lxi. flightless bird
The summer breeze came warm and unexpected over the loch, filled with newly curled leaves already falling for the autumn not quite upon them, though hints of it lingered at the Forest's borders. Out in the sunshine, however, it grew hot, and Harriet welcomed the breeze as she leaned on the stands at her back, elbows propped on the seat. Her legs swayed back and forth, toes barely skimming the grass, and out on the pitch the Slytherin team ran their drills.
Harriet shut her eyes and soaked in the warmth like a lounging reptile. She missed Livi, and made a mental note to ask Hagrid that afternoon if she could spend time on the grounds with him. Of course, she didn't think Hagrid would say no, but if he did, she would probably bring Livi out anyway, and avoid Snape like the plague. He'd ignored her and Elara for the most part, concentrating his vitriol on Longbottom and the Gryffindors—but Harriet knew it wouldn't take much for him to remember all the times they'd been impertinent over the summer hols, and then they'd really be in for it.
Despite the heat, Harriet shivered.
Adrian Pucey and Graham Montague whipped by overhead, voices jubilant, chased by one of the team's Beaters, Peregrine Derrick. Other Slytherins dotted the length and breadth of the stands, watching the team enjoy their new brooms, or just using the tryouts as an excuse to get out of the castle for a bit. Terrance Higgs stood next to Marcus Flint, their heads bent together, deep in discussion.
She was the only person to show for the Seeker position, given Malfoy's rambling had scared off anyone else's interest. Harriet kept expecting to see the pointy-faced bastard come swaggering onto the pitch, but the longer she waited, the more mystified she became. He knows he's supposed to be here, Harriet thought. What's his game now?
Flint crossed his sizable arms and suddenly kicked the chest containing the Quaffle and Bludgers. The latter banged against the trunk's lid, and with a shouted word to Derrick and Bole, the Beaters flew down to release the balls. Pucey and Montague quickly scooped up the Quaffle when it was thrown into the air, and Bole batted both Bludgers away as he and Derrick took to the skies again.
Higgs shook his head again and Flint hit the trunk a second time.
Harriet stopped kicking her feet and, for wont of anything else to do, took out Gadding With Ghouls from her robe pocket, finding her last bookmarked spot. Gilderoy Lockhart was about to confront Perry Fidious, who'd been using ghouls to terrify Muggles into leaving a village so he could purchase the land on the cheap. Gilderoy bounded into the locked barn housing the captured creatures and said, "You have become a fool, Perry Fidious, and yet pitiable. You might still have turned away from folly and evil, and have been of service. But you choose to stay and gnaw the ends of your own plots."
Harriet paused, rereading the last line.
Gnaw the ends of your own plots.
That…that was familiar, but where had she heard it before? Harriet was certain she'd come across the line, and it hadn't been in Gadding With Ghouls—which, in all honestly, read suspiciously like the cartoons Dudley would watch in the morning, all very showy and unsubtle. Where had she seen the phrase before?
An hour passed, then two. The Chasers landed, as did the Keeper Bletchley, the three huddling close with Flint and Higgs as the team had some kind of secret meeting.
Feet thumped on the wooden steps, and Harriet looked up to see Elara and Hermione walking over, the pair sharing a brief, furtive argument before they straightened, finding seats next to her. Elara didn't look much different in her monochromatic weekend attire, which Pansy loved to deride, though Hermione wore a pretty green tartan skirt and a new blouse. "Is practice over?" the latter asked, glancing toward the assembled team.
"I dunno," Harriet said, brow quirked at the obvious attempt to shift attention back to the pitch. "Malfoy hasn't shown up yet."
Hermione and Elara both looked straight ahead. "Oh, well. How unfortunate."
"Unfortunate…?"
A commotion on the field interrupted Harriet. "What is the problem, Mr. Flint?" Harriet hadn't realized Madam Hooch was here, but the hawk-eyed instructor strode out toward the Slytherin team all the same, clearly irritated about something. "I'm here to supervise tryouts for your new Seeker—and though I've been here twiddling my thumbs for more than two hours, I've yet to see a single candidate!"
"Our, err, main hopeful isn't here yet, ma'am."
"Oh? Would this be the hopeful who so charitably donated all these new brooms?" she demanded. Flint flushed despite himself, a furious glint in his hard, beady eyes. "I don't put my nose in House business, Mr. Flint, but I will not stand aside and allow such a blatant display of bribery come to fruition when your hopeful cannot even deign to attend their own tryout!"
"It ain't bribery, Madam Hooch!"
"No? Then observe one of your other hopefuls." With that, the flight instructor whirled about and jabbed a sharp finger toward Harriet, who flinched like the witch had chucked something at her. Dressed in trousers and a plain green shirt, she was obviously the only one dressed for flying. "You! What's your name, girl?"
"P-Potter, ma'am."
"Potter. You're here to tryout for Seeker, yes?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then get over here."
