xxiv. curse thy enemies

November landed with all the subtlety of a firecracker being lobbed into the middle of a silent church.

Those born and bred in the Wizarding world had been ticking off the weeks and days in rampant anticipation of the Quidditch season's beginning, and they couldn't wait for the first match between Slytherin and Gryffindor slated for later that very month. The blood fanaticism and constant sneering about Muggle-borns abated in the common rooms and classes in favor of talk about favorite teams and prospective winners. Slytherin hoped to take the Quidditch Cup for the sixth year in the row.

Of course, Harriet knew very little about Quidditch, only what she'd learned in Diagon Alley and from listening to some of the more talkative boys wax poetic about player statistics and famous maneuvers—but she found the enthusiasm infectious. Hermione thought it was silly; she told Harriet a whole list of grievances against sports in general as Harriet helped her carry books out of the library, and every time Elara so much as glimpsed a broomstick, she turned a bit green.

Nevertheless, both girls followed Harriet out into the bracing November chill as the school made their way to the Quidditch pitch.

"I just don't see the point," Hermione grumbled as a Gryffindor running by almost clipped her in the head with a flapping pennant. "I don't see why people are so mad over such a silly thing."

"Because it's magic!" Harriet replied. "I still can't believe you two hate brooms. They're a lot of fun!" She thought so, at least. She'd only been on a broom twice: at the very first flying lesson and at the very last. Madam Hooch had been reticent to let her into the air at all after she punched Ron.

Speaking of whom—

Harriet caught a flash of red hair as they climbed the steps into the stands with the rest of the students and paused. "Err, we're not on the Gryffindor side are we?" she asked as she glanced behind her at Elara and Hermione. They both shared puzzled shrugs.

"How should we know?"

"Well, I guess we're going to find out…."

The stands, of course, didn't have any official form of categorization, but the trio of Slytherin witches did end up seated in a mass of Gryffindors with a scattering of yellow scarf wearing Hufflepuffs and a few older Ravenclaws who didn't look all that excited to be there. Harriet plunked herself down on a bench without care and dragged in a lungful of cold air as Hermione and Elara sat down as well.

"What are you doing here?" one of the Gryffindors in their year—Seamus—asked as he twisted in his seat to glare at them. "Why aren't you sitting with the rest of the Slytherins!"

Besides the fact that Harriet hadn't seen where the majority of her House had migrated, she had little interest in hanging around those of her own year. Some were all right. Theo Nott was a bit like Hermione in regards to studying and could be courteous, though he could also jump onto Draco's Muggle-hating bandwagon quick enough when it suited him. Daphne Greengrass also adopted "pure-blood politeness," as Harriet thought of it. They were nice enough not to make themselves look like total arses, though Malfoy never had the same compunction.

An entirely different dynamic ruled the Gryffindors. Thanks to her magical foster family, Hermione was a walking encyclopedia on Wizarding families, and so Harriet knew Seamus was a half-blood and Dean Thomas was a Muggle-born and three of the Gryffindor girls—Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown, and Fay Dunbar—were all pure-bloods of varying "purity," while Fay's friend Gretta Meadowes was a Muggle-born and Sophie Roper was a half-blood. Ron and Neville were both considered "blood traitors." None of those in the House of Lions ever seemed to care about that, though.

That's because it doesn't matter, Harriet reminded herself as she glanced between Elara and Hermione. Elara was a pure-blood—supposedly, because all Blacks were supposedly pure-blood, though Elara fiercely ignored all questions regarding her family no matter who they came from. Harriet didn't begrudge her that silence since she herself was just as tight-lipped about her home life. Hermione was a Muggle-born and had to be the top in their year, she was just so dead clever. It doesn't matter.

"I'm here to watch Quidditch," Harriet said stiffly, meeting Seamus' glare. "There's no assigned seating."

Seamus opened his mouth and Ron—with clumsy red and gold stripes painted on his cheeks—elbowed him in the ribs. "Leave off, Seamus! You're going to miss it!"

Harriet wondered what he meant by that because it wasn't likely he'd miss an entire Quidditch match before it even began—or maybe it was, what did she know? She sat straight and stared out across the grassy expanse of the pitch. The voice of the commentator, a Gryffindor boy Harriet didn't know, boomed from the staffing stands visible in the periphery of Harriet's vision.

