Chapter Seventeen: Of Quidditch Games and Kings

Beth awoke on the day before the Slytherin/Gryffindor game, from a dream in which she was back at Richard's funeral, watching her mother lie down in the empty coffin while the banshee gave a wordless eulogy. She lay in bed for many moments afterward, reminding herself that it was only a dream (so far) and then got ready for school without speaking to anyone.

Blaise glanced up at her as she passed by the breakfast table. "Hey Beth - what rhymes with 'king'?"

"Thing," said Beth dully. She was not in the mood for poetry.

Blaise and Draco glanced at each other. "We can use that, actually," said Draco thoughtfully, and the two of them bent over the parchment again, quills scrabbling for space.

Beth dared not ask what they were up to. She ate breakfast with a faint hope that, unlike the last time the fifth-years had gotten it into their heads to be clever, it wasn't illegal.

Whatever it was, it didn't blow up the school that morning, and Beth passed an excellent Charms class tackling an immensely difficult Room-Sealing Charm. The work and distraction again soothed her thoughts of the banshee. Afterward, feeling tired but much better, Beth joined Mervin on the way to Arithmancy.

"I've figured it out," Mervin said, as they strolled down the hall.

"Question thirteen?" said Beth. "I spent half of yesterday on that one, care to clue me in?"

"Oh, not that," Mervin scoffed. "The Quidditch season. I've figured out why they always make the Gryffindors the first team we play."

For her part, Beth would have rather heard the solution to question thirteen, but she humored him. "Why's that?"

They sat down together at the far side of the room.

Almost at once the whispers and not-so-well-concealed mutters filtered to their ears.

"I really hope the Gryffindors stomp them. I really want to see them go down again."

"Fancy a flutter?"

"I heard Weasley's sworn to knock Draco off his broom."

"Which one, then?"

"Who cares? Can you imagine the little wart hitting the ground from five hundred feet?"

Beth glanced over at Mervin. They had heard it all before. Sagely, nodding like a tired prognosticator, Mervin gave her a long-suffering smile.

"To get it over with quick."

-'-'-

Beth spent the afternoon on Potions and the evening on Arithmancy, which chased off thoughts of the banshee; but when her work was put away, the tattered white spirit returned to flirt with Beth's mind. She sat before the fireplace, warding off the first hints of winter chill, with Melissa beside her reading a book.

"Unbelievable," said Beth to herself.

Melissa glanced up. "Pardon?"

"I can't believe she's back," said Beth numbly, looking at her hands instead of the roaring fire. "I should have thought - it just seemed like, last time, it was over. I should have known it would never be over for good."

Melissa sighed and put down her book. She handed Beth a cup of tea. "I don't want to frighten you," she said carefully. "I know you can't guess who she's crying for. But Beth - as far as we know, the member of your family who's most in danger is you."

"Well now I'm not frightened," Beth said irritably. "Thanks Mel, big help..." She put the tea on a side table, untouched, and raised her hands to her face. "Ugh! I hate her, I hate all this - knowing but not really knowing-"

"I wish we could do something," Melissa said. She pulled a thread from her sweater and tossed it into the fire.

"We?" said Beth.

"Well, me. And all of us. The Society. The Guild."

"Thanks, but no thanks." Part of her wanted badly to tell Richard that she'd seen the banshee, but the rest of her quashed that urge quickly. The last time she'd had a family problem, he'd flown out to Azkaban to help her out of it; she didn't want him to do anything brash, and there was no need for him to worry about a dreadful but very vague future event. He had quite enough to worry about as it was. "I'm almost afraid of what they would try to do."

"Well." Melissa tugged at her sleeve restlessly. "If you ever do want ... I don't know, anything ... you know I'll do whatever I can."

Beth looked over at her best friend, whose brow, furrowed in worry, reflected the yellow flicker of the fire. Melissa had many faults, but she had stood by Beth through all the trials and revelations of her family ... she had always supported her against the Weasley twins ... she had joined Beth in the Forbidden Forest, on the Durmstrang campus, and had even gone to Azkaban to help her.

"I know you will."

And she really did.

-'-'-

Beth slept late that Saturday; the air was so crisp in the dungeons that she couldn't resist rolling over for another cozy twenty minutes. When at last she forced herself upright, it was to a near-empty dormitory.

