A Wizard Song

Chapter 10 - The Broken Snitch

By Telanu

       

And so the month of October got off to a very bad start.

The first few days were so unbearable Harry seriously considered hiding out in the broomshed and never coming out again. The rain of owls Dumbledore had predicted did indeed materialise, starting the day after the article's release. Neither Snape nor the headmaster was at breakfast the next morning - apparently Dumbledore's mail had been redirected to his office so he could simply deal with it directly, while nobody, not even Ron, could blame Snape for not wanting to be present as the Howlers and hate mail poured in. For every red envelope that flew down the length of the Hall towards the teachers' table, Harry got another lump in his throat. A harassed-looking Professor McGonagall managed to send most of them out of the Hall or down to the dungeons where Snape could deal with them himself, but some exploded before she could catch them, and the entire breakfasting student body was treated to the sound of various screaming voices denouncing Snape as an evil paedophile, a defiler of innocents, a supporter of You-Know-Who, deserving of death in sundry and messy forms.

Hermione frowned primly, Ron thought it was hilarious, and Harry gripped his copy of the Daily Prophet in one white-knuckled hand. It was front-page news again today: there was Dumbledore's official denial, along with reprints of letters from students which seemed designed more to humiliate Snape than anything else. Apparently the Gryffindors weren't the only ones intrigued by the idea of insulting the Potions master in print: there were a fair number of letters from Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws as well. On the other side, there were a few -- a very few -- letters from Slytherin students defending their Head of House, saying he would never sink so low, and how he'd always been good to them, and what a troublemaker Harry Potter was. Harry's own letter was printed first, of course, alongside a catty reminder of Skeeter's article which implied he'd been "beguiled" by the treacherous professor. Dumbledore had also publicly stated that Snape was not a Death Eater, and the paper grudgingly admitted that the Ministry had no criminal records on the Potions master. Neville went very pink at this bit of news, and bit his lower lip, and refused to look at anyone.

Harry wondered again why Neville had lied about his parents. Perhaps he was ashamed of them -- mad, locked in St. Mungo's, unable even to recognize them. Harry would rather be an orphan than have to live with that. All the same, Neville had lied. Harry thought about telling Ron and Hermione the truth, at least -- but it didn't seem right. Dumbledore had asked Harry to keep quiet about it because it had been Neville's secret to tell, and it still was. And Dumbledore was doing so much for Harry…even though Harry had screwed up six ways from Sunday, surely he could do this one small thing right for the headmaster, surely?

Dumbledore had approved Harry's letter to the newspaper beforehand, and told him it was "a model of dignity and tact." Harry had only nodded dismally. He supposed he'd done a good enough job - he hadn't insulted Snape as his friends had, but he'd done his best to make it clear he and Snape had never been on friendly terms, although he had "the greatest respect" for Snape as a teacher. Placed next to the letters which claimed Snape had always been "an utter bastard" and the like to Harry, it all came off looking quite level-headed, not to mention generous.

Thank God it was Saturday. Harry couldn't have borne classes again today - yesterday had felt like one long exercise in torture.

The Howlers reminded Harry of Sirius. He decided that it might be a very good thing to send a letter to his godfather after breakfast, just for extra reassurance. As he was writing the words, his heart clenched - what would Sirius have thought of him, lying in bed with Snape and doing all kinds of things, feeling all manner of strange emotions squirming in his heart and stomach? You knew all that going in, Harry told himself fiercely. You knew you'd have to hide from him and everybody. You knew something like this could happen. It didn't make it a jot easier. He still felt like he'd swallowed a hot coal as he watched the school owl flying off to parts unknown. No, Sirius, Professor Snape's never done anything to me…except when he…stop thinking, Potter.

He spent the rest of the morning sitting quietly with Hermione and Ron in the library, trying fruitlessly to study - they knew by now when he wanted company but to be left alone at the same time. The truth of it was, Harry didn't really know if he wanted company or not. A big part of him just wanted to curl back up in bed and try and forget Snape's note. "Never again" kept floating through his brain in a horrible chorus, and after a while the words took on Snape's voice to go with them. His fingers mechanically turned the pages of books when he'd got to the end of them, but later he couldn't remember reading a thing.

That note…if only he could talk to Snape somehow. See if "never" really meant…never. Because never was such a…long time. And thinking about it made Harry feel very cold. But with every half-baked scheme he came up with to sneak down the dungeons, a horrible little voice whispered some common sense into his head. Snape wouldn't have sent that note if he hadn't meant it. He would have said "later" or "not for a good long while" or…but not…

No. Don't think about it here. Not in public, not here. Later.

