'So how did you finally break the curse?' said Oliver Wood, taking a swig from his pint of MacSweeney's Old Peculiar Thistleseed Lager.
'We didn't,' said Harry. 'That's what I've been trying to tell you.'
Oliver looked confused.
'There are nine Galleons in the till,' said Harry, with jerk of his head towards the bar of the Leaky Cauldron. 'Looks like Tom keeps most of his gold in the back room. His Thief's Curse is getting weak, I should warn him about that, not that a Thief's Curse would be much use against an Aitvaras. You have five Galleons in your money bag and a gold -- er.'
Harry stared at Oliver's middle in astonishment. Oliver went bright red and spat out a mouthful of beer.
'You -- you really can --' he choked.
'Right,' said Harry. 'Which means I can't play Seeker for Puddlemere, even as a temporary replacement.'
Face still scarlet, Oliver took another deep drink of his Thistleseed Lager.
'Yes -- yes, I see ...'
Silence fell between them. Oliver gazed past Harry into the fire. Harry sipped from his own pint, recalling his stint as a Gryffindor Chaser. They'd lost the sixth year Quidditch final to Ravenclaw, but with enough points to win the tournament anyway -- Cho had been forced to catch the Snitch prematurely to stop Ginny getting it. In seventh year, with their new Seeker Dennis Creevey and a Weasley Welter of Harry, Ron and Ginny, Gryffindor had managed to take the Cup properly.
All in all, life as a Chaser hadn't been bad, but seven years on, Harry still missed the thrill of Seeking: the wind whipping in his face as he zoomed round the pitch, eyes peeled for the Snitch ... the first sight of glimmering gold after a long search ... the breathless acceleration to beat the other team's Seeker ... the feel of tiny wings fluttering hopelessly against his fingers as he soared high in the air to the cheers and screams of the crowd. There was nothing, truly, to compare to that experience ... an experience that Harry could never have again.
'Did you ever figure out how you were able change into a snake in the first place?' said Oliver, breaking in on Harry's thoughts.
'Hermione had a theory,' said Harry. 'She didn't reckon I could've been the first Parselmouth to be Transfigured against his will, but I might have been the first to be Untransfigured. I fought Professor Snape's reversal spell because I was angry with him -- that's how I learnt to transform. Most people would've wanted to be turned back. Of course, the only way to know for certain would be to try it out on another Parselmouth ...'
Harry trailed off. He didn't need to tell Oliver how unlikely it was that Hermione would get that opportunity. The gift of Parseltongue was such a rare one that the chances of another speaker turning up in their lifetimes were vanishingly slim.
'Actually,' Harry went on, 'Hermione thinks I did break the curse, mostly, when I changed back in Hagrid's hut. The Aitvaras Charm's meant to work on snakes, not people. But even human, there's a bit of snake in me that lets me speak Parseltongue, and that bit stayed an Aitvaras.'
'Any idea what your range is for finding gold?' asked Oliver curiously.
'I've always been able to push it out as far as I needed to,' shrugged Harry. 'Wider than a Quidditch pitch, definitely. I tracked Hermione once by her locket over nearly a mile.'
'Only Kennilworthy Whisp is bringing out a new edition of Quidditch Through the Ages,' said Oliver. 'Have you heard the story of the Wild Snitch of Bodmin Moor?'
Kennilworthy Whisp was fascinated when Harry and Oliver apprised him of Harry's Snitch-finding ability. Harry thought it best not to mention Aitvarases, simply saying that the talent had mysteriously emerged during the match against Slytherin, a presumed attempt at game-rigging by witches or wizards unknown.
'I kept quiet about it because I was scared I'd be expelled, or banned from playing Quidditch for Gryffindor in any position,' said Harry. 'S'pose I should have them take that seven second record off the books at Hogwarts,' he added gloomily.
Harry wasn't looking forward to the interview with Professor McGonagall that would inevitably follow such a request.
