I hope you enjoy the second chapter chronicling Miles Bletchley's fourth year in Hogwarts. I'd like to thank my sole reviewer, MunchkinWriter. Your words fuel my passion. I'll try my best to update on a daily basis.
Harry Potter and its associated intellectual properties belong to J K Rowling.
I finished drying myself and stepped out of the stall, fuming. Weren't post-game showers supposed to make you feel better? Evidently not, because my head throbbed heavily. My hair was dripping wet, my muscles ached and I had multiple blisters, but more importantly, we lost. We lost the match thanks to Malfoy's ineptitude for the damn sport. We lost the match because of my lousy judgment. We lost the match thanks to Warrington's inabilty to keep his meaty hands to himself. And because of that, we no longer had a shot at winning the Quidditch Cup. Damnit. Damnit! My chances of being scouted for a professional Quidditch team were dashed. Heck, with Derrick having observed my slip up, I might not even make it to next year's team. And I doubted the Beater was the only one to see the mistakes I had made during the game.
An unpleasant silence fell over the normally rowdy team room. Montague sat to the sides, nursing a Bludger-sized bruise on his back. The skin had begun to turn purple, but I was sure there was nothing Pomfrey couldn't fix. His discomfort, like the rest of us, probably stemmed from the fact that we lost the Cup this year. Next year would be his final chance to redeem himself, and he seemed to realize that it would be a difficult task. Meanwhile, Bole was fuming in the corner silently. His fellow Beater, on the other hand, was extremely vocal about his anger.
"Warrington," he seethed, but his voice had dropped to a dangerous quiet. The Chaser he had tried to summon stood a few meters away, glaring at him with his arms folded.
"What is it, Peregrine? Here to whine about the results? All of us on this team-" Warrington snarked, not bothering to move.
"It's not that!" Derrick snarled. He advanced towards Warrington, fists balled. "It was your fouls that cost us the game!"
"That's a load of crap, and you know it!" Warrington was furious now. "If Malfoy was halfway decent, you know we'd win! The one we should be mad at is him!" I frowned. He had a point.
The exchange caught the attention of the others now. Bole called out from his bench, "Where's that slimy rat now?" The team looked around, but Malfoy was nowhere to be found. This was odd, he tended to stick around the team room in the past, either criticizing team members for their imperfect plays, ranting about Potter or pathetically trying to justify his failure in catching the Snitch. Then again, maybe he had wisely shyed away this time to avoid ticking off Flint.
The Captain finally emerged from the stall, his face a mask of stoic calm. We looked at him now. "We shouldn't be blaming each other. Look, we all knew we practiced hard for this one, right?" He held up a hand placatingly, silencing us before Montague could answer the rhetorical question. "We've all practiced hard, and I've made sure you all have played at your very best." He let the message sink in: it was true. I couldn't believe our countless hours of physical training, relentless drills and team strategizing culminated in this humiliating defeat. Where did we go wrong?
"The fault therefore lies not in ourselves, but in the other team. They took this hard-earned victory from us! We trained, but they won!" The tense silence of the team room had turned into an angry buzz, our dissatisfaction clear. I murmured my assent, the injustice of it sinking in. But wasn't Flint supposed to at least console us? Not make us feel bad? I quickly dismissed this notion. This was probably normal behavior for him, just that his furious accusations and verbal beratings were being replaced by this... this speech owing to the face it was his final address.
"I plan to bring justice. Those disgusting lions may have taken away what should have been ours, but I plan to right that wrong. We'll give them what they deserve!" Flint's lips curled up in a crooked smile, revealing his buck teeth. His eyes swept across the room, awaiting a response. The room nodded in agreement, with Warrington hooting his approval. I kept quiet, but was still interested in what the Captain had to say. Those good-for-nothing Gryffindors had done nothing good for us: well, most of them. And I had no doubt Flint would help us settle the score.
Marcus Flint seemed to approve of our response. "For starters... how many of you know the Bludgeoning Charm?" There was still a smile etched on his face, but his eyes revealed no emotion. He looked around the room expectantly.
"I do." Montague piped up. His voice was gravelly, but laced with suspicion. "Me too," Derrick professed. "What's it to you?"
