Quidditch Through the Ages
"Y-you can't!" Wood cried.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I can. And I just did."
He had announced that the trials for Seekers should be held, following his temporary break from that position. "But you're the best seeker ever," Wood moaned.
"Look," Harry said, "I just wanna be a Chaser for a while. If we don't find a suitable replacement, then I'll be your seeker. But at least try, Oliver."
So Wood, begrudgingly, held the trials on Saturday.
Charles
"You'll be fine." Hermione insisted for the seventh time. "Just eat. A single toast, Charles!"
Charles was currently sitting at the breakfast table with Ron and Hermione on either side of him. It was Saturday, and the trial for seeker was in fifteen minutes. The team had already gone to the pitch.
Charles knew that Harry had left his position and insisted for tryouts for him, by the wink he'd given him after the news had been announced. And that made Charles feel incredibly guilty. Harry always tried so hard, and cared so much... he'd given up his cloak last year, and now one of his positions on the team... and how did Charles repay him? By putting them in danger, and always being jealous.
When he'd confided in Ron and Hermione, they'd told him that Harry loved him, just like Charles loved Harry. And that feeling jealous was part of being human. It wasn't exactly reassuring, but it was something.
At the moment, Charles was jittery with nerves. If he didn't perform nicely, then all this would have been for nothing. He couldn't let that happen.
Many older years were there, and so were two first years, on school brooms. Since Lyra had broken the record last year, first years had gotten more confident. She had set a new trend. As for Charles, he wouldn't look at Harry at all. Not wanting to see his happy face right now, in case he failed...
They were instructed to catch the five Snitches that had been released already. Charles looked, as the others, and circled the pitch once in a while, otherwise preferring to stay high in air. He caught the first two snitches with no trouble at all, and for the third one he had to compete with two others, taking it in the end. The fourth was caught by someone else, but it was a technicality, as the snitch had been practically hovering by the guy's ear. Harry looked on for the last one, and when he spotted it below him...
Charles dived at full speed. His broom was the Nimbus he'd gotten from Harry, who had a Nimbus Two-Thousand-One gifted to him by their parents and godparents combined. Dodging three others, and almost colliding with the fourth... just there... And Charles caught the snitch!
The team exploded in cheers and claps, and after shooing the others, Wood came running over. "I've only ever seen Harry like that on a broom... Holy Merlin, you're even better..."
"Hey, I take offence to that!" Harry cried as he landed.
"Should've thought of that before," Wood threw back. "But honestly, he's much more flighty... not as muscly as Harry and lighter... you'll be an ever better Seeker!"
Charles felt elated. He had done it. He had aced the tryouts, and Wood said he was a better seeker... and Harry looked so immensely proud and relieved...
Of course, Charles regretted his decision the very next morning, when he was shaken awake several hours earlier than he would have liked by Wood.
"Whassamatter?" he asked groggily.
"Quidditch practice!" Wood replied giddily. "Come on!"
Charles squinted at the window. There was a thin mist hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now that he was awake, he couldn't understand how he could have slept through the racket the birds were making.
"Oliver," he croaked. "It's the crack of dawn."
"Exactly," said Wood; his eyes gleaming with a crazed enthusiasm. "It's part of our new training program. Come on, grab your broom, and let's go," said Wood heartily. "None of the other teams have started training yet; we're going to be first off the mark this year -"
Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes.
"Good man," said Wood. "Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes."
When he'd found his scarlet team robes and pulled on his cloak for warmth, Charles scribbled a note to Ron explaining where he'd gone and went down the spiral staircase to the common room, his Nimbus Two Thousand on his shoulder. He had just reached the portrait hole when there was a clatter behind him and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.
"I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Charles! Look what I've got here! I've had it developed, I wanted to show you."
Charles looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under his nose.
A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm Charles recognized as his own. He was pleased to see that his photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. As Charles watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.
"Will you sign it?" said Colin eagerly.
"No," Charles replied flatly, glancing around to check that the room was deserted. "Sorry, Colin, I'm in a hurry - Quidditch practice -" He climbed through the portrait hole.
"Oh, wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a Quidditch game before!" Colin scrambled through the hole after him.
"It'll be really boring," Charles quickly said, but Colin ignored him, his face shining with excitement.
"You were the best on the pitch yesterday, weren't you, Charles? Weren't you?" said Colin, trotting alongside him. "You're really brilliant! I've never flown, but I saw you, and you were better than your brother. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is that the best one there is?"
Charles didn't know how to get rid of him. It was like having an extremely talkative shadow.
"I don't really understand Quidditch," said Colin breathlessly. "Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?"
"Yes," said Charles heavily, resigned to explaining the complicated rules of Quidditch. "They're called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters."
"And what are the other balls for?" Colin asked, tripping down a couple of steps because he was gazing open-mouthed at Charles.
"Well, the Quafe - that's the biggish red one - is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goal posts at the end of the pitch - they're three long poles with hoops on the end. Harry is one of the chasers."
"And the fourth ball-"
"-is the Golden Snitch," Charles nodded, "and it's very small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that's what the Seeker's got to do, because a game of Quidditch doesn't end until the Snitch has been caught. And whichever team's Seeker gets the Snitch earns his team an extra hundred and fifty points."
