Greg stared at the breakfast spread on the Slytherin table, feeling his stomach knotting inside him as he watched Theo devour a plateful of sausages and bacon. 'I don't know how you can eat all that...' he muttered. 'Aren't you nervous?'

'Not really,' Theo spluttered through a mouthful of pork. 'My rugby coach says that being nervous means you're thinking about it too much, and not letting your instinct do its work.'

'My instinct says I'll throw up if I have anything to eat,' Greg shuddered, his mind racing back to the last time he had played football for Chudleigh Primary School, and the heavy defeat the team had suffered. Was that how it was going to feel all over again?

'Hey,' an older voice shook Greg out of his daydream. 'You alright, mate? All set?' Matthew sat down beside the first-year, reaching across him for a slice of toast.

'I guess,' the younger boy murmured, staring down at a lone sausage as he pushed it around his own plate.

'Is that it?' Matthew ruffled his friend's hair playfully. 'You guess you're ready? We've been planning for this for weeks!'

'Okay, I'm ready,' Greg shook the captain's arm away: even this gentle conversation was more than he wanted to hear. He pushed himself up from his place at the Slytherin table, heading for the tunnel that led back the dungeons. 'See you later.'

'Don't forget, the match starts at 10!' Matthew called after the first-year. 'Meet at the changing rooms at 9.30!'

'Alright,' Greg called back as he looked up to the clock at the entrance of the Great Hall. 'Ten minutes,' he told himself, as he began to wonder why he had ever been so keen to be on the team in the first place. 'Trinovantes.'

He crossed the common room floor, slumping into the sofa in front of the fireplace. It wasn't like the football game had been: this time he knew that his team mates wanted to win as badly as he did. Last time, though, he had been the captain: he had known exactly what to expect from a football match. Now, the questions that nagged the eleven-year-old's mind all began with "what if...?"

What if I drop the quaffle in front of everyone?

What if I make a mistake and Gryffindor score?

What if it's my fault that we lose?

Greg sighed, craning his neck as he gazed forlornly around the silent common room. There was no way to hide from it, he supposed: he just had to get on his broom and get on with it.

Matthew's pre-match speech washed over Greg as the eleven-year-old sat against the wall by the door of the changing room, oblivious to his brand new robes and the other boys in the room, until the sound of a bell brought them all to their feet.

'Welcome to the opening game of the 2006 Hogwarts Quidditch Cup,' an excited voice rung out across the Quidditch Pitch, echoing against the fast-filling banks of terracing on either side of the oval as the two teams emerged. 'It's Gryffindor against Slytherin, I'm Dan Beretta...'

'... and I'm Dan Buckley,' another voice, calmer and heavy with Northern vowels, completed the first commentator's sentence. 'It's twelve months since Gryffindor rewrote the record books with a 660-10 victory over their traditional rivals...'

'... but only a fool would bet on a repeat of that scoreline this year,' the first voice took over again. 'Slytherin have four new faces on their side. They'll join Seb Burns, who remains in goal, Oscar Symons, who'll be looking for his first capture in his fifth start as seeker, and Matt Sawyer, who'll be hoping his second season as captain will be less miserable than his first. I suppose that's like saying you hope your second lesson with Hagrid will be more interesting than staring up a flobberworm's backside...'

The Northern voice snorted. 'Er, thanks for that, Dan... as for the new faces in the Slytherin ranks...'

'Actually, which is the flobberworm's backside?' The excited voice interrupted again. 'I could never tell them apart. Answers on an owl to us in the Hufflepuff basement – the best one wins one of Dan's old stats sheets...'

'Dan!' The other boy shouted over his friend. 'No one cares which end of a flobberworm is which, and even if they did they wouldn't want to hear you talking about it! The new faces for Slytherin, then, are all first-years, making this the youngest starting seven in the history of Hogwarts Quidditch.' The commentator paused for breath. 'Matthew Sawyer is joined by Greg Bennett and Isaac Davies, nephew of former Ravenclaw captain Roger, in the chaser line, whilst there's an all-new beater pairing in Theo Forrest and Lucas Brand.'