Marcus Flint scowled at Derrick "You'll find out soon enough, Lucian. Anyone else?" Warrington raised his hand, and Flint nodded to acknowledge. "Well, this is disappointing, Slytherins," he said with a dramatic sigh "But we can learn, because we'll be using it to teach the Gryffindors not to mess with the Slytherins again." There was a lump in my throat. This was Flint's grand plan? I knew him to be ruthless and competitive, but this made him look like a fairytale villain. Lucian Bole seemed to come to the realization that he would be involved in roughing up the lions too, because he coughed loudly.
"Uh, captain? I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with that idea..." Flint whipped around. "Listen, Bole. Where's the Slytherin in you? We're not giving them leeway, after what they've done to us! Quidditch is our career! It's what defines us! You have a duty to this team to follow this plan!" he snapped loudly, his demeanour a stark contrast from his previous attitude.
Bole blanched. "W-whatever you say. I guess you're right." This pacified Flint, and he began to continue his lecture. "Let me demonstrate the wand movement for the Bludgeoning Curse..."
A short while later, we had quickly learned to cast the spell. While my attempts had merely dented the old mannequin in the corner, Bole was far more adept at the curse than I was, blasting an old bench apart. The other players observed our practice disinterestedly, with the exception of Montague who was grabbing Bole's arm, instructing him to be more forceful with the wand flicks. As I watched Bole further reduce a piece of wood to splinters, Flint sauntered over. "Give it a rest, Montague. Lucian, you're doing alright, but try and control your energy. You're doing it too roughly. As for you, Miles: keep it as it is. Too much force and we stop hurting the Gryffindors, and start killing them. We don't want it to get too messy." His briefing sounded kind, but I could detect his pride bubbling beneath his words. "You need to practice a bit more, Lucian. I'll help you with that. As for the rest of the team: you're all dismissed! Meet me at the Great Hall tomorrow at five o' clock, and I'll give further instructions."
As we filed out of the room, something worrying was gnawing away at me. I was all for giving the Gryffindor team a painful time during their practice tomorrow. But something was wrong. Something in me was opposed to joining the team and playing along with their plans... but why? I couldn't put my finger on it, though, so I took out my wand, beginning to practice the wand movements for the Bludgeoning Curse again. If I was going to have to hurt them, I might as well do so properly. You shouldn't be doing this. Frustrated, I exhaled. "Fustes!" I watched as a small crater indented the dirt of the Quidditch pitch. Tucking away my wand, I hastened my pace back to the dungeons.
I shifted uncomfortably in my bed, eyes unable to close. I exhaled loudly, feeling a soft pearl of sweat drip down my neck. My mind was racing. The curtains on my four-poster were drawn, and the soft woolen blankets enveloped me: still, I could not sleep. I estimated it to be around an hour after lights out: I usually took fifteen minutes at most to fall asleep. From the bed next to me, I could hear Scott Vaisey's slow breathing, and I briefly pictured the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Kevin Harper's soft snores from across the room reminded me I was the sole occupant of the fourth-year male dormitory not deep in slumber.
It's the nerves, I rationalized. I didn't want to face the Gryffindors. Yes, that was it. I was definitely not looking forward to the confrontation tomorrow. But why? Flint was competent when it came to spellcasting, and Montague was probably adept in magic too. Warrington... Warrington's brutishness probably ensured that he was well-armed and informed about cursing. And not to mention the face there would be two more: even if Derrick and Bole's skill was unknown, that was two more wands. Those Gryffindors would never see it coming: we were going to dominate them. The prissy lions probably didn't have the guts to fight back. I could already picture Flint continuing his vendetta against the Weasleys with a Piercing Hex, Derrick reducing Johnson to a bloody mess, Montague directing a Repulso into Bell...
My stomach churned, and I begun to feel queasy. Was this my conscience coming into play? Or was it cowardice? Perhaps I can't bear to curse someone who'd saved me earlier. No, that wasn't it. I couldn't, in good faith, curse someone who'd saved me earlier. It was a matter of honor, paying back what I owed. That had to be it. Tomorrow's exchange would be unpleasant for me, but the beginnings of a plan that would both placate myself along with my team began to form in my mind.
I'll think about it tomorrow. The unpleasant queasiness I felt remained, but at least I now knew why I was apprehensive. Willing my eyes to close, my breathing began to slow, and darkness permeated my thoughts.
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