Murdoch Mysteries: Hogwarts Files

by Hooraytio13

What if all the Murdoch Mysteries characters went to Hogwarts? AKA: A shameless Hogwarts AU that nobody asked for.

8. The Mysterious Illness

A/N: I originally wrote this chapter without any intent of actually posting it and it was purely for my own enjoyment, but then I finished it and made it plot relevant, so now it's here to stay and I don't know how I feel about it.

Slight grossness warning for this chapter: Puking happens. None of it is described in any real detail but, just putting it out there that it happens.

---

George tapped his foot, his fingers twiddling aimlessly around each other. He'd been standing still for so long, his feet were starting to get sore. He stood on one foot to relieve some of the pressure. He wished he had a watch. He had no idea how long he'd been waiting there. Shoving his hands in his pockets, George paced back and forth.

He sighed. He couldn't be sure if James Gillies was late, but it felt like he had been standing around outside the Slytherin Common room for centuries.

A tall girl wearing blue Ravenclaw robes suddenly came streaking past, tripping over George's shoe. She yelped, toppling to the floor.

"Oh! Sorry!" George bent down, offering his hand to help her to her feet.

She blinked, straightening her spine. "My fault," she said curtly, ignoring George's hand and standing up by herself. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

George withdrew his hand. "What are you running around the dungeons for?" He was eager for conversation.

She smoothed down her dirty blonde curls, lifting up an old-fashioned film camera she wore around her neck. "I'm taking photographs for the Hogwarts Gazette."

George blinked in recognition. "I know you! You're the newspaper girl!" he cried. "Louise Cherry, right?" Since October, there had been posters littering the halls inviting people to work for the Hogwarts Gazette, a newspaper which, outside of the posters, no one had ever heard anything about.

She nodded. "Would you be interested in working for the Hogwarts Gazette?" she asked.

"Well—" George scratched the back of his head. "I don't write stuff like that, I wouldn't know how to—"

"Oh, writing's the easy part," she interrupted. "It's finding the story that's the hard part. I've been running around snapping photos everywhere I go of everyone I see and I haven't found any story better than a mysteriously wilting plant in the Herbology classroom." She rolled her eyes. "What on earth could be causing that?" She deadpanned.

George stuck out his hand. "George Crabtree," he said.

"What?"

"That's my name, I just thought we'd get properly acquainted."

"Oh." She nodded. "Well," she said after a short pause. "I should be going. There's got to be a story somewhere at Hogwarts, I just have to find it."

"Wait!" George held up a hand. "You didn't take my picture."

She smirked. "You aren't much of a story." She held her hands out dramatically. "Breaking news!" she cried. "'A boy exists!'"

He laughed. "Well, it's better than nothing."

"All right. But only one. This is a fresh roll of film." Louise Cherry lifted her camera, peering through the eyepiece. "Smile, I suppose."

George put on a grin and the camera whirred, blinking a blinding flash.

"Well," she said. "That'll make a brilliant story."

"I look forward to my first time being on the front page of a newspaper."

"Front page?" she repeated with a scoff. "That spot's going to the wilted plant. Maybe you'll make the entertainment section." She smirked and dashed off, leaving George to get back to his aimless waiting.

Eventually, the door to the Slytherin common room opened and James Gillies strolled out. He didn't say anything to George, but signaled him to follow as he walked off down the corridors. There was a peculiar rectangular bulge under his robes.

If being ignored bothered George, he didn't show it. He'd gotten used to Gillies' distant ways. "So," he said, jogging slightly to catch up. "What did you want to show me?"

Gillies held up a finger, grabbing George's arm and pulling him into an empty room. Closing the door behind them, James turned around, smiling. He sat cross-legged on the ground and motioned for George to do the same. "Look at this," he said, reaching up his shirt and pulling out a thick, blue leather-bound book. On the cover was a peculiar series of embossed shapes, which almost looked like letters, but not from any alphabet George recognized. Gilles smiled. "I snuck into the Restricted Section."

George's eyes widened. "Don't let Madam Pince hear you say that," he said, mildly impressed. The restricted section of the library was blocked off by a rope, but Madam Pince must have had a telepathic connection with it, because all it took was a single touch of the rope to summon the librarian like a wrathful demon from the Abyss.

James opened the cover. "Just think," he said, a devilish grin on his face. "This book is full of spells the professors didn't want us knowing." He turned a page, running his finger along the lines as he read. "Look at this," he said, pulling out his wand. He flipped the book around and showed George a hand-drawn picture of a wizard casting a brilliant display of colourful sparks. "Fireworks spell."

"You're going to cast it?"

"No." Gillies shook his head. "You're going to cast it."

"Why me?"

Gillies shrugged. "You always let me have all the fun, I figured I'd let you have a go."

George scratched his head. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

James Gillies shot him a disappointed glare, but otherwise ignored him. He slid the book over to George. "If you don't want to be boring," he said. "You'll do it."

George shrugged, pulling out his wand and reading the spell out loud. "Ventris Morbus," he said, swishing his wand in a peculiar, rather complicated motion.

The boys braced themselves for the most fantastical light show they could imagine, but, except for a few pitiful golden sparks, nothing happened.

"Well, that's disappointing." Gillies blinked. "I was hoping for something with a bit more pizazz than two rocks hitting each other."

George shrugged. "I probably did it wrong." He pointed to the next page. "What's that one do?"

"It's supposed to summon a tsunami," said Gillies. He laughed when he saw George's wide-eyed look of panic. "Relax," he said. "I'm not going to cast it."

George smiled with relief. "Good," he said. "Because even though I can swim, I'm not very keen on racing a tidal wave."

James Gillies closed the book, looking at George like a girl at a sleepover party about to share a juicy secret. "If I show you something, can you promise not to tell anybody?"

Nodding, George shuffled closer. "Okay."

Gillies smirked. "Have you ever heard of the Patronus charm?"

George shook his head. "What is it?"

"It's a spell that conjures a guardian called a Patronus. It's used to defend against Dementors."

"Dementors?"

Gillies rolled his eyes. "I forgot you're a Muggle-Born," he said. "It must be hard to have to play catch up on everything."

George shrugged. "Playing catch up is my default state even in non-wizard stuff."

Gillies smirked. "Well," he said. "Dementors guard Azkaban, the wizard prison. They're these huge, dark creatures, and they try to give you the Dementor's Kiss—"

"Gross, not until at least the third date."

Gillies shook his head. "Not that kind of kiss. They suck out your soul so that you don't have any happiness or joy left."

"My Aunt Primrose says similar things about normal kissing."

"I know you're only joking about it because you don't know what they're like, but they really aren't a laughing matter." Gillies' face went pale, his voice low. "I've seen them. They make the air feel cold, and when you're around them, it feels like…" He trailed off, words failing him. "It's like you'll never smile ever again, like all the happiness in the world just gets sucked away."

"Oh." George blinked. That sounded terrible. He couldn't imagine a world without happiness. He swallowed. "So, the Patronus gets rid of dementors?"

Gillies nodded. "It's supposed to be one of the hardest spells to do, but…" He smirked, pulling out his wand. He sat up straighter, his face still with focus. "Expecto Patronum!" he cried, his voice commanding and sharp.

A formless, silvery wisp shot out of his wand, like a curling tail of candle smoke. It hovered in the air for a moment before dissipating into nothing.

"Wow," said George. "That thing defends against dementors?"

Gillies nodded. "Neat, huh?"

"Definitely."

William slid into his usual seat at the table in the Great Hall he and the others had claimed as their own. He was early to lunch, so he pulled out his notes from Potions class and studied them as he waited for the others to arrive. His shepherd's pie had gone cold by the time Brackenreid joined him, followed by a miserable-looking George Crabtree.

Murdoch frowned as he sat down. "Are you all right?" he asked.

George nodded. "Tired," he explained. "I just came from History of Magic and Professor Binns got distracted halfway through his lecture and lost his place, so he just started over."

Brackenreid shoveled a forkful of shepherd's pie into his mouth. "Ogden can't make it," he said, swallowing. "Slytherin's playing Ravenclaw on Friday, she'll be at practice."

Nodding, Murdoch pursed his lips. He wasn't very interested in sports, but he was interested in Julia. He'd only ever watched two Quidditch matches, one in his first year at Hogwarts and one that his father had dragged him to so that they could "bond." He took a sip of water. "Is Julia any good?" he asked.

Brackenreid and George stared at him. "Besides me, Ogden's the best keeper at Hogwarts," said Thomas.

George squinted slightly. "Well, she might be better than—" he began, earning an elbow to the ribs from Brackenreid. George's face crumpled. "Ow!" he whined, sounding like a sad puppy.

"Oi, sorry, Bugalugs," apologized Thomas, moving to pat him on the back but, fearing his own strength, he opted instead to wave his hands awkwardly like he was inventing a new, avant-garde dance. "Didn't mean to hit you that hard."

There came a loud crash, and every head in the Great Hall turned in unison to stare in shock at Llewellyn Watts, who stood next to the fireplace, looking down at the floor where a pile of beef and potato mixed with what remained of his plate lay scattered along the stones.

Brackenreid shook his head. "I don't know how you deal with him in Potions, Murdoch. He's worse than a fire crab in a parchment shop."

Mainly out of sympathy, Murdoch stood up and made his way over to Watts. Waving his wand, he cleaned up the mess and invited Watts to sit at the table with them. "Julia's not here and it always feels odd with only three of us sitting."

Watts shook his head, his hands deep in his pockets. "I don't want to intrude."

"You aren't." Murdoch waved his hand, walking back to the table.

Watts paused for a moment before following suit.

William sighed as he sat down. "So—" he wet his lips. "How many balls are there in Quidditch again?"

