In the Crosshairs
Dragon Voldemort
Chapter 129: Quidditch Cup
The Seeker watched the very small tick sized critters, about eight of them in the small tin that glowed blue under the wand light.
"These beauties," the Chaser said, "One per head."
"How fast?" the Seeker asked.
"Research takes time," the Chaser snapped, "Count your lucky stars we managed these—today. Your fool ready?"
"He will be," the Seeker said.
Hermione woke Saturday morning, went over to the dining table, where Ron already was. She first grabbed the school paper.
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The Hogwarts Corpse
Saturday, 17 May 1997
Quidditch Final — Brave Slytherins
by Draco Malfoy
As Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team, I can assure you that we will not be swayed by any Dark Curses Potter might try to use in an attempt to cover their obvious shortcomings. Each member of my team has already drafted their wills and made preparations should Potter lash out—we are not scared or fooled by his lousy intimidation. We feel that today will show what we all know, Slytherin is superior at Quidditch.
"They'll eat dirt," Ron promised.
"Show him Ron," Harry said as he climbed off the bed. A reach into his pocket, pulled out the letter with the now familiar handwriting. "Let's see what she has to say." Harry adjusted his voice, the highest pitch he could muster.
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Dear Mr. Harry Potter,
You are hereby warned that any use of Dark Arts or Dark Magic at today's Quidditch match will result in a life time ban from ever playing Quidditch again.
Sincerely,
Delores Umbridge, Chairwitch of the Harry Potter Guidance Committee
Victor Fallerschain, Minister for Magic
"Don't flash your arse," Ron said.
Harry stepped next to Hermione, took his pills, and bent over the table as he chose.
"Practicing?" Ron said, "Show her."
Harry took that step to the right, in front of her, bent further.
"Can she…read the paper?" Ron asked.
Hermione reached between the legs, grabbed the The Daily Prophet, turned it over. Harry's face, and a reprint from March, with the caption beneath it.
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Bed Wetter Dark Lord
Disturbing reports confirm rumors that the Dark Wizard Harry Potter is a prolific bedwetter (urinates in his sleep). Nocturnal enuresis often associated with trauma and anxiety disorders, traits clearly present in a rising dark wizard like Harry Potter. Deep seated fears of being struck down, or leaving matters unresolved, can be a breeding ground for the distresses inherent in becoming the most vile wizard to ever live.
"What?" Harry asked.
"They're making stuff up," Hermione said.
Hermione slid the paper up onto Harry's back, toward Ron.
"Internationally," Hermione said, "They struck Argentina yesterday, six killed."
Harry sighed, while Ron read the paper.
"Better choice Hermione," Ron said.
Harry snatched The Daily Prophet from Ron, the groan.
"She prefers your arse," Ron said.
"Know what I'm getting," Hermione said.
Harry moved, sat to Hermione's right.
"Last night…" Harry turned down to a whisper.
Ron moved, sat to Harry's other side as he recounted the reality he dropped into.
"That's…" Hermione started.
"It's supporting paradoxes," Harry said, "We proved that last weekend."
"What's a…par…?" Ron started.
"Maybe your executions are paradoxes," Hermione said.
"Later," Harry said, "Got a match to attend."
…
Harry flew with the sun upon him, the sharp bank into the trees of the Forbidden Forest, with Gia's fingers that dug in.
"Can we…go normal?" Gia asked.
"They know I fly," Harry said, worried.
Harry circumnavigated around Hogwarts, flew in from beneath the stands, kept it low. He renewed the invisibility, a jump up and down, and flew over the grass of the Quidditch Pitch. Another fast bank, rose up to where the blond haired large dog, Padfoot sat in the top box while the flying carpet with Dumbledore descended toward them.
"Thank you," Harry said to Padfoot as Gia climbed off, "Keep her safe."
Harry rose.
"Good day for Quidditch," said the Headmaster as the two passed.
Harry checked the audience below, spotted the coaches with McGonagall, the Minister, and Umbridge sitting into the top box as Dumbledore's carpet arrived. Harry dove, banished his broom, and tumbled into the locker room.
"Nearly had to spot in the alternates," Josh Brenner said, "Not like that'd be a bad thing."
Canary yellow beneath the loose scarlet red Quidditch robes, the eyes that glared.
"Best hope we remember which team you're playing for," said Justin Prewett, more of the canary yellow that showed from beneath his robes.
