The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.

A/N: First off, sorry for the delay. I've had crazy school shit, I'm having trouble getting in touch with shadow (you miserable SOB ;)) and, so, yeah. I'll be in Montana this week (OUTSIDE of Bozeman... the definition of "middle of nowhere") vacationing, so I'll be away from Internet access until this coming Saturday. Hopefully I'll have some new material by then, but I've got exams two weeks after my return... long story short, it's going to be tough to write anything. So bear with me. Lots of good stuff will come in about three weeks, and this is a pretty fat chapter.
Also, my Spanish sucks, and Incan-inspired cultists probably have an indigenous language… but suspend your disbelief. Creative liscence and all that.
DISCLAIMER ON PART 12: Part Twelve was concise because it's important. No shit will be purveyed here. I'm into the whole brevity thing, except in author's notes… as you well know.
AND SPRING TRAINING HAS STARTED! W00T! GO M'S!

Part Thirteen: Born on a Broomstick

Ron, standing behind Harry, bore the brunt of his weight, which was sliding down the smooth stone stairs.

"Bloody hell!" Ron rasped, bending over. There would be a mark come morning. "What in Merlin's name happened?"

Harry, having fallen harder and for a longer distance, was still spread-eagled and wheezing on the floor.

Hermione, who had been sitting in their customary corner of the Common Room, ran over as fast she could. Nobody else was up by this point.

"I got a vision," Harry said.

"You should see Dumbledore," Hermione said, as worried as she always was. "Are you alright?" she said to the both of them.

"Yeah, fine. Just bruises," Harry said dismissively, standing up. Ron nodded assent, hoisting himself up to sit on the bottom step.

"Harry, maybe you should wait till morning. You're hurt…"

"Hermione, I just fell," Harry said exasperatedly. "I'm seeing him."

Harry pushed the Fat Lady aside dramatically.

"Harry, shouldn't you take your invisibility cloak?" Hermione asked.

He sighed and went back up the stairs.

With his invisibility cloak now draped across his shoulders, Harry hurried to the statue of the gargoyle that served as the entrance to Dumbledore's office.

"Tootsie roll," he whispered. The gargoyle stood aside slowly, as though being roused from a deep sleep. "Come on," Harry urged it, angry and anxious.

Harry got on the escalatoresque stairs and rubbed his eyes. He felt awful.

To his amazement, Dumbledore was at his desk, pouring over tattered parchment with a magnifying glass. He was so engrossed that Harry stood at the door for several minutes.

"Uh, Professor…" Dumbledore nearly jumped out of his seat.

"Oh, Harry," Dumbledore said, relieved. "Is there something wrong?"

"I had another vision, sir." Dumbledore's eyes narrowed.

"Sit down, Harry. What did you see?"

"Voldemort."

"Yes, yes, of course. What was he doing?" Dumbledore said patiently.

"He was trading for something—I don't know what, though. He gave up a dementor for it—he seemed excited—" Harry looked nervously at Dumbledore.

"You won't mind if I try and see the memory, will you?" Dumbledore asked. A sense of urgency seemed to penetrate his voice.

"No, not at all," Harry said.

Dumbledore fixed Harry with the most penetrating of stares. "Interesting."

"Interesting? I don't understand, sir." Harry was utterly perplexed. Dumbledore hadn't even said the incantation.

"I do not need to recite an incantation to deploy my skills in Occulmency, Harry. I have a great many years of experience," Dumbledore said without the smile that always appeared when enlightening his students. "Did either of them mention what was being bought?"

"I didn't hear anything if they did, sir," Harry said.

Dumbledore said nothing for several minutes.

"Indeed. I do not believe that anything of consequence happened. Professor Snape has told me that Voldemort is beginning to send out feelers to other Dark wizards. I do not believe that this was any more than an embassy. Certainly I do not believe an artifact of great magnitude was purchased for a mere dementor. Thank you for coming here, Harry." Harry nodded and got up for the door. "Oh, Harry—I should like to see you in a week's time."

"Sure," said Harry.

And so, despite grave error on his part, Voldemort had the early lead.

Draco Malfoy's ejection via the window became the talk of the school and he was taking all the mockery and disdain he rightly deserved. Hogwarts's small but industrious Arab population was taking it upon themselves to give it to him. Ferrets started appearing in his dresser. Buckets of dye, which may or may not have been manipulated by Peeves, were disgorging their contents upon his head whenever he went down the hall, ruining his robes.