'You were interested in which end of the flobberworm was which when you found one in your bed in the third year...' Beretta shot back. 'Although no one wants to hear how this story finishes, so it's onto the Gryffindor team news. Jason Newitt, sixth-year, takes over captaincy duties as he bids to extend his run of seven successive snitch snaffles.'

'Snaffles?' Buckley interrupted.

'It began with an S. It's called sibilance. You wouldn't understand, because there aren't any numbers.' The commentator raced on. 'Gryffindor's beater pairing is the same as last year: Darius Vallance and Marcus Fellows. There's a new face in goal, however, as Kelly Marriott makes her debut after two seasons as a reserve. It's also a first start for Jimmy Trebarah in the Chaser line, joining Norman Fellows, Marcus' twin brother, and Indigo Yorath. It's a strong side, Dan.'

'Yes it is, Dan. Of course, we saw what Trebarah could do in the third period against Ravenclaw last season, so the prospect of a full debut shouldn't hold any fear for the fourth-year from Cornwall. I wonder if we can say the same for the young Slytherins?'

Beretta chuckled. 'Well, Dan, I have to say that I've heard that this year's Slytherins aren't your usual snakes,' he paused, dramatically. 'There's even a particularly malicious rumour going around that you won't want to punch them in the face the moment you meet them. I have to say, I'll believe it when I see some evidence, such as a little green and silver in the grandstands...'

'Perhaps you just need to look harder, Dan,' Buckley smirked. 'North Stand, Block A.'

Greg, whose insides had been slowly knotting themselves ever tighter as he listened to the Hufflepuff sixth-years' commentary, snapped his neck around to gaze at the North Stand, where – sure enough – a brace of green sweaters stood out. The first-year lifted a tense arm from his broomstick, certain that the supporters could only be Glyn and Jai.

'Well, you see something new every day,' Dan Beretta was back on the microphone, dominating the commentary as Greg had been promised he would. Dan Buckley's task was to keep the crowd up to date with records and statistics – and, it seemed, to keep his friend from being distracted.

'I suppose it would be asking too much for you to concentrate on the Quidditch for a whole game, as well?' Buckley asked. 'That would certainly be something new...'

'Not a chance,' Beretta laughed. 'Like I said, it's called colour, Dan. You'd be lost without it.' He launched into an admittedly accurate impression of his friend's voice. 'That was Indigo Yorath's sixth goal of the game, her 18th of the season and the 74th of her career, just six off the record set by Barry McBoring in 1843...'

'It's Barry McBain,' Buckley corrected his co-commentator, 'and his record's 86, and he set it in 1833.'

'You see?' Beretta could barely keep a straight face. 'You'd send the whole crowd off quicker than Slughorn's best sleeping draught! Anyway...' he drew a breath. 'Wood's in the centre circle, the snitch is up, followed by the bludgers, and the quaffle! The match is underway! THE 2006 QUIDDITCH CUP HAS BEGUN!'

Greg watched for a split second as one of the Gryffindor chasers snatched the quaffle, before the memory of Matthew's final words at the team's last practice took over his thoughts. 'Remember, if we keep our shape, they have to break us down...' He glanced to his right, to see the captain gesturing towards the space where the first-year knew he should be.

'Slytherin seem content to let Gryffindor have the quaffle,' Beretta continued. 'Burns, in front of the centre hoop, is well covered by the two young beaters, and the chaser line is holding station around the scoring area. Yorath goes outside, committing Davies to follow her... Davies is staying goalside. Yorath tries the shot, and it's easy for Burns.'

'I don't know what she thought she'd get from that angle,' Buckley commented. 'Davies gave her nothing to work with and even Indigo Yorath won't beat the keeper from there.'

'Slytherin obviously don't fancy a repeat of last year,' Beretta joked, 'and I can't say I blame them. Burns finds Sawyer, on to Bennett, who's on his own in the Gryffindor half. There's the bludger from Vallance – Bennett ducks – where's the support? It's one chaser against the whole Gryffindor defence and if Indigo Yorath can't score from there then I'm sure one little first-year won't. There's the shot...'