'Astounding,' said Whisp. 'I've never heard the like. I can tell you that this -- this charm, or whatever it is, hasn't come into widespread use --'
'How d'you know it hasn't?' said Oliver.
'The goblins take note of suspicious betting patterns,' said Whisp. 'A series of wins based on the timing of the Snitch capture would tip them off that something was up, even if they weren't sure what. Gringotts would have sent a delegation round to the Department of Magical Games and Sports to complain. I don't remember a single very large bet being placed at the time, either, which would have been the wise thing to do -- although most dodgy gamblers find it impossible to stop after one go, which is how they get caught.'
Whisp's face clouded over suddenly.
'Of course, that does raise the question of why the spell has never been used. When the action of a charm becomes permanent, as happened in your case, it's usually a sign that something's gone badly awry. The enchantment could be flawed or inherently dangerous; it may have nasty side effects. I must check if there were any unexplained Seeker deaths on the continent that season.'
He turned to Harry with an extremely serious look.
'You really should speak to the Healers at St Mungo's about this. Keen as I am to confirm the existence of the Wild Snitch of Bodmin Moor, if there was any risk to your health --'
'Oh, you don't have to worry about that,' said Harry, dismayed at the hornets' nest he'd inadvertently stirred up. 'I mean, it's been seven years, if the spell was going to hurt me somehow, I reckon it already would have done.'
It took some convincing on Harry and Oliver's part (as well as Harry's promise to pay a visit to St Mungo's at his earliest convenience), but Whisp at last agreed to meet them on Bodmin Moor the following weekend.
The moor was cloudy, warm and very muggy when Harry and Oliver landed their broomsticks a quarter of a mile east of the Trethevy Quoit burial chamber. Whisp was waiting near the stones; he spotted Harry and Oliver the instant they dropped their Disillusionment Charms, and waved them over.
'We'd better get started straight away,' he said. 'Even with your talent, finding this Snitch won't be easy. I can't tell you the location of the original pitch, I'm afraid -- as it was an amateur game, no records were kept, and after a hundred and twenty years the few surviving spectators don't remember much. I haven't been able to track down anyone who'll admit to being a player. Well, it's got to be a tad embarrassing, your Seekers not managing catch the Snitch for a whole six months ...'
'If we did know the boundaries of the field, I'm not sure it would do us much good,' said Oliver. 'Bodmin Moor's a funny place. My aunt Erna works for the Department of Magical Creatures, and they've had more trouble with this area of Cornwall than the rest of Britain combined. The local ghosts are continually being seen by Muggles -- they claim it's unintentional, that the Muggle-Repelling spells don't always work properly. Some of the Muggles seem to realise that the moor is bigger than they think it is, too. A third of it's been made Unplottable as a refuge for Cornish Giant Kneazles,' he explained to Harry. 'They don't stay put either.'
'Legend has it that the Half-blood Prince died here,' Whisp chipped in, 'and the moor's been cursed ever since. There's certainly evidence of an unusual amount of stray magic in the air. Some of that may well have had a hand in preventing the capture of the Snitch.'
'We'll just have to fly around until I get a lock on it,' said Harry. 'Like Seeking a normal Snitch, really.'
Harry, Oliver and Whisp put their Disillusionment Charms back on and took to the sky. Bodmin Moor could almost have been a single enormous Quidditch pitch: a vast and empty plateau, dotted with grazing sheep and cattle and the occasional granite standing stone. Harry stretched his Aitvaras sense to its limits. He felt the pull of the gold the other two wizards were carrying, as well as that of a surprising number of objects buried in the ground below. Many of them were protected by Thief's Curses, several of which were sufficiently powerful to give pause even to an Aitvaras. None of these things were moving, however, as a Snitch definitely would be.
Then, far to the west, came a flash of gold on the edge of Harry's awareness. He stopped in mid-air, waiting. The gold appeared and vanished once more as it darted in and out of his range.
'I think I've got something,' he said. 'This way!'
