Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 13: The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune (Part II)

Eyes on the target. Eyes on the target. Don´t let her get away. Don´t let her get--

Ooomph!

A low vine on the path hitched her ankle and Bethany pitched forward with a thud! that echoed in the stillness of the Forest.

--away.

She sighed into a hoary clump of leaves. The white mists in the darkness hovered wraithlike over the moss-covered roots and earth, parting swiftly, circling round her in waves as she struggled to her feet. The spectre in white had vanished, leaving her breathless, frustrated and furious.

Damn it!

Dagger in hand, Bethany slashed angrily at the nearest clump of shrubs. She´d finally caught sight of Claire. And this time managed to get as close as she ever had. Yet she´d slipped away. Again.

She raised a tentative hand to her temple. Ouch. In the morning, the bruise she fingered would likely be too big to pass off as a beauty mark. Bethany propped her weight against the cold, scratchy bark of a nearby tree, shaking off the dizziness. A nagging voice in her head (that sounded remarkably like her old Academy combat instructor) told her the most prudent course would be to retreat. Which made perfect sense. The Forbidden Forest, unfamiliar territory at night, was a weir of darkness. She had heard that dangerous creatures haunted the wood after dusk; the fog was thick, the thorns sharp and the paths less predictable.

Brushing a dark tangle of hair from her eyes, Bethany blinked at her surroundings. She´d been so bent on keeping up the chase along the winding trail that she´d broken the most cardinal of principles on tailing a subject: In pursuit, always keep your bearings. And there she was. Lost.

Bethany gave her head a shake and issued a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. Well, this clinches it. I am absolute pants at field work.

She swore loudly, and jumped as a startled figure leaped from behind the bushes in the next clearing. As it plunged into the trees, she was fairly certain that she´d glimpsed a male student in school-issued robes.

Kids.

Bethany had half a mind to collar the boy and drag him off to detention, but she couldn´t spare the time if she wanted to catch Claire at last. She would not be distracted, she told herself. Not after all this time.

At that moment, the fog shifted in the path ahead, unveiling the ghostly silhouettes of two stocky figures carrying what looked like... a low-slung body? She froze, every muscle tensing in her limbs and--

Hang on. She frowned. Squinting through a break in the spidery foliage, she recognised the clearing where she´d previously given her Pogrebin lecture. Barely visible in the mist, the "low-slung body" was no more than the formidable outline of the three flat stones constituting the makeshift table.

Bethany dropped her shoulders in relief, breathing freely once again. At the very least, she knew where she was. That had to count for something.

She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself as a damp, cold wind whistled through the glen. Each breath hung in the air. Thinking wistfully of her Nundu-skin travel cloak--hanging limp and useless on the peg beside her dungeon door--she reluctantly turned to retrace her steps. The flimsy fabric of her evening robes was no match for the wood´s wintry chill. And now... Bethany looked up. Now, something was dripping on her head. The weighty silence between the trees soon gave way to a soft staccato. She paused in the middle of the path and held her palms out to catch the insistent tap! tap! tap! of raindrops. Brilliant, she thought wryly. Just brilliant.

As the rain magnified from a drizzle to a torrent, Bethany swung her dagger half-heartedly at a low-hanging branch.

And the branch... struck back.

It twined itself tightly around her arm, round and round, squeezing like a tourniquet until she cried out from the pain. She twisted, grabbing awkwardly for her wand with her left hand, but it was no use. The more she tugged at the treacherous vines, the deeper their thorny stalks dug through her robes and into her flesh like small sharp teeth. Just as her fingers retrieved the tip of her wand, the plant´s thrashing stopped.

The vines quivered to a halt in time for her to discern a dark shape slithering towards her from between the scaly tree trunks. A palpable presence, devoid of light, the black shadow parted the leaves like the breath of a ghost. Only a slim, inky spectre at first, it widened and grew tall until it towered over her. In seconds, she found herself blinking against the rain, peering into the fathomless hollow of a lowered black hood. She opened her mouth, feeling her chest tighten somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

Two pale, long-boned hands inched forward and up, drawing back the heavy wool.

Her fingers brushed the end of her wand. Gripping tightly, she brandished it before her as both weapon and buffer.

"Stupef--"

The last of the spell choked in her throat as something both slick and sharp gagged her from behind. Her eyes widened in horror as she found herself coughing against the rough stem of another leafy cord. It grazed her ear and wound tightly round her mouth and head. Sharp thorns raked her cheeks. Another vine shot out, latching on to her other wrist. With both arms chained to the trees, Bethany was powerless to do anything but glare. The hooded figure´s hands reached out like pincers, effortlessly plucking the wand from her bloodless fingers.

The wood echoed with a cold, high-pitched laugh.

"Come now," teased her captor, "is that any way to treat an old friend,... professor?"

