"What, you didn't bring the Mudblood?" Draco asked when he met Harry and Ron heading toward the Quidditch Pitch. Ron's fingers twitched toward his wand, but Harry gave him a look and he relaxed.

"Not interested in Quidditch," said Harry. "And don't call her that."

"She might be interested if she could see a proper Seeker play," said Draco.

Ron scoffed. "Funnily enough, Malfoy, she's not nearly as interested in you as you are in yourself."

Harry rolled his eyes. "She said she might turn up later, if she gets all her homework done—I wouldn't necessarily count on it. Ron, though, wants to spy on your team and pass on pointers to the twins."

"Harry!" said Ron, but Draco just smiled.

"Won't help you much, Slug-eater. With me on the team, Gryffinbore doesn't stand a chance." He lovingly cradled a broomstick draped in some kind of expensive-looking cloth.

"If they're mad enough to put you on the team, Slytheridiot might as well forfeit the cup now."

"I'm rather sorry there isn't an opening on your team; I'd love to see the look on your face when we wipe the floor with you!"

"Ooooh, you mean like you did last year?"

Harry winced. It hadn't been like this before the holidays. Well, before the Stone, sure. But then they'd spent two nights a week and nearly all their meals together, and yes, they'd still argued, but, as with Hermione and Ron, there'd been a subtle element of camaraderie, of banter, almost, that was missing now.

At first, the newly replenished venom between his two friends had surprised and confused him, but then he'd remembered Mr Malfoy and Mr Weasley in Diagon Alley. Spending all summer with parents who had very definite, very different views on things like Muggles and blood purity had probably rekindled all the latent spleen of a lifetime of mutual prejudice. Harry could only hope that it would wear off again if they spent more time together, which was part of the reason he had suggested that Ron come along to spy on Slytherin's new team.

Because that was going really well.

"Never mind the fact that your lot's first Snitch catch of the season was a fluke and only not against the rules because no one's ever thought of putting something so obvious in the rules…" Draco was shouting.

"Like you lot care for rules!" Ron shouted back. "You think we didn't see what you did to the Hufflepuff seeker last year? You rotten cheaters!" He spat a tiny slug onto the ground and it oozed away.

"We never cheated, unlike your stupid Snape Swallow…"

"Oi!" said Harry, his train of thought derailed by this blatant insult.

"Be glad you're coming down to see a proper Seeker try out," sneered Malfoy. "Your little tricks won't work against an actual team. You know that was all luck anyway, don't you, Snapey?"

Harry felt a sudden uncharacteristic urge to destroy every single other team in the school and hold the Quidditch cup up in Malfoy's face, but he drowned this along with the impulse to snatch Malfoy's broom and wallop him over the head with it.

"For a proper Seeker," Ron said as they left the pitch, "that was pretty rubbish, Malfoy."

Malfoy was silent—deadly silent, it seemed to Harry. He turned his broomstick over in his hands thoughtfully, his eyes flashing.

He really had done pretty badly. He had stayed on his broom, unlike several of the other candidates—he really was quite a good "broomsman"—and he had actually spotted the Snitch at least once. But he was overconfident, showy, and easily distracted. Any time anybody ran onto the pitch or up into the stands, he would swerve to have a look at them and lose control of his broom; the eventual appearance of Hermione had him twisting around so much it nearly sent him into the commentator's stand. Once he missed an easy catch because he actually shot past the ball on his superfast new broom, which Ron had been trying very hard not to admire all through the tryouts.

"Of course, just because they say it leaves all the old Nimbus line in the dust doesn't mean it's really any faster, people will say anything," he said. "And it's not really as much better-looking than the 2000 as people say, only a little more, and that gold script is really just overkill…"

Now as they trudge up to the castle, Hermione tried to be tactful. "I'm sure you did as well as any of the other candidates…well, most of the other candidates. You're a second year, and everyone gets nervous at auditions, I'm sure they'll take that into account…"

"It's not some school play, Granger, it's Quidditch," spat Draco. "They're not going to give me a chorus role out of pity. People don't give people Quidditch positions out of the goodness of their hearts. I have to be the best. Or…"

"Or?"

But Malfoy shook his head and gripped his broom, as if coming to a decision.

"See you lot later," he said. Then he grinned—a nasty grin, thought Harry; it reminded him of Draco's father. "See you in the first match of the year, Snapey," he said, and raced off, still clutching his broom.

"He did wha'?!" Hagrid exclaimed, stopping in the middle of the floor with a plate of biscuits.

Harry downed his second mug of tea in one swallow. "Wrote his father and got him to send up six more of those Nimbus 2001s. Special delivery, early this morning. They had to let him on the team after that."

"I still say he cheated," muttered Ron.

Harry shrugged. "If they're happy, there's not really anything we can do. There's rules about bribing players, but not about bribing the team."

"Maybe there should be!"

"Well, I don't know," said Hermione diplomatically, politely declining a third biscuit from Hagrid (she had fed the other two surreptitiously to Fang under the table). "After all, if he's a bad player, it's their loss, isn't it?"

"And you have to admit, Ron, it's going to be fun to see Slytherin realise just exactly how bad a mistake they made when Gryffindor annihilates them at the first match."

Ron started to grin. "Well, maybe. Too bad you lot couldn't practice, though."

"Well, Malfoy's going to need the practice more than we are, isn't he?" said Harry.

"True. He did crash into the commentator's stand a lot."

They all laughed.

Harry, Ron, and Draco had their detentions that evening, and when they were given their assignments, they all thought they'd got the worst end of the deal: Ron and Draco had to polish awards in the Trophy Room, using no magic, under the supervision of the caretaker, Filch; Harry had to help Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail.

"Requested me particularly?" Harry groaned. "I think I'll run mad if I have to spend one more second listening to that insufferable prat talking about how he won Witch Weekly's most charming whatever-it-was. I still have marks on my face from those mad little Cornish thingies!"

"Are you joking? You've got the cushy job!" said Draco. "No magic? Think I'll bring my wand along anyhow, see if I can't sneak in some magic on the side…"

"Right, because Filch is blind and an idiot," said Ron.

"Tell you what, Ron," said Harry, crossing his fingers, "you sneak yours in, too, and then you can take turns distracting him for each other."

"No way I'd trust him with that," said Ron. "He'll make me distract him first and then he'll never take his turn."

"Well, then, you can just stop distracting him," said Harry.

"What about the stupid cat?" Draco demanded.

"Cat can't make you do any work," said Harry.

Ron and Draco glared at each other for a long moment.

"You can't peach," said Ron.

"You can't lose your nerve at the last second," said Draco.

"As if," said Ron.

"As though," said Draco.

"Fine," said Ron.

"Fine," said Draco.

Harry let out a sigh of relief and uncrossed his fingers, but he only felt better for a minute. He still had detention with Lockhart to look forward to.