Harriet hopped to her feet—dropping Gadding With Ghouls—and scuttled onto the pitch, moved by the force of Hooch's voice. The older witch sent one final warning glare in Flint's direction before she stomped over back to her position on the shaded bench. Coming closer to Flint, Harriet found herself craning her head back to meet the towering boy's glower.
"You better not be mucking about, Potter," he seethed through crooked teeth. "Hooch is brassed off enough without you fucking about."
"I'm not."
"And I guess you don't know where that prat Malfoy is at either, do you?"
"No." Though Harriet had a sneaking suspicion Elara and Hermione might.
"Then get on a broom and take a lap."
Harriet hurried over the empty chest, by which lay two new, gleaming brooms—one for Flint, and one for the prospective Seeker. The team towered over her, all a good head and shoulders above the short witch in height, sneering at the nervous girl as she passed through them and stuck her hand out above one of the brooms. She didn't need to say anything; it leapt into her palm, and Harriet clasped her fingers about the handle.
She threw one leg over the broom, feeling the Charms hum to life with tangible heat against her skin, Charms far stronger than the ones she'd felt on the old school brooms. In hindsight, she should've expected the speed of it—but Harriet kicked off a little too hard, compensating for a lack of mobility not present in the Two Thousand One, and almost went arse over elbow into the sod. Snickers rose from the Slytherin team as Harriet blushed scarlet, ears burning as she re-situated herself on the broom and tried again.
The second attempt went far smoother, and as Harriet leaned her weight into the flight, shifting on instinct, she picked up speed and relaxed her nervous grip. The wind howled in her ears, sliding through her hair, cold after sitting in the sun for so long, her cheeks pink with a sunburn Hermione would chastise her about later. She completed her first lap, and then went on into a second, pushing herself faster, enthralled with the effortless speed and smooth, sinuous glide. Malfoy hadn't been bluffing about the broom's qualifications.
The Slytherins were far less inclined to mocking when she slowed by them, though they didn't look entirely pleased, either. "I'm lettin' the Snitch out," Flint snapped. "Give it a minute head-start, then I'm timing how long it takes you to catch it, Potter!"
She did as instructed, and it took her only a minute to spot the wayward sparkle of gold in the corner of her eye and dart after it, returning to Flint with the Snitch struggling in her small hand. He set it free twice more, and both times Harriet found it, smirking at the Chaser torn between being miffed and excited. "Derrick, Bole—get that bag of—what're they called? Dolf balls?—get that bag and start hitting em' up there!"
The golf balls—and honestly, Harriet wondered how Flint didn't know about golf of all things, the blinkered idiot—were soon whizzing through the air, the loud smack of the Beater bats striking the little balls echoing across the pitch. Harriet flew after the balls, catching each one, tossing them back toward the watching team. They didn't let up until Harriet dipped too low in a dive and ended up skinning a knee against the ground, at which point Hooch intervened and told Flint to end practice.
She landed by the team, weak-kneed and winded, Hooch and her friends crossing the grass to join them. "Well! Excellent flying, Miss Potter. Truly exceptional," Hooch said, clapping her gloved hands together before taking out her wand and pointing it at Harriet's knee. The shorter witch jolted at the answering sting as the scrape healed, but she nonetheless muttered her thanks. "It seems to me you've found yourself an excellent Seeker, Mr. Flint."
Marcus pursed his lips. The rest of the team exchanged uneasy looks, gripping their new broomsticks tight, before they all shrugged. "Yeah," Flint grunted. "I guess you're right, Madam Hooch."
Tired as she was, Harriet still grinned from ear to ear.
"Excellent."
Madam Hooch made to leave the pitch, which also left Harriet standing under Flint's harsh, unhappy scrutiny. The Quidditch captain took the Nimbus from her and laid it with the others. "All right, Potter," he snapped. "You've got potential—but this ain't like a real match, and you know bugger all about our strats. You won't be late to a single practice, you hear me?"
"Yes."
He scoffed, thick brow furrowed. "Bloody Malfoy," he muttered, heaving a heavy, bothered breath. "There's a track out by the lake we're allowed to run on, and I suggest you use it, half-blood. You're the right build for a Seeker, but you're too scrawny for a long game. One blow from a Bludger and you'd be out, and the winds during the winter storms we play in aren't to be arsed with. You need more stamina than you have now. You got it?"
"Yes," Harriet said again, because she'd say anything at this point, all but bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I understand."
"Fine. Welcome to the team, Potter."
The rest of the players echoed Flint's sentiment, some with more enthusiasm than others, and the captain called an end to the tryouts. The balls went back into the chest, and Harriet could barely wait for the older Slytherins to wander off before throwing herself at Hermione and Elara, arms going about their necks, very nearly bringing Elara's head down hard on Hermione's.
