night -- I know how you get

     before Quidditch matches. And make sure you eat a good breakfast

     this morning.

With that said, good luck today! It's been nothing but

Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch for the last week. The boys have

talked of nothing else; when I told the twins no, we wouldn't be able

                to watch the match, they threw a fit and set fire to the shed. Ginny

     drew this picture for you – that's you in the middle holding the Snitch.

Inside was a rather blotted picture of what looked like a rock in red Quidditch

robes, holding a large yellow blob and a broomstick with three twigs.

Your father and I are both incredibly proud of you. I

     know that you'll be brilliant, dear, but even if you lose, you're still doing

something you love. So go out and have fun on that broomstick;

that's all that matters.

Our love to Percy. Best of luck!

Love,

Mum

There was one more slip of parchment inside, wadded up into a crumpled ball. Charlie smoothed it out and grinned as he recognized Ron's awkward seven-year-old scrawl.

ChaRliE donT LiSen To Mum your gOing tO

AniYaLate SlYtheriN. LoVe Ron.

~ * ~

Breakfast that morning was a very silent affair. Only Drake was able to eat more than a few bites. Charlie had made sure everyone had gone to bed by ten o'clock the night before, but the only person who looked truly rested was Paddy. He alone would have seemed unaffected by tension were it not for the fact that he hadn't made a single pass at Mickey all morning.

Mickey glanced sideways at Charlie, who was feeling very much as though he was about to be marched off to the gallows.

"Charlie, breathe," she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

He gave her a tight, strained smile and realized that he had, in fact, been forgetting to breathe.

Someone crashed into Charlie without warning, knocking him forward and giving him a face full of porridge.

"So sorry," said a cheerful voice behind him. "My fault entirely. Must have slipped."

Charlie's jaw dropped. He knew that voice, but…

 "Bill?" he spluttered, swiveling around in his chair.

Bill grinned down at him. His hair was longer than Charlie remembered and he had tied it back in a short ponytail, but otherwise he looked the same.

"But -- Gringotts -- how . . ." Charlie was at a loss.

"I took a sick day. You didn't think I was going to miss the biggest Quidditch match of my little brother's life, did you?"

"When did you get here?" Charlie asked, amazed.

"Five minutes ago," Bill answered. "Apparated to Hogsmeade and walked on up. That porridge on your face is a nice look for you, by the way."

"All right, Bill?" Shea asked with a grin as Charlie rather absently wiped the porridge off his face, still staring at his brother.

"Not bad, Shea. You?"

"Been better." Shea scowled at Wes, who was sending him gloating, triumphant looks from down the table. "Don't ever play chess with that git. He cheats, I'm telling you."

The astonishment on Charlie's face changed slowly to a grin. "Does Mum know?"

Bill drew himself up and feigned indignation. "Merlin's beard, Charlie, I'm not a child. I'm a Hogwarts graduate and gainfully employed. The fact that I still live at home is irrelevant, and Mum can't stop me from taking a sick day to watch Quidditch if I feel like it."

"So. Does Mum know?"

Bill grinned sheepishly. "Do you know, I think I forgot to mention it." He pulled out a vacant chair and dropped into it with a satisfied sigh.

Charlie snickered. "I always knew they made a mistake naming you Head Boy, you sneaky git. There always was a bit of Fred and George in you."

Bill looked properly shocked. "Never!" He took a swig of Charlie's untouched pumpkin juice and settled back in his chair. He noticed Emma sitting across from him and smiled, making her turn a brilliant shade of pink.

"All right, Emma?" Bill asked. "How've you been?"

Bill had inherited more than his fair share of Weasley charm. Emma blushed even harder.

"Bill!"

A red-haired streak flew at the oldest Weasley brother.

"Perce!" Bill exclaimed with a warm smile. "Hey! How're you doing, little man?"

Percy had idolized Bill since Bill had first been named prefect. The two actually had a lot in common, although it was difficult to imagine Percy growing up to be as laid back as Bill had turned out to be.

"No, Perce, Mum does not know I'm here. And she isn't going to, is she? Is she?"