If Ron and Hermione thought it was odd that Harry bit his lip quite savagely several times while doing his Transfiguration homework, they didn't say anything about it.

Lunch for Harry was held not in the Great Hall, but in McGonagall's office. He was relieved not to have to deal with all the people, but exchanging the hundreds of curious glances for his Head of House's gimlet eye wasn't all that much better. Thankfully she, like everybody else, appeared to have dismissed the article out of hand as utter nonsense and gave him a good talking-to about "sometimes the world just doesn't treat people fairly" and "we must do the best we can under such circumstances" and "buck up, Potter, it's bound not to last" and, of course, anything she could do to help she'd be happy to. It was a terrible shame, of course, especially considering how the headmaster had told her Harry was getting along much better with Professor Snape after the end of last term, after the foolhardy rescue, and she hated to see that goodwill go to waste…although where Professor Snape was concerned, perhaps they should have expected -- of course, Harry was welcome anytime he needed to talk. Finish the pumpkin juice, and trot on down -- didn't he have Quidditch practice? She was expecting good things of Gryffindor this year. On the last bit, her eyes twinkled almost like Dumbledore's.

Quidditch practice came mostly as a relief. He couldn't quite shake off his thoughts of Snape and that damned note, but the fresh air in his face and the sturdiness of his Firebolt under him - expertly repaired by Madam Hooch herself after the end of last term - helped to steady him a little. Imogene mentioned the article in passing as she advised him to "buck up" like McGonagall had, and warned him not to let it affect his performance - "Keep a stiff upper lip, Potter! Now let me see some barrel rolls!"

So Harry barrel-rolled and it did help. There wasn't any Snitch-catching that day, which was good, because he was pretty sure he lacked the concentration for that, but instead Imogene had them all working on dodging Bludgers - a skill every player had to have. Harry couldn't keep himself from shooting a brief glare at the reserve Beater who'd whacked into him the other day and she had the grace to look embarrassed.

"I don't want a single woman disabled! Or man," Imogene added, glancing at Harry and Keeper Rupert Feldson. "There's no time to lose! I've just got the word from Madam Hooch - " she glanced at the Quidditch Coach, who gave a brisk, approving nod - "that our first match is next Friday. Against Slytherin." The team gasped and chattered excitedly, and there were no few glances cast at Harry.

"Well, that'll be nice," Rupert said to him with a slow grin. "Get a bit of your own back, eh?"

Harry slowly nodded, but Snape wasn't the Slytherin he had in mind for vengeance. The wheels in his head turned. Friday. Him and Draco Malfoy up in the air - why, anything could happen. Accidents. People could fall off brooms. Harry'd seen it loads of times. They could fall very, very far, and the ground could come up hard and fast, and then their blond hair could be streaked with blood and brains and they'd have this stupid, surprised expression on their face…

All of a sudden, Harry was looking forward to next Friday something fierce.

       

The night left him with too much time to think.

He started off by staring up into the darkness of his canopy, then rolled over a few times and stared at the shadows on his bedcurtains, before flipping onto his stomach, propping his chin up on the pillow and staring at the headboard. None of them revealed any answers, or yielded any solace.

Harry stuck his head out of the curtains for a moment to stare blearily at the clock on his bedside table, and then withdrew again. Half-past three. At least there wasn't class tomorrow either, although he couldn't keep this sleepless thing up, not for long. It seemed to be getting in the way of his reason. His mind wasn't working right. That was the only explanation for why he'd been feeling like he'd got a Bludger to the head for the past two days. If…if he could just sleep…then he could wake up, and maybe this would all be a dream, or at least maybe he could think what to do next.

It was funny, in a terribly unfunny, no chuckles way. He'd been wanting privacy for two whole days, but when he got it he didn't know what to do with it. He wanted time to think, and he was thinking, but not about anything productive. His mind was just running in tired, sad little circles, all of them centred around…

Severus.

Two days ago, he'd enjoyed thinking the name in the aloneness of his thoughts. He knew it was a privilege, and a secret, and sometimes secrets were really sweet, even if they were burdensome or made you feel guilty about lying to your friends; there was a thrill to them. But now the secret had been splashed across the front page of the news, and the name didn't feel like Harry's possession any more, and it didn't sound so nice inside his head. It hurt because he wasn't allowed, technically, to say it any more, so even thinking it was somehow wrong too. It didn't belong to him now. He'd run out of time on the name. On lots of things.