Bethany frowned. That voice.

She watched the translucent skin of alabaster hands move again to shed the hood, unveiling a head of short-cropped dark hair, slicked back, fine planes of smooth skin below razor-sharp cheekbones, and the familiar piercing glint of obsidian eyes ...

Eyes that fixed themselves on hers like a vise, as tapered fingers languidly aimed the wand at her neck. The leaves choked back her sudden gasp.

"Relashio."

A bright bolt of red singed the cords round her neck and cheeks. They fell away limply, dropping across her shoulders in withered pieces to the muddy soil. Another swift spell and the sinewy curls of vine recoiled from her arms, shrivelling into a thousand ashen shards at her feet. Bethany rubbed her aching wrists and fingered the scratches around her mouth. Keeping a steady gaze, she narrowed her eyes sardonically.

"Is that any way to treat an old friend,... Tom?"

The young man´s angular features split in a scimitar smile. His mirthless laugh echoed through the trees.

"My dear Bethany," he cajoled. "You know I would never intend you harm. But one can never be too... careful." Tom´s icy fingers pressed her wand back into her outstretched hand. "With your experience at the Council, I´m sure you know as well as I that the wise wizard doesn´t trust just anyone these days." His lips curled disarmingly.

Bethany averted her gaze to inspect the bruises on her wrist. Looking away offered only a small relief; she was almost irrationally certain that her thoughts were exposed under that penetrating gaze. Tom´s face had been one of those that greeted her at the first of her Initiation Rites into the Dark Lord´s Circle. Once her blindfold had been lifted, in the godless space of that abandoned abbey, Lucius had introduced the obsequious little Pettigrew as the Dark Lord´s Right Hand, whereas Tom... Lucius had said with that knowing smirk of his, Tom was Everything Else. Tom was to represent Lord Voldemort at every stage of her Initiation but the last. From behind Lucius, a tall and relatively young man stepped forward. He couldn´t have been much older than his mid-twenties--almost too callow, she had thought, to be Voldemort´s point man. Virgil as ingénue. But that impression was soon revised. In quieter moments, in a certain light, his youthful face belied the wisdom of ages old, worlds of experience in small cynical twists of his lips and the faint flicker of dark flames in his eyes.

That expression held her captive now, as if Tom knew the progression of her thoughts, as if he himself was treading the same path, but a few steps ahead. Beckoning.

It was more than a little discomfiting.

Bethany sighed. At any rate, she supposed, it was better to be caught off guard by the Dark Lord´s lackey than by the Dark Lord himself... Wasn´t it? Tom´s sudden appearance, however, hurtled her back to a past life that seemed so long ago, yet was no further from the present than a few short weeks. She hung her head, realising that she had not really given Lord Voldemort and her mission much thought since she had begun her masquerade as a Hogwarts professor.

In fact, now that she was Professor White, Bethany no longer felt certain that she wasn´t meant to be there, teaching those children to defend themselves. In the past few weeks she had discovered how the satisfaction of seeing those young faces light up once they´d grasped a particularly difficult manoeuvre (that Hermione Granger was like that); and how even the shyest, most self-effacing students (here, her mind recalled the Longbottom boy) beamed with pride after besting one of her challenges. Quite gratifying, really. A small smile tugged briefly at her lips... but she quelled it instantly.

Her position with the school was almost a sham, secondary--even tertiary--to who she really was. Right?

The downpour had tapered off to a light drizzle. She swept the water from her forehead with the back of her hand and willed herself not to flinch under Tom´s stare.

"I thought you were in Bulgaria," she muttered casually. When he remained silent, she continued. "Well, I don´t suppose you´ve come to Hogwarts for the weather. Have you come to...erm, collect a field report?" Bethany swallowed hard, shooting the young man an edgy glance.

She hadn´t yet made any significant inroads into Snape´s Verivue research. By a mere stroke of luck he had once left his door ajar long enough for her to snatch that Remedian text. Otherwise, the Potions Master was simply too cautious and secretive--and paranoid about security to boot. And unless she had misconstrued his vituperative grunts and growls, there was no reason to believe that he might confide in a stranger whom he obviously resented as a colleague and dungeon inmate. I´m really not cut out for this, she thought grimly.

In a long interpretive pause, Tom´s eyes bored into hers like two hot coals. He also seemed lost in concentration, though she wasn´t quite sure why that in itself should made her so uneasy. But after a moment, his face softened and Tom pursed his lips in what looked like--was that... regret?

He gave her a quick sideways glance. "Actually," he began almost apologetically, "I´ve come to call off your assignment--"

"Wha--?"

"...and perhaps delay your final Initiation Rite."

If she had expected him to say anything, it certainly wasn´t that. "But they promised--we had a deal, Tom! What do you mean `call off´? Why?" Her eyes blazed with fresh determination.