Of course, she realized, halfway through washing her hair. The game.

The Great Hall was crowded, buzzing with excitement, flowering with predictions of individual performances, best wishes to the players, and last-minute wagers. Before Beth could take a seat with her classmates, Blaise Zabini shanghaied her and shoved something into her hands.

"You're late. Take this."

"What is it?"

Beth uncurled her fingers to find a piece of paper and a small, silver trinket.

"Ammunition," said Blaise, with a wink.

It never bode well when the fifth-years were looking pleased with themselves. Beth examined the objects on her way to her seat. The silver thing was actually a small pin, shaped like a crown and bearing the unusual phrase WEASLEY IS OUR KING. "Not my king," muttered Beth, unfolding the paper. Nose in the page, she sat down beside Melissa, across from where Bruce was making the most of his appetite.

"Aha," she said aloud.

The paper contained a single line of melody and three stanzas of a song that matched the badges: Weasley cannot save a thing/He cannot block a single ring/That's why Slytherins all sing/Weasley is our King. The "born in a bin" line was an unmistakable hallmark of Draco's authorship. She snickered when she got to the line reading, "Weasley will make sure we win." Apparently the fifth-years had decided not to rely on Weasley's lack of talent to lose the game; they were being a proactive audience.

"Not subtle," she commented to Melissa, pinning on the badge, "but not bad."

"Not bad at all." Melissa was already halfway through a bowl of oatmeal and had her own badge firmly in place. "If the Gryffindors knew how to exploit our weaknesses like that, we'd never win a game."

Beth got herself a waffle. "This would never work on Potter."

"Sad but true," Melissa agreed. "That boy's getting a mouth on him. Did you hear what he said about Warrington?"

"Bruce?"

All three of them looked up to see Sally Bletchley standing near the table, twisting her hands together nervously. She had two rosettes pinned to her cloak: one in Gryffindor scarlet, and the other in Slytherin green.

"Hi, Bruce," she said bashfully.

Bruce pushed back his chair and looked over at her. With him seated and her standing, their eyes were nearly on level. It struck Beth suddenly how strong their family resemblance was.

"Hi."

Sally indicated the green rosette. "I did it myself," she said, twisting her foot shyly. "I got one of the prefects to show me a charm to turn it green."

"It looks like you did a really good job," said Bruce.

They looked at each other quietly for a minute.

"Are you still mad at me?" said Sally.

"No. Do you still think I'm unfriendly?" said Bruce.

"Yes, sometimes," said Sally. "Only - I expect Gryffindors can be unfriendly too, can't they?"

"They very often are," said Bruce. "Particularly to me."

Watching them, Beth was struck with envy so strong and so painful that it frightened her. She had not spoken to her own brother since that first call of the Dark Lord; now, with the cruel threat of the banshee taunting her again, she might never have the chance.

Melissa was watching the Bletchleys with a sort of wistful look. Suddenly she pushed back her chair and stood up.

"Where are you going?" said Beth, peering up at her.

"I think I ought to make up with Aaron," said Melissa firmly.

"About time," said Beth, but by then Melissa was already halfway down the table. Aaron turned away at the sight of her but she reached out to grab him before he could get away.

"Aaron-"

She caught him by the sleeve of his T-shirt.

Aaron turned reluctantly back around, his expression tight. "What?" he said shortly.

"Good luck," said Melissa. She took a deep breath. "Really, I mean it. Good luck. I'm glad you got on the team."

Aaron eyed her, uncertainly.

She cuffed him on the shoulder. "Go kick some Gryffindor."

Aaron's face creased into a grin. "Yeah, all right." He punched her back, and Melissa staggered a little. "Thanks."

Montague's voice boomed over the chatter at the Slytherin table, and all eyes turned toward his impressive presence. "Locker room! Move it, you lot."

Aaron waved and hurried to join his captain; Bruce received a kiss on the cheek from Sally while Warrington got a much more vigorous one from Antigone. The team left amid cheers from their classmates, while Montague's voice roared over the hubbub: "Hustle, lads, let's save the shagging for after the victory."

Not long afterwards, the student body followed their teams to the Quidditch pitch, gleefully partisan of companions and clothing. The other houses had begun to notice the Weasley is Our King badges; there was pointing and whispering, and even the occasional snicker. Beth crowded into the stands with Melissa and Mervin, as usual, clutching her song sheet and grateful for something to take her mind off of the banshee.

