The following Saturday was my first official game for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. On that morning I awoke bright and early, threw my scarlet robes over my head and clothes, shoveled down a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, and darted out to the field, my Cleansweap 8 by my side all the while.
My excitement was obvious, as was my nervousness. While I had played the last game of the previous year, it was only as a last-minute substitute. This was the game I had to prove to Gryffindor why it was me who made the team… and that would be a tall order to fill, seeing as we were against Slytherin, the team with the best brooms a person could find.
My teammates were already in the locker room, stony looks upon their faces. They grasped their broomsticks with white knuckles and only seemed halfway interested in Oliver's pep-talk.
"Slytherin has better brooms than us. No point denying it. But we've got better people on our brooms. We've trained harder than they have, we've been flying in all weathers—"
"You can say that again," muttered George under his breath. "I haven't been properly dry since August."
"—and we're going to make them rue the day they let those little bits of slime, the Malfoys, buy their way onto their team," finished Oliver, with a minor glare in George's direction.
I blinked and suddenly realized: if Draco was on the team, that meant it was more than likely that Elizabeth was, too. I didn't recall seeing her on the pitch that infamous day of Ron's slug-curse, but she was the daughter of Lucius Malfoy as well.
"It'll be down to you, Harry, to show them that a Seeker has to have something more than a rich father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying, Harry, because we've got to win today, we've got to."
Harry nodded curtly; for better or worse, it seemed that he wanted to win against the Malfoys and their Slytherin classmates just as badly as Oliver did.
With our pre-game discussions out of the way, we lined up in our standard formation—Harry was just off of my right side. He caught my eye and shot me a grin, asking, "Ready?"
I exhaled sharply and pushed some of the red hair that had escaped my hair-tie behind my ears. "Ready as I'll ever be."
"You're going to do great. Don't worry about it too much."
Someone slugged me playfully in the shoulder; it was Oliver, who was grinning in my direction, eyes gleaming. "Exactly what Harry said. We've got this one solidly, Belle. Now let's go."
So it was that Oliver waved us onto the pitch. When we emerged, a large portion of the stands were covered in gold and scarlet; flags and scarves were whirling everywhere, screams echoed over the pitch. There was a small segment of the stands that were clad in emerald and silver, attempting to boo us, but their shouts and jeers were drowned out by the encouragement from everywhere else.
My attention was grabbed by Madam Hooch, who was announcing, "On my whistle! Three… two… one!"
The shrill sound echoed through the air: fourteen brooms bolted forth. I lunged to grab the Quaffle, but the Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint budged me out of the way before it was in my grasp.
I raced after Flint, clinging to my broom handle and pressing against it to gain some speed. Soon we were level—I threw my hand out to grab the Quaffle, but he batted it away, shoving me over in the process. Annoyed, I barrel-rolled and resumed pursuing him.
Eventually, my attentiveness won over. One solid whack dislodged the Quaffle from Flint's grasp and into my own; as I flew the other direction to the cheers of the Gryffindors, the hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Flanking my left and right sides were two Slytherin players. One of them was Warrington, his already pinched face scrunched up in determination. A flash of blonde hair on my right side forced me to alter my course—sure enough, it was Elizabeth Malfoy. The two of them both moved towards me as if to squish me in the middle; there was no time to think on further options. Desperate to be rid of them, I darted towards the ground and let the two of them crash into each other.
There was a whistle of air following after me, coercing me to skid to an abrupt halt. A Bludger whizzed over my head, growling all the while… but oddly enough, it had been the first one I'd seen all game.
I spared a look behind; Flint was catching up to me. We were level, he was reaching out…
A Bludger was knocked straight into him. The ball dashed towards Harry straight afterwards, but now my path was clear enough for me to heave the Quaffle to the goalposts.
No such luck—the Keeper was waiting. He tossed it back to Flint, who had recovered from the Bludger collision. Angelina and Katie each tried to snatch the Quaffle from him, but were stopped by either Bludgers or Slytherin players.
For fifteen minutes, the game was proceeding incredibly unluckily for us. Every time we would get close to scoring, a Bludger would appear out of nowhere and force us to either alter our flying path or drop the Quaffle entirely. And if it wasn't Bludgers, it was the Slytherin players themselves, all of them making aggressive plays that were borderline penalty-worthy. Throughout it all, I couldn't help glaring somewhat in Fred and George's direction—they had been hovering around Harry all game, leaving us on our own, and maybe even hindering Harry's search for the Snitch, too.
Once the game was sixty to nothing to Slytherin, Oliver called time-out. Even as he whizzed towards us, he was shouting, "What's going on? We're being flattened. Fred, George, where were you when that Bludger stopped Angelina and Belle from scoring? We should have at least fifty points!"