There was a brief, almost triumphant, flash in his eyes. Tom´s mouth opened, then closed again, an enigmatic wraith of a smile tugging at its corners. He gallantly offered her his arm.

"Walk with me," he said.

**********

Next day, Harry stalked through the main doors and into the bracing wind and hazy sun, more annoyed than he could remember being in all his fifteen years--not even with Uncle Vernon for locking him up in the cupboard under the stairs or with Dudley on the days he´d doused Harry awake with a jug full of ice cold water. This was different. He couldn´t decide if he was angrier at Malfoy for bankrolling the Slytherin team for the second time in four years, or at the Gryffindors for sinking so easily into the depths of despair over it. The team´s plaintive voices from last night´s emergency meeting still rang in his hears.

"How can you expect us to fly against those brooms?" wailed Angelina. "One 220 X-Class on their side is enough to run us into the ground, let alone seven."

"We haven´t got a prayer." Katie curled up at the foot of Alicia´s chair and buried her chin against her knees, looking glum.

Eveline, leaning casually against the mantelpiece, appeared the most composed and the least concerned, though Harry did notice the little wrinkle in the furrow between her brows.

Even the charismatic fire of Wood´s coaching legacy had ebbed right out of the twins.

"Dad´s seen 220s before," George announced with a pained expression. "Initially, they were developed as fighter brooms for the Ministry´s reserves. Percy says they´ve been running tests on all sorts of modifications on the new Firebolts. They´ll be flying circles round us, easy--and Merlin knows what else!" He and Fred frowned worriedly in tandem.

The twins didn´t have to come right out and said it; Harry knew. They didn´t think the Gryffindors had much of a chance either. Compared to Harry´s old Firebolt, the 220s were lighter, faster, easier to manoeuvre and boasted a wide range of stealth features that the Ministry divulged only on a need-to-know basis.

But so what? Harry´s feet swerved onto the righthand path that flanked the greenhouses. He was determined to take the long way to the pitch to clear his mind. Harry slung his trusty Firebolt, a present from Sirius, over his shoulder. He could still feel the nicks and scratches along the handle. Its battlescars. It had never let him down before--only last year it had even out-flown the flames of a furious Hungarian Horntail. Despite his own apprehension, Harry refused to believe the Slytherin match could be all over before it had even begun... though it certainly wouldn´t help an already uphill battle if the rest of the team fully anticipated a defeat. He shook his head and padded quietly along the dirt path, steering clear of the Merobabs´ greenhouse where shrill whispers penetrated the blackened glass windows. As he approached, the whispers faded into an eerie silence in which he imagined they must be listening to him. But, of course, that was ridiculous.

It´s Malfoy´s fault, he rationalised. The underhanded introduction of the new Slytherin Secret Weapon had obviously triggered this strangling paranoia. He paused in the shadow of the last greenhouse, waiting, until the Merobabs resumed the hum of their conversation, punctuated with the usual thumps and squeaks. Here and there, he caught snatches of their raspy words--odd phrases, mostly. But he had more important things to think about.

He marched round the greenhouses toward the pitch, trying to rein his attention back to the match ahead and wishing he could have said something last night to put the team at ease. ---Holy Circe, those Merobabs are awfully loud! Anyway, as it was, he´d have to catch the Snitch as soon as possible before the Slytherins could gain a lead with whatever those brooms could do. He found himself missing the tyrannical Wood... He frowned as low hissing sounds began to float down the slope. Wish they´d just put a sock in it. Harry sighed. Anyway... er, Oliver. Oliver would have known what to do, would have roused them with his boisterous bellowing until they felt obliged to make some kind of effort, or at the very least, would have known the... what´s all that whispering?... the right words to boost the team´s spirits like a...what was...? did someone say...? ...oh, a Cheering Charm--

A Cheering Charm! That´s it! thought Harry excitedly, picking up his pace. His brow set with determination. Now, if only it would work. Springing ahead, Harry hoped to test his theory before they called the starting line-up.

Behind him, the last greenhouse shook as the Merobabs´ mutterings crescendoed abruptly in a single shuddering gasp. As he turned to glance over his shoulder, something tall broadsided Harry, knocking him back a few paces.

"Oof!" He rubbed his arm and shoulder and looked up, startled to find Professor White doing the same.

"Oh, sorry, professor," he said. "I didn´t see you there."

She pushed a lock of dark hair from her face, revealing the purpling of a nasty bruise above her left eye. She blinked down at him in surprise. "Harry. What are you... I... didn´t see you either..."