"We need you to fire off a killing curse or two," Paul Prewett said, "Scare 'em."
"No killing from us today," Harry said.
…
Gia felt the bump to her side.
"Shh!" came Hermione's soft voice.
Gia understood, the invisibility cast on them both.
Up the steps, the Minister moved to sit on the bench, a scowl on the face of Delores Umbridge.
"You heard the advice," the Minister said to Umbridge, "Healthy to take an interest in their activities."
Gia unsure who, if anybody, she should feel sorry for.
"Aw…" said Coach Kline, with McGonagall, "Time for some good and wholesome Quidditch."
"Wholesome?" McGonagall said, "This is Gryffindor vs Slytherin."
"Like I said," Coach Kline said, "Wholesome."
"See they've gotten started," said Finnigan as he climbed into the stands, with a lady in red to his left arm with its EM tattoo, Tebworth grinned.
Finnigan adjusted his yellow bowler hat, slight stubble to his eyebrows. A slight grin as Tebworth rubbed her hand up the back of his canary yellow T–shirt, and he stepped up to the magic microphone.
"Got a couple of open seats," Finnigan said, pointed to where Gia and Hermione were.
"When you get to be my age," Dumbledore said, "A few things are best kept…hidden, for dignity's sake."
"Me thinks…" Finnigan reached for his wand.
"In the interest of facilitating this rematch," the Minister said, "Any attempt to collect on bounties inside this facility will be considered fraud, rendering them null and void, unpayable."
"What?" Finnigan stammered.
"And you will be personally liable to that amount in the form of a donation to the Potter victim fund," the Minister said, "Are we understood?"
"Yes," Finnigan said.
"Carry on," the Minister said.
The Minister sat back down, and Finnigan turned to the microphone.
"DEAN—CANCEL!" Finnigan shouted, "CANCEL AND I'LL EXPLAIN LATER!"
Gia felt the bump to her back.
"Sorry girls," Fred said, as he sat down behind them.
"That seat taken?" asked Arthur Weasley, accompanied by Amos Diggory.
"Nice pooch, nice pooch," George said, the pats to Padfoot's blond head.
"Everybody sitting comfortably?" asked Dumbledore.
"We're ready," said Professor McGonagall, to the other side of Hermione, "Mr. Finnigan, keep it civil."
Oliver Wood carried the crate out with his left arm, while the right carried out a Nimbus 2001.
"Welcome to today's rematch between Slytherin vs…the house I've become so disappointed by…" Finnigan's voice turned to a whisper. "Gryffindor."
Boos came throughout the stadium.
"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked, the handing of it over, and Gia took it.
"PRESENTING…" Finnigan made a fake drum roll effect. "Captained by Draco Malfoy—Slytherin, and may they win!"
Panel below dropped, the sea of green poured out, on the brooms.
"MALFOY!" Finnigan announced, "Baddock! Bletchley! Warrington! Pritchard! Southwick! Lavick!"
While Malfoy circled the stands, the glint from his nicely polished Firebolt, the rest of the team, the green and silvered Nimbus 3000s.
"An entire team on the latest Nimbus," the Minister said, "Should be no match."
Fred and George snickered from behind Gia.
"Pre—sent—ing the losers of this match," Finnigan announced, again his voice went soft, "Gryffindor."
Doors that opened, the scarlet red blur of Josh Brenner, the Prewetts, Ginny, Colin, Dennis, Euan, Ron, and finally.
"Presenting Professional Bedwetter Potter!" Finnigan announced, "If you're needing protection, simple charm, it's pluvia protego."
"Finnigan!" McGonagall snapped.
"All Firebolts?" Minister Fallerschain stammered.
"Heh…heh…" muttered Arthur Weasley.
"The house brooms of Gryffindor," McGonagall said, "Besides any broom from a manufacturer is legal…I had to look that up myself some years ago. Also, should point out that I allowed Malfoy an exception to the house brooms given that he was unable to procure the entire team Firebolts before this match."
"One can only hope for another misfortune," Finnigan said.
"Watch it!" McGonagall snapped.
Gia watched above as Harry circled the stands with Ron.
…
Harry flew, the stands below, he spotted the gap where he presumed the girls were, surrounded by Dumbledore, McGonagall, Fred, George, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, Shacklebolt. A dive downward, Nymphadora Tonks with Mad Eye Moody patrolling.