"Three," supplied Thomas. "Quaffle, bludgers and the Snitch."

"And you score hoops with the….?"

Shaking his head, Thomas chuckled slightly. "First of all," he said. "You don't score hoops. You score goals. Second, the chasers score goals with the quaffle. The keeper guards the goals. The beaters hit the bludgers around and try to mess up your day and the seeker tries to catch the Snitch."

Watts squinted. "You don't watch Ravenclaw's games?"

"Not usually." William scratched his head. "But I'm thinking… maybe I might watch Friday's match?"

The boys all stared at him.

"Why the sudden interest in Quidditch?" asked Watts.

Thomas chuckled. "I'll fill that," he said. "He just realized that he's never seen his crush in action."

William blushed redder than a baboon's backside. "I— I just thought, since all of you are so interested in Quidditch, perhaps I should try engaging with your interests."

"Nice try." Thomas scraped the remaining bits of his lunch off his plate. He pointed at Murdoch with his fork. "If you like her so much, why don't you just ask her on a date?"

"I was going to," said William. "But there was the whole thing at her Valentine's party and I don't even really know what happened, but…"

Watt's eyes were wide. He snatched a glass of water off the table and guzzled it down, coughing a bit as he swallowed. "You… you've got… you've got a crush on Julia Ogden?"

"Yep," said Brackenreid, at the same time as William shook his head and said, "No."

Nodding slowly, Watts sucked in a breath. "You haven't told her?"

"Not yet." William straightened his tie. "I'm… waiting for the right moment."

"Well, don't wait too long," said Thomas. "Girls don't like being single. You better pounce before another man gets to her first."

Grimacing, George held his stomach. His mouth was twisted up in a wavy line.

"What's wrong with you?" asked Brackenreid, lightly elbowing him with a frown.

Squeezing his eyes shut, George slowly scooted an inch away from Thomas. "Please stop doing that."

"Are you all right?"

George swallowed. "My stomach is killing me." he sighed, shifting around to try and get into a more comfortable position. He took a shaky breath. "I feel like I'm going to be sick."

Murdoch frowned. "Should you go to the Hospital Wing?"

George shook his head. "It's not that bad," he said. "I'll bet I just ate something weird at breakfast."

Brackenreid smirked. "That's why I don't eat the eggs." He leaned forward in a secretive whisper. "I hear that the house elves conjure them up. That's why they taste funny."

Watts sucked in a breath. "Perhaps you're just hungry?" he suggested, gesturing vaguely towards George's full plate of shepherd's pie.

"Maybe." George gripped his fork, shoveling a small mouthful of meaty potato into his mouth. His stomach audibly groaned in protest as he swallowed. He put on a smile. "So are you going to watch the Quidditch game on Friday?" he asked, turning to Murdoch.

Thomas grinned. "Oh, you're coming," he said. "You'll get to see what you've been missing. Julia Ogden on a broom is something you'll want to see."

Julia tightened the strap on her gloves around her wrists. She pulled her thick curls into a low ponytail, positioning her helmet on her head and pressing it down her head. Grabbing her broom, she waved at her teammates.

Issac Tash, the Slytherin seeker and captain of the Quidditch team, gathered the team for a pre-practice powwow.

"Alright," he said, waving his hands to get their attention. "Friday, we go up against Ravenclaw. They're tough, we've got to be tougher. We've got to be in top form, so let's get to work."

They spent the next hour flying around the pitch. The chasers passed the Quaffle back and forth, trying to score while Julia blocked as many goals as she could.

High up the air, she kicked the Quaffle away from the goal hoops with a smirk. Watching her team play was like watching a perfectly functioning machine, each part working exactly as it was intended to. The beaters whacked the bludgers around with deadly precision, the chasers and the seeker dodging them like carefully choreographed dancers.

At the end of practice, Tash patted everyone on the back. "Good hustle, everybody," he said. "If we play just like that in the game on Friday, we've got the Quidditch cup in the bag."

The team cheered, filtering into the Quidditch changing rooms to get back into their school uniforms.

Malcolm, one of the chasers groaned. "Bleugh," he said, holding his stomach. "I shouldn't have done so many barrel rolls in a row. I feel like I'm going to hurl."

A beater elbowed him. "If you're going to be sick, do it outside." She smirked. "Albert's already stinking up the changeroom enough to rival a fish market."

Albert, one of the chasers, shot her a glare.

Julia rolled her eyes, smiling. She unclasped her robes.

Tash approached. "Julia, mind if I borrow you for a moment?"

"Sure."

They melted into a corner to talk amongst themselves alone.

"So," he began. "I'm graduating this year."

"I know," said Julia. "We'll miss you."

"Exactly, but Slytherin will be needing a new Quidditch captain. I was going to offer you up for the job."

She blushed. "Why me?"

"You've got the leadership skills for it," he said. "And everybody likes you."

"Aren't I a bit young?"

He shrugged. "I became captain in my fourth year. Whoever Snape picks is who it is."

"I'm sure Snape would pick Malcolm, he's the oldest after you."

Tash waved his hand. "Snape couldn't care less which student is leading the team, just as long as they're leading the team to victory." He smirked. "Look, if you don't want to do it, I'll put Malcolm forward. I just think you might be a good pick."

She paused. "Can I have a while to think about it?"

He nodded. "Sure, but try to make up your mind pretty quick about it. Snape's been breathing down my neck about it since October." He smiled, patting her on the back. "Good work today. You only let in one goal and Albert was really trying with that one." He walked off.

She blinked, turning it over in her head. Quidditch captain. She liked the sound of it. She could picture herself ordering her team around, strategizing, giving them inspiring speeches when they needed a pep talk. She knew she would love to do it, that wasn't what gave her pause. She wasn't sure if she was the person her team needed, and above anything else, she wanted to make sure that her team was in the best possible hands.

Brackenreid flushed the toilet, pushing open the stall door and walking over to the sink. He turned on the tap, plunging his hands under the water and scrubbing.

The door suddenly exploded open and George Crabtree barreled inside, making a beeline for an empty stall.

Brackenreid blinked. "Hi, Crabtree."

In response, the sounds of retching filled the bathroom.

Thomas turned off the tap. Bloody hell, of course he's sick, he thought grimly. He should have gone to the Hospital Wing hours ago. You should have made him go earlier.

In his hurry to get to a toilet, George hadn't locked the stall door. Brackenreid knocked softly, then pushed it open. "Crabtree? You alright?"

George was on the ground, all but hanging off of the toilet bowl, coughing weakly. He gagged again, his whole body shaking as he threw up a second time.

Brackenreid knelt down beside him. He patted his back, smiling sympathetically. "Here," he said when George finished. He passed him a piece of toilet paper.

George clumsily grabbed it and wiped his mouth. His face screwed up, and Thomas thought he might puke again, but instead he choked out a sob and burst into tears.

"Hey, it's alright," Brackenreid shushed him, pulling him into a hug.

"'M sorry," mumbled George, his words addled from a mixture between the tears and the sickness. "Sorry for being gross."

Brackenreid shook his head. "You're sick, Crabtree." He said. "That's not your fault."

George didn't respond, in fact, he'd almost gone entirely limp in Brackenreid's arms.

Thomas frowned, gently shaking him. "Crabtree? You still there?"

George stirred, groaning. He pulled away from the hug, leaning against the toilet.

He looked awful. His skin was a clammy, translucent white, his eyes sunken in with dark bags underneath. The front pieces of his hair clung to his sweaty forehead and his whole frame trembled and shivered.

Thomas placed a hand on his forehead. "Oi, Crabtree, you're burning up." He internally cursed. He shouldn't have been joking around at lunch. He should have marched Crabtree up to the Hospital Wing himself. He probably could have avoided all of this if he had. He put an arm around the Hufflepuff. "I'm taking you to the Hospital Wing. Can you walk?"

Getting George to his feet was no easy task. His body seemed to be made of jelly, and the little drunken control he had over his limbs wasn't helpful. Thomas eventually managed to hoist him up with one arm under his arms and around his back, supporting him more than George's legs were. George was significantly shorter than Brackenreid was, making him have to lean down like a hunchback in order to support him properly.

Getting George to the Hospital Wing proved to be an even more difficult endeavour. George shuffled and stumbled along as best he could, but it was clear that he was absolutely exhausted and what little energy he had was fading fast. Every now and again, Brackenreid would have to reach over and pinch him to make sure he didn't fall asleep. Once, he'd forgotten to do it and suddenly found himself supporting George's full weight and the two of them crashed to the floor.

Eventually, the two boys managed to make their slow, awkward way to the Hospital Wing.

Thomas pushed open the door. "Excuse me? Madam Pomfrey? I've got a sick kid for you here." He blinked in surprise as he took in the room.

The Hospital Wing was uncharacteristically full. Nearly every bed was occupied and Madam Pomfrey hovered over every one of them like a hummingbird collecting nectar.

Madam Pomfrey glanced up as the two of them entered. "Oh dear, not another one," she said. "Put him over there," she instructed, pointing towards an empty cot in the corner.

In the twenty or so feet they had to walk to get to the bed, George almost fell over three times.

"Here we go." Thomas laid George down on the bed, pulling the blankets up around him. "Now you can sleep."

George nestled himself deeper into the pillows. "Thanks," he mumbled, closing his eyes. Within seconds, he was asleep.

Shaking his head, Thomas glanced around the room. "It's pretty full in here," he commented.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. She moved to examine Crabtree. "Fever," she noted. "Stomachache?"

Thomas nodded. "He was complaining about it at lunch. He threw up just now."

"Just the same as the others." Madam Pomfrey gazed out at the dozens of occupied beds.

Brackenreid frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. "Madam Pomfrey, is something wrong?"