Bill's surprise appearance cheered Charlie a great deal. He and his brother had always been very close and they hadn't seen one another since the Christmas holidays. In no time, he and the team were telling all of the latest Hogwarts news and laughing over memories of old Quidditch matches.

They had eaten early. There was still a good two hours to go before the start of the match; Bill accompanied them back to Gryffindor Tower and made snide comments as Charlie talked to his Cleansweep to soothe his nerves.

"You've lost your bloody mind. You're talking to a broomstick, you nutter."

Charlie pointedly turned his back on his brother. "Don't listen to the smug git," he told his broom loudly. "He's just jealous because he was always absolute pants at Quidditch."

            "Yeah, well, at least I passed my Apparition test on the first try."

Charlie left before the rest of the team. He always liked to be the first one out on the pitch, to stand alone on the grass in the vast, empty stadium and take great breaths of dewy spring air. The Quidditch pitch had always been his sanctuary, the place he felt most at home in the world. He needed to be there.

He was walking down a deserted corridor with his broom over his shoulder, lost in his own thoughts, when he thought he heard a sound behind him.

He stopped and glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing. He stood still for a moment, listening. All was silence. Most of the school was still down at breakfast.

He was just edgy, that was all. He continued on his way, a little unnerved.

"Stupefy!"

His instincts had warned him. With a jolt of fear and adrenaline, Charlie threw himself to the side as a bolt of red light shot through the air where he had just been standing. Cursing himself for the biggest fool that ever walked a Hogwarts corridor, he pulled his wand out of his robes, leaped to his feet, whirled around, and shouted, "Expelliarmus!"

There were four of them, cloaked and hooded, with dark masks that obscured their features. His spell hit the nearest one, blasted him off his feet, and sent his wand skittering across the floor. But the words had barely left Charlie's mouth when one of the remaining three shouted and he himself was hit with a Disarming Charm. He staggered and managed to keep his feet, but his wand and his Cleansweep flew out of his hands.

He swore violently, was about to make a dive for his wand, then on balance decided that, even armed, the odds weren't really in his favor. He turned tail and made a wild dash for the doorway at the end of the corridor.

He was almost there when he heard a shout of "Stop him!" from behind and the door slammed shut in his face. He heard a lock click. He slammed his fists into it desperately and tried to force it open with his shoulder, but to no avail.

Breathing hard, he spun around, his back against the door. They advanced on him almost lazily, enjoying the moment.

"Are you daft?" he shouted. "Even if you stop me from playing, you'll be disqualified for cheating!" The sight of them sent an icy chill up his back. Childhood memories were not to be forgotten too easily, and the masks looked all too familiar.

"You don't even know who we are," said the tallest masked figure in an unnaturally deep voice; they had used some sort of spell to disguise their voices as well. "You can't identify us." He laughed unpleasantly. "No, Slytherin won't be disqualified. See you after the match, loser."

He raised his wand triumphantly. Charlie was wandless and cornered, facing four opponents, three of whom were armed. Magic couldn't help him now.

So he launched himself straight toward the leader, whose eyes widened behind the mask in sudden fear as he realized Charlie was attacking him. He tried to duck, but too late; Charlie slammed his fist into the sneering, masked face. Hard.

They crashed to the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs, Charlie pummeling the other without mercy. He reached for the mask, but his opponent gathered himself a moment too soon and struck his reaching arm away. In a fair fight, Charlie would have made short work of him, but in a moment two of the others had seized his arms and dragged him off of their comrade. He struggled and managed to elbow one of them in the face, but all he got for his effort was a fist that crashed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him gasping for breath as they slammed him up against the door.

           Furious, the leader picked himself up. He drew back his fist, and, pinned against the door with his arms held, Charlie couldn't even duck. It was like an explosion on the size of his face. He slumped, dazed, tasting blood from a stinging lip as stars winked in and out of his vision.

            "Look at the famous Weasley now," the artificial voice taunted. "You think you're a cut above the rest of us, but when it comes down to it, you're the same as everybody else when your feet are on the ground."

            "Yeah," Charlie spat through bleeding lips. "And it only took four of you to figure that out." His voice was hard. "You're a real hero, Boyd."

"Stupefy!"

~ * ~