He'd just thought -- stupidly -- that there would be more time. Which didn't make any sense. He'd gone to Severus that first night with the full knowledge that, living in a world with Voldemort in it, they could be killed any day now. Somehow after the first night, when he'd so desperately motivated himself with that fact, he'd forgotten about it. Plenty of time in the world to shag, he thought savagely, disliking himself, but not to ask him about his family, or anything personal really. Plenty of time for snogs in detention, but you never found out why he stopped supporting Voldemort, or why he did anything. You had all these questions and you never even asked them. Would Sever -- would Snape have answered them? He didn't know, because he hadn't even tried.

Too late now.

There, that was one of the worst things: the self-pity that swallowed him up. Of course it was too late. If he'd had any sense in his head, Harry would have known their little…whatever would have to end eventually. Because nothing good lasted. Because he never got to keep anything or anyone he really wanted. Not his parents, not Sirius -- it all got snatched away. And there was no use getting all moany and upset about it, because that's just the way things were. A lesson he'd learned all over again on Friday. Maybe this time he'd remember it.

Something in his chest was hurting terribly.

Harry punched his pillow and squeezed his eyes shut in a fruitless effort to get some sleep.

       

Sunday came and went, with Harry halfheartedly working at his assignments. He was still missing a good four inches on his Potions essay, but what did it matter, really, when Snape would tear it apart regardless? He'd tried to study, thinking that at least he could still do that right and show Snape that at least he wasn't a total waste of space, that he still cared. But he couldn't concentrate, not even when he was trying to help Neville. But that was okay too; Neville wasn't any better at absorbing the information now than he was before, and had become very quiet over the last couple of days. Hermione had asked him quietly if he wanted to talk and he'd shaken his head; for his part, Harry was too involved with his own - what? Suffering? Heartache? - to tend to Neville's. Besides, Neville had wanted to send Sever…Snape to Azkaban, or worse. Harry wasn't feeling too charitable right now. He's lucky to be getting lessons at all, he thought angrily, not noticing that his quill had stopped moving over the parchment yet again.

Monday morning. The owls were continuing to come in, though not quite so furiously as they had on Saturday. Snape wasn't at breakfast again. Dumbledore was, although it looked like his mail was still being re-routed, since he got no letters. Harry was pretty sure that he wasn't imagining things when he saw a slight downward list to the headmaster's thin shoulders. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…

Breakfast ended, and the day began. It was lucky that Defence Against the Dark Arts was still one of Harry's best subjects. Lately it had been tying with Potions, but Harry didn't think that would hold true for much longer. Professor Delacour was currently drilling them all on Curses Of Old English, and getting quite a bit of griping from old Seznalal, the Ancient Runes professor who felt his territory was being infringed upon. It didn't help that Delacour's Old English was a bit shaky and the class occasionally found themselves doing things like cursing each other into sprouting thick fur coats rather than slimy, Grendel-like scales. Not to mention the occasional, inexplicable craving for mead.

Halfway through the class, everybody was surprised to notice, Professor McGonagall swept in, her face tight with resentment as she glared at Delacour. "Here, Professor. The minutes from our last staff meeting," she said stiffly.

Delacour blinked, long lashes dipping slowly in puzzlement. "Ah…merci, Minerva…but…why did I not get zis wit' ze morning mail?"

Distracted as he was, Harry was still vaguely interested in the pink tinge that covered McGonagall's cheeks, then faded away so quickly that he wondered if he'd imagined it. "It must have been left out of the pile," McGonagall snapped, turned, and headed out of the classroom, back held rigidly straight. Delacour looked after her, eyebrow raised and lips pursed slightly. Then, mysteriously, she smiled.

That was the only thing Harry even noticed in all his classes that day. He felt that his feet were unusually heavy as he trudged through the corridors, and his mind felt dull. He was distracted, but fortunately everybody still attributed it to lingering upset over the Daily Prophet article and its fallout: the Slytherins were still mercilessly jeering him in the hallways and at meals, and a few minor scuffles had even broken out between the younger Slytherins and Gryffindors over the whole affair. Most other students, seeing Harry's obvious bad temper, left him well alone, and Ron and Hermione gamely tried their best to cheer him up him as they'd done all weekend with ordinary chatter. He looked up at the staff table at lunch and dinner, but Snape did not make an appearance at any of them.