She pursed her lips. "Nothing you need to know. Move along now."

Thomas glared, folding his arms. "I'm a prefect, Madam Pomfrey. I'm responsible for looking after the student body. If something is going on that affects the student body, I should know."

She sighed. "Mr. Brackenreid," she said. "If Professor Dumbledore hadn't given me explicit instructions not to talk to students, I would already have told you." She waved her hands. "I really must insist that you leave."

Thomas let out a breath. He wanted to push back, but he knew he couldn't argue with Dumbledore's orders. "Can I at least come back? To visit Crabtree?"

She paused. "I shouldn't allow you," she said. Her gaze softened as she glanced at George, fast asleep. "But I know how close you two are, and you have already been exposed…"

"So, you'll let me in?"

With a hesitant sigh, she nodded. "Not for very long, only a few minutes at a time." Her face turned stern again. "And you mustn't tell anyone about this."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," said Thomas.

"—And it's packed full of kids," continued Thomas at dinner. "Nearly every single cot's got someone in it, and they've all got the same stomach bug."

Murdoch frowned, laying down his fork. "Did Madam Pomfrey tell you what was going on?"

Brackenreid shook his head. "She said Dumbledore wouldn't let her tell me. She's hiding something."

"Poor George," said Julia. "Is he alright?"

"Well, after he threw up," Thomas pushed his food around on his plate. "Poor kid was exhausted. He fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow."

William's face twinged with sympathy. "Oof," he said. "He probably feels awful."

Julia leaned forward. "All right, we'll all go in to see him after dinner, and I've got a free period tomorrow morning—"

Thomas held up a hand. "I don't think you guys can visit him."

"What?" Julia looked both confused and offended at the same time.

"Why not?" William frowned.

"Madam Pomfrey said she shouldn't let me visit Crabtree, but because we're close and because I'd 'already been exposed,' she'd let me." Brackenreid's eyebrows knit together. "I don't think she's supposed to allow anyone in."

The table fell silent for several moments.

"We all know what that means, right?" William's eyes were wide. "They think it's contagious. There could be some disease spreading around Hogwarts."

"It's probably just a stomach flu," said Julia, sounding uncertain. "One of those twenty-four hour things, you know? They'll all probably be alright tomorrow."

Murdoch shook his head. "Madam Pomfrey can fix broken bones in less than a minute. She's got dozens of potions and spells under her belt, and I've never seen her mess up. If this was a normal stomach flu, she'd have already cured everyone." He glanced at the others grimly. "She doesn't know what's wrong with them. We better hope they all feel better soon, because if not…" He didn't need to finish his sentence, his implication was clear enough.

They all exchanged worried looks.

Raising his eyebrows, Brackenreid sighed. "Bloody hell."

When George blearily blinked awake, the Hospital Wing was dark and silent, pale moonlight shining in through the windows. His eyes felt like they had shrunk, making his eyelids too big, like a baggy, oversized sweater with folds drooping everywhere. His ears rang and there was a throbbing pain hammering in his head. His stomach twinged every time he moved.

He let out a small sigh, the memory of how he got here rushing back to the front of his mind. He wanted to go somewhere and hide for the rest of his life. He'd thrown up and started crying in front of Brackenreid and he'd had to nearly carry him to the Hospital Wing. George figured if whatever stomach flu he had didn't kill him, he would probably die of embarrassment.

He glanced around the room. There was only a smattering of empty cots, the others filled with sleeping students. There was a privacy screen and a small table next to each bed, each with a large glass containing some kind of unnaturally pink liquid.

George looked to his right, noticing his bedside table. He picked up the cup, almost dropping it. It was heavier than he had anticipated. He raised it to his nose and sniffed.

It smelled… peculiar. There wasn't really anything he could compare it to. It was faintly minty, somewhat fruity, with a dry, nose-tingling scent that reminded him a bit of chalk.

"It's a potion." Madam Pomfrey's soft voice made him jump in surprise. She was sitting at a desk at the end of the room, reading a book, a flickering candle lighting up her face. "It'll ease your stomach, if only a little."

George blinked, raising the glass to his mouth and taking a small, experimental sip. It tasted as ambiguous as it smelled. It wasn't exactly a bad taste, but it also wasn't necessarily something he wanted to taste more of. He placed the glass back on the table.

"I don't suppose you're feeling any better?" Madam Pomfrey turned a page in her thick, leather-bound book.

George shook his head. He didn't want to open his mouth to talk, afraid that if he did, his body would take that as a cue to flip his stomach inside out.

She sighed. "I thought as much." She closed the book with a resounding thud, rubbing her temples. "You should go back to sleep," she said. "It's been my experience that sleep usually helps."

George's stomach lurched as he nestled deeper into the pillows. He dutifully closed his eyes and lay still for several minutes, until he was sure that Madam Pomfrey thought he was asleep. Cracking one eye open, he silently watched Madam Pomfrey pore over book after book until he eventually fell asleep again.

Thomas straightened his red and gold tie, sucking in a deep breath. He yawned. He didn't usually wake up earlier than seven thirty in the morning, but this morning, he was up before the crack of dawn. He tiptoed through the Gryffindor dorms, not wanting to wake anyone up. His hair was a mess, but, feeling too lazy to properly comb it, he pulled out his wand and tiredly mumbled a spell. His hair detangled itself. It still didn't look neat by any means, but it was presentable at least. He slipped his Transfiguration textbook into a book bag and slung it over his shoulders.

Yawning again, he pushed open the Fat Lady's portrait and stepped out into the corridor. The sudden movement jolted the Fat Lady out of her sleep. She blinked in weary surprise. "Thomas Brackenreid," she said. "You're up early."

"I've got to see someone," said Thomas.

"Ooh!" The Fat Lady perked up, smelling fresh gossip. "Who's the lucky lady?"

Folding his arms, Thomas smirked. "George Crabtree."

"Oh." She huffed out a disappointed breath, looking at him with pointed expectation. "Haven't you got something to say to me?"

Holding back an eye roll, Thomas plastered on a fake sympathetic smile. "Terribly sorry for waking you up from your extremely important sleep. Please go back to it now."

She folded her arms. "Sarcasm isn't a good look on you, dear."

He glanced over his shoulder at her, already halfway down the corridor. "I'm a Gryffindor," he said. "Sarcasm is my first language."

The halls of Hogwarts were quieter than a cemetery early in the morning. He moved quickly through the halls and corridors, ignoring Peeves, who blew raspberries his way, and soon he stood outside the door to the Hospital Wing.

Taking a deep breath, he gripped the doorknob and slowly pushed it open. He peeked inside.

The lights were off, but the room was bright with the early morning sun streaming in through the windows. Thomas' eyes immediately flew to George's bed in the far corner, but all he could see was a huddled ball under the blankets.

A rustling sound made him jump. In the corner closest to the door, Madam Pomfrey rifled through a rack of potions, muttering under her breath.

Clearing his throat, Thomas knocked softly on the door. "Madam Pomfrey?" he asked.

She jumped, nearly dropping a large potion flask in surprise. "Mr. Brackenreid," she said once she regained composure. "Here to see young Mr. Crabtree, I presume?"

He nodded, stepping inside. "How's he doing?"

"He's asleep," she said curtly. "But you're welcome to wait for him to wake up."

"I came prepared for that," said Brackenreid, holding up his book bag. He moved to the other side of the room. He couldn't help but glance at the other sleeping patients as he walked past. He pulled up a stool next to George's bed and read his textbook for a while until he heard a faint shuffling. He glanced up from the pages of his book, quirking a grin. "Hey," he said.

Crabtree yawned, waving. He rubbed the side of his face sluggishly. "Hullo," he mumbled.

Brackenreid closed his book. "How do you feel?"

George sighed. "Gross." He reached over to his bedside table, grimacing at the sharp pain in his stomach. He grabbed the glass of pink potion, downing about half of it in one go, making a face at the taste.

"Understandable." Thomas smiled sympathetically, taking the glass from his hand and putting it back on the table. "Here," he said, pulling out his wand and saying a spell. A bouquet of pink snapdragons and yellow bunches of goldenrod sprang out of his wand. He passed it to George with a smirk. "Mum says flowers make everything better. That hasn't been my experience, but... "

Mustering up a faint smile, George took the flowers in his hands. "Thanks," he said, laying the bouquet on the table next to the potion.

"Oh, and I brought you something else." Brackenreid reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of Miranda Goshawk's The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 on George's lap. "Charms is your favourite class, right?"

Crabtree nodded.

"Just if you wanted to study. And here—" Thomas piled a second book on top of the textbook. "Quidditch Through the Ages. It's all about Quidditch history and rules. It's got some stuff in there about maneuvers too. I figured since you can't get on a broom, then this is the next best thing, right?"

George smiled. "Thanks," he said. "I'll give them a read." He sighed.

Thomas frowned, scooting his stool closer. "What's wrong?" he asked. "I mean, besides the obvious."

George stared at the bed sheets. "You don't have to be here," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I know you think I'm gross, you can leave if you want."

Thomas smirked. "Oi, Bugalugs," he said, lightly punching George playfully in the arm. "I didn't need you to throw up in front of me to know you're gross. You're a human. Humans are disgusting." He grinned. "But if there's anything I can do to make you feel less disgusting, I'll do it."

George's cheeks, already flushed from his fever, burned bright red. "Thanks," he said. "You really don't have to be here, you know?"

Brackenreid ruffled his sweaty hair. "You're one of my best mates; of course I've got to be here." He frowned, feeling the heat radiating from George's scalp. "You feel pretty hot," he said.

"Well," mumbled George, swatting away his hand. "That tends to happen when you've got a fever." He paused, biting his lip. "Do the others know?"