Harry stopped massaging his arm and squinted at her with concern. Her normally-upswept hair hung in tangled waves down her back, laced with a few stray leaves; her blue-grey eyes, ringed wearily with deep circles, were clouded, lending her a wild, disoriented air; and there were scratches on her hands, as well as dark patches on her blue robes that looked an awful lot like--

"Is that blood?" Harry asked incredulously. He stepped forward, dropping his broomstick to the ground, and steadied her gently by the arm. "Are you all right, professor? You weren´t in class today... Did something happen? I should... Let me help you to the Hospital Wi--"

"No!"

Harry stared at her, stunned.

Her eyes suddenly snapped into focus. She frowned for the briefest of instants, then gave him a tentative smile. "I mean, no, thank you. But that´s... very kind," she said, her gaze darting between his face and the ground. "I don´t know what I look like, but judging from how you´re looking at me now, I´m guessing I must look positively frightful." Professor White smiled at him sheepishly. "Don´t mind me. I was just...testing one of... er, Hagrid´s Erkling traps," she explained, gesturing vaguely behind her, "and had a wee accident. It seems the trap is working fine." The professor appeared just as surprised as Harry at the sight of her blood-streaked hand, but she rewarded his concern with a wan smile. "Don´t worry. It´s not as bad as it looks, Harry. Nothing Madam Pomfrey can´t fix, I´m sure."

Harry felt he ought to at least help her back to the school, but she wouldn´t hear of it. Professor White hitched up her mud-soaked robes, casting him one last grateful smile as she hurried up the slope.

As she didn´t appear to be struggling, Harry carried on his way, snatching his Firebolt off the grass and struggling to order his disparate thoughts.

Harry descended no further than the middle of the hill when a tangle of shrubbery quivered beside him. He blanched. Oh, Merlin. What now?

In a single reflex, Harry drew his wand and paused. Hmmph. And I thought taking the long way would help me focus. At the castle wall, Professor White´s robes were just disappearing through the crumbly arch of the side entrance. The greenhouses buffered the lawn from the gusts of icy wind, preserving its silence. And the small slope was deserted but for a few long shadows and the bulk of the Whomping Willow. Riveted to his spot, he goggled at the bushes swinging abruptly from side to side, twigs crackling on the ground. He held his breath. Something large and heavy was plunging through the underbrush with leaden steps. One. Two. Three... Until at last... a dusty paw emerged, followed by the muzzle and torso of a large, hairy dog, black as soot.

Its gaze went straight to the side entrance. But as its pale blue eyes tracked to the right, it trotted up to Harry, tail set at a cheerful wag. The blood rushed back into Harry´s face and his wand arm dropped in relief to his side.

"Si--Snuffles!" he hissed, glancing round the grounds. "What are you doing here?"

Harry couldn´t help noticing the slight droop of its tail. The dog blinked in a forlorn fashion, looking almost hurt.

"I--I didn´t mean it like that," he said hastily, throwing both hands up in apology. "I just thought someone might... well, someone might see you, but..." He shook his head sheepishly, dismissing his own outburst with a wave of his hand. "Well, anyway, there´s no one here now." Harry gave an exasperated sigh and smiled ruefully. "Just...look, don´t mind me. Just a little on edge today. The team´s confidence is a bit shaken because Malfoy´s dad bought the Slytherins new Firebolt 220s--"

The dog snapped to attention and took a few sympathetic paces towards Harry with his head cocked to one side. His pale blue eyes fixed him with a concerned, yet fierce, expression.

Padfoot looked so convincingly human for a moment that Harry could almost hear Sirius´s favourite expletives in the short, angry stream of barks that followed. Harry laughed out loud.

"I know," he said, wrinkling his nose in amusement. "Bloody git, that one, isn´t he?" The dog barked affirmatively, and Harry grinned, despite himself.

Suitably cheered, he started once again towards the Quidditch grounds, as the first trumpets blared in the distance. "I´ve got to go," said Harry jogging backwards with his broom. "Hey... are you staying to watch?"

Padfoot paused as if considering the invitation. He glanced from the castle back to Harry, then let out two enthusiastic barks, bounding forward to join him at the bottom of the path.

Harry´s grin broadened. "Excellent!"

**********

With a much lighter step than when he had first set out, Harry reached the boundary of the pitch, parting company with Padfoot by the edge of the bleachers. Packed to capacity, the bleachers had been magically expanded to admit some last-minute stragglers, including a few first-year Hufflepuffs being herded into their seats by Professors Sprout and Flitwick. Harry was particularly relieved to see a much improved-looking Professor White climbing hastily into the Staff Box behind Professor Sinistra.

He kicked up on his Firebolt to meet the others at the Gryffindor tent. The weather, too, seemed to have taken a turn for the better, along with Harry´s mood. The afternoon´s greys had fled to the hills, giving way to a few scattered rays of amber sunshine. There would be no visibility problems today. Harry hung his black school robes on a peg, donned his crimson Quidditch gear and walked towards the players´ entrance, discreetly clasping his wand in the folds of his sleeve. The familiar fanfare of drums and horns and the echo of Lee Jordan´s voice thundered through the crimson and gold-striped canvas door flaps.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Hogwarts´ first Quidditch match of the season, pitting the talents of Slytherin against Gryffindor!"