Abd al Rahman, meanwhile, was something of a hero amongst the non-Slytherin houses. By default, his classes were more dynamic than that of the ex-Professor Umbridge, but in their own right they were fascinating. He started with the historical context of each spell or technique he taught, reading the more dramatic passages of ancient tomes. Then the class would troop outside and start cursing the hell out of everybody. It was in one such melee, on the last Thursday of the month, that Harry was fighting his usual amusing battle against Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. They were practicing a stunner, something that came easily to Harry but was of difficulty to the rest of the class bar those who had been members of the DA. Nor did most of the class know the shield charm: Abd had to run around reviving those who went down, which was rare, considering the power of the spells being launched. The ineptitude was obvious in Harry's typical enemies. Malfoy was good at flashy, embarrassing curses, but dueling did not come naturally to him.

Harry was having a friendly duel with Seamus until Malfoy snuck up behind the two of them and cried the incantation. Harry rolled instinctively and countered from his knees.

"Expelliarmus!" Malfoy was caught unprepared and found himself flying through the air, wandless: he hadn't expected such a quick reaction. "Stupefy!"

Malfoy was stunned on the ground as Crabbe and Goyle moved in on Harry.

Abd, who had just finished reviving Neville, watched interestedly. Crabbe and Goyle seemed lost.

"That it?" asked Harry, his breath slightly rushed. "I was trying to duel Seamus," he motioned towards Seamus, who was prone on the ground because of Malfoy's stunner.

Crabbe lifted his wand and mumbled the incantation.

"Protego!" the jinx reflected off the magical wall and hit Crabbe straight in the stomach. "Stupefy!" Goyle joined his cronies on the ground. Harry went over to Seamus. "Revitus,"

"That git!" Seamus ejaculated, blinking angrily.

"I got him back good," Harry said, offering Seamus a hand.

"Thanks." Harry pulled him to his feet.

Abd revived Malfoy and set him on his feet.

"Mr. Malfoy, note that if you must go after someone from the rear that you do not shout your incantation so loud. Mental accentuation is the key." Malfoy was still dazed from the stunner and simply nodded.

al Rahman went over to Malfoy's unconscious thugs and revived them too.

"All I have to say for the two of you is that your reaction time needs improvement." The Professor moved on to Harry. "Excellent, Mr. Potter. Excellent reactions. Your vocabulary of curses is less than adequate for someone of your ability and, ah, stature, however. You may find this of interest."

"A Treatise on the Arts of Defense by Devin Buhner." Harry flipped through it.

"Indeed. It is the accepted standard for the field, Mr. Potter. It is required reading for those in the Auror Training Program." al Rahman winked and strolled impassively over to Lavender Brown, who was bleeding profusely from her shoulder.

That night, Harry was sharing a couch with Ginny in the Common Room, watching all comers try to wrestle with Dean Thomas. Harry's money was still on Dean, the decided favorite for Gryffindor's Monday night fight crown with Lee Jordan gone.

"You should probably say something about quidditch, Harry," Ginny said. "That had to have hurt," she said conversationally as Dean dropped Colin Creevy onto the floor.

"Yeah," Harry replied. He was too busy looking at Ginny to say anything of substance.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, shoving him lightly. Harry grinned.

"Thomas wins!" bellowed Mick Gibbard, seventh year, Lee Jordan's replacement as commentator, and Hogwarts's official bookie. "Put down your bets! Up next is… let's see… uh, Bell vs. Thomas… is that Katie Bell?"

"Oh yes," said Katie with a demonic grin, pulling off her sweatshirt.

Ginny nudged Harry.

"Oy! Mick! Can I say a bit?"

"What is it Potter?" Gibbard said, even more confused than he had been.

"Quidditch tryouts are Saturday, one o'clock, on the pitch! We need beaters and a chaser. Katie, I, uh, don't think you should wrestle."

Katie looked put out. "Oh, fine," she said dejectedly.

"Potter, I've got fifty galleons on this already," protested Gibbard.

"You make more on quidditch." Hermione interjected waspishly from the far corner of the room, where she was the only person studying. "And I still don't know this is going on. Set up a pool on who makes the team."