"We haven't beaten Gryffindor since second year," Melissa sighed, her voice almost frustrated. "I just want to see it once more before we leave."

"I want to see Potter fall off his broom again," said Mervin wistfully.

Far below them, the teams took the field: they were enemy armies presenting arms, packs of wild animals circling warily.

"Captains, shake hands," ordered Madam Hooch. Predictably, Montague put his whole weight into his grip, but Johnson did an admirable job of squeezing back. "Mount your brooms."

The fourteen players hunkered down, readied for a fast start.

The sound of the whistle cut through the November air. Four balls zoomed into play, the Golden Snitch instantly lost among the flurry; scarlet and green-cloaked figures launched upward, fanning out like fireworks. The momentary, breathtaking symmetry ended as the teams crashed together and the game began in earnest.

Lee Jordan, longtime king of the announcer's booth, was in fine form.

"And it's Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is, I've been saying it for years but she still won't go out with me-"

McGonagall delivered her usual frustrated warning.

"Just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest-"

Both Warrington and Montague missed catching her until Crabbe sent a Bludger her way; Montague picked up the Quaffle and shot down the field, only to take a Bludger in the middle of the forehead courtesy of one of the Weasley twins. He dropped the Quaffle, clutching his forehead with one hand and his broom with the other. A Gryffindor Chaser zoomed under him to retrieve the Quaffle, tossing it backwards to her teammate who took off with it, past the Slytherin Chasers and through the hailstorm of Bludgers that Crabbe and Goyle were now sending her way.

At the front of the stands Pansy Parkinson stood up and faced her housemates, waving one of the song sheets. "All right, now!" she cried. "Loud and clear!"

She pointed to Blaise Zabini, who raised a pitch pipe and blew a starting note. Like a bandleader, Pansy raised her hands and conducted the Slytherins in their first round of "Weasley is Our King."

The words of the song roared out over the cheers and shouts of the other three houses. Lee Jordan paused his commentary to listen, then took it up again with vigor as he realized that it would not be good for his favored team. His overloud commentary and the other three houses were not quite enough to drown out the unified front of Slytherins, all shouting in time:

Weasley was born in a bin,
He always lets the Quaffle in,
Weasley will make sure we win,
Weasley is our King!

The Gryffindor Chaser passed off to a teammate, who advanced like lightning toward the unprotected left-hand goal. Beth and Melissa broke off singing to howl out encouragement to Bruce. At the last minute, Bruce swooped up from nowhere to block the shot.

"Way to go, Brucey!" Beth and Melissa shrieked, waving their arms in the air as the Slytherins roared. Bruce, by now well used to playing before an audience, passed the Quaffle to Warrington and settled back into a calm but alert figure-eight pattern before the goals. Warrington took off down the field, neatly avoiding the Gryffindor Chasers, and closed on their new Keeper like a train on a deer.

"EVERYBODY NOW!" cried Pansy.

The Slytherins bellowed out the chorus:

Weasley is our King,
Weasley is our King,
He always lets the Quaffle in,
Weasley is our King!

It may have been a little cruel, but Beth had to admit that it was fun - and effective. The little Weasley dived, as if at random, and the Quaffle went straight between his hands and into the middle hoop.

"This kid's as good as Longbottom!" cried Melissa in delight, over the roaring cheers and ever-escalating song. "The Cup is in the bag!"

"Look at Potter!" Mervin shouted back.

By the looks of it, even Potter was dumbstruck at the sheer ineptitude of his best friend. He hovered near the middle of the field as if he had utterly forgotten that the game was going on. Only when his captain zoomed past did he drop into a dive and start circling the pitch again.

"In the bag!" Melissa howled again, clenching him in an attack-hug (after which they both looked very surprised).

There followed twenty of the happiest minutes in Slytherin history.

Not only did the Chasers score three more times, but the Slytherin defensive side was at the top of its form. Bruce resisted several more attempts on his goals, including one very vindictive one from Alicia Spinnet who clearly still believed he had jinxed her eyebrows. Crabbe and Goyle, while not excellent flyers, shared an amazingly solid performance. Years of serving as Draco's lackeys had made them almost two halves of the same person. Their performance was as tight as the Weasley twins'. They tended to spend a little too much time protecting Draco instead of the rest of the team, but that was to be expected; besides, if the Seeker took a Bludger they might as well give up the game.