"And here comes this year's Slytherin team: Chasers Flint, Pucey, Montague, Keeper Bletchley, Seeker Higgs, Beaters Derrick and Bole! Flint back again as captain as well, even after some blatant examples of cheating last season—."

"Jordan!" came McGonagall's voice, distant but still sharp. The Slytherin team walked from their locker room with their brooms balanced on their shoulders, and the greener part of the stands—so that's where the other Slytherins went—burst into applause.

"Now the Gryffindor team—! Keeper Wood, extraordinary captain there—Beaters George and Fred Weasley, couple of Bludgers themselves those two, Seeker Alicia Spinnet, Chasers Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and—new to the team this year—Neville Longbottom!"

Harriet froze.

The stands erupted in cheers and shouts and bouts of chanting, though it couldn't quite drown the tremendous, echoing "boo" that roared out of the Slytherins. Ron and the other Gryffindors must've already known about Neville's placement on the team because they showed no surprise, only blatant enthusiasm as they jumped to their feet whistling and yelling Neville's name.

"But first years aren't allowed brooms or to try out for the House teams," Hermione said as a furrow dug its way between her brows. "That's against the rules. It's hardly fair."

"Like Professor Snape said," Harriet told her, her own enthusiasm dulled. "'Life's hardly fair.'"

"Lighten up, Potter." Ron dropped onto his seat again. He was breathless from cheering, though that didn't stop the rest of Gryffindor from continuing as the teams met Madam Hooch on the field. "We're all a bit jealous of Neville, but that's no reason to get yourself in a snit about it."

Harriet bit her own tongue. Jealous of Neville? Yes, Harriet decided she was mostly likely jealous of Longbottom—though not over something as silly as Quidditch. Truth be told, she wished she'd gotten more of a chance to fly during their lessons, but she had only herself to blame for being grounded. Her jealousy toward Longbottom stemmed from the fact that, though war had touched his life just as it had touched Harriet's, he came out of it almost wholly unscathed. Harriet longed for the family she'd lost so long ago and would never know.

"Quiet, Weasley," Elara snapped, causing the red-head to jump.

"No one's talking to you, Black!" Finnigan put in.

"No one's talking to you, either, Finnigan."

Out on the field, the two teams were mounting their brooms and rising into the air. They ascended much faster and far higher than Harriet's year had with Madam Hooch, and Harriet shoved aside her immature distaste for Longbottom to watch. The older students handled their brooms with obvious skill, flying like they'd been born on a broomstick, steering with their knees and hips, relying very little on their hands. After all, they needed their hands free once the Quaffle and the Bludgers and the Snitch were set loose.

"That's called Checking," Harriet said when one of the Slytherin Chasers—Pucey—darted between Johnson and Longbottom just as they passed the Quaffle between them, snatching it from Longbottom's fingers before darting in the other direction. "And that, well—." Flint threw an elbow into Bell's face. "Well that's called Cobbing."

"Where do you learn this, Harriet?" Hermione asked, confused.

"I have to read something while you're in the library studying."

"You're supposed to be studying, too."

"I am!" Harriet shrugged. "Just not what you thought I was."

Hermione scoffed, scandalized, and Elara snorted into her scarf.

The game continued at high speeds. Harriet had to admit Neville seemed to have some skill at the game. He flew with aggressive confidence despite his relatively small size and fronted several Hawkshead Attacking Formations—which involved the three team Chasers coming together like an arrowhead and flying with speed to force other Chasers aside.

That said, Longbottom didn't appear to cooperate well with Johnson and Bell. A few times they waited at his flanks, open for a pass, and Neville would just barrel forward through the Slytherin offense like no one else was even playing. The louder the crowd yelled his name, the more reckless he became. Watching him, Harriet didn't feel quite so jealous. She'd rather be set on fire than let her head get that swollen.

Her attention wavered until Ron yelled, "There's something wrong with Neville!" sounding terrified.

"Yeah, it's called being a prat—." Harriet turned her gaze from watching Flint lob the Quaffle toward a goal and found Longbottom higher in the air than he'd been before. Bell and Johnson circled below him with apparent apprehension, and when one of the Weasley Beaters tried to get closer, Longbottom rose even higher. He had both his arms wrapped tight about the broom, his hands white on the haft as it quivered and rolled.

"There's something wrong with his broom," Elara corrected Ron, her pale eyes following Longbottom's twitchy ascent. The broom rolled again and jerked forward, the motion not unlike the hard flick a person might give their hand after they burn it or jam a finger, like they're trying to throw the pain from themselves. Neville clutched to handle harder and shouted wordless alarm to the Chasers below him. The Slytherins were taking full advantage of the distraction to freely score points.