Thomas nodded. "They'd be here too but…" he trailed off slowly. He hadn't meant to say that.

George sucked in a breath, wincing at how it made his stomach twinge. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Madam Pomfrey won't let them?"

Thomas glanced at the other side of the room, where Madam Pomfrey stood in the corner, absorbed in a thick book.

Sighing, George smoothed down the blue blankets. "I know she doesn't know what's wrong with us," he said. "She's been looking in every book she can find to figure it out."

"She'll figure it out, Crabtree, don't worry."

George was silent for a moment, his fingers curling around the hem of the blanket. "I don't think this was an accident."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," George paused, trying to find the right wording. "I don't think I'm sick."

Thomas was confused. "Crabtree, you threw up everything you've ever eaten yesterday, you're hotter than a dragon's mouth and you don't think you're sick?"

"No, I mean—" George held his stomach. "If this was some kind of stomach flu virus or something, wouldn't you have gotten sick? Or Madam Pomfrey? Stomach flus spread faster than anything. I know I didn't drink some weird potion because I had exactly the same breakfast as you all did, but—"

"Wait." Brackenreid held up a hand, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You think you've all been poisoned?"

"Maybe," shrugged George. "It would make sense. There haven't been any new kids in here since yesterday afternoon. No one else has gotten sick. It isn't spreading or anything."

"Why would someone want to poison you?"

"I don't know, but…" His eyes were wide. "Can you ask the others to try and figure it out? They like mysteries."

Before Thomas could reply, Madam Pomfrey appeared at the bedside. "That's enough," she said. "Mr. Crabtree, you need your rest." She glanced sharply at Thomas. "Let him sleep for at least four hours before you come in here again, Mr. Brackenreid."

Thomas flashed George a tight, sympathetic smile. "I'll be back right after I'm done lunch, all right?"

"Can you—?"

"I'll ask them, Crabtree. I don't see them saying no."

George smiled. "Thanks."

Julia woke up to chaos. Several beds in the Slytherin dorms were empty, with students running all about in a panic wondering where everyone was. One of the prefects yelled for everyone to go to the common room and sit down, and even with all six prefects herding students down the stairs, it was still pandemonium.

"Right!" yelled the female seventh year prefect, standing on top of a table to be heard. "Shut it, the lot of you!"

"Where's everybody?" called a fifth year.

"Who knows?" the prefect replied. "We sure don't, so don't bloody ask us!"

One of the younger prefects nodded. "Look," he said. "Just go grab your stuff and have breakfast like usual. I'm sure they'll all turn up. Snape would have told us if something was wrong."

Julia pursed her lips, knowing that Snape would probably dive headfirst into a lake of lava before telling them anything that they didn't absolutely need to know. Not that Snape needs to tell me, she thought. I'm willing to bet they're all sitting up in the Hospital Wing. She decided to withhold that information. She didn't want to incite further panic.

As the Slytherins dissipated, someone grabbed her arm. It was a fellow member of the Quidditch team, Jane Summers, one of the beaters. "Julia!" she said. "Thank goodness you're here. Tash is gone, and so is Malcolm and Albert. We're down three players."

The blood drained out of Julia's face. "What?"

"We're supposed to have practice at lunch and dinner today," said Jane. "What are we going to do?"

Biting her lip, Julia let out a breath, brushing her curls out of her face. "Let's gather the rest of the team," she said. "We can talk about what's going to happen all together."

It didn't take very long for them to find the remaining two members of the Quidditch team, and all four of them pulled into a corner, exchanging worried glances.

Julia sucked in a breath. "All right," she said, her voice in a lowered whisper. "Don't tell anybody, but I think I know where everybody is."

"Where?" asked Ivy Thurston, the only remaining chaser.

"Yesterday, one of my friends got sick, and apparently, he's not the only one." Julia explained what she knew about George and the Hospital Wing. "Remember how Malcolm said he thought he was going to throw up?"

Her teammates were silent, staring at her with wide eyes.

"What are we going to do?" asked Ollie Macnamera, who played beater. "We can't very well show up to the match on Friday with two beaters, a chaser and a keeper."

"They might cancel it," said Jane. "Half our team's missing, how are we supposed to play?"

Ivy shook her head. "They've already had to reschedule the match twice, remember? I doubt Madam Hooch would want to reschedule it again."

Ollie groaned, staring up at the ceiling. "All because of the bloody weather," he mumbled.

Julia smoothed down her skirt. "Right," she said, letting out a breath. "Here's what we'll do. We'll talk to the guys in the Hospital Wing. Even if Madam Pomfrey doesn't let us in, I'll get Brackenreid to pass the messages along." She tucked her hair behind her ears. "We'll still have practice today, because the others might get out tomorrow or Wednesday. All right?"

Her teammates nodded.

"Right," breathed Julia. "Don't worry. We'll manage. We're Slytherins, we always do."

Grinning, Ollie stuck his hand out, palm down. "On three?" he asked.

They all piled their hands on top, counted to three and cheered.

William's nose was stuck in an arithmancy textbook as he strolled down the corridors. His head was down, holding the thick, hardcover volume against his chest with one hand, turning pages with the other.

"Murdoch! There you are!"

William nearly dropped his book in surprise, his whole body springing up like a cat.

Thomas Brackenreid pushed his hair out of his eyes. His cheeks were flushed and he was breathing heavily. "I just ran up six flights of stairs," he huffed. "I don't recommend that."

"You wanted to see me that badly?"

Thomas nodded, catching his breath. "It's Crabtree," he began.

William's eyes went wide. "Is he okay? Did he get worse?"

Brackenreid waved his hand. "He's fine, or, well—" He squinted off to the side. "I suppose that's debatable. He's not any worse."

"Then he's not any better either?"

"No." Brackenreid ran his hand through his hair. "He's got a theory, or, well, an idea. He wanted us to think about it."

William nodded, motioning for Brackenreid to continue.

Noisily sucking air in through his teeth, Thomas sighed, his cheeks puffing out. "He thinks he's been poisoned, since it's not spreading to anyone new."

Murdoch's expression was unreadable. For a moment, he stood there, his eyes studying the hallway in thought. "I hate to say it," he said. "But that's almost plausible." He gestured towards Thomas. "If it was a usual stomach flu, you'd definitely have gotten sick by now."

"I know," said Brackenreid. "The question is, why would someone want to poison Crabtree and a bunch of others? Who would do that?"

"More importantly, what did they do?" Murdoch closed his textbook. "It could be a poison or a potion or even a curse or a hex." He straightened his spine, tucking the book under his arm. "I suppose we should start with the sick kids. There has to be some connection between all of them, why else would they all have been targeted?"

Brackenreid nodded thoughtfully. "I'm going to the Hospital Wing again straight after lunch. I can offer to help Madam Pomfrey out and chat with all the sick kids in the process."

"Good idea. While you do that, I'll research all I can about poisons and curses that cause nausea and throwing up. Maybe I'll find something Madam Pomfrey's missed."

Instinctively, Brackenreid held out both hands, going for their signature three-person handshake, then, upon realizing that George wasn't there to complete the gesture, awkwardly put his left hand behind his back and shook Murdoch's hand with his right. "Sounds like a plan," he said. "Let's get to the bottom of this."

Julia sucked in a slow, deep breath, pushing back her hair. Her suspicions had been correct. Right after Charms class, she'd marched straight to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey hadn't let her in, but confirmed that the three absent members of the Quidditch team were not missing in action, but were cooped up in the Hospital Wing, having all gotten violently ill last afternoon. She donned her Quidditch robes, strapped on her gloves and put on her helmet. Gripping her broom tightly, Julia swallowed, stepping onto the Quidditch pitch to meet her teammates.

They gathered in a small circle, exchanging worried glances.

"I was right," sighed Julia. "They're all in the Hospital Wing."

Her teammates groaned.

"I talked to Hooch," said Jane, wringing her beater's bat in her hands. "She said she can't cancel the match a third time. It'll push the season schedule into exams." She sighed. "She said she's assigned some second years to cover for Friday, they'll be here at practice this evening."

The others looked at her, hesitant frowns on their faces. "They'll be out of shape," said Ivy. "They haven't practiced with us."

"There's no way they'll be ready for Friday." Jane rested her broomstick on her shoulder.

Pursing her lips, Julia pushed down her hopeless thoughts. If they weren't going to try, then they might as well forfeit the Quidditch Cup altogether. "You're right," said Julia. "They definitely won't be ready, not if we don't start them right away." She gripped her broom, holding on to it like it was a walking stick. "If we give up before the match even starts, then what kind of Quidditch team are we? We'll train the second years as best as we can and they'll be ready for Friday."

Ollie groaned. "Come off it, Julia," he said. "We'll have no chance against Ravenclaw, even if we practiced non-stop for the next ninety-six hours."

"Not with that attitude we won't." Julia mounted her broom. "Come on," she said. "We're Slytherins. Ambition and determination defines who we are. Giving up isn't a word in our vocabulary. Come on," she said. "We're Quidditch players, let's play some Quidditch."

The others mustered up grins, mounted their brooms and took off into the air.

George flipped through the pages of Quidditch Through the Ages, his stomach fluttering. The pink potion definitely helped; he hadn't thrown up since he started drinking it and his stomach was slightly less tightly clenched. Unfortunately, the potion didn't work for very long, and he needed to drink a lot of it for it to have any effect.

After experimenting all morning, George found that the potion worked for about an hour until the effects wore off, and that the ideal dose for his current situation was three quarters of a glass. Any less and he'd feel absolutely awful, but three quarters of a glass was just the right amount to make him feel only slightly less than average. He'd drawn up a chart and filled it in as the hours progressed, documenting his level of discomfort and the amount of time since he'd drunk potion and the amount. Once he'd come to his conclusions, he groaned. If he wasn't careful, he'd turn into William Murdoch.