I want to get inside his head, Harry thought desperately, before he could stop himself, I just want to know what he's THINKING!

Quidditch succeeded again in distracting him from his own troubles. High up in the air was his favourite place to be, and Imogene was drilling them mercilessly for the match against Slytherin on Friday. Reminding himself of what was at stake, Harry forced himself to stop moping and focus, managing to catch nearly every practice Snitch. Then he held each one tightly in his clenched fist, squeezing, imagining it was Malfoy's skull. They couldn't lose this match. Could. Not. It wasn't even an option.

Monday passed, and Tuesday too, and somehow Harry got through both of them without any major mishaps, or one single glimpse of Snape. If he hadn't had Potions the next day he might seriously have considered creeping around the dungeons in his invisibility cloak again, just for a look, which only went to show how he was losing his mind…

Still, Wednesday morning arrived before he was quite prepared, and everybody except Ron and Hermione gave him a wide berth at the breakfast table. It helped slightly that only two Howlers arrived for Snape - it seemed all the letters to the Prophet, combined with Dumbledore's statement, had done the job. Nevertheless, nobody was eagerly anticipating the Potions master's mood that day. "Just try and stay calm, Harry, no matter what he does," Hermione advised, while Ron mushed his scrambled eggs viciously.

"Greasy prat," he muttered, "I swear, if he makes another crack about your parents, Harry…lowest of the low, that was…"

"Yeah," Harry agreed hollowly. "It was, wasn't it."

"And what was he thinking, saying you started the rumour, I mean, that's just plain ridiculous -- "

"I think you need to calm down too, Ron," Hermione said sternly, although her own eyes were flashing at the remembered injustice.

Harry couldn't eat a thing, and wound up going down to the dungeons with an empty stomach and a head that was entirely too full. His essay was still an inch and a half short; he just hadn't had the heart to work on it, or even to revise for that day's lesson. Back to the old habits. He just had to hope that his summer studies would carry him through, especially since Hermione wasn't in his direct line of sight in class any more.

Classes started at eight, but by five after Snape still hadn't appeared. The class was muttering, and some Slytherins were pointing at Harry, while Draco Malfoy merely looked smugly superior. Harry forced himself not to even look at Draco for fear he'd do something really stupid. And that could wait till Friday. Where was Snape? He was never late for class…

Just then, the door swung open, and just as he had been last Friday Harry felt glued to the spot. Only this time he fastened his eyes securely on Snape, hoping his face was as expressionless as he was trying to make it, drinking in the sight of his lov…his ex-lover. It was funny, Harry mused in a distracted sort of way, looking at Snape still made his insides squeeze - only not with hatred, as they had for so long, and not with happiness, as they had all this term. He couldn't tell what he felt now. He hurt, and was confused, and betrayed, and all of it, but something hungry and strange inside him was still yearning to see Snape again. It didn't make any sense.

Snape, for his part, looked much the same as always. His face wore its darkest scowl, his robes billowed menacingly, and his eyes betrayed nothing but the usual irritated glitter. He didn't once look Harry's way, and Harry quickly forced himself to look away from the front of the room and down at his own cauldron, where he pretended to busy himself setting up ingredients. Pansy, as usual, didn't offer to help, but at least she didn't say anything nasty either. Maybe she was still remembering the way he'd looked at her in class on Friday.

"Pass your essays to the front," Snape barked abruptly, and class began. Within thirty minutes, Harry was longing for it to be over. The Gryffindors plainly could do nothing right, and they were an unfair burden on their hardworking Slytherin partners. Look at how carefully Miss Parkinson had worked on her Sangrinus Potion (meant to help haemophiliacs by causing blood to clot), and how badly Potter had bollocksed it up. The smell was all wrong, the ingredients improperly arranged on the table and in the incorrect amounts…

Halfway through the tongue-lashing Harry, who had kept his head determinedly bent over the worktable, finally gave up, raised his face and looked directly into Snape's eyes. The Potions master didn't falter for an instant, although he did narrow his eyes, and carried on pointing out every minute mistake Harry was making, while Pansy smirked over to the side. He made no personal remarks as he had on Friday, but his eyes reflected no more or less than the usual malice and that was almost worse, in a way. It was as if Harry meant nothing at all to him, as if he was still the irritating little boy Snape had castigated on countless occasions. The casually cruel words went straight to Harry's heart like very sharp pins, each and every one, and by the end his face was red and he was nearly flinching, praying that Snape would go away.