'That wasn't a shot, Dan,' Buckley corrected his friend. 'He knew he wasn't scoring, so he's given himself as much time as possible to get back and defend the next Gryffindor attack. Smart Quidditch from Slytherin...'

'There's the whistle, that's the end of the first period,' Beretta announced. 'It's Gryffindor 20, Slytherin 0, and I have to say, Dan, that's the first time I've ever been glad to see a time-out.'

'Didn't you enjoy it?'

'Enjoy it?' Beretta choked. 'Two goals in an hour? How am I meant to enjoy that? I've had History of Magic lessons that have been more fun than that.'

'Oh, Dan,' Buckley laughed. 'There's more to Quidditch than goals. Slytherin have been magnificent – they've kept things tight for an hour, and they're unlucky to be trailing in my book. One lapse of discipline from Bennett let Trebarah and Yorath in two-on-one, whilst Forrest was unlucky to see Wood call blatching on Fellows. I though it was very much a case six of one, half a dozen of the other.'

Beretta exaggerated a yawn. 'Trust you to be the one person in the whole of Scotland who found that interesting. I hope someone gets the bloody snitch as soon as possible, so we can all clear off and do something less likely to send us to sleep, like our Arithmancy homework...'

'Seeing as Jason Newitt spent that whole period arguing with Professor Wood about whether Slytherin's tactics were legitimate, don't bet on it,' Buckley chuckled. 'Just try to appreciate what Slytherin are doing,' he continued. 'No one has stopped Gryffindor playing like this before. You never know, Dan, you might actually enjoy it. I'd suggest concentrating on Davies versus Yorath...'

'... and I've got a load of things I'd like to suggest to you, but I don't want to be in detention for the rest of the year,' Beretta sighed. 'Anyway, here's the second period. Let's hope it's more entertaining than the Goblin Rebellion of 1512.'

'It was 1612.'

'SHUT UP!' Beretta yelled. 'Merlin help me... it's Trebarah with the quaffle,' he sought to change the subject, 'but he's got no space: Bennett and Brand are in close attention, and the shot is well off target. More of the same...' he trailed off, disconsolately.

'More of the same,' Buckley echoed his friend, with far more enthusiasm in his voice.

'I know what I'm going to do,' Beretta suggested, midway through the second period with the scoreboard reading 30-0 after a fumble from Slytherin's keeper had allowed a tame shot from Trebarah to deflect inside the far-side hoop. 'I'm going to count how many seats there are in the North Stand.'

'It's a terrace, Dan,' Buckley interrupted. 'There aren't any seats...'

'Fine!' Beretta snapped back. 'I'll count how many people there are. It can't be any less interesting than... LOOK AT JASON NEWITT! Finally something's happening, and Oscar Symons is too busy holding his shape, as my friend Mr Buckley would put it, to react. It's seeker on seeker: Newitt's got the head start, Newitt's got the better broom, Newitt's got the experience... He drops down, although Symons is catching him – Symons is giving it everything – but Newitt's only got eyes for one thing: the golden snitch.'

'I can't see Symons beating him to it, Dan,' Buckley added. 'Yes, he's catching him up, but is he in control? That's only an old Cleansweep: I've never seen one of those sustain that kind of pace, and even if it can, will he be able to out-manoeuvre Newitt?'

'No, Dan,' Beretta's voice rose back to its usual, excited pitch. 'No, he won't, because Jason Newitt has caught the snitch! It's Gryffindor 180, Slytherin 0, and I know I'm not the only one to be glad that's all over. We'll be back in two weeks' time with Ravenclaw against Hufflepuff, and – I hope – a load more goals. I'm Dan Beretta...'

'...and I'm Dan Buckley.'

The door to the Slytherin changing room clattered shut, trapping the seven defeated players inside its silence.

'Well played,' Matthew offered, tamely, into the void. 'We didn't do too badly, I suppose,' he sighed, staring at the stone floor even as he addressed the team. 'None of their goals were because they out-played us; they were all just because we gave it to them...'