Finally the Gryffindor captain managed a goal; but that was so insignificant compared to their lead that Bruce blocked another two right after, without being shaken. He was likely to be pleased with the game, Beth thought. So far, Slytherin hadn't fouled once.

Suddenly, just as Aaron picked up a Quaffle thanks to Goyle's good aim with a Bludger, a red blur streaked from high above the right end of the field: Potter had seen the Snitch. Draco followed a moment later, but whether he was aiming for the Snitch or Potter's trajectory was uncertain: Beth could no more see the Snitch than she could touch it. Potter made a swift turn while Draco continued on - that was a good sign - the crowd was roaring now, "Weasley is Our King" was forgotten amid the thrill of the showdown - each Seeker had his arm outstretched, fingers straining for that last inch...

And Potter drew up his broom to a slow hover, a glint of gold in his fist.

The crowd saw it before Potter did. One minute the Gryffindor Seeker was floating upward, clenched fist raised; the next, he was tumbling forward onto the ground while a Bludger zoomed away merrily. Not too far away, Crabbe hovered with his Beater's bat still raised. He had done his job for the team; but he had done it five seconds too late.

The stands exploded, for various reasons, and Madam Hooch's whistle scored the air. Angelina Johnson landed, frantically, and helped her Seeker off the ground; Hooch rocketed toward Crabbe with her outstretched finger pointed judicially at his head. The rest of the players began to land. Beth saw Bruce drift down from the goalposts, shaking his head. Across the field, his counterpart did the same.

"At least Bruce did a good job," said Beth.

"He could have fallen from further up," muttered Mervin, not hearing her, staring at Potter surrounded by his mates on the field.

"Hush," said Melissa. "Look at that."

The teams were still on the field, moving in packs toward one another, and it didn't look like they were going to shake hands.

Draco had taken it upon himself to approach the winners with good old Slytherin congratulations - and judging by the way the Weasley twins were being restrained by their classmates, it was having the desired effect. Madam Hooch, still bringing the full measure of her wrath onto Crabbe, didn't notice the hate crackling like electricity between the two factions. It arced without warning. Potter and one of the Weasley twins broke away and barreled toward Draco, fists cocked, and what happened next would not have looked out of place at a hockey game. The collision was phenomenal. The sudden bloom of scarlet blood was even better.

"IMPEDIMENTA!"

It was the first coherent word from the whole mess, and it echoed around the stands like only a coach's voice can do. The players flew apart: Draco landed flat on his back, clutching his nose, while Potter and one of the Weasley twins still fought the force that yanked them away from their punching bag. They stopped when Madam Hooch stormed up between them and in no uncertain terms pointed them toward the castle. Not looking at each other, Draco, or the crowds, the two Gryffindors strode from the field, to the hoots and whistles of the audience.

"Wow," said Beth, looking down at Draco sprawled on the field and the smear of blood on the grass, "he has had that coming for so long."

"Come on," said Melissa, "let's go in - maybe Bruce got a glimpse of what happened."

But Bruce had made himself scarce, along with the rest of the players. Despite the hours of speculation, no one could say for sure what had happened until dinner that night, when the Quidditch team clustered together as if celebrating a victory and not a defeat. Montague's voice boomed around the four corners of the hall.

"Didn't you hear what happened?" Montague's face was sheer delight. "They've been booted. Umbridge kicked 'em off the team. Potter and both Beaters." He clapped Draco on the shoulder.

"What about Crabbe?" said Bruce, with a worried look at their own Beater.

"Lines!" Montague almost shouted. He let out a genuine, delighted laugh. "This beautiful bastard only got lines, and gets half the Gryffindors sacked." He ruffled Crabbe's prickly hair. "If you weren't so ugly I'd kiss you."

Crabbe, to his credit, looked repulsed.

"I wouldn't be so proud of that if I were you," said Bruce, still frowning heavily. "In the professional leagues, a stunt like that would get you sacked."

Montague turned to him slowly, leering like a barracuda. "It's a good thing this ain't the professional leagues, then."