"And you're the Gryffindor Seeker, aren't you?" said Colin in awe.
"Yes," he said as they left the castle and started across the dew-drenched grass. "But Harry was the previous one. He resigned from the particular post, and I replaced him yesterday. And there's the Keeper, too. He guards the goalposts. That's it."
But Colin didn't stop questioning Charles all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and Charles only shook him off when he reached the changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping voice, "I'll go and get a good seat, Charles!" and hurried off to the stands.
The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and George were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to Harry, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind him. His fellow Chasers, Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson, were yawning side by side opposite them.
"There you are, Charles, what kept you?" said Wood briskly. "Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we get onto the field, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference..."
Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and crosses in different colored inks. He took out his wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood launched into a speech about his new tactics, Harry's head drooped right onto Alicia's shoulder and he began to snore.
The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, and a third under that one. Charles sank into a stupor as Wood droned on and on.
"So," said Wood, at long last, jerking Charles from a wistful fantasy about what he could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. "Is that clear? Any questions?"
"I've got a question, Oliver," George yawned, who had woken with a start. "Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?"
Wood wasn't pleased. "Now, listen here, you lot," he glowered at them all. "We should have won the Quidditch cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately - owing to circumstances beyond our control -"
Charles watched as a freshly awoken Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.
Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him. "So this year, we train harder than ever before. Okay, let's go and put our new theories into practice!" Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the locker rooms. Stifflegged and still yawning, his team followed.
They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Charles walked onto the field, he saw Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands.
"Aren't you finished yet?" called Ron incredulously.
"Haven't even started," Charles sighed, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall. "Wood's been teaching us new moves."
He mounted his broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air whipped his face, waking him far more effectively than Wood's long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on the Quidditch field. He soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Fred and George.
"What's that funny clicking noise?" called Fred as they hurtled around the corner.
Charles looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.
"Look this way, Harry! Charles, this way!" he cried shrilly.
"Who's that?" asked Fred.
"No idea," Charles lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took him as far away as possible from Colin. Harry groaned behind him. "That's the crazy kid who keeps following me and Charles."
"What's going on?" Wood frowned, as he skimmed through the air toward them. "Why's that first year taking pictures? I don't like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program."
"He's in Gryffindor," said Harry quickly.
"And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Oliver," said George.
"What makes you say that?" said Wood testily.
"Because they're here in person," said George, pointing.
Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.
"I don't believe it!" Wood hissed in outrage. "I booked the field for today! We'll see about this!"
Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. The others all followed.
"Flint!" Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain. "This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!"
Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied, "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."
"But I booked the field!" said Wood, positively spitting with rage. "I booked it!"
"Ah," said Flint. "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. 'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new reserve Seeker."'
"You've got a new reserve Seeker?" said Wood, distracted. "Where?"
And from behind the five large figures before them came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.
"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" said Fred, looking at Malfoy with dislike.
"Funny you should mention Draco's father," said Flint as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. "Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team."
All six of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors' noses in the early morning sun.
Charles noticed that Lyra, who was among them, looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. She didn't have the same broom and was looking angrily in Draco's direction. As their eyes met, she shrugged helplessly. He also noticed that Adrian Pucey didn't look at all smug as he made frustrated faces toward Harry, who rolled his eyes. Then Charles remembered that they were close friends.
"Very latest model. Only came out last month," said Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. "I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps" - he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives - "sweeps the board with them."
None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly that his cold eyes were reduced to slits.
"Oh, look," said Flint. "A field invasion."
Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see what was going on.
"What's happening?" Ron asked. "Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?"
He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes.
"I'm the new reserve Seeker, Weasley," said Malfoy, smugly. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our team."
Ron gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him.
"Good, aren't they?" said Malfoy smoothly. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them."
The Slytherin team howled with laughter.
"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," said Hermione sharply. "They got in on pure talent. Besides, I can see one member of your team, and dare I say, the real main seeker, is not holding the same broom as you lot."
The smug look on Malfoy's face disappeared. "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat.
There was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George from jumping on him, Alicia shrieked, "How dare you!", and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" and pointed it furiously under Flint's arm at Malfoys face.
A loud bang echoed around the stadium and they saw a nasty hex shot from Lyra's wand at Malfoy, who instantly sprouted a tail. They all howled with laughter as Malfoy squeaked and turned pink, hiding his bottom. Flint growled menacingly at Lyra. "What the hell's wrong with you, Black?! First, you oppose Malfoy's appointment, then you refuse the broom... what do you want? If you weren't our best, I'd have got you in reserve."
"That's exactly the problem, Flint," Lyra rebuked. "Hermione's right; he bought his way on the team. I admit he's talented, but if you really want charity that bad, I can get my father to buy those brooms easily. He's way richer than Malfoy, even. That upstart should learn his place on the team and treat the others with respect! He's acting like he's the lead seeker, better than me, like he's the leader! He's trying to undermine your authority! Don't you care about that?"
The effect was instantaneous. Charles barely had time to admire Lyra's ability to change the game, before Flint growled again and turned pink, and grabbed Malfoy by the collar before marching off the pitch, the rest of the team following behind. Lyra winked at the Gryffindors before hopping off too.
"That girl's brilliant," Wood commented.