Fred scoffed and shot Oliver a withering look. "We were twenty feet above them, stopping the other Bludger from murdering Harry, Oliver. Someone's fixed it—it won't leave Harry alone. It hasn't gone for anyone else all game. The Slytherins must've done something to it."
Oliver's anger dissipated; now, he just looked anxious. "But the Bludgers have been locked in Madam Hooch's office since our last practice, and there was nothing wrong with them then…"
Madam Hooch was already coming to tell us our time-out time was almost up. Knowing there wasn't much more time, Harry exclaimed, "Listen, with you two flying around me all the time the only way I'm going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal with the rogue one."
"Don't be thick," said Fred. "It'll take your head off."
My breath had grown shallow upon the mention of the Bludger being fixed to stick to Harry. Trying to keep my cool, I said, "Oliver, this is insane, let's ask for an inquiry, that would be fair—"
"If we stop now, we'll have to forfeit the match!" Harry interrupted. "And we're not losing to Slytherin just because of a crazy Bludger. Come on, Oliver, tell them to leave me alone!"
"This is all your fault," George huffed. "'Get the Snitch or die trying,' what a stupid thing to tell him…"
That was when Madam Hooch arrived, asking, "Ready to resume play?"
Oliver looked from Harry… to the Weasleys and myself… and back to Harry. Then he sighed. "All right. Fred, George, you heard Harry—leave him alone and let him deal with the Bludger on his own."
Harry nodded, satisfied, but I sure as hell wasn't. Before he could swing himself back on his broom, I lunged out and seized his hand. "Be careful, Harry. If you need anything… just shout for me. All right?"
He smiled and clapped a hand on my arm. "Thanks, Belle. Same for you."
Left with no other alternative, we resumed play.
Most fortunately for us, I was able to grab the Quaffle right off the bat. Before anyone could really see it was me, I dove back down towards the ground, leaving the Slytherin players to guess that either Angelina or Katie held the ball. Seeing as Warrington and Malfoy were distracted, I flew directly to the Keeper and threw.
The bell from the commentator's podium dinged, signaling the arrival of our first points.
Gryffindor supporters began to cheer as the Quaffle was thrown up in the air a second time. This time, Elizabeth got to it first. She turned around on her broom and shot me a sickly-sweet smile… but it was me laughing when I used this opportunity to launch myself directly at her, making her drop the Quaffle in surprise. Angelina was below, waiting for the Quaffle to be specially delivered; once it was in her hands, she made a wild turn and threw the Quaffle with all her might.
Again, another ten points. Sixty-twenty now, we were starting to catch up. Across the field, a hearty voice shouted, "Yes!"
The whistle blew, signaling the end of the game. When I glanced back to our Captain, we saw that Oliver was positively beaming, which could only mean one thing: Harry had caught the Snitch.
A puff of dirt launched up from the ground; it was Harry, who had just crashed onto the pitch. The Snitch was fluttering in his left hand, but his entire right arm was strangely limp. That Bludger must've finally caught up to him.
There was no holding back the short shriek threatening to exit my mouth. "Harry! Harry, are you all right?"
Footsteps barreled towards us; the rest of the team was approaching, as was someone else. I recognized that walk—the gaudy clothes—oh, no…
"Come now, I can help him!" chided Lockhart, as disgustingly cheery as always.
I glared at him. "Harry needs professional medical attention, Lockhart."
But Lockhart simply ignored my jab, choosing instead to happily respond, "I've performed this spell countless times, don't worry about anything! This boy will be good as new in a minute."
That was when we heard, "Oh, no, not you."
One of my hands flew to my mouth to cover the complacent grin that had appeared on my face—after he saw Lockhart, Harry's gaze turned to me. He smiled weakly upon seeing me, but he wasn't able to say anything more as he was interrupted by Lockhart chiding, "Doesn't know what he's saying. Not to worry, Harry, I'll fix your arm."
"No!" Harry exclaimed. "I'll keep it like this, thanks." There was a bothersome clicking sound from somewhere nearby; restraining a groan, he added loudly, "I don't want a photo of this, Colin."
Lockhart, however, was either annoyingly persistent or unable to take the hint. "Lie back, Harry. It's a simple charm I've used countless times—"
"Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?" Harry moaned.
"He really should, Professor," said Oliver's voice. He was still grinning over the victory despite Harry's injury. "Great capture, Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, I'd say."
Lockhart ignored us all yet again. "Stand back!"
He whirled his wand and pointed it at Harry's arm, and then something happened that was definitely not supposed to happen. The entire arm seemed to have been crushed by an invisible weight and then inflated once more. I gasped and held Harry's good hand tighter—his eyes were closed, like he didn't want to see.