"I don't want my future ruined by someone else's foul play." Bruce's voice was dangerously soft.

"I wouldn't overrate my own future if I were you," said Montague coldly. He poked a finger at Bruce's chest. "You let one in. Let's sharpen up next time, right?" Then, dismissively, he turned his back and strolled away.

Bruce stared, disbelievingly, at the swaggering retreat. He turned back toward the girls, still stunned.

"Bruce, don't listen to him," Melissa said, her voice low and quick with urgency.

"This year can't end soon enough," said Bruce darkly, his face twisting. He turned and left the Great Hall - ignoring a herald from his sister, the cry of his name from Kiesha, and the girls urging him to wait and eat something - so straight-backed and composed that Beth knew that the anger in him boiled hotter than ever.

They ate quickly and headed to the common room, hoping to head him off before he had the idea to lay a hex Montague's bed or something. To their surprise, they found him and Mervin working through the N.E.W.T.s primer at a corner table. The boys were quiet, and Bruce had his mouth set, but the silence was unstrained, and they approached without fear.

Beth spoke first. "You did a great job, Bruce. The Chasers were getting really frustrated there."

"One of my best games," Bruce agreed, without taking his eyes from his work.

"I thought Professor Umbridge looked quite impressed," Melissa added. "She does have a great deal of influence, you know. She may know someone who could get you a professional try-out."

"I think I'd like to do it without Umbridge's help, thanks," said Bruce, just as quietly as before.

"Well, I could use some help with that section of the N.E.W.T.s," Melissa said blithely, pulling out a chair. "Show me what you and Mervin have done."

She took a seat and leaned over his primer for a look; and while Bruce really had no choice but to show her their progress, Beth thought that by the way his face cleared, the interaction was a welcome one.

They worked for about an hour, going back and forth over whether or not it was worthwhile to learn this particular theory, interspersing idle chitchat as they did, admonishing each other to keep it down and then promptly turning hypocrite as an interesting comment sprang to mind. The room filled up as dinner let out. No one approached Bruce - probably because he looked so busy - for which Beth was grateful. Not too much later, they realized how little they had accomplished and packed up their books, resolving that their time would be better spent with Aaron, working for their N.E.W.T. in Gobstones.

Just as they were getting up from the table, Melissa paused, and a bemused look came on her face. "Did Montague say that Umbridge kicked them off the team?" she said, with a slow incredulity. "Umbridge doesn't have that kind of authority."

"Oh no," said Mervin gloomily, glancing up at them. He pointed toward the message board. "She does now."

The new notice read "Educational Decree Twenty-Five" and it essentially gave Umbridge authority over all punishments in the entire school.

"This is ridiculous," said Bruce flatly. "Since when has Fudge cared anything about who punishes us?"

"Oh, it's nothing to do with us," said Melissa, turning to him with her familiar knowledgeable air. "It's all about power. Increasing Umbridge's authority over student punishment is the same as increasing Fudge's authority over Dumbledore."

Beth didn't entirely understand the connection, but it did make sense, and Melissa was the most politically savvy of any of them.

"I suppose it's good for us, anyway," Melissa went on thoughtfully. "She does favor the Slytherins, you know. She was very easy on Crabbe-"

"Too right," muttered Bruce.

"And I think it's safe to say she'd do the same for any of us. Now, I don't think we ought to take full advantage of this," she cautioned (Mervin looked disappointed), "but I think things may be easier for us. Umbridge is on our side."

She let out a sigh.

"We just have to make sure she stays there."

-'-'-

After all the excitement of that Saturday, the Slytherins spent Sunday sleeping in and reminiscing about the happier moments of the previous day's game. (No one mentioned that they had actually lost.) Beth and Melissa ate breakfast late, then decided to skive off N.E.W.T.s for the morning in favor of taking a walk around the snow-covered and thinly iced lake. (Beth considered this damage to Melissa's study habits a personal triumph.)

They dressed warmly and headed up through the Entrance Hall; however, halfway down the cold stone steps, Melissa drew up short.

"Professor!"

Professor Grubbly-Plank was making her way down the stairs, a worn leather suitcase in each hand. She was dressed in a traveling cloak and a big, floppy hat. She turned around, and dropped her bags when she saw who had hailed her.