That was when he'd ditched his charts and pulled out the books Brackenreid had given him earlier. He liked Quidditch Through the Ages . He loved reading about the history of the game and the diagrams of broom maneuvers and Quidditch tactics were utterly fascinating. At the same time, he wished he wasn't reading it. It made him wish he could hop on a broom and try it all out. With a sigh, he closed the book, sliding his wand inside to mark where his page was.

The door suddenly burst open and two people walked in, a rather tall girl in blue Ravenclaw robes and a very short professor wearing round glasses, Professor Flitwick. The height difference between them was quite comical. George recognized the girl as Louise Cherry, the one running the newspaper who he'd run into in the dungeons the other day. She wore a furious glare, which probably would have incinerated anyone who looked directly in her eyes if she didn't also look like she was about to keel over.

"Here you are, Miss Cherry," said Flitwick, escorting her to one of the few remaining empty beds, the one directly beside George's. "Next time you feel ill, please say something sooner."

Louise Cherry said nothing, folding her arms tightly.

Professor Flitwick and Madam Pomfrey stepped outside to exchange a few words.

George blinked at Louise Cherry. "Hi," he said. "I don't know if you remember me, but we met the other day."

She glanced his way. "I remember," she said quickly. She held her stomach, grimacing.

George passed her his glass of potion. "Here," he said. "I'm sure Madam Pomfrey will give you your own once she's done talking with Flitwick. It helps."

She gingerly took a sip. "Thanks."

"Did you just get sick?" asked George. "This just happened now, I mean?" If she had, then his poisoning theory would be wrong.

She shook her head. "I wasn't feeling well yesterday afternoon, but there were photos to take and stories to find."

"So, you just… ignored it?"

"Until Flitwick made me come here."

George would have been impressed, but his heart sank when he realized that this meant that his theory still had the scary possibility of being true. He wished it didn't. For some reason, he didn't much like the idea of someone poisoning him and a whole slew of other students. Louise Cherry didn't seem to be in the mood for conversation, so he opened his book again and continued reading.

A little while later, Brackenreid stepped into the Hospital Wing, carrying a roll of parchment and a quill. He quickly shuffled over to George, shoving the parchment and quill into his hands. "Hey, Crabtree. I'm going to need you to take notes," he said.

George blinked. "Why?"

"Your writing is neater than mine."

"No, I mean, why do you need notes taken at all?"

Glancing around, Thomas sucked in a breath. "We're considering your theory."

"Oh."

Leaning in, Brackenreid whispered behind his hand. "If someone deliberately made you all sick, there has to be something that connects all of you. If we find that out, then we can figure out who did it." He stretched out his legs. "You know any of these other kids?"

George glanced around at the other students. "Sort of," he said. "I've seen the Hufflepuffs around." He pointed discreetly towards the bed beside him. "And I ran into her yesterday morning."

"Anyone else?"

Shaking his head, George sucked in a tight breath as his stomach twisted. "Nope."

"When did you start feeling sick?"
"Yesterday morning. About nine thirty."

Brackenreid nodded. "Write that down," he said. "I'm going to talk to some of the others, see if anyone else knows anybody. I know you're not feeling good, but can you write down what I tell you?"

"Yeah."

Thomas smiled sympathetically, and perhaps a little guiltily. "I know you're not feeling great," he said. "But Murdoch won't be able to read my writing and it'll look suspicious if Madam Pomfrey sees me taking notes."

"It's okay," said George. "Anything's better than just sitting around. Besides, this way I still get to sort of help with the investigation."

Quirking a wry grin, Brackenreid ruffled George's hair. "Aw," he said. "Don't worry. You'll be back on your feet solving mysteries before you know it."

The next half an hour was well spent. Brackenreid moved from bed to bed like a honeybee, asking each student if they knew anyone else in the Hospital Wing and what they'd eaten or drank before they got sick. George drew a chart —he was really starting to turn into William Murdoch— and filled it in with details.

After making his way around the entire room, Brackenreid had one bed left, the one directly next to George, where Louise Cherry pretended to fiddle with her camera, watching them with piercing eyes.

"So," she said, carefully placing her camera on the bedside table and looking up at Brackenreid with her arms folded. "It's my turn to get interrogated, is it?"

"He's not interrogating you." George reached for his glass of potion, taking a sip with a grimace.

Louise Cherry sniffed. "Only him—" she jerked a thumb at George. "And eggs and toast."

"What?" frowned Thomas.

"You're going to ask me if I know anybody here and what I ate yesterday." She pointed at George again. "Only him, and eggs and toast."

A tad flummoxed, Brackenreid nodded. "Right," he said. "Thanks." He moved to plop himself on the side of George's bed. He grabbed the piece of parchment in his hands. "Any connections?"

"Not really," said George, pointing to the page. "Half of the Slytherin Quidditch team is here, and it's mostly Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, but other than that, there isn't really anything that connects everyone."

Thomas held up a finger. "Wait, half of the Slytherin Quidditch team?" He glanced at the chart, scratching his head. "Slytherin's playing Ravenclaw on Friday. Maybe this is sabotage?"

"But I'm not on the Slytherin Quidditch team. Fifty percent of the kids here aren't even in Slytherin. Why would we get sick?"

"Maybe you all weren't the intended targets? Maybe you got caught in the crossfire? Or maybe they got a bunch of kids so that no one would suspect them for sabotaging the Quidditch team?"

George let out a small breath. "I don't know if I like that any better than being purposefully poisoned," he whispered.

"Neither do I," said Thomas. He put on a smile, patting George on the head. "How are you feeling, by the way? You look a little better than yesterday."

"That's only because of this—" George shifted around on the mattress, gesturing to the glass. "I have to keep drinking this weird potion or else I'll throw up and feel miserable again."

Thomas glanced at the pink potion glass and groaned. "Oi, that stuff is the worst," he said. "My mum always gives it to me whenever I've got an upset stomach and it tastes foul." He smirked. "It operates on the principle that, if you're in pain and you experience something worse, the first pain doesn't feel as bad anymore." He chuckled. "It does taste a little better if you plug your nose first."

George grinned. "I'll have to try that next time."

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Thomas stood up. "Right," he said. "I've got to go and tell Murdoch everything before Transfiguration starts." He ruffled George's hair one last time before waving goodbye and leaving.

William sat in the middle of a massive mountain of books, piled on top of each other. He skimmed through a thick potion book, flipping past illustrations of cauldrons and ingredients. He'd been at this for hours, ever since he finished Ancient Runes class. Sitting across the table, Watts was trying to stack books into a fort.

William reached the end of his book, tossing it into the pile and selecting a new one. He peeked around the towers of books. "Any luck, Watts?"

Watts' fort knocked itself over, sending books scattering across the floor. He let out a resigned sigh. "No."

William passed him a Herbology book. "Read about poisonous plants," he said.

Glancing at the cover, Watts let out a breath and began reading.

The doors to the library burst open and Thomas Brackenreid dashed inside. Madam Pince instantly leapt up and told him off for making so much noise. Once he apologized, Brackenreid rolled his eyes, plopping into the seat next to Murdoch. "Honestly," he said. "She makes more noise than anyone else when she's yelling at us to be quiet." He breathed a sigh. "Any luck?"

Murdoch shook his head. "There's plenty of stuff that can cause nausea and fever, but all of them have pretty standard cures. Madam Pomfrey would have definitely used them by now." He closed his book. "What about you? Any connections between the students?"

Brackenreid shoved the chart that George had drawn up into William's face.

William examined it, looking mildly impressed. "Your penmanship has gotten better," he said.

"Crabtree wrote it," said Brackenreid.

"Ah," Murdoch nodded. "That explains it." George's handwriting definitely couldn't be described as 'neat,' but anything was easier on the eyes than Brackenreid's slanted scrawl. William figured he could show Brackenreid's handwriting to Professor Babbling, the teacher of Ancient Runes, and she'd probably think she was looking at some kind of bygone alphabet of primeval wizards. He read through the chart carefully. "There doesn't seem to be much overlap here."

"No," agreed Brackenreid. "Except for right here," he pointed at three names, which he'd underlined. "These three are all on the Slytherin Quidditch team. They've got a match against Ravenclaw in three days. Maybe it's sabotage?"

Watts cleared his throat hoarsely. "Why would so many students be sick then?"

"To cover up their tracks," said Murdoch, his face clearing like it did when he was on the verge of a revelation. "They're making the victims look random so that no one suspects that they sabotaged the Quidditch team."

Brackenreid nodded. "My thoughts exactly."

"The culprit is probably a Ravenclaw then," Watts said, tipping his chair backwards.

"Well," said William. "It could be any of the other houses. They might not want Slytherin to beat Ravenclaw because perhaps they know their house team can't beat Slytherin."

Brackenreid snorted. "Oi, Murdoch, bit late for that."

"What do you mean?"

"It's nearly the end of the season," explained Watts. "Ravenclaw and Slytherin are way ahead of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Even if Slytherin loses to Ravenclaw, they're so far ahead that Gryffindor or Hufflepuff could never beat them. If it's sabotage because of Quidditch, it's a Ravenclaw."

Raising his eyebrows, William shrugged. "Shows what I know about Quidditch." His eyebrows knit together thoughtfully. "But," he said. "If that's the motive, then ten to one it's someone on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. It's unlikely anybody else would be competitive enough to purposefully make a bunch of students sick just so that their team could win."

"Speaking of Quidditch," Brackenreid frowned. "Half the Slytherin team is holed up in the Hospital Wing. I wonder how Julia's getting on."

Julia groaned as she watched the second years clumsily shoot through the air. They were like those erratic, nearly dead flies that always smacked into windows. "Tighter!" she called. "You'll have to turn tighter or you'll crash into the stands!"