"Ah," Lockhart said shortly. "Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That's the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up the hospital wing—Miss Skylar, could you escort him?—and Madam Pomfrey will be able to… er, fix you up a bit."
I put Harry's good arm around my shoulders and murmured, "Don't worry, Harry, Madam Pomfrey can do anything." That might not have been the right thing to say, because Harry's curiosity piqued; when he saw his arm, he went as pale as a ghost.
Ron and Hermione jogged beside us, having joined from the stands. It was Ron who assisted me in supporting Harry on the way back up to the castle—I was muttering foul words and obscenities about Lockhart under my breath the whole while. A few of the comments I uttered set Harry and Ron to laughter, although it was obvious that Hermione was less than pleased.
When we entered the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey immediately emerged, her face red and her expression murderous. "You should have come straight to me!" she raged. "I can mend bones in a second, but growing them back…"
"You will be able to, won't you?" asked Harry, his eyes wide.
She nodded and huffed. "I'll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful. You'll have to stay the night."
Once she disappeared, Ron smirked at Hermione and said, "How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione, eh? If Harry had wanted deboning he would have asked."
"Anyone can make a mistake. You should do well to remember that, too, Belle," shot Hermione back. I rolled my eyes and muttered something about Lockhart being a nincompoop—Harry snorted—but she ignored me. "And it doesn't hurt anymore, Harry, does it?"
"No," grinned Harry. He winked at me as he added, "But it doesn't do anything else, either."
I laughed and ruffled Harry's hair as Madam Pomfrey returned with a large white bottle labeled Skele-Gro. She plunked the bottle down on the bedside table and proceeded to pour a generous shot of it. "You're in for a rough night, Potter. Re-growing bones is a nasty business."
Harry sighed and raised the Skele-Gro to his lips—as soon as it entered his mouth, he spit it back out.
Madam Pomfrey looked aggravated. "Well, what did you expect, pumpkin juice?" she exclaimed, rushing off only after making sure he swallowed a second helping of the medicine.
Once she was gone, I shot him a wicked grin and teased, "Yeah, Harry, didn't you know this wasn't pumpkin juice?"
Harry just scoffed and rolled his eyes.
With a dreamy smile on his face, Ron changed topics. "We won, though. That was some catch you made. Malfoy's face… he looked ready to kill."
I couldn't help but smile a little bit, because I had to give Ron this one.
"I want to know how he fixed that Bludger," muttered Hermione.
Restraining a sigh, I asked, "What makes you so certain it was him? I would think it would take a decent amount of skill to get a Bludger to target just one person, something he might not even be able to do."
"You're right of course, but it's still not out of the realm of possibilities," Hermione admitted.
"But just in case, it's another thing on the list of questions we'll ask him when we've taken the Polyjuice Potions. I hope it tastes better than this stuff…" Harry glared at the bottle of Skele-Gro.
Ron snorted. "If it's got bits of Slytherins in it? You've got to be joking."
Harry turned to me, green eyes inquisitive as he asked, "Still opting out on the Polyjuice Potion, Belle?"
Over the previous weeks, I'd given some more thought to the matter. While I'd previously done everything alongside Harry, Ron, and Hermione, there was something entirely different about the Polyjuice Potion situation that unnerved me. Whether it was the idea of impersonating someone without their agreement or knowledge or the idea of deceiving Draco, someone I called a hesitant friend, I wasn't sure, but… either way, I was happy enough to just be told what they discovered rather than hear it first-hand.
And so I answered, "I am. I just don't feel right being part of this plan. Do let me know what you find out, though. A little knowledge can go a long way with all this Chamber of Secrets business…"
"Can do," replied Harry.
Just then, the door to the hospital wing opened, and the rest of the Quidditch team marched in. Fred and George were first to approach, their arms stuffed with cupcakes and flasks of pumpkin juice.
George grinned as he plopped all the sweets on Harry's beside table. "Unbelievable flying, Harry. I've just seen Marcus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about having the Snitch on top of his head and not noticing. Malfoy didn't seem too happy."
That made us all laugh.
Harry reached for one of the Chocolate Wands and threw it to me—I only barely managed to catch it, which made him laugh and jest, "Good thing you aren't the Seeker."
"Rude," I said, although it was hard to keep from grinning.
For the next few minutes, the Gryffindor Quidditch team consumed plenty of sweets and had a good time joking around with one another. Sadly, it wasn't meant to last: within the next fifteen minutes, Madam Pomfrey returned to Harry's bedside, exasperatedly squawking, "This boy needs rest, he's got thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! Out!"
Left with no other choice, the team began trailing out. Only after promising to stash some butterbeer to give to Harry the following morning did I too leave the hospital wing in favor of the common room and further festivities.