"Well," she said, with a bark of a laugh, "looks like I'm out a job."

They stared at her. Melissa put her hands to her mouth. "Oh no, you're sacked? But I thought Umbridge liked the way you were doing things-"

"Sacked?" roared Professor Grubbly-Plank. "Me? Don't be daft, I'm the best thing to happen to creature studies at Hogwarts since Kettleburn got the axe. Hagrid's back."

"I was starting to wonder if he'd ever come back," said Beth. "Where's he been?"

"Don't know," said Grubbly-Plank darkly, "but it wasn't Majorca, I'll tell you that. Man's black and blue." She lowered her voice. "I reckon he went to America to try his luck as a professional wrestler."

Neither Beth nor Melissa managed a response.

"Very big into wrestling, those Yanks," Grubbly-Plank added.

They contemplated this.

"So ... where will you be going now?" Melissa said at last, presumably to avoid the thought of Hagrid in wrestling attire.

"Back to the old homestead," Professor Grubbly-Plank said expansively, fumbling around for her pipe and finally sticking it between her teeth. "Plank - me old husband, rest 'is soul - had a patch of land by the Thames. It's back to retirement for me. Assuming," she added, "old Tommie doesn't find something to keep me busy."

Beth remembered what Richard had told her, about the Society members being moved into position like chess pieces, and about the brief but terrifying string of kidnappings. "Watch out for him," she instructed. "And if he does anything, write and let us know."

Grubbly-Plank frowned. "Don't know as I'd risk putting it in a letter," she said carefully, "but I'll send word."

It was all they could ask for. They stood looking at each other for a moment; then brash, gray-haired Professor Grubbly-Plank swooped down and grabbed them both in a thoroughly unexpected hug.

"You girls be careful," she said fervently. "We're playing a very different game now. Tommie won't give it up easy. He was a caution when I knew him - and now, this thing he's turned into..." She pulled away, her face looking more worried and aged than Beth had ever seen.

"You girls be careful," she repeated.

Professor Grubbly-Plank, the oldest living member of the Society for Slytherin Advancement, turned and began the long walk to Hogsmeade, bags floating behind her.

That night, Beth plucked Mercator from the canopy of her bed and tied a note to his leg.

Grubbs has left the school. I think she is on our side.

It wasn't a very well-coded letter, she knew, but the small brown bat had been going to and from Azkaban for years now without being caught. She figured he could make one more flight.

"Richard is down Knockturn Alley," she told the bat, carrying it in her fist to the common room door. "Be careful of owls."

She opened the door a crack and tossed him into the hallway. The little bat swooped away down the hall, clicking excitedly, and fell out of sight among the shadows.

Mercator reappeared three nights later, with a message Spellotaped to his leg:

She is.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
(A/n:) We interrupt this fanfic for a public service announcement.

If you've enjoyed the SSA books, it is largely due to the efforts of Giesbrecht, my beta-reader (ScionofGrace on Livejournal). She plucks out the worst bits of writing, tells me when my jokes are particularly unfunny, and completely fixed up the ending of "Dementors' Fortress". By my count she has beta-read something like 380,000 words for me, which is one and a half times the length of OotP. Clearly, the girl is dedicated.

Gies, a soprano, will be joining her touring choir on a trip through Germany and part of Austria later this year. I know this is an important trip to her; she loves to sing, and has a strong German heritage. However - unsurprisingly, for a school-going, student-teaching, job-holding girl - she really has to stretch to make payments for the trip. Since she's done so much for these books, and her own fics are so good (see Some Things Are Better Left Unknown), I thought we of the fandom could help her out.

If you have and a few bucks to spare, I ask you to help Gies get her Germany trip by making a donation to dimond81 at hotmail dot com. Even a dollar or two would be appreciated. If you don't want to send money over the Internet, send me an email and we can work out an alternative. Everyone who donates will be sent a thank-you email, be mentioned in a thank-you note at the bottom of upcoming chapters, and be added to my "Favorite Authors" list, provided you leave me an email or review letting me know that you did.

Thanks for hearing me out. Gies doesn't know I'm doing this; I take full responsibility for the solicitation (and after all the times I've spammed you lot, you shouldn't be surprised). I deeply appreciate your readership, your time, and your consideration. Just think how nice it would be if somebody did this for you someday.