Grasping his Firebolt, Harry strode to the front of the grim-looking queue, muttering under his breath. Flick, swish, flick. Flick, swish, flick. He´d barely remembered Professor Flitwick´s Basic Cheering Charm from third year and hoped he hadn´t mispronounced the incantation. In moments, slow, infectious grins spread across the Chasers´ faces like sunshine through storm clouds and the twins shared a conspiratorial wink as Lee Jordan´s voice rang out into the stands.

"And now, taking their positions on the field...the Gryffindors!"

"Team," said George, glancing round the huddle, "just remember, any broom out there is only as good as the wizard--or witch--who´s riding it." The twins´ jaws set in determination as their eyes scanned the group. "This week you´ve all stretched your talents to achieve amazing progress, far beyond what we´d imagined. We´re ready for anything the Slytherins have got up their sleeves. Just play like you have been all week, and we´ll show them who´s laying claim to this pitch today--Firebolts or no Firebolts."

Fred clapped a hand on Harry´s shoulder. "Gryffindor´s got the only one that counts, isn´t that right, mate?"

Though Harry strongly suspected that it was the Cheering Charm talking, he couldn´t help grinning back. The Chasers nudged each other encouragingly, and Eveline treated Harry to a bright, self-assured smile. Then Fred flung the canvas drape aside.

The stands erupted in a tumult of cheers and deafening applause as the Gryffindors marched onto the centre of the pitch where they greeted Madam Hooch, refereeing in black dragon skin fatigues and out-sized aviator goggles. The flying instructor´s short, spiky grey hair framed her sunburnt face, and the protuberant lenses magnified her yellow eyes to a daunting size. Her foot firmly planted on a large wooden trunk, she brought her whistle to her mouth to announce the entrance of the Slytherins.

From the opposite end of the field, seven figures in green swaggered forward, the players showcasing the sleek black Firebolt 220s above their heads like trophies. Cheers rippled through the Slytherin stands. But they nearly drowned in the boos and hisses that fulminated from a good three quarters of the stadium. Harry couldn´t help a little snicker as the loudest "Boo!" came from Lee Jordan´s megaphone.

"Just announce the players, Jordan," ordered Professor McGonagall irritably.

"Oh, right, right." Lee´s voice sounded only mildly apologetic. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Slytherins... carrying their new Firebolt X-Class 220´s, the fastest in the Firebolt series yet. Experimental trials on this baby are still being conducted at the Ministry of Transport, but Which Broomstick? has already named the 220 the leader of its class. What one of these must cost is anyone´s guess, and since these are hot off the Black Broomstick Market--"

"Jordan!" A loud acoustic squeal echoed round the stadium, as if Professor McGonagall had snatched the magical megaphone out of his hands.

"...might be construed as slander. Stick to the match, Jordan, I´m warning you now--"

"But Professor, everyone knows it´s tru--"

"I said the match," threatened Professor McGonagall, "or we get a new commentator."

"All right, all right... Erm... in this year´s Slytherin line-up, we have the Chasers: Olaf Sponger and the Bullock cousins, Bryce and Clive; Keeper, Julian Bangert; the Beaters: Adrian Derrick and captain, Gengis Bole; and, lastly, Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Seeker and Sugar Daddy--"

"Jordan!"

On the pitch, the teams lined up face to face. The Gryffindors looked up to find the Bullocks in a stare-down with Fred and George, while the others took the opportunity to observe Eveline in a less than gentlemanly fashion. Harry´s face flushed with fury and he tightened his grip on the neck of his Firebolt.

"Captains," said Madam Hooch, "step forward."

From the look on Fred´s face, Harry guessed he´d lost the coin-toss to forego shaking hands with Bole. The Slytherin captain quirked an end of his monobrow and narrowed his dark eyes at a stalwart Fred. It seemed to Harry that they weren´t so much shaking hands as trying to wrench each other´s fingers off.

That is, until Bole yelled, snatching his hand back with a feral hiss. The Slytherins gaped in surprise as their captain levitated four feet into the air and abruptly crashed to the ground, landing ignominiously on his bottom. A smattering of laughter and amused titters swept through the stands.

Fred turned up his palm to reveal what looked like a blue Billywig-shaped gobstopper.

George nudged Harry and winked. "You know what they say," he whispered surreptitiously, "a Billywig in the hand is worth a shove and a push."

Before either the Slytherins or Madam Hooch took notice, Fred grinned, promptly popping the evidence into his mouth.