Please don't do this. Please don't…I only wanted…you can't really…

Harry had never been so happy to see a class end.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," Hermione sighed as they trudged out. "Really, he wasn't that much worse than normal, and he gave up on you after ten minutes…"

"I was expecting a lot worse," Ron agreed.

It couldn't have BEEN worse, Harry wanted to yell, but of course he couldn't. The rest of the day was inconsequential, even Quidditch practice. Imogene made her displeasure known, and Harry could not bring himself to care.

However horrible it had been, Wednesday morning's Potions class appeared to clear something in the air. The Slytherins still scoffed at Harry, but now things seemed to be almost entirely back to normal. Snape might not praise Draco Malfoy's work any more, but he had stopped insulting him, and that seemed to be good enough to soothe a divided House. Harry Potter was again the unequivocal enemy, but without that strange, hard, too-personal edge Snape had shown on the day of the article's release. All was as it should be. Word spread around the school, and the school calmed itself. Snape appeared at dinner that night. Harry did not.

He spent the dinner hour alone in his room, chewing halfheartedly on a sandwich, one of many brought up on a plate by Dobby, who was most concerned over his young friend's melancholy but was eventually and gently persuaded to leave. As he ate, Harry stared blindly at the text for Care of Magical Creatures and churned the day through his head, trying to grind out the unpleasant bits. Things would get better, he told himself wearily. Snape had made it plain that their relationship would never continue -- that wouldn't get better -- but sometime, Harry was sure, he had to stop feeling so bad. He just had to stop feeling like he was in shock from a really hard slap to the face. Soon this would all be just a bad memory, a reminder of a mistake he'd made. He'd be able to enjoy Quidditch and his friends just like before, the things he'd always liked would be interesting again, and he wouldn't be suddenly starved for air when he looked at or thought about Snape.

Thursday came and only one day remained until Gryffindor's first match of the season. Tension was beginning to flare, and it would be even worse tomorrow; even Trelawney appeared to be aware of earthly goings-on as she made a series of dire predictions involving Harry "plunging from great heights." The resurrection of Snape's normal snarky self had helped lay the worst rumours to rest, but the ugly emotions beneath them still boiled and Harry once again found himself with a Gryffindor bodyguard as he went about the school. Slytherins seemed to be hanging around every corner, waiting to trip him up or worse, but they could never penetrate the cadre of students continually surrounding him. He briefly wondered if Snape was even taking any steps to prevent the harassment, then made himself stop wondering. Practice ran long that day, as he had expected it would, and by the end of it even the mischief-ready Slytherins hanging about on the pitch had become bored and trudged off.

That night Harry resolutely set to his Potions homework, trying to get the coming match out of his mind. He was sure he was going to get a failing mark on his essay, and since Snape was up to his old tricks it wouldn't matter what Harry did, but Harry was damned if he was going to give up now. He still hated Potions, but at least he was good at them when he put his mind to it, and he wasn't going to give Snape -- or Malfoy -- the satisfaction of surrendering just because he'd got his feelings hurt. Snape might never give him a decent mark again, but at least he'd know Harry could do it, no matter how Snape behaved, and that mattered. If Harry had nothing else by the end of all this, he'd have his pride, he decided. And, ideally, Draco Malfoy's head on a platter as well…

Concentration proved difficult, but not impossible, and when Harry went over his work with Ron and Hermione before bed he discovered he'd got a decent grasp on things. For once, even Ron approved. "Just think," he said triumphantly, "with a bit of luck we'll show Snape up twice tomorrow -- in class and on the pitch. Serve him right." Harry wasn't sure where Ron was getting the "we" from, since his best friend neither played on the Gryffindor team nor knew the Potions material particularly well, but he said nothing and instead paid careful attention to the minor mistakes in his work Hermione was correcting.

He had trouble sleeping that night. He still used the sleep-talking spell on himself as a matter of course; just because he wasn't with Snape any more didn't mean he couldn't blurt out a few things best left unsaid. It turned out to be for the best, since that night Harry had his first erotic dream since their separation. When he woke from it, gasping and come-covered, he could remember very few particulars except for a feeling of terrible loss. In the dream he'd been so happy to see Snape…so relieved…Snape had assured him their problems were all over…but it hadn't been real, it never would be…

So it was with a distinct feeling of melancholy that he began his day, instead of the hyped-up excitement that everybody else at the breakfast table appeared to be experiencing. Harry got pounded on the back so many times he was afraid something would dislocate, smiled gamely through all the encouragement everyone gave him, and did not look up at the head table, even though he knew Snape was there, even though the back of his neck was prickling in that unmistakable way. At least he remembers I'm alive. Too bad I'm about to whip his House. Surprisingly, the thought brought less satisfaction than he'd expected.