To his credit, the second year did follow Julia's advice, only he turned far too tight and ended up knocking Ollie off of his broomstick. It was a lucky thing they were only a few feet off the ground, or else they might have been down yet another player. In fact, the second years were so clumsy on their brooms that, once practice was over, Julia and the others left nursing several bruises.

"Brilliant work, everyone!" called Julia, in order to be encouraging.

"Yeah," mumbled Jane, rolling her eyes. "If your idea of brilliant flying is blowing up a balloon and letting it go."

The four of them walked into the changing rooms.

"They weren't that bad—"

"Face it, Julia," said Ivy, hanging up her robes on a hook. "We've already lost the match with Ravenclaw."

Ollie nodded. "These second years are just the final nail in our coffin."

Julia felt her face growing hot. "How can you just give up like that?" she demanded. "Slytherin is so close to the Quidditch cup, we can still win!"

"Not without our team, we can't."

Julia glared, her fists clenching tightly. "The only thing hurting our chances on Friday is all of you!" She pointed at the others furiously. "None of you want to take a chance! You won't try to get what you want! What kind of Slytherins are you?"

Ollie's eyes met his shoes.

"We're Slytherins who know when to throw in the towel," snapped Jane. "You ought to know that too."

Julia told Jane to do something that, if any of the professors had heard her, she'd probably have been expelled on the spot. "Slytherins never give up, and the Slytherin Quidditch Team shouldn't have the words 'give up' in their vocabulary." She grabbed her broom, storming out of the change room. She glanced at them hotly over her shoulder. "A team sticks it out together no matter what. Even if I'm the only person on this team, I'm going to give it my all on Friday. Maybe some of you might join me." With that, she whirled around and marched out of the changing room.

The dinner table was oddly quiet that night, with both George and Julia absent. George usually carried a solid eighty percent of the conversation all on his own, and without him, Brackenreid, Murdoch and Watts sat in awkward silence for longer than they liked.

Clearing his throat, Watts leaned forward. "Well," he said. "If we think it's someone on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, are we going to ask them where they were yesterday morning? Get an alibi?"

Murdoch nodded. "Do we know who's on the team?"

Brackenreid and Watts both breathed simultaneous chuckles of disbelief. "Oi, Murdoch, you—"

"I'm a complete Quidditch idiot, I know." William sighed, waving his hands dismissively. "Who's on the team?"

Watts counted them off on his fingers. "Well, the chasers are Kate Sullivan, Iris Bajjali and Percival Giles…" He paused to think. "The captain's a beater, Forbes, and Roberts is the other beater."

"Sanjay Prasad is the keeper," put in Brackenreid. "He's bloody brilliant on a broom. It's too bad the rest of the team goes together like orange juice and toothpaste."

William, who'd been scribbling down the names on a corner of the sheet of parchment, looked up. "Isn't there one more? The seeker, right? Who's the seeker?"

Watts' eyes went wide. "Only the most popular Ravenclaw in pretty much the whole school."

"Who?"

The Ravenclaw seeker smiled pleasantly, holding out a smooth, thin hand. "Darcy Garland," he said. "Nice to meet you."

Darcy Garland was a handsome lad, willowy and wiry, with pale, clear skin and a bright white, winning smile. His robes were cleanly pressed and they barely seemed to move as he did, like they were plastered in place. He looked perfect in almost every way.

William shook his hand. "William Murdoch."

"It really is fantastic to finally meet you," said Darcy. They stood in the Ravenclaw common room. "I've heard so much about you."

"You have?" William was wary. He didn't much like the idea of being well known, as if he was some kind of celebrity.

"I know a friend of yours. Or rather, I know of a friend of yours." Darcy scratched the back of his head. "My younger brother Leslie's in Slytherin. He's always telling me about Julia Ogden. Apparently she talks about you quite a bit." His face broke out into a conspiratorial grin. "Are you on a case, then? One of your mysteries?"

Murdoch nodded.

"Any way I can help?"

"Well—" William sucked in a breath. "What were you doing yesterday morning?"

Darcy tapped his chin, pausing to think back. "I think I was in the library, getting some reading in before herbology."

"Can anyone verify that?"

He chuckled. "I'm not a suspect, am I?"

William cleared his throat awkwardly, not meeting his eye. "Not you specifically …"

Darcy's smile vanished. "What's the case?" He asked.

Murdoch sucked in a breath, contemplating for a moment if he should be telling him, but, figuring that Darcy would find out one way or another, decided it didn't matter. "A bunch of students got sick yesterday," he said. "We have reason to believe that was intentional."

Darcy Garland's eyes widened. He leaned in closer, lowing his voice to a whisper. "You think they were poisoned?"

"Or cursed."

Darcy blinked, moving a hand to cover his mouth in horror. "Who would do that?" He breathed. "And why?"

"Several of the sick students are on the Slytherin Quidditch team," said William pointedly. "Ravenclaw is playing Slytherin on Friday. If Ravenclaw wins this match, we'll win the cup."

"You're not suggesting I poisoned a bunch of innocent students just to win the Quidditch cup?"

"I'm not suggesting anything," William said evenly. "I'm simply considering the possibility."

"I was in the library," said Darcy, straightening his spine. "You can ask Madam Pince, she saw me there."

"I will."

Darcy Garland placed a hand on William's shoulder, motioning for him to sit next to him on one of the plushy, blue sofas. "Have you played much Quidditch, Murdoch?"

"I can't say I have."

"Well," Darcy went on. "Quidditch is about communication. It's about working together toward a common goal. Every member of a Quidditch team is like a puzzle piece and it's only when they all join together that you can see the full picture. A good Quidditch team understands that. Slytherin understands that." He sighed. "I want Ravenclaw to win as much as anyone else, but I can't deny Slytherin a victory if that's what happens. Slytherin's a brilliant team and they work hard. They deserve to win as much as we do." He stood up, smoothing down the front of his robes. "Question us all you like, Murdoch, but I can guarantee that nobody on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team would do this."

Just before curfew, Thomas and William met in the seventh floor corridor, near the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. They'd both spent the last few hours tracking down and questioning the members of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team and verifying their alibis.

"Any luck?" yawned Brackenreid.

Murdoch shook his head. "They've all got alibis," he said. "Madam Pince saw Darcy Garland in the library, Sanjay Prasad was talking to Professor Sprout in Greenhouse two, and Kate Sullivan was talking to a whole crew of Ravenclaws in the Charms corridor."

"Forbes and Roberts were eating breakfast together where they saw Hagrid, and Watts says Giles and Iris Bajjali both have alibis."

William sighed. "Looks like it isn't anyone on the Quidditch team."

Brackenreid shrugged. "We don't know that," he said. "They could have gotten someone else to make people sick on their behalf."

William shook his head. "With the amount of kids in the Hospital Wing? It's far more likely a completely different motive. We're back to the drawing board."

Thomas patted him on the shoulder. "Cheer up," he said. "We'll figure this out."

"I hope so."

The boys said their goodnights and slipped into their respective common rooms. Long into the night, they both sat awake in bed, their minds buzzing with theories and possibilities.

The sun was just rising over the Quidditch pitch as Julia kicked an enchanted quaffle away from the goal hoops. No sooner had the quaffle tumbled out of the sky when a second one came hurtling towards her. She foiled its attempt as well.

Her face burned bright red with anger. Her fingers gripped the shaft of her broom so tightly, it was a wonder they didn't fall off.

Furiously, she caught a quaffle in her hands and hurled it away with a yell. It sailed through the air, slamming into the stands with a resounding thud. Someone yelped in surprise.

Julia's eyes widened, and she zipped over to see Llewellyn Watts picking himself up off the floor of the Quidditch stands. He looked a little shaken. His blue and silver tie was flipped up over his shoulder. He'd evidently been watching for a little while and had ducked in a hurry when the quaffle came his way.

"Watts!" she cried, her anger evaporating like fog on a mirror. "I'm sorry! If I'd known someone was there, I wouldn't have chucked a quaffle at you."

Dusting himself off, Watts shrugged. "No harm done," he said. "And I'm grateful it wasn't a bludger." He straightened his tie. "What are you doing, if I may ask?"

She huffed, folding her arms, balancing on her broomstick in mid-air. "I'm practicing for the match on Friday."

He raised an eyebrow. "It was my understanding that Quidditch was a team sport."

"Mine too," she seethed through gritted teeth. "But apparently my teammates don't see it that way."

Watts raised his eyebrows. They were silent for a moment, the loud orange sunrise setting the ends of their hair aflame with a bright golden glow.

"Do you want me to help?" asked Watts. He jerked a thumb at the change room. "I can grab a spare broom and toss quaffles at you, if you like."

A smile spread on Julia's face. "You'd do that?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

They spent the next hour or so tossing quaffles back and forth. Julia was surprised to see that Watts was competent on a broom. He was by no means a master flier, but, considering she'd imagined him getting bucked off the broom like someone riding a bull calf, he wasn't half bad.

When their feet touched the ground again, Julia laughed. "Thanks," she said.

Watts smiled with a shrug. "Least I could do."

"Well, considering you might be helping me beat your house team, I'm extremely grateful."

He breathed a chuckle, scratching the back of his head. "While we're at it, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"What's that?"

Watts sucked in a breath, rocking back and forth on his feet. "Valentine's day," he began. "You wanted to ask Murdoch out."

Julia's face was beet red. "Yes."

"Why haven't you done that yet?"

She sighed, biting her lip, kicking her foot back and forth over the short-cropped grass. "There isn't exactly a reason," she said. "I just want to wait for the right time."