Greg felt his stomach tighten again as he remembered Gryffindor's opening goal. He had watched Isaac take the quaffle near the halfway line, and had flown forward to support his friend's attack. Unfortunately, Isaac had lost possession and Gryffindor had counter-attacked through the space in which Greg knew he should have been.

'Even then,' Matthew continued, 'we defended really well all game. They couldn't get past us like last year, and if Oscar had got the snitch...'

'I couldn't get it, Matt,' Oscar glared at his friend. 'I was covering Indigo Yorath, like you told me to, and Newitt saw it first!'

'I was just saying, if you had got it, we'd have won...' Matthew argued back, now making eye contact with the other fourth-year.

'Yeah, and I'm saying there was no way I was getting the snitch, cause I was doing what you told me to do!' Oscar snapped, his forehead reddening. 'It was your plan to defend like that!'

'So it's my fault, is it?' The captain stood up.

'It's more your fault than it is mine,' Oscar got to his feet, staring down the other boy.

'Stop it!' Theo protested. 'My rugby coach always said that...'

'Oh, for God's sake, Theo!' Matthew yelled. 'No one gives a crap what your bloody rugby coach thinks. Give it a rest, will you?'

As he watched Theo crumple back onto the bench at the edge of the room, Greg suddenly realised how grateful he was to have chosen a seat so close to the exit. He slipped out of the door, sliding it shut behind him, and slumped onto the ground for a moment, his back to the cold stone wall. Its barrier was too thin, however, to block out the raised voices within, and the eleven-year-old quickly pushed himself away, taking a handful of uneasy steps into the school grounds.

'Greg...?' A voice called.

The blond boy sighed as he noticed Glyn hurrying towards him, but immediately knew that he didn't have the energy to lose the Hufflepuff. 'Glyn...' he murmured.

'I was just going to see Hagrid,' the Welsh boy began. 'Do you want to come?'

'Hag... what?' Greg shook himself. Out of all the things he had expected his friend to say, this particular question ranked well down the list.

'You know who Professor Hagrid is, don't you?' Glyn hesitated. 'Half-giant...'

'Yes, I know who Hagrid is!' Greg complained. 'I'm not blind!' He paused as his own temper reminded him of the argument he'd seen moments before. 'Sorry,' The blond boy blushed, still stunned that his friend hadn't mentioned Quidditch yet. 'It's just... well, I just wondered... why?'

Glyn smiled. 'Well, I was on my way back from Herbology last week, when I found a bird with an injured wing near the forest. I didn't know what to do, so I took it to Hagrid. He told me it was a baby Augurey, and he said I could come and see how it was doing whenever I wanted to, so...' He tailed off. 'You don't have to come.'

'No, it's alright,' Greg nodded, quickly. 'I'll come with you... but...' he swallowed. 'Just one question – what's an Augurey?'

Glyn laughed as he caught up to his friend. 'It's just a kind of bird,' he explained. 'People used to think its cry was an omen of death... but then they discovered that it just means it's going to rain. It's quite well known, really...' He caught himself.

'Oh,' the blond-haired boy shrugged. 'You know I don't know much magic stuff. I bet you wouldn't know what an oystercatcher was...'

The Hufflepuff paused, looking up at his friend 'No, but I bet it catches oysters!'

Greg snorted, before managing to return a shadow of his friend's smile. 'Yeah,' he grinned, reluctantly. 'You're right there.'

'Come on, then,' Glyn began to lead the Slytherin along a track that wound away from the back of the Quidditch pitch towards the edge of the foreboding bulk that was the Forbidden Forest.

Hagrid's Hut squatted on the edge of the forest, its weathered wooden frame echoing the tangle of trees and roots hidden beyond. Glyn lifted his right hand to the great door, knocking boldly twice. In a brief moment, it had creaked open to reveal the Groundskeeper's craggy face.

'Oh, hello there, Glyndwr,' the man's accent rolled easily around the Welsh boy's name. 'Good ter see yeh again.'

'Hi, Hagrid,' Glyn smiled, stepping into the house as the professor stepped back from the doorway.