Seamus took note of this too. "Why haven't they called the match?!" he shouted with anger. "What are they doing—?!"

A whistle blew and barely cut through the rising din of watching spectators. The broom bucked harder and rose sharply, bringing Neville a good fifty or sixty feet above the pitch. The Slytherin team were forced to the ground, none looking pleased, as Madam Hooch retrieved her wand and flicked it toward Longbottom. Nothing happened.

"Harriet—," Hermione said in a voice loud enough to be heard by her alone. Harriet tore her eyes from Longbottom's peril when her friend jerked on her arm, and Hermione pointed toward the higher staffing section of the stands. "I think—I think it's Professor Snape!"

Snape? The professor was difficult to pick out of a crowd; he was distinct one on one, but in a group of other professors and guests and shopkeepers from Hogsmeade all dressed in drab winter cloaks, he blended in. Harriet could only see the profile of him and he looked to be speaking very quickly, thin lips in constant motion. "What about him?"

"I think he's…." Hermione's voice dropped lower still and Harriet had to bend her neck so she could hear the other girl. "I think he's cursing the broom!"

"What?!" Harriet squawked.

Hermione gripped her wrist and rushed on. "He hasn't broken eye contact once, not once, and he must have his wand out, and—."

"I know he's not the nicest bloke, but he wouldn't!" Harriet glanced at Professor Snape again and he still hadn't broken eye contact. Her stomach twisted. "I mean, he's right out in the open there, sitting with a bunch of teachers, and if we've noticed him staring, I think better witches and wizard would have too, right?"

Hermione pressed her mouth into a thin line. "But—."

The bucking broom became too much for Neville; it heaved, then threw itself forward, and the Boy Who Lived came sliding right off the end. The crowd screamed and Harriet gasped, horrified, as Longbottom plummeted toward the earth, going too fast, flipping end over end like a limp ragdoll—.

"Levicorpus!"

Much too close to the ground, Professor Slytherin—standing at the head of the teacher's box, wand extended—shouted a spell that broke through the din and caught Neville by the ankle. The boy's descent slowed all at once, as if he had a noose wrapped tight about his leg, and the bones gave with a loud crack! Harriet winced. Otherwise, Longbottom hung suspended, unharmed, a few feet above the pitch. His teammates jumped off their brooms and raced toward him. The Gryffindors in the stands did the same, and Harriet caught an elbow to the ear when she didn't move quick enough for Finnigan.

"That was…eventful," Harriet muttered as she rubbed her head. Hermione still had her lips pursed as she stared off toward the higher staffing seats. Snape stood as well, though he didn't make for the field. He seemed to be thinking very hard, wand in hand, brow low.

"It was Snape," Hermione said for Elara's benefit. She kept herself mindful of the trailing Gryffindors around them, but no one was paying attention to the three first year witches. Elara blinked. "He was cursing Longbottom's broom."

"We don't know that," Harriet told her. The last thing Harriet wanted was for a rumor about Snape trying to off Neville to get out and trace its way back to them. Snape might really try to kill a student then. "He's a teacher, Hermione! You love teachers!"

Hermione flushed. "I know! But what else could he have been doing? I've studied curses, Harriet, and you have to maintain eye contact, and Snape—."

"It could have been a counter-curse," Elara said, cutting Hermione off. The bushy-haired witch jerked as if shocked. "Both need constant eye contact. But I wouldn't put it past Snape. He can be quite foul."

He could. The acerbic attitude of the Potions Master rarely extended toward the Slytherins, and yet they still felt the backlash of it, and Elara's explosive ineptitude at the subject earned her just as many biting comments as any Gryffindor. Harriet he mostly ignored and Hermione sometimes even won points for her perfect brews.

"He wouldn't," Harriet said again, though her heart wasn't in the statement. "It's…not very Slytherin—and Professor Slytherin himself saved Neville!"

"He has that nasty grin of his on though," Elara muttered. "Maybe he and Snape are playing a game of terrify the Gryffindor?"

They couldn't be certain. As Oliver Wood began shouting about sabotage and the Slytherin Quidditch players denied all allegations of foul play, Harriet, Hermione, and Elara remained sitting on the cold benches and wondered who had tried to kill the Boy Who Lived.