"And they taste good, too," George said proudly. Harry fought to keep a straight face, though somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if that Cheering Charm had been such a bright idea.

Talk about your sleeping dragons... Bole shook off Madam Hooch´s offer of assistance and sprang at Fred in a rage, dark eyes like daggers. Harry´s hand flew to his wand, but a second before Bole´s fist would have made contact with Fred´s jaw, Madam Hooch had yanked the Slytherin captain by the back of his Quidditch robes. His arms thrashed violently and the sinews in his scrawny neck stood out in relief as an angry vein pulsed in his temple. But for a witch of average height, Madam Hooch calmly displayed all the strength of a small Erumpent.

"That will be all, Mr Bole," she muttered threateningly. "Now. We´re going to have a good clean match today. If I see any... uncivilised behaviour from any player, I am perfectly within my rights to award a victory to the opposing team. Do. Not. Tempt. Me." Glaring like a tigress, she released the lanky Slytherin.

Resentfully, Bole shrugged his robes back into place, glaring ominously the Weasley twins. Harry wouldn´t have been the least bit surprised to see him suddenly breathe fire.

"Good luck," said the twins, grinning innocently.

"Luck?" To Harry´s surprise, Bole laughed, a guttural, grating sound. "Luck´s go´ nothin´ teh do with it, Weasels." He nodded back at his team, whose calculating sneers were enough to fade the twins´ smiles a bit. "I´ll see yeh when I see yeh." The Slytherin captain bared a row of uneven, yellow teeth. "´Shame you lot can´t say the same."

The Gryffindors exchanged puzzled glances as Bole slouched back into the line-up, looking oddly pleased with himself. Harry collared Fred as everyone mounted their brooms to start the match.

"What´s Bole on about?" he asked. But all he got in reply was a shrug from Fred and a poke in the back from Angelina to get into position.

Harry and the others kicked off the ground, carefully hovering above the centre of the pitch. The entire stadium had settled into an expectant silence. Madam Hooch, Quaffle wedged under her arm, raised the whistle to her mouth... and blew.

And it was as if Time had sped forward on its wheel. No sooner had Madam Hooch released the Quaffle than it was intercepted by Katie Bell, passing to Alicia Spinnet. From the bottom of Hooch´s box, the Bludgers shot into the air and stormed through the gaggle of players, dodging the Beaters´ swinging bats. Harry banked up sharply, streaking past the twins and stopping almost level with Eveline guarding the Gryffindor hoops. But there was no exchange of coy smiles today. Harry squinted against the sunset, trying to detect even the slightest glimmer in the shadows that might give away the tiny, silver-winged Golden Snitch. Though the wind currents thundered past his ears at that altitude, Harry made sure to keep track of the commentary.

"And Spinnet´s taken the Quaffle," Lee Jordan cried, "she passes to Johnson, back to Bell, Spinnet and... back to Johnson--Go, Angelina! She´s broken through past Derrick and Sponger. Johnson´s almost there, almost--oh! Ouch! That had to hurt!"

Harry twisted round to see the Bullock cousins cheering as Angelina dangled precariously from her broom handle.

"...might be all right if she can weather the nasty clip from that Bludger--that one came from Adrian Derrick, that bloomin´ son of a--"

"Jordan--"

"Sorry, professor... Erm, Johnson, still hanging upside down, passes to Spinnet who´s wide open... Both Bludgers are whizzing round the Slytherin end now, and here come the Beaters... Ooooooohhh! Fantastic hit by George Weasley, just catching the Keeper Bangert off balance with a blow to the shoulder. Gryffindor´s Spinnet in possession, with Sponger and the Bullocks, hot on her tail--they´re getting close on those 220s! Behind you, Alicia! Sponger grabs her Cleansweep by the twigs! That´s a bloody foul you filthy, stinking... And Spinnet passes back to Johnson--nice catch, Angelina! She passes to Bell, Bangert just missing the intercept--and Bell scores! Gryffindor lead, ten-zero!"

Suddenly, a white and green blob zinged past Harry´s head, nearly throwing him off balance. Harry clung to the broom handle, straining against the wind to right himself.

"Enjoy the lead, Potter," taunted Malfoy from somewhere behind his right shoulder. "It won´t last long."

But Malfoy´s sneer only lasted the fraction of a second before Harry tilted his broom and torpedoed straight down, heading for the Slytherin bleachers.

"HARRY POTTER´S SPOTTED THE GOLDEN SNITCH!" gasped Lee Jordan.

Harry smiled into the headwind. It was a classic Wronski he was going for. Malfoy, he knew, would mark him, hoping to beat him to the Snitch. But... Holy Circe! Those 220s were fast! Harry´s Firebolt had always easily outstripped the Slytherin´s old Nimbus 2001, but Malfoy´s new broom had gained with amazing speed. They were neck and neck. And so they flew, lower and lower, until they could hear the screams from the Slytherin box.