That decision—who would make the team—was to be made on Saturday. Friday would have passed largely without incident, were it not for a development of a less than comical nature to Harry. The class before lunch, charms, had just ended and he wasn't entirely hungry, which was an aberration, to say the least. As was customary, he headed towards McGonagall's classroom, where Ginny had class. A door located just up the hall from the classroom in question swung open, and Ginny appeared from it.

"Hi Harry," she whispered, looking in both directions.

"Hi, Ginny," Harry replied, puzzled, as she pulled the door shut. "What's—" Ginny pulled him close and they started making out with a vengeance.

It was only a few minutes later that the door opened and Hannah Abbot appeared on the other side of it.

Of all of Hogwarts's four hundred students, the gossip queen had to be the one to walk in.

"Oh, hello!" she said, her eyes positively lighting up.

Harry swore, turning his gaze towards the window. So much for a relaxing weekend.

Even by the end of classes on Friday Harry was getting chiding remarks from the rest of the student body. Hermione took the supportive role, of course, but Ron, on the other hand…

"Bloody hell! Bloody hell! What in Merlin's name were you doing? Snogging my sister, Harry!" Ron bellowed in the Common Room after fuming silently next to Harry in potions.

"See, Ron, that's wha—"

"Not with Ginny, it's not!" Harry wryly noted that Ron had been the biggest supporter of the embryonic idea of Ginny getting together with Harry. A strong sense of irony had started to flourish in him ever since Sirius's death.

"Ron, I'm sure that Ginny appreciates having a brother that cares so much, but she's fifteen."

"We—" Ron started.

"—Couldn't get dates last year. Well, not good ones," Harry countered with a grimace.

"Rubbish," Ron muttered. He sat down with an ugly expression on his face.

"This was one of your ideas, Ron," Harry said softly. Rarely was Harry irritated by Ron's loyalty to his intimates, but this was one of those times.

Ron snorted, then exhaled loudly.

"I reckon so," he said. Harry knew that was as good of an apology he'd get, so he let it lie.

Saturday dawned bright and early, an interesting development considering the chill that had descended on Hogwarts in September. Dew glimmered on the lawn as Harry, Ron, Katie Bell, Ginny, and the hopefuls strode to the field for Harry's first practice and speech as captain of Gryffindor quidditch. They assembled in the middle of the field.

"Morning, everybody," Harry said, surveying everyone and their varying degrees of exhaustion. "We've got three open positions—a wing chaser and beaters. You knew that, though." Harry grinned nervously. "The four of us—" Harry indicated himself and the other veterans "—will be looking for talent, cohesiveness, and intensity." Ron tried to look scary while Ginny rolled her eyes at her boyfriend's beautiful use of sports cliché that reigned even in the wizarding world. "So, ah, who's out for chaser?" A couple of second years Harry barely recognized and Colin Creevy raised their hands.

"I am, Harry! It'll be brilliant!" Colin exclaimed, flushed red.

"If you say so," Ginny muttered. Harry's mouth twitched—Colin had an obvious and brutally unreciprocated crush on her.

"We'll start with chaser drills. Mount up. Katie, you'll…?" Harry's voice trailed off. Katie nodded and Harry opened the box of balls, withdrawing the quaffle. He tossed it to her as she kicked off.

"Beaters… Damian Pratt, right?" Harry indicated a large, nervous fourth year. "Good show. You and Seamus." Seamus flashed his ivory nervously. "You blokes will be against each other for now. Tandems will come later. You two watch, alright?

"Chasers. We'll be running a simple shooting drill. Ginny will be on the right wing and Katie will be the center. Ron's going to be keeper. Emilia Santos?" one of Ginny's friends, a tall, lean, Latina fifth year, nodded. "You'll go first. Let's kick off."

Their exuberant broomsticks bounded into the air and Harry assumed a familiar position: hovering high above the goalposts. Seamus was decent and Pratt's play was poor. Harry figured that their team was an offensive one anyway, but he needed insurance with the experience of his seeker counterparts on other teams. Harry hoped that Charlie Weeks, another candidate for beater, could live up to his high recommendation from Professor McGonagall.

Emilia Santos, however, was a natural—she had actually been born on a broomstick going between Lima and Cuzco. Her passing was as smoother than Angelina Johnson's—which was incredible, because Harry had heard Madame Hooch swear that Angelina's arm had been the best at Hogwarts in twenty years. He was completely and utterly sure that Emilia would make the squad.