"Scarhead!" Malfoy shouted, "Bring your parachute?"
"Scared of heights?" Harry shouted back, "Have yours ready?"
"You're going to—" Malfoy sneered.
Harry glared at Malfoy.
"Implying anything?" Harry demanded.
Malfoy cleared his throat.
"You're a pathetic flier scarhead!" Malfoy sneered, "You'll find a way."
"I can take the fall," Harry replied, "Can you?"
"I want a clean game," Wood shouted, "From all of you!"
Harry knew that to be more of a plea.
…
Gia heard it, the whistle.
"They're off!" Finnigan announced.
Wood banished the crate to the sidelines, mounted the Nimbus 2001, and flew upward, whistle in hand. Players blurred, crimson mixed with green, when Fred handed Gia a pair of omnioculars.
"Gryffindor in possession!" Finnigan announced, "Watch those Firebolts go!"
Colin flew, the back and forth, as Slytherin gave chase, threw toward Josh Brenner, outchecked the Slytherin Keeper Malcolm Baddock, and ran the Quaffle into the middle goal.
"Score!" Finnigan announced.
Cheers came from some of the Gryffindors in the stands, the rest of the students booed including the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, the canary yellow that gave the thumbs down.
…
Ron sat on the Firebolt like a bench in front of the goals to his left, both legs dangled to one side, the broom pointed to his right. Quaffle in the grip of Pritchard raced toward him, the Bludgers from the Prewetts converged as Brenner and Ginny moved in. Ron flew quick, slid over, and blocked the Quaffle, grabbed it.
"Know what this Quidditch match could really use?" Ron said to Ginny, "A category six hurricane."
Ginny's bewilderness at the statement, took the Quaffle. Ron moved as a Bludger hit Pritchard. Wood blew his whistle.
"Foul!" Wood shouted, "Do NOT enter the Keeper's box!"
…
Gia aimed the omnioculars. Slytherin players moved to the side as Ginny worked up the penalty shot. Malfoy, zoomed up to the top box.
"A timeout is called as Slytherin is to protest this calling," Finnigan announced.
Mild cheering came from the stands as Wood flew up to the top box.
"I understand there is a challenge," Wood said.
"Yes," Malfoy said, "First, Graham was outside of Weasel's zone. Second, Weasel is flying his broom in contradiction to rules by not flying properly."
"The International rule book merely requires contact of the player with his or her broom," Wood said, "Technique of flying is not regulated. Second, the zone alarms activated, therefore, my ruling stands."
Malfoy's eyes glanced toward the Minister.
"You heard him student," Fallerschain said, "This is your jurisdiction Dumbledore."
"For that," Dumbledore said, "I defer the decision to the referee, in this case, Oliver Wood."
"My ruling stands," Wood said, "You can either accept it or forfeit the match."
Malfoy huffed, flew off. Gia glanced upward around the same time McGonagall did, where Harry took another lap around the stands, flying backward, tail first. McGonagall gasped, grabbed the magic microphone from Finnigan.
"Mr. Potter!" McGonagall shouted, "Quit horsing around!"
"MORE STUNT FLYING POTTER!" Finnigan shouted.
"He can break his neck if he wants to," Fallerschain said.
"Totally irresponsible!" McGonagall said.
"Defines Potter to a tee," Snape sneered.
…
Harry at first watched as Ginny made her penalty shot as Malfoy rose, the eyes.
"Rather be doing something else?" Harry said, "Oh, there it is."
A fast ascent, another hundred feet.
"Sorry," Harry said, "By chance don't have a tennis ball?"
"What's tennis?" Malfoy asked.
"Got…" Harry spotted it. "Hungry?"
"Now that you mention it," Malfoy said, the hand that went into his pocket, pulled out a green apple.
"Always got one?" Harry asked.
"Never know," Malfoy replied.
"Got three more?" Harry said, "Can I have them?"
Malfoy's eyes that tried to understand Harry.
"They're not bludgers," Harry said.
"Catch," Malfoy said, threw out one.
Harry bolted, caught it, and stood up on his broom handle.
"Oh," Malfoy said.
"Other two?" Harry asked.
Malfoy threw a second one, that Harry caught, cradled it in his left with the other apple, while his right caught the third one. Harry tossed one, two, three into the air, caught and repeatedly threw them up.
"What are you doing?" Malfoy asked.