Harry leant down on his Firebolt and rocketed off, Oliver and Whisp racing behind him. As he approached the Snitch, his perception of its gold grew steadier. When he was close enough to actually see it zigging and zagging about, Harry glided to a halt.
'There!' he said, pointing. 'Hang on, it's dropped down by that big rock ... now it's gone right ... and up again ...'
Oliver and Whisp had their Omnioculars out and were following Harry's directions.
'My God, it's really -- oh, blast, it's moved on already,' said Whisp.
'Yes, into that gorse bush,' said Harry. 'Back and leftward ... towards the flock of sheep ... sideways, above the field of heather ... and to the right, it's in the fog bank ...'
Whisp lowered his Omnioculars and rubbed his eyes.
'Here, I'll go and catch it for you,' said Harry, sending his broom into a dive.
Not having chased a Snitch since he was fifteen years old, Harry found himself somewhat out of practice, but it soon became obvious that that would be the least of his difficulties in capturing this one. The ball was a tiny golden blur, zipping along nearly ten times faster than a normal Snitch. Harry needed all the Firebolt's speed to keep up with it. Moreover, the Snitch appeared somehow to realise when Harry was closing in on it, streaking away just as his fingers brushed its wings.
The Snitch flew in complicated looping patterns over the bare ground, turning tors and hedges into an obstacle course. Then it led Harry southwards into a stretch of woodland, where it wove and dodged madly through the trees. When he finally ran it down against the trunk of a massive oak, Harry was dripping with sweat and gasping for breath, but felt a sense of triumph that he hadn't done in seven years.
The Snitch buzzed in his hand like an angry bumblebee. Its wings stung Harry's fingers and he had to keep a firm grip on his broomstick to avoid being dragged through the air by the Snitch's acceleration. Luckily, Oliver and Whisp came flying over scarcely a minute later.
'Got it,' said Harry, holding up the Snitch, which continued to struggle violently.
'Good heavens,' said Whisp, peering at it closely. 'Enchantment's drastically overpowered -- no wonder they couldn't catch it.'
He conjured a sort of soap bubble around Harry's hand. Harry released the Snitch and pulled his arm out of the bubble. The Snitch whizzed to and fro inside, almost too rapidly to see. Whisp took out his Omnioculars and used their slow motion replay to get a better look at it.
'Yes ... wing configuration typical for the period,' he muttered. 'Unusual satin finish on the body ... possibly worn down by exposure to the elements ...'
Whisp produced a quill and roll of parchment from his bag and began scribbling notes, pausing on occasion to view the Snitch through his Omnioculars.
'That was an amazing bit of flying, by the way,' he said to Harry. 'And on an old Firebolt Mark 1! Even if you can't play Seeker, any professional team would be willing to sign you as a Chaser on the spot.'
'What will you do with the Snitch?' Harry asked, as Whisp was putting his quill and parchment away.
'I was planning on giving it to the Museum of Quidditch,' said Whisp. He hesitated. 'Mind you, it does seem rather cruel -- penning it up after it's been living wild for over a century ...'
He gazed at the Snitch for a while, then gave a long sigh and prodded the bubble with his wand. It disappeared with a pop and the Snitch soared off. Harry, Oliver and Whisp watched as it flitted out of sight.
'Would the pair of you care to join me for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron?' said Whisp.
'Sure,' said Oliver. 'Er -- Harry?'
'You go on,' said Harry, who was still staring off into the horizon after the Wild Snitch. 'I want to catch it again ...'
Author's Note:
The story of the Snitch of Bodmin Moor is told in Quidditch Through the Ages. You should buy this book (and its companion volume, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them); the profits go to Comic Relief.
I honestly have no idea when my next fic ("Millarca", the follow-up to "Christmas Over Azkaban") will be ready. I'll try to update the "Works in Progress" section of my author page every couple of months to give an indication of how things are going.
Disclaimer: All characters and concepts from the Harry Potter series copyright J K Rowling.