He would have given almost anything to avoid Potions that day, in spite of all his hard work the night before. He felt like he'd had his legs knocked out from under him by that dream and wasn't sure he was up to facing the harsh reality, wasn't sure he'd be able to handle Snape's jibes and taunts or, worse, his indifference. But he had to go - if he begged off sick he wouldn't be able to play in the match that afternoon. So he allowed his housemates to surround him in a protective bubble as they entered the classroom, causing some problems when everybody tried to squeeze through the door at once. Neville tripped. Malfoy sneered.

Snape was already there, arranging the ingredients on the demonstration table. He raised a disdainful eyebrow at Harry's entourage, causing Harry to heartily wish once again that he could just turn around and leave the room entirely. "Well," he said coldly, "I suppose a celebrity must have a proper bodyguard, mustn't he? Get in your seat at once, Potter. I'll have none of your grandiose foolishness in this class."

Harry sat. I was ready for it, he told himself, even though he knew he hadn't been. He looked glumly at the clock on the wall. Two whole hours to go.

It might have been two hours, but it felt like ten. It seemed almost as if he were back in his first year, with Snape complaining about everything from Harry's lack of preparedness (after asking him questions that even Hermione couldn't have answered) to his ham-handedness when preparing the ingredients (Harry had diced his roots to one-fourteenth of an inch instead of one-sixteenth) to the final result (wrong colour, wrong smell, wrong thickness and ten points from Gryffindor, never mind that it worked). His dark eyes were flat and cold as ice through all of it. But the class had one good effect: by the end of it, Harry wasn't so much melancholy as he was shaking with anger, and he wished the Quidditch match were taking place right then.

But it wasn't, and he had to suffer through classes all the rest of the day. His "bodyguard," as Snape had put it, seemed only to grow larger as the match approached, increasing proportionally with Slytherin taunts. Malfoy kept smirking in a way that was quite intolerable and by the time classes were over and it was time to head to the locker room for warm-ups Harry felt that he'd ground his teeth down to powder, what with trying to hold back hexes and all.

The team stretched and dressed in tense silence. Harry stormed into the locker room quite angry, but as he buttoned up his Quidditch robes and donned his protective gear he felt the anger beginning to fade into something else…into a cool sense of purpose, edged around the diamond-hard certainty that this match would not be lost.

They emerged onto the field, and as the Gryffindor team flew their laps Harry allowed his eyes to sweep over the Slytherin section. Snape didn't appear to be there; maybe he was in the staff box with Dumbledore…but no, as Head of House he nearly always sat with the Slytherins…

It doesn't matter, Harry told himself fiercely. Forget him. Malfoy's here, isn't he? Unless the little creep had faked some kind of injury at the last minute. It would be just like a Malfoy. But no; Draco was emerging onto the pitch with his teammates, showing more courage and fewer brains than Harry had credited him with. He's got to know I'm going to get him. He's got to, doesn't he? I…I don't know how I'm going to get him…but I am! Harry decided he would simply bide his time during the match. An opportunity was bound to present itself. And in the meantime, he had better look out for any pre-emptive strikes coming from Malfoy.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, Harry and Draco took their positions high up in the air, and the match was on. The crowd was exploding in cheers; Harry had never seen so many "Go, Gryffindor" and "Down With Slytherin" banners, not even at the match for the House Cup in his third year. But he barely took time to wonder if it was due to the fuss over the Daily Prophet article; he had one eye on Malfoy, and one out for the Snitch. As he looked round the field, seeking the tiny flash of gold, he paid as close attention as he could to the rest of the match. Imogene, a Chaser, was having some problems with two burly Slytherin boys ganging up on her, but this strategy was not very effective as it left the other two Chasers with more room to manoeuvre the Quaffle down the pitch towards the goal. Gryffindor scored quickly, to wild cheers, and the two Slytherins flew sulkily away from Imogene to adopt more strategic positions. That, too, was a tactical error: she scored next, not five minutes later. Harry could see Malfoy turning purple with rage in the air. Malfoy wasn't a captain either; apparently his father hadn't been able to buy him that much talent.