"Santos! Ginny! Flip!" he bellowed. Emilia took a swift dive under Katie, who released the ball as the wing flew under her. Emilia reacted instinctively—she put it under the crux of her arm and took a diagonal to the goalposts, artfully dodging a bludger courtesy of Seamus.

Ron had no chance: the angle was too sharp, his distance too far from the post, and the velocity of the quaffle was simply too great. The big red ball hurtled through the posts without even touching the rim. Katie shot Harry a meaningful look from below. He returned it and a thumb's up.

"Excellent work, Santos, excellent. In formation, Colin. Seamus, Pratt, swap out with Weeks and Stefan, there."

All of Harry's suspicions were confirmed with the next tandem. Colin was miserable, dropping all three passes he received from Ginny and Katie. Charlie Weeks was far above average, coolly whacking the possessed black spheres at Stefan Obermeuller and the chasers. Harry for a little while longer to look objective, then blew his whistle to stop the practice.

"Everybody looked strong. We'll go into the lockers and figure who's on the team. Just wait out here," Harry said. He and the veterans shuffled into the lockers and plunked themselves on the seats.

"Emilia, Seamus, and Charlie," Katie announced.

"Bloody right," Ron said enthusiastically.

"Emilia wasn't even playing her best," said Ginny bemusedly. They all looked at Harry expectantly.

"Just what I was thinking," he said. "None of them have conflicts?"

"You heard Seamus, mate. He cleared up just for quidditch," Ron noted approvingly.

"So did Emilia," Ginny said. "I don't know Charlie well, though."

"I don't either. I didn't even know he existed until McGonagall mentioned it," Katie said with chagrin.

"We have to stay in a few more minutes so we don't make Creevy cry," Harry pointed out. Ginny mockingly got to her feet. Harry smirked elegantly.

Katie drew a grid on the chalkboard. "Tic tac toe?"

After Ron won the only round that didn't wind up cat's game, the four of them trooped back onto the pitch. The tryouts crowded them hopefully. Several of them, including Colin, were quite pale.

"Well, it's been tough, but I've made the choices. I just want to say first that all of you are deserving of slots on a slightly less crowded team. All of you did well today. Our team will be the four of us, Seamus, Emilia, and Charlie. Thanks for giving up your sleep for the house." The lucky three stood up shakily, congratulating each other. Seamus made a fist and thrust it into the sky. Colin and company filed back to the castle, forlorn. "Congratulations," Harry said, beaming. He waited until the cut were out of earshot. "Honestly, you lot had it made when you said you were trying out for the team."

"We played tic tac toe for fifteen minutes," Ginny added.

"But you have to live up to it," Harry said, serious. "We're going to win it all. Not that anyone else has a chance. Practice is Monday at seven. We'll leave them in the muck this year."

Hogwarts returned to class Monday in generally good spirits, barring Colin Creevy, who had been shut down repeatedly by Ginny, and Draco Malfoy, who was still smarting over the Second Ferret Incident. But to those who had been present, it was getting to be boring to talk about the defenestration. Ron was even starting to get sick of it.

"Bloody hell, if I have to talk about that thing again, I'm going to hurt someone," he muttered menacingly after Luna Lovegood paid he, Hermione, and Harry a visit in the Entrance Hall.

"Malfoy, maybe?" Harry asked innocently.

"Put down your galleons," Ron noted, smirking.

"Gibbard has a pool going on who beats up Malfoy next," Hermione said evenly.

"Don't tell me you're going to shut it down!" Harry cried.

"Of course not. I put money on Ron." Hermione gazed approvingly at Ron.

Ron stopped, and Harry turned to face him.

"What was that about?" Ron asked, agog. Harry shook his head, the corners of his lips twitching.

Even as Ron displayed his total inability to grasp nuance, plotting and experimenting occurred just outside of the ancient capital of the Inca.

"Don Pacahuti," a security guard nodded. "Buenos dias,"

"Hola, Rogelio. ¿Juan est�?"

"Sí. Èl está en la tumba," replied the guard. "¿Usted no quiere decirme exactamente que están hacando?"

"Ay, Rogelo, cuando estás aprender?" Pacahuti guffawed. "Los gringos revelarán pronto bastante, cuando allí chico está… astestando con."