"Juggling…this lad in Cancún didn't have time to teach me much," Harry said, the apples that cycled in his hands, "Don't by chance have a fourth?"
"Trying out for the circus?" Malfoy asked.
"It's the last match of the year," Harry said, "Let them enjoy it."
Harry slipped, though he regained his balance, the apples collided, went separate directions. A summon with the wand, all four returned.
"POTTER!" came McGonagall's voice over the magical microphone, "TAKE IT SERIOUSLY!"
"POTTER!" came Finnigan's voice, "JUGGLING'S A GREAT IDEA—TRY KNIVES!"
"Scuttle the match for Slytherin," Malfoy said, "And I'll let you keep—"
Harry felt the tingle, dropped, his hand gripped the broom as the bludger hit Malfoy. A streak of green as Malfoy fell. Harry swung himself up, foot to the bristles, stood again on the handle.
"Try for better aim Paul!" Finnigan shouted.
Harry heard the snicker of Malfoy, as he mounted the broom on the ground. A glance, Harry spotted the faint glint of gold, one that didn't feel right. Instead, he summoned the apples back to him, and kept trying to juggle them.
…
Gia watched.
"Show me the rule prohibiting juggling while playing Quidditch." McGonagall seized the microphone. "POTTER! STOP FOOLING AROUND!"
"He's clearly unfit," Umbridge said.
"Definitely not in the proper flying position," the Minister said.
"He has contact with the broom," McGonagall said, her hands moved to the microphone. "POTTER—FLY SAFE!"
"If he wants to break his neck…that's on him," Finnigan said.
Finnigan took the microphone back.
"BRENNER HAS THE QUAFFLE!"
Brenner moved with the Quaffle, toward the goal; apples flew as Harry jumped and dove. To the side of Brenner, the upside down chase behind, the swish over to the right, barreled over to the left, broke with a foot to spare. Baddock's eyes distracted as Brenner threw the Quaffle in.
"Not sure which I preferred," McGonagall said.
"Think somebody's been practicing," Dumbledore whispered to Gia.
Harry did a hard bank, circled Warrington. All four beaters swung their bats, the four bludgers that flew. Harry ducked over Warrington, down the back side, as the bludgers hit the Slytherin.
"FOUL!" Wood shouted, the whistle blew as Warrington fell to the ground. "NO CONJURING UP FAKE BLUDGERS!"
"Who gets the foul?" Amos Diggory asked Arthur.
"DARK ARTS!" Umbridge shouted.
"It's not a dark art to be flying irresponsibly," McGonagall said, "Suicidal fits better."
…
Harry moved slow on the broom, and heard for a moment the familiar buzzing, only to not. Behind Malfoy, a silent golden snitch flew.
"Castle full of people wanting to kill you?" Malfoy said, "Surely that dormitory feels safe."
Harry turned a bit, the implication, and Harry drifted downward. Tonks, below, who walked with Moody around the stands. Harry started to register the faces, when he felt the bucking of his broom. Untold wands below, the strong current of air, his hands gripped tight on the handle, as did Ron, however, Brenner fell first, when the whistle blew loud. Magic microphone that flew into Wood's hands. Harry dove, the aim of his wand that threw a net across the entire pitch.
"DO NOT INTERFERE IN THE GAME!" Wood shouted at the audience, "BLOWING GRYFFINDOR OFF THEIR BROOMS IS UNCALLED FOR!"
McGonagall took the microphone back.
"CONTINUATION WILL BE CONSIDERED A SLYTHERIN FORFEIT!" McGonagall shouted.
Boos that echoed.
"You heard the lady," Finnigan said, now with the microphone, "Keep the celebrations for after Slytherin wins."
Malfoy winked, grinned. Harry's anger started to brew again, the sun that vanished behind darkening clouds above, and he felt the rain drops.
"Losing your grip?" Malfoy asked as Harry felt the broom handle grease itself up, "Ooh…there it is!"
Malfoy dove downward. Harry spotted it, the glint of gold. Harry rolled, fell, aimed to the gasps of the crowds. Harry passed Malfoy before he mounted the broom, and the gold moved away. Harry pulled up, while Malfoy hit the ground in his halt.
"Dean Thomas is currently accepting wagers for Potter's death!" Finnigan announced.
"Mr. Finnigan!" McGonagall snapped.
"Sorry Professor," Finnigan said.