Harry plummeted still further, skimming low enough to graze a few bareheaded Slytherins with the tail of his broom. Only when he saw the horrified whites of Crabbe´s and Goyle´s eyes did he bank up steeply, while Draco, despite his 220´s precision steering, proved just a fraction of a second too slow. As Harry rose through the air, the gasps and screams of the crowd met his ears as Draco spun, cursing as he pummelled headlong across two rows of Slytherins.

Harry zoomed back to his post, shielding his eyes from the sun and squinting round for the Snitch. But the outraged protests of the Gryffindors drew his eyes back toward the pitch.

Harry glanced down in time to see the Quaffle drop. A small blonde figure dipped steeply in a downward spiral, one hand clinging loosely to her broom, and the other on her temple.

"...most brutal Bludger attack I´ve seen yet!" Lee Jordan was screaming. "Eveline de Mordaunt, the Gryffindor Keeper. She looks shaken, folks, that last one off Gengis Bole´s bat, clipping the tail of her broom--but wait! De Mordaunt´s slowing down... she´s straightening out of her spin... waving away ground assistance and... Merlin´s kneecaps! Ladies and gentlemen, she´s back at the hoops..."

Harry released a breath he hadn´t been aware that he´d been holding.

"Oh... er... and the Slytherin goal was good," coughed Lee, with markedly less enthusiasm. "Ten points to Slytherin, tying the match, ten-ten."

He noticed the Slytherin team turning to look back at their captain. Bole was making odd gestures, steepling his arms and pointing them forward, like he was going to...what? dive off his broom? One could only hope, yet somehow, Harry didn´t think so. He was sure he wouldn´t have long to wait for the answer.

"Clive Bullock´s in possession, flanked by Sponger and Bullock, and--oy! Hang on a minute. Where do they think they´re going?"

That was odd. The Slytherin Chasers had retreated, coasting over the centre of the pitch. Bemused, Fred, George and the rest of the team watched them go. Leaving the Weasleys to fend off the Bludgers, Bole and Derrick flanked their teammates, forging a wide "V", and then slowly, like hungry wolves, began to close in on Eveline.

Off to his right, Harry heard a derisive little snigger that could belong to none other than Draco Malfoy.

"Looks like your little French import´s in for a taste of Slytherin stealth," he boasted.

Harry snorted. "You call that stealth? She can block anything you´ve got."

The Slytherin´s mouth quirked wryly. "You can´t block what you can´t see, Potter."

Then, right before Harry´s eyes, he disappeared.

Harry´s gasp echoed the collective intake of breath from the bleachers. The entire Slytherin team had vanished, brooms and all.

**********

"Merlin´s pants!" exclaimed Terry Boot. He was clapped squarely on the back of the head by a curly-haired fellow Ravenclaw, whom Ron immediately recognised as Mandy Brocklehurst.

"Language, Terry!" she screeched.

`Wonder if all girls are like that,reflected Ron from the next box. Hermione, at least, considered herself too civilised to smack anyone. He grinned gleefully to himself. Well, not unless you count Malfoy...

Terry rolled his eyes at Ron and swatted affectionately at Mandy´s hand. He leaned across the barrier. "Weasley, did you see that? Since they´ve disappeared, you don´t think... d´you think this means the Slytherins have forfeited the match?" His ruddy face scrunched up suddenly in concern. Ron frowned for a moment, and then remembered about the Ravenclaw pool--Boot was concerned about his winnings. Of all the bloody cheek!

"They´re not forfeiting," said Hermione, handing back Ron´s Omnioculars. "And they haven´t disappeared."

"What?"

"They´re invisible," she said. "Hit `Replay´ and take a look. You can just see a couple of the Chasers tapping at a certain spot on their broomsticks."

"Cloaking," said Ron grimly. "Must be one of the 220´s secret gadgets." He passed the Omnioculars to Seamus and Dean.

"Isn´t that illegal?" Ginny chimed in from behind. "Wouldn´t the Quidditch rules have anything to say about this?"

Mandy, who seemed as attached to her Quidditch Through the Ages as Hermione was to Hogwarts: A History, flipped through the faded, dog-eared pages. "These rules haven´t changed much since 1750... There´s nothing in here about invisibility being cause for a forfeit..." She scratched her head thoughtfully. "...could be an Unwritten Foul, I suppose, but Hooch ought to have called it by now..."

Ron was watching Hermione closely, a habit he seemed to have developed of late. She screwed her eyes tightly beneath the little wrinkle of concentration he´d often seen on her forehead in Charms and Transfiguration. Here it comes, thought Ron. Any moment now... Three... Two... One--

"I´ve got it." Hermione opened her eyes. "I´ve got it! I think I know what we can do." She gestured frantically at the Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws within shouting distance. "But we´re going to need all the help we can get."