"Yes!" she crowed, laughing. "I can't believe it. I really can't. Malfoy was going on and on about how much he wanted this—but where is he? Flint told him to show up half a dozen times with most of the House listening, so what's he playing at? He—." Harriet paused, drawing back to spy Elara and Hermione's passive, innocent faces. "…what'd you do?"
"Do? Do what?" Hermione asked, fussing with her hair. "No need to be paranoid, Harriet. I'm sure Draco is just—." She looked to Elara for help.
"Detained."
"Yes, detain—no, not detained, not really—."
Harriet laughed again before she could help herself, too pleased for much else, giddy with expectation. She was fairly sure practice would prove harder than she expected, given how peeved Flint was with Malfoy skiving off tryouts and forcing him to accept Hooch's appointment of Harriet. She would work hard despite whatever her teammates threw at her, however, because nothing beat the feeling of wind against her face, the world falling away below her feet. It was exhilarating.
"D'you think lunch is still on? I'm famished."
"No, lunch will be over by now. Honestly, Flint kept tryouts going far longer than he should have."
"I didn't even notice."
"Madam Hooch did, which is why she forced him to make a decision."
Harriet hummed low in thought as she gathered Gadding With Ghouls from her spot in the stands and they set off out of the stadium, her heart considerably lighter than it'd been on the way down. She'd done it. She'd made the team. "Thanks for convincing me to come, Elara."
The taller girl smiled slightly, the corner of her lips hitching upward. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say."
"John Heywood said that," Hermione put in. They came out from under the stadium's shadow, beginning their uphill hike toward the castle. "In his 'Dialogue Containing the Number in Effect of All the Proverbs in the English Tongue.'"
"Of course you'd know that, Hermione. No other rational human being would."
"He said 'Noght veter noght haue spare to speke spare to spede.' I remember it because the translations in that passage argued about whether Heywood actually said the phrase, or if he stole it from an earlier French proverb."
Harriet glanced at her. "Well, that just sounds like gibberish to me."
"It means 'nothing ventured, nothing had; if you don't speak, you don't advance—.'"
"POTTER!"
All three witches paused, halting Hermione's impromptu and somewhat anxious lecture on John Heywood's blathering as Draco Malfoy came storming out of the upper courtyard in a high fury, Crabbe and Goyle struggling to keep up with his stride. Color flushed his normally pale face, his tidy hair in a terrible disarray, robes disheveled and wrinkled.
"This is your fault!" he howled, balled fists trembling as he marched down the hill. "You lying, scheming little half-blood! You bloody well cheated, you foul—."
"What are you on about?" Harriet demanded, scowling. "I haven't done a thing to you."
He stopped about a yard from them, sneering. "If it wasn't you, then it was one of your dirty blooded cronies—."
"Your accusations are totally baseless, Draco," Hermione interrupted, voice gone high—which, Harriet noted—was a sure sign the girl was lying. What did they do? she pondered to herself, not entirely sure if she should be pleased with her friends. She wanted to play, yes, but what type of trouble would Malfoy stir up? Was it worth it?
"I wasn't talking to you, Mudblood!"
"Don't call her that!" Harriet shouted.
"I'll call her whatever I like—."
During their argument, which had only grown in volume, Elara began smirking, and when Draco's flashing eyes suddenly darted to her, the taller witch grinned fully—a harsh, victorious grin that set Malfoy off. "Did you have trouble getting out of bed today, Draco?"
Enraged, he grappled for his wand, pointing it at them, snarling, "Flipendo!"
Harriet had her own wand in hand before he could incant his spell, and her shield sprung to life, hurling the hex right back into the blond boy's pointy face. There was a loud, sudden crack! and Malfoy hit the grass, sliding a few centimeters, blood gushing from his busted nose.
Of course, this was the part at which Professor Snape came wheeling out of the courtyard, black robes billowing behind him, only to find Harriet standing over a bloodied, whimpering Malfoy with her wand drawn.
The expression on the severe wizard's face could have withered thunderclouds.
"Detention, Potter," he said, voice cold, furious. "For a week."
Harriet's jaw dropped. "But I—."
"Sir, it wasn't Harriet's—."
"Do not make me repeat myself," Snape hissed as he loomed over their quivering group. The sunshine and warm, balmy air seemed to crawl away from him, and Harriet had to wonder if there really was some merit to those rumors about him being a vampire. The great ruddy bat. "Go to the common room. I will see to Mr. Malfoy."
"But—."
"Go!"
Harriet and the others didn't need to be told again. The three witches—plus Crabbe and Goyle—tromped into the castle proper and delved into the dungeons' waiting dark, leaving behind the blissful daylight and laughter drifting up from the grounds. Harriet didn't dare look back for fear of seeing Snape following in their shadow.
It was a wretched end to an otherwise great day.
A/N: Sorry for the wait. Had finals and I'm graduating. *throws confetti.* So here's a chapter!