Rain and the wind picked up, the gust that blew them around, the students that huddled together in the stands. Harry felt a quick buzz, the fast bolt as sparks shot up from a couple of wands.
"The esteemed professors would like me to remind you," Finnigan announced, "Death attempts are not permissible on the dark wizards until AFTER the game has concluded."
"No spectator interference," the Minister's voice came through, "According to the rulebook."
Harry dove, flew. Rain that poured, wind that tried to toss Harry around, however, it succeeded with Josh Brenner who fell to the grass, along with Malcolm Baddock. Ginny moved with Colin, threw the Quaffle into the goal.
"Gryffindor yet again," Finnigan announced.
Harry swung back around, to where Malfoy's knuckles gripped tightly, the pale face, and the glint of gold that followed the broom. Harry laughed as he ascended.
"What you laughing at?" Malfoy demanded.
Harry relaxed, the rain to his shoulders, when he noticed above, the dark rain was focused on the Quidditch Pitch; the castle of Hogwarts stood in solid sunshine, as did the forest, and Hogsmeade.
"Will the people ruining the weather please stop?" Finnigan announced, "Firebolts handle it better."
Harry remembered the score, up over a hundred above Slytherin.
"This ends…" Malfoy shouted from above, and dove fast for the glittering object.
Harry used the Firebolt as a climbing pole, a fast ascension, the bump in with Malfoy's shoulder. Malfoy moved and bumped again, the hand that reached to the gold near the end of the boom. Harry, several feet to the love, pushed with his left arm, stretched out with his right, and jumped.
"Ending it all?" Finnigan asked.
Harry rolled around Malfoy's broom handle, the right hand grabbed the golden fluttery ball. Malfoy punched Harry's left shoulder, and Harry tumbled. Malfoy chased, hands that reached to pry Harry's right hand open amid the gasps and cheers.
"DIE POTTER! DIE!" came the shout from the crowd.
Harry's feet pushed back on Malfoy as the Bludgers converged toward the ground; Harry rolled and the Bludgers hit Malfoy onto that ground. Harry stood, about to raise the hand, to realize gold had turned leprechaun green.
"It's a fraud!" Harry snapped.
A summon of his own holly broom, a jump, he stood as it ascended up to the top box. A thought, that wayward Gryffindor team Firebolt converged onto Harry too.
"What?" asked Ron as he approached.
"What's the meaning of this prank?" the Minister asked, "You ought to be taking this seriously."
Harry spotted the glint.
"You're right," Harry said, "Lets get serious about the game."
"Mr. Potter!" Professor McGonagall said.
Harry reached behind the Minister, grabbed the golden snitch.
"Confundus charm?" Harry said, "Making it hide out while you threw out that decoy?"
Harry glanced at Finnigan, the curiosity to whether the match were over, whether the real game of life and death could continue. Harry handed the snitch over to Wood.
"Think this counts," Harry said, "Ron."
Ron jumped onto the back of Harry's broom, and Harry lunged for the gap between Dumbledore and McGonagall. Arms wide, the crash into the lot, a forced disapparation and apparation.
"Ow…" Ron muttered as they hit grass.
Around them, the familiar green blades, within the stadium of Puddlemere United, when their invisibility dropped.
The Seeker entered the private parlor on the upper floor of The Three Broomsticks. He swooped over to the small buffet, used the tongs to get some of the chicken wings.
"Get it?" the Chaser asked.
"Easy," the Seeker said, "Yeah—results—"
"Those will take a while," the Chaser said, "Deliberate, don't want them to pinpoint anything."
"Aw," the Seeker lied, unsure if he should feign ignorance.
The Seeker walked over, sat at the table, his fingers that went for the chicken.
"The match…" the Seeker said, "Potter didn't break a sweat."
"His flying?" the Keeper asked.
"He's a trapeze artist!" the Seeker exclaimed.
"You're impressed?" the Keeper asked.
"Good flier," the Seeker said, "Nothing more."
The Chaser helped himself to a couple of the wings on the Seeker's plate.
"So nobody could… track Potter in the game?" The Chaser asked.
"With eyes, sure, but no spells," the Keeper said, "Without a doubt, Potter's untrackable."
"Weasley? His bitch?" the Seeker asked.
"Even Potter's whore," the Keeper said.
"That'll change," the Chaser promised, "Has your friend told her pet fool?"
The Keeper shook his head.
Date:Fri Feb 28 09:21:41 2025