Nodding, Watts twiddled his thumbs. "Well," he said. "I apologize for being cryptic but—" He glanced at her pointedly. "I strongly feel that you should ask him at your Quidditch match."

"William doesn't go to Quidditch matches."

"He'll be at this one." Watts eyed her again. "And, if anybody asks, I never said anything, but, for no particular reason, I really think that it would be a very good idea for you to ask him out afterwards." He smiled. "After you win."

"We aren't going to win at this rate," she sighed. "I've got no team."

"You have got a team," said Watts. "They just need some prodding in the right direction." He blinked, an idea forming in his mind. "Wait here," he said. "I've got an idea." Spinning on his heels, he took off sprinting towards the castle, leaving a confused Julia behind.

Thomas yawned, pushing open the door to the Hospital Wing, exhaustion tugging at his limbs like great, heavy weights. Madam Pomfrey nodded at him as he entered.

"I've got to speak to Dumbledore this morning, Mr. Brackenreid," she said. "Don't touch anything while I'm off." She slipped out of the room.

The first thing Thomas noticed about George was the bright pink flush to his cheeks. The colour stood out against his whiter-than-white skin. His eyes were closed, with only his head poking out from under the blue blankets, his face scrunched up.

"Crabtree?" asked Brackenreid, gently shaking him awake. "You all right?" George was hotter than the fireplaces in the Great Hall, and Thomas could feel the heat without even touching him.

George blinked awake, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

"Crabtree?" Thomas waved a hand in front of his face. "Craaabtreeeeee…?"

Closing his eyes again, the Hufflepuff mumbled some incoherent nonsense, all but disappearing under the covers.

The bright pink potion on the table caught Thomas' eye. The glass was completely full. Lunging out, Brackenreid grabbed it, taking a sniff. He grimaced. "I don't envy you, Crabtree," he mumbled, shoving the glass in between George's lips, tipping down the contents.

The moment the potion entered George's mouth, his eyes cleared, and he recoiled at the taste instantly. Once he oriented himself and saw the glass, he sighed, grabbing it in his hand, plugging his nose, and guzzling down the potion. He swallowed with a wince. "Hi," he gasped, struggling to sit up.

Thomas shook his head, chuckling. "You all right?" he asked. He took the empty glass from George's grip and placed it back on the table.

"I'm fine."

Thomas quirked a sympathetic smirk. "Let me guess," he said. "You forgot to drink the potion before you fell asleep and it got worse in the night?"

George nodded miserably.

Thomas patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Cheer up," he said. "You'll be right as rain once Murdoch figures out who did this."

Shifting around to find a more comfortable position, George swallowed. "Any luck?" he asked.

"Well," sighed Brackenreid. "Everybody on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team has an alibi for yesterday morning. We're back at square one." He shrugged. "But we'll figure it out, don't worry about that."

George glanced out the window at the rising sun. Thomas looked too. He thought he could see a pair of dark specks darting about: two people on broomsticks flying through the air, perhaps. Poor Crabtree, he thought. Cooped up here.

"I brought your mail," said Thomas, trying to sound cheerful. He reached into his back pocket and produced a handful of envelopes, tossing them on the bed.

"Thanks." George gathered them up in a pile.

"Should I be worried that you haven't said more than two words in a row since I got in here?"

"Stomach hurts," mumbled George, his face twisted up in pain.

"I know." Thomas patted his knee. "Anything I can do to make it better?"

"Not really."

Raising an eyebrow, Thomas spread out his legs. "Well," he said. "Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to read your mail to you and tell you about the case until you can say three or maybe even four words in a row. How does that sound?"

"Okay."

Thomas picked up the first envelope in the pile, ripping it open messily. "Here," he said holding up the contents. "This was Murdoch's idea."

It was a rather generic 'get well soon' card with a cartoon hippogriff on the front, sporting red spots all over its feathers, a thermometer sticking out of its mouth and a comically large ice pack on its head. Inside were dozens of well-wishes and signatures, from nearly everyone he knew. There was a note in William's tidy script, another in Julia's flowing cursive, even one in a juvenile looking scrawl that was signed by Henry Higgins.

"Murdoch conjured the card," explained Thomas with a grin. "And Ogden went around and got everyone to sign it." He pointed to a spot in the bottom corner. "She even got James Gillies to sign it."

George's eyebrows flew into his hairline. "Really?" he asked.

Nodding, Thomas read Gillies' words aloud. "''Yesterday in the dungeon was fun. You will get well soon. Say hi to me when you feel better. Your best friend, James Gillies.'" He snorted. "Well, he may be one heck of a student, but he's a bloody awful writer."

George grinned faintly. "He's pretty blunt."

"Oi! Three words!" Thomas beamed, tearing open the next envelope. "At this rate, we'll have you reciting a speech by the time we're done!"

After she'd stood awkwardly in the middle of the Quidditch pitch for several minutes, waiting for Watts, Julia went back to practicing on her own. The enchanted quaffles were wiley, with an abundance of tricks up their sleeves. They kept her busy for quite a while, kicking them away from the goals and blocking their paths.

The twenty-something-th time she kicked the quaffle away from the hoop, it sailed through the air and landed near the player's entrance, where four figures were standing, three Slytherins and one Ravenclaw.

Julia landed and rushed over. "Watts!" she cried. "What was all that about? I've been waiting—" she broke off when she registered who the three Slytherins were.

Standing next to Watts was her Quidditch team, looking at her with emotions ranging from shock to awe to, in Jane Summers' case, a glare of frustrated surrender.

Her eyebrows flew into her hairline. "What are all of you doing here?" she asked.

Ollie stepped forward. "We're watching you," he said. "What are you doing?"

"Practicing," she said. "We've got a match Friday, and I'm going to be ready for it, at least." Her hands resting on her hips, she huffed. "I won't be able to do very much with just myself, but at least we'll have the second years being chasers and the seeker. Even if you all don't play at all, we'll still be able to score points." She let out a breath. "If I don't let any goals in at all, all we'd really need to do is catch the Snitch and we'd win. We've got to at least try."

Jane Summers folded her arms. "You're absolutely insane, Julia Ogden," she said. "You know that, right?" She rolled her eyes. "But, somehow, you're right."

Ivy nodded. "We're Slytherins. We don't give up."

"Plus," Ollie scratched the back of his head. "Watching you practice all by yourself kind of guilt-tripped us into it. No matter what happens, we're a team, and we do it together."

They piled their hands on top of each other, counting to three and raising them with a cheer. Julia caught Watts' gaze and smiled at him, mouthing 'thank you.'

George boredly skimmed through his letters. He didn't have anything else to do. He'd read through Quidditch Through the Ages twice already. He would study his Charms, but Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let him cast any spells, and half the fun of studying was practicing.

The letters from his aunts, even after a second reading, made him smile. It reminded him of being back with them, with each aunt telling a different side of the same story.

He picked up the card all his friends had signed for him, smiling as he read their notes. As his gaze fell upon the message from James Gillies, George tried to picture the scenario in his head. It was hard to imagine Murdoch going to ask Gillies to sign a card. He must have gotten Julia to do it for him.

Even then, it seemed faintly out of character for James Gillies to sign a get well soon card, even for one of his close friends. As a matter of fact— George squinted at the note. James Gillies had called him his best friend.

In all the time he'd spent with James Gillies, George had never once gotten the impression that he was James' best friend. James Gillies didn't seem like the kind of person to have a best friend, more like a few people he tolerated. The fact that he'd written it in a get well soon card felt odd, almost like he was trying very hard to make George like him.

George read through his message again. Yesterday in the dungeon was fun. You will get well soon. Say hi to me when you feel better. Your best friend, James Gillies.

'Yesterday in the dungeon?' George frowned. He'd been in the Hospital Wing yesterday. It suddenly dawned on him that the note must have been written the day before. He thought back.

The dungeon, that's right. He'd been there with Gillies; he'd shown George that book and he'd cast that spell, what was it called? The patronus charm? But before that…

He paled. Before Gillies had cast the patronus charm, George had cast a spell of his own. That fireworks spell, the one that didn't work. He knew he'd failed to cast it properly, but what if he'd failed worse than he had thought?

What if George Crabtree had made everyone sick?

George's heart pounded. There was no way to prove that he'd done it. The only way that his miscasting of a spell would make everyone here sick is if they were all in the dungeons at the exact instant he'd cast it.

He frowned. Before meeting James Gillies, he'd bumped into Louise in the corridor. He suddenly blinked, turning to glance at Louise Cherry in the bed beside him. What if…?

"What's up with you?" Louise Cherry shifted, staring at him with a squinting frown.

George glanced at her. "You were in the dungeons," he said slowly. "Monday morning, right? I saw you."

She nodded. "I'm so glad you have basic recall skills."

"No, no," he shook his head. "You were in the dungeon Monday morning, taking photos. I was in the dungeons Monday morning meeting a friend.

Realisation slowly dawned on Louise's face, the gears in her mind whirring furiously. "You think that's the connection," she said. "We were all in the dungeons at the exact same time."

"We need to prove that," he said. "We would have all had to have been in the dungeons at the same time. We don't have an exact time, we can't possibly expect everyone to know for sure if they were around the dungeons then." George bit his lip. He spied her camera lying on the table beside her bed. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. "You were taking pictures the whole time, weren't you? Finding the story? You said earlier that you take pictures of everybody you see, everywhere you go. You'd have pictures of everyone who was down in the dungeons during that time."

She lifted her camera in both hands. Her fingers found a small button on the bottom. She pinched a tiny lever in between her thumb and pointer finger and spun it around and around for a while, then she flipped open a compartment and pulled out a roll of film. "Here," she said, holding it up. "We've got to get it developed to see the pictures."