'An' who's this yeh've brought with yeh?'

'I'm Greg,' the other first-year introduced himself, quietly. 'Greg Bennett.'

'Slytherin, eh?' Hagrid swung the door shut as Greg hastily followed his friend onto a cavernous old sofa that sat beside a wide, circular oak table.

'Yes,' Glyn answered, stridently, for the other boy, 'and he's still my friend.'

'Well,' Hagrid chuckled, turning round to plant himself in an equally deep chair, opposite the two boys. 'I s'pose Fang if likes yeh, then yeh can' be all bad.' The man's eyes twinkled as a dark boarhound planted its head into Greg's lap, slobbering all over the new green robes in the process.

Greg shuffled in his seat, trying to ease the dog's jaw away with the back of his hand as he glared back, stony-faced, at the enormous teacher.

'How is the Augurey?' Glyn searched for a change of subject.

'Gettin' there,' Hagrid replied, 'he's gettin' there. Won' be healed proper fer a couple o' months, I don't reckon.' The man reached up to a cage on the corner of a worn, old table, laying out his vast palm in front of the mottled grey-green plumage of a squat bird, which squawked amiably as it hopped onto the teacher's hand.

'Will it be alright?' Glyn asked, wandering over to the tabletop and holding out his knuckles to the curve of the bird's black beak.

'In time,' Hagrid chuckled, watching the little bird nip playfully at the Welsh boy's fingers. 'Won't do fer me ter let him back into the forest before he's ready, mind.'

Glyn nodded, letting the Augurey skip back across Hagrid's hands as the professor emptied a bowl of dried fruit onto the floor of the birdcage, before slipping back across the room to his friend. 'Watch the rock cakes if you want to keep your teeth,' he whispered as Hagrid set down a heavy plate on the wide table.

'How come you two are friends, then?' The man asked, taking a great bite out of one of the cakes. 'Not usual for Hufflepuffs and Slytherins...'

'No,' Glyn crossed his arms, 'but so what? We met in Potions,' he glanced at his friend. 'Just because he's in Slytherin doesn't mean...'

'I know, Glyndwr, I know,' Hagrid set down his rock cake. 'I've known plenty o' decent Slytherins in my time, it's jus'...'

'There were plenty of others that weren't.' Greg completed the teacher's sentence, morosely. 'You don't need to tell me, I know.'

'But not many o' them had friends in other Houses, I'd wager,' Hagrid pointed out.

Greg sighed, brushing the sleeve of his robes across his face. 'It's just hard,' he stared at his feet. 'When you can't forget it all,' he blinked, 'when people remind you of it every day... and even your friends are arguing,' he shared the story of the fourth-years' quarrel. 'It's like there's no way out. Even Quidditch; we can't even do that... I don't know what I'd've done if you hadn't have been there afterwards.' He shook his head as he felt his eyes begin to burn.

'Greg,' Glyn offered, tentatively. 'You played great today, for your first game.'

'That was yer firs' time?' Hagrid echoed the Hufflepuff. 'Blimey.'

'How come you didn't say, Glyn?' Greg rubbed his eyes again. 'Outside the changing rooms, why didn't you tell me?'

'I know what my Mum's like after losing at Quidditch,' he murmured. 'We never mention it at home after a game, never. Dad calls it "Operation Obliviate".'

'He speaks sense, your Dad,' Hagrid nodded, sagely. 'Losin' does funny things ter people. They do things they don't really mean... like yer friends.'

'Oh, God.' Greg jumped to his feet. 'Theo.' He swallowed. 'I'm sorry, Hagrid, but I've got to go. I've got to see Theo.' He forced the door of the groundskeeper's hut open. 'Thank you, Hagrid. Thank you, Glyn...'

'Yer welcome back any time,' the professor heaved himself upwards, calling after Greg as the first-year's footsteps tore back to the castle before easing the door shut once more. 'I reckon yer Dad would be proud o' you today, Glyndwr.' He rested a giant hand on the Hufflepuff's shoulder as the baby Augurey began to whine in the background. 'Very proud indeed.'