**********

Eveline and the rest of the team blinked uncertainly as they watched the Quaffle zigzag closer and closer, to and fro in the air, as if possessed. Only it wasn´t. Harry realised the new Firebolts must have come with a cloaking charm. So that was Bole´s inside joke! Can they do that? wondered Harry, peering down at McGonagall thumbing anxiously through her rulebook. Except for the indignant barks of a shaggy black dog at the edge of the pitch, a startled hush had fallen over the stadium. Even Lee Jordan was speechless.

Harry seethed. Of all the dirty, underhanded tricks--

But just as the Quaffle neared the scoring area, a low, rumbling chant welled up from the Gryffindor stands, growing louder and louder as the wave of voices crested over into the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff bleachers. Though the wind currents made it tough to hear, Harry thought it sounded like...

"Aparecium Vestimenta! APARECIUM VESTIMENTA!!"

Against the sunset, he noticed the faint flickering of a few greenish blobs below. The air around him began to crackle with energy. In the meantime, the chanting, clapping and stomping grew louder, infusing the stadium and thundering into the hills.

"APARECIUM VESTIMENTA! APARECIUM VESTIMENTA!"

The flickering continued until the green shapes solidified. The Slytherins still weren´t visible.

But their robes were!

The crowd burst into cheers of delight, drowning a smattering of groans and undignified swearing that seemed to originate from the Slytherin stands. Harry grinned at the Gryffindor section where Hermione was swinging both her arms, as if conducting the chanting crowd. Dean Thomas´s Gryffindor banner waved enthusiastically, flashing the incantation across to the bleachers opposite. And Ron, jumping up and down with his fist in the air, stopped to hug a stunned, but pleased-looking Hermione.

"...and the Quaffle´s crossed into the scoring area, with...um... a Slytherin in possession. He passes to...er, someone else... looks like they´re going for the shot and--ooooooh! Spectacular save by de Mordaunt! And the match is still a tie at ten-ten..."

Bole´s fury at the backfiring of the invisibility ploy was evident, with the result that the Slytherins´ tactics grew more barbaric by the second. Nearly everyone heard the sharp crack! of broken bone as Derrick clubbed Alicia Spinnet´s arm to dislodge her grip on the Quaffle. In retaliation, Angelina swung at Derrick with her fist, but was nearly thrown out of the air by a Bludger aimed by Bole. Fred and George were about to set upon him with their own bats when Madam Hooch´s whistle sounded furiously and she called two penalties, one each to Slytherin and Gryffindor. Angelina took the shot for Gryffindor and managed to get past Bangert only by a hair. But Eveline, possibly still smarting from the earlier blow to the head, wasn´t quick enough to block Sponger´s shot.

It was still a tie game, twenty to twenty.

But the crowd´s energy was starting to wane. And as their chanting voices began to fade, so did the Slytherin robes. Harry´s hopes sank as the green capes slowly melted into the twilight. In a moment, they´d be out of sight entirely. If there was ever a time when Harry needed to spot the Snitch, it was--Ow!

Broadsided by a flash of transparent green, Harry clung desperately to his broom as Malfoy screeched past him, lunging sharply toward the bleachers. And that´s when Harry saw it, too, gleaming in the shadow of the overhang just above the Slytherin stands. The Snitch!

Harry rocketed forward, haring desperately after Malfoy, who was at least fifty feet in the lead. There was almost no way he could make up that distance. But he had to try. Leaning forward so low that his chin nearly touched the broom handle, he pummelled through the swirl of players, coming out about ten feet from Malfoy´s tail. The crowd gasped as he edged ahead, level now with Malfoy´s ankles. But the Firebolt was tired. Even though he´d gotten almost shoulder to shoulder with Malfoy, Harry could feel it beginning to slacken. Almost there... almost... Looking up, he saw Malfoy´s hand out, his fingers inches away from the swiftly beating wings of the little gold ball. Oh, NO! Malfoy´s got it, thought Harry despondently. Any second now... three... two... o--

Suddenly, the shrill peal of Madam Hooch´s whistle sounded, calling the game over... just seconds before Malfoy´s hand wrapped round the Snitch.

Malfoy was outraged.

Game over?

Harry was more confused than relieved. Ignoring Malfoy´s incredulous swearing, he looped back, flying closer to the field where something was clearly awry.

It was Katie Bell. Her terrified scream echoed eerily through the deathly silence that had settled on the crowd. By the time Harry, the twins and Madam Hooch had flown to her side, Katie´s face had gone pale. She raised a shaky hand and pointed to the tree line of the Forbidden Forest, where something protruded at an awkward angle from beneath a mangled clump of bushes.

The twisted, lifeless body of a student.