George sucked in a breath. His only chance was hoping that his theory was wrong, and the only way to know that for sure was to develop the photos. He nodded. "So, how do we do that? Is there a spell?"

She shook her head. "I've got muggle equipment for that, but there's potions we could use if we want the photos to move."

George swallowed. He glanced around the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey had stepped out to fetch something. He let out a breath. "Right," he said. Tucking the get well soon card into his pocket, he threw off his blankets and swiveled his legs, letting them dangle over the edge of the bed. Grabbing the glass of pink potion, he plugged his nose and chugged down the entire glass in one go. He grimaced, then pushed himself to his feet. He was surprised his jelly-like legs supported his weight.

Watching him with her intense grey eyes, Louise Cherry sucked in her cheeks, lashing out her arm to snatch her glass of potion and downing the contents all at once. She popped the film canister back into her camera.

"What are you doing?" asked George.

"Coming with you," she said, rising to her feet shakily. "Something interesting is finally happening, and I'm not going to let a story like this pass me by." She grabbed her camera, hanging it around her neck.

George nodded. His gut lurched. Shut up, he thought, shooting his stomach a glare. He prayed he was wrong.

They developed the photos in the dungeons, the only place in the whole castle dark enough not to ruin the negatives. Thankfully, there were spells and potions that made the process go quicker. Even so, the wait was excruciating for George.

Once the whole roll was developed, Louise and George scanned through the negatives, pointing out everyone they recognized from the Hospital Wing.

There were only three photos featuring faces that weren't sick, and every single one of the sick students was accounted for in the film.

"Looks like you were right," said Louise, turning to George. "It was the dungeons."

George nodded, feeling like he might be sick, despite the fact that the pink potion was still in effect. His knees were shaky and weak, like cooked noodles. He swallowed. "I— I'll be right back," he said, ducking out of the dungeon.

He stood with his back against the cold brick wall, breathing heavily. What was he supposed to do now? This was his fault, he had to fix it somehow, for everyone's sake, not just his own.

He couldn't tell Murdoch or Brackenreid or any of the others. He could picture the look on Murdoch's face if he told him. They'd hate him forever. How could they not? He cursed a quarter of the school.

He swallowed. There was only one person who could help him now, one person who wouldn't judge him and one person who had the spellbook that could save him.

James Gillies yelped in mild surprise as George Crabtree, looking pale and shaky, grabbed his arm in the Charms corridor and pulled him into a closet.

Closing the door behind them, George let out a shuddery breath, running a hand through his hair. "I need your help," he breathed. "Do you still have that spellbook from the restricted section?"

"Why?" hummed Gillies. "Did you want to curse everybody again?"

George's pale face grew even whiter. "... You know it was me?" His voice sounded strangled.

Gillies nodded. "I'm not stupid," he said. "It didn't take me too long to figure it out, I mean," He smirked smugly. "You got sick after you miscast a spell and, let's be honest, you aren't exactly Merlin, Crabtree. It's not too hard to guess that you messed up a spell badly enough to curse a quarter of the school."

"I didn't mean to!" cried George. "I promise, I only meant to cast fireworks, you know that's all I meant!"

Gillies shrugged. "But, you did it."

George's eyes met the floor. He leaned against the door and slowly slid down it. "I'm going to get expelled," he whispered.

James Gillies paused, considering his options. "You won't get expelled," he said carefully. "If you listen to me."

George stared at him with wide eyes.

"I've still got the book. And luckily for you, I was doing some research of my own on counter-curses, and I think I can fix it. I promise I won't tell anybody. But," he held up a finger. "You'd owe me."

"Owe you what?"

Gillies shrugged nonchalantly, taking his wand out of his pocket and twirling it in the air. "A favour, I suppose," he said. "If I need something in the future, you'll provide it. If I ever need something done, you'll do it."

Crabtree bit his lip, his eyebrows knit together. "You won't ask me to do anything bad, right?" he asked after a moment of silence.

"You just cursed a quarter of the school," laughed Gillies cruelly. "I think you're bad enough already that anything I ask you to do won't really matter." He held out his hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Sucking in a breath, George nodded, swallowing hard. "All right." He took Gillies' hand and they shook.

James Gillies smiled. "This will be our little secret, George." He mimed zipping his lips shut. "I'm doing this for you. Don't make me regret it."

Julia stretched out her spine. She was sore all over from practicing all day. They only took breaks for classes. She yawned, saying the password and walking into the Slytherin Common Room with heavy limbs.

"Julia!"

She glanced up in surprise. Isaac Tash, the Slytherin seeker and captain of the Quidditch team stood in front of her, with the rest of the team surrounding him, chattering among themselves.

Her face broke into a grin and she rushed in. "I thought you were all sick!" she said.

Tash shrugged. "We got better," he said. The ghost of a frown passed over his face. "It was very sudden too, all of a sudden everyone got better all at once. Bit odd, if I'm being honest." He shook on a grin. "But enough about me, let's talk about you."

"What about me?"

He laughed. "Well, aren't we going to talk about the leadership skills you showed this week?"

She stared at him. "I didn't show leadership," she said. "All I did was practice and yell at the others to practice more."

Tash chuckled, flashing her a wink. "That's all leadership is, Julia." He smirked. "And I think you've done a smashing job at it."

Julia's cheeks tingled. "Thank you."

"So, can I put you forward for Quidditch captain next year?"

She blinked. She'd forgotten about that conversation. "I… I don't think…" she blushed. "I don't know. I haven't really had the chance to think about it."

"I don't know if you've got to think about it much. You've proved it this week."

"Have I?" she asked. "We'll have to see what happens tomorrow."

He paused to think, a slow smile spreading on his face. "All right," he said. "We will see tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll take a break," he said. "I won't play. I've been wanting a chance to study for my N.E.W.T.s anyways. You'll be captain for the match, and we'll see how you do." He patted her on the shoulder, turned and sauntered off.

"But—" Julia broke off. Tash had rejoined the rest of the team. She bit her lip, an anxious ball of snakes writhing in the pit of her stomach.

It was just her rotten luck that it had to be one of the most important games of the season.

Brackenreid had heard the good news. All the students had miraculously gotten better overnight. It puzzled him, but he was happy nonetheless. He and Murdoch were on their way to the Hospital Wing to meet Crabtree.

Murdoch was less pleased. "Something's up," he said. "They all got sick at once and now they're all better? Just like that?" He shook his head. "This was a curse, I'm sure of it, and someone realized their mistake, or maybe even realized that we were onto them and they cast the counter-curse."

Brackenreid shrugged. "Does it matter? They're better now."

"I just can't shake the feeling that something… dubious is going on. First the boggarts," William counted off on his fingers. "Now this? Things keep opening and then closing far too quickly for it to be a coincidence. I'm telling you, somebody is trying to wreak havoc at Hogwarts, and my money is on—"

"James Gillies," supplied Brackenreid flatly, sighing slightly.

"You've heard that he's taking credit for curing them all, right?"

"You don't believe he did?"

William stared at him. "Brackenreid, don't you think he was the one releasing boggarts? Isn't that suspicious that he would release boggarts and now is trying to say that he cured a quarter of the school from some mysterious illness that no one but him knew how to cure?"

Brackenreid waved his hands. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know who was responsible for the boggarts. What I do know is that James Gillies is an eleven year old kid, and eleven year old kids just don't have the brain power for that kind of havoc wreaking, evil scheming thing you're talking about, Murdoch."

"James Gillies is an incredibly gifted eleven year old," protested William. "You've heard George talk about him. He's smart and he's talented and we shouldn't underestimate him."

"You shouldn't overestimate him either."

"Don't you think this whole thing is a bit suspicious?"

"It's dead suspicious," agreed Brackenreid. "But I think that trying to pin it on a socially awkward eleven year old might be a bit batty."

They reached the Hospital Wing and pushed open the doors. The room was bustling with students rushing to collect their belongings, others bouncing rowdily off the walls, a side effect of being cooped up in bed for days. The only three students who weren't tearing around like they'd eaten sixteen coffee-flavoured jelly beans from Bertie Botts were three first years, one Hufflepuff, one Slytherin and a Ravenclaw, talking amongst each other in the corner. As he and Brackenreid got closer, they saw that it was George Crabtree, James Gillies, and a girl Murdoch recognized as Louise Cherry, the first year trying to start a newspaper.

He caught the tail end of their conversation as he approached.

"… still didn't find who did it," Louise Cherry was saying. "I haven't got anything for a story."

"Well," James Gillies said, smiling a smug grin. "You know who fixed it, don't you?"

George's eyes met the floor.

Louise nodded. "I suppose I do," she grinned. "That'll be a nice front page story, don't you think?" She aimed her camera at Gillies. "Smile."

Murdoch and Brackenreid approached as the camera flashed.

Gillies looked at Murdoch and Brackenreid as if they were a particularly smelly compost bin. "Your other friends are here, George," he said. "I'll be off. Other people will want to congratulate me." He smiled, sauntering off.

Louise left with him.

Brackenreid grinned. "Good to see you feeling better, Bugalugs," he said, ruffling George's hair.

Smiling weakly, George waved at Murdoch with a faint "hi."

William frowned. "Are you sure you feel better?" he asked.

"Yeah," nodded George. "The stomachache is all gone."

"You seem pretty quiet."

"Doesn't surprise me." Brackenreid chuckled. "He hasn't had anything to talk about for days." He put an arm around the Hufflepuff. "You excited for the Quidditch game tomorrow?"

A smile spread on George's face. "I'm excited to see him try and figure the game out," he said, pointing to Murdoch with a giggle.

Murdoch flushed red. "I'm sure I'll understand it once I see it in action."

Brackenreid chuckled, elbowing George. "I'm sure he won't," he whispered. "I can't wait to see the look on his face."