Minutes went by, with both teams scoring but Gryffindor keeping the lead. Lee Jordan had finished school at the same time as the twins, and was no longer providing his unique brand of commentary. Harry winced. He knew Professor McGonagall wanted the commentators to add a bit of liveliness to the match but why, oh why had she decreed Lee's successor to be Colin Creevey?

"And Gryffindor scores! Hurrah! Let's all give them a big round of applause! Still keeping our eyes out for the Snitch, no sight of it yet, not much for Harry to do, but you can just look and see he's concentrating very hard, best Seeker we've had in ages and really a credit to our -- "

"Talk about the match, Creevey!" broke in McGonagall's voice crossly.

Harry could feel his shoulders hunching in embarrassment, and was suddenly rather glad Snape wasn't at the match. Then -- just as Harry had the thought -- a flash of black movement to his right caught his eye. Daring to take his eyes off the game for a moment, he glanced over, and saw Snape climbing up into the Slytherin box, arriving late. Harry's heart leapt into his throat and he quickly looked away, aware that there wasn't anywhere much more public than hovering in the air with hundreds of eyes watching him. He glared at Malfoy, who gave him a slow smirk, and had to clench tightly to his Firebolt to keep from flying over and interrupting the game by smashing Draco to the ground. That wouldn't do. But Harry's determination to catch the Snitch had doubled and redoubled with Snape's appearance. He was practically on fire for the little winged ball to appear.

But there was no sign of it anywhere. Harry tried not to tremble with impatience; the last thing he needed was a bunch of Slytherin jokes about how he'd been "shaking with fear" in the air. But if he didn't have something to do soon besides ducking Bludgers he'd start twitching, or attack Malfoy, or buzz the Slytherin box, or something else stupid. Dammit, it seemed like the Snitch had never taken this long to appear --

-- a flash of gold.

Harry was in motion before he knew it. He could see it. He fancied he could smell it, so attuned was he by now to the game. The Golden Snitch was hovering and zipping right in front of the staff box, and Harry had a vague impression of Professor Dumbledore sitting there, heard the roar of the crowd as he and Malfoy pelted simultaneously towards the far end of the field. The Firebolt was incredibly fast, but Malfoy was closer and he'd apparently been practising over the summer, dodging a Bludger with graceful ease before veering back on course. Harry simply flattened himself low to his broomstick and felt the heavy Bludger zoom over his head, ruffling against his hair as the crowd gasped in horror. Come on…faster…faster…I can't lose!

The Snitch was no longer in front of the staff box, but shooting down low to the ground, towards the middle of the field. Both Harry and Draco had to pivot mid-air and dive, their movements bringing them so closely together they were almost rubbing elbows. "Piss off, Potter!" Malfoy roared, his eyes narrowed and cheeks flushed.

Harry made no reply, simply focused on the Snitch, drawing closer, ever closer, praying it wouldn't suddenly disappear out of sight. And then…next to him…Malfoy wobbled on his broom.

Harry couldn't help but notice that. Glancing quickly over, and then straight ahead again, he noticed that, in spite of all his practice, Malfoy wasn't seated as steadily on his broomstick as he should have been -- he must have come unbalanced out of the pivot, his hands were clenched tightly around the handle just to keep him from falling, and he seemed on the verge of sliding off. The tail of his broom weaved slightly, for everyone to see. And yet he wasn't giving up. At the rate they were going, still a good ten and a half feet above the ground, racing at breakneck speeds, all Harry would have to do would be give the slightest nudge -- he could even mutter a spell that nobody could see or hear -- and Draco would fall -- it would look like an accident, Draco's own ineptitude, nobody would ever have to know --

-- Malfoy would pay for what he'd done, and pay good --

For an instant, Harry's vision turned red with the desire for it. He could taste blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten his lip. He wanted Draco Malfoy dead in that instant more than he could say, and he had the chance for it, and instead he gave a low cry, put on a sudden burst of speed, and caught the wriggling Snitch in his hand.

Behind him he could hear the wild cheers as Gryffindor won the first match of the season, could hear Malfoy's disappointed shriek of rage. And then all he could hear was the rushing of blood in his own ears as he flew high into the air, clutching the Snitch to his chest instead of holding it aloft as he always did, terribly aware of how his hands were trembling. For a dizzying instant, he thought he might be sick.

I almost killed someone. I almost killed Malfoy. I almost committed murder.

Was it written on his face? Could anybody tell? He looked wildly around the stadium, forcing a smile and making his arm uncurl enough to show the Snitch, clenching tightly to keep his fist from trembling. The cheers doubled in strength, and the Gryffindor team was flying towards him, Rupert pumping his fist, Imogene wearing a hearty grin…he could see Hagrid's huge arms waving wildly in the Gryffindor box, Ron's red head jumping up and down next to Hermione's bushy one. The scoreboard showed that Slytherin had made only one goal. It was the most decisive Gryffindor victory in ages. Colin was babbling so excitedly that nobody could understand what he was saying.

Harry was afraid then that he might fall off his broom himself, from a combination of relief and horror, but then he was surrounded by his teammates, supporting him up with slaps on the back and hugs. The dangerous Beater -- Ellen, that was her name -- was actually crying. He looked over at the Slytherin box, which was emanating a bad-natured chorus of boo's and "cheating!" and everything else under the sun. But Snape's mouth wasn't moving with the rest of them; his eyes rested on Harry, silent and inscrutable -- What are you thinking, do something, what are -- before turning away, still expressionless.

Rage and pain, hyped up with endorphins, leapt again in Harry and for a crazed moment he wished he had tried to kill Malfoy, instead of just thinking about it. Then he felt his feet touching the ground, realised his teammates had lowered themselves in one group-hugging bunch to the pitch, where Madam Hooch and Professor McGonagall were striding out, each wearing proud smiles.

"Well done, Potter," Madam Hooch boomed. "Excellent flying there."

"Yeah," Rupert said with a pleased grin. "See? Told you you'd get a bit of your own back, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Harry said, looking at the Snitch, realising it had stopped wriggling in his palm, and then gasped. At some point he'd crushed it in his fist. The gold casing was dented and the tiny wings had stopped flapping, lying limp and silent in his hand.

"Ah, not to worry," Madam Hooch said. "We'll replace that. Strong grip you've got there, Potter. Didn't expect it of you, I must say. Good work with the team, Winterbury!" Imogene threw back her shoulders in pride, and flushed.

The students were rushing onto the pitch now. Harry could see Ron and Hermoine pushing towards the front, but he didn't quite feel like talking to them, or to anybody. He just wanted to go take a shower and then sit alone in the broomshed or elsewhere, take care of his Firebolt, and think. Then he felt a light tap on his shoulder, turned around, and saw a face that was a much bigger surprise, and more unwelcome.

Cho Chang was standing there, looking very pretty with her dark hair swept up and a small smile crossing her face. "Congratulations," she said. "You were amazing, Harry."

Harry's tongue promptly started tripping all over itself. Why now, he thought miserably. "Oh, er, th-thanks, I -- I…"

She smiled again at him, and he felt his face go hot in spite of itself as she leaned in to say over the noise, "We should have a butterbeer or something in Hogsmeade soon -- it'd be nice to talk to a fellow Seeker…"

Harry blinked. "Er…yeah, okay…"

One more smile, a very lovely one, and she turned and was gone. Harry felt that his brain was about to melt from overload. From almost-a-killer to a stuttering kid in ten minutes. It was too much. Again, his eyes darted through the crush of people…was that Snape standing over there, watching Cho leave?…no, surely it couldn't be…then the crowd again obscured his view, and he was suddenly surrounded by his friends.

"Brilliant flying, Harry!" Ron said breathlessly. "That pivot and dive, really, I'm telling you…"

"You did so well!" Hermione agreed, bobbing her head enthusiastically. Next to her, Ginny only said softly, "You were wonderful," and blushed.

Colin Creevey came running up, sounding more out of breath than Ron and reminiscent of his first year, when he'd been so in awe of Harry he could barely speak properly. "Wow, Harry! That was amazing! That was the first time I've ever done commentary and I felt like I couldn't keep up with you, do you think it was okay, Harry?"

"He wasn't listening to the commentary, Colin, he was playing Quidditch," Ron said acidly. Colin's face fell; his worship of Harry had never sat too well with Ron, especially since fourth year. "But really, bloody incredible flying, Harry," Ron added, turning back to his friend. "Especially compared to that twat Malfoy -- looked like he was going to fall off his broom for a minute, did you see?"

For a moment, Harry stared down at the broken Snitch in his hand. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, I saw."

Return to Archive | next | previous