Chance and the Alphabet

Will nodded and grinned. He'd never been more certain.

**

Part 3 - Slightly Afraid of Toil

**

Will never cared much for getting changed prior to Quidditch matches. He understood the reason behind the show of unity, as mandated by his team captain, but it always seemed like a very large, very visual reminder of his reserve status. There was only so much he could contribute to the House effort from the sidelines, and being in team garb only amplified his anxieties. They hadn't won the Quidditch cup for quite some time, let alone a succession of matches, and he didn't want to face another year of "Don't worry, we're only playing Hufflepuff..." and "After we flatten Hufflepuff...". The thought made him grouchy, as well as desirous to make good use of the Hair-loss Hex on the naysayers.

But a rather nice thing had happened not long before this Saturday morning, nice enough to distract him even from the importance of the impending match. Perhaps this once, he was better off without the responsibility of defending his house on the pitch. Tension and excitement were seeping into the locker room from the outside air, but Will gave a small, lopsided grin as he strapped on his shinpads, remembering the evening prior.

**

He had just stopped by the dormitory to deposit his books after classes on Friday, wanting nothing more than to tuck in to dinner. He had been about to pass through the sparsely populated Common Room when the unexpected sight of Abby Loomis, alone and reading on a sofa, greeted his eyes. His friends' loud, annoying voices began to echo in his head, replaying their recent dinnertime conversation. He hadn't given Owen's idea much attention at the time - filing it away under the categories of "yeah, right", "no way", and "not bloody likely" - but now it seemed as if a band of Cornish pixies had joined together to form the words "NOW'S YOUR CHANCE, STUPID" in gigantic blue letters over Abby's head.

Countless thoughts ricocheted across Will's mind as he stood in the doorway, dithering. If he didn't get up the nerve to approach her, he would be disappointing whichever higher powers had orchestrated this encounter. But Owen and Davey were expecting him for dinner. This would only take a minute, though... But there was Priya's sketchbook, lying next to Abby, along with Chrissy's schoolbag. Maybe her friends were lurking in the shadows nearby. They might see him talking to Abby, and then they'd pounce on him in that way that girls did, and then he'd have to say stuff to them. Or worse - maybe his friends had staged this, and they were crouching behind the sofa, with cameras, at this very moment.

Finally, if only to stop the acrobatic routine in his stomach, Will bolted back down the corridor and pulled his Quidditch robes out of the wardrobe. He had to act now, he told himself as he tugged on a button, before Davey or Owen blabbed anything. Or before she left for dinner and some smarmy Gryffindor made a move on her. His mind grew more frantic as the button proved quite obstinate, refusing to move even when he wedged it in the lid of his trunk and pulled with all his might. Flaming Quaffles! Why were there no scissors? Who had taken the blasted scissors? There probably had never actually been scissors in the room, he realized grudgingly, but there should have been, and that had to be someone's bloody fault.

Pulse racing, Will rifled hurriedly through his bathroom things (and those of his roommates), only to confirm the lack of even nail clippers. He considered using his wand, but that would make the cut seem too obvious, too intentional... Besides, he was so flustered at this point, he stood a good chance of blasting the ruddy thing off instead. Not that it didn't deserve it, he thought, as he tried to pin the button underfoot and give the robes a good yank. The minutes were slipping by, and Abby could easily have left by now. Blast, there was probably a queue of flower-toting, poetry-reading tossers downstairs right now, just waiting to steal her away.

Daunted but still determined, Will carried on...the foot trick was no use, and an attempt with a stray dinner fork proved equally futile. Finally, aided by a penknife discovered at the bottom of Alistair Coggins' trunk, Will managed to saw off the button in a convincing fashion. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he forced himself to meander down the corridor and into the common room toward Abby, who sat with her feet tucked beneath her. His legs took him there all too quickly, but his heart skipped a beat when the cover of her book came into focus - "He Flew Like a Madman: The Autobiography Dai Llewellyn Would Surely Have Authorized, If Only He Were Still Among the Living".

The heavens were smiling down on him, Will thought, and he took a few stolen seconds to stare at Abby while she read one of the three greatest books known to Wizard-kind. She looked very small from his height, and he wondered briefly how someone of her size could instill so much fear. That fear grew to mammoth proportions when she looked up, causing all coherent thought to leave his brain with the speed of a Nimbus 1001.

"Oh!" she said, and her mouth grew round in surprise. "Hi, Will."

The sound of her voice made him acutely aware that he hadn't developed his plan much beyond the removal of that troublesome button. He knew this was probably the point at which he should flash her a smile and join her on the sofa with cavalier ease, but he felt lucky to still be standing, and didn't dare risk anything by moving.

"You're reading that?" he blurted out instead, gesturing at her book.

Abby put a finger in the pages to keep her place. "I told Chrissy I wouldn't come to dinner until I'd finished the first chapter," she said. "She was pestering me because I hadn't read it yet, and I promised her ages ago that I would."

"It's about Dai Llewellyn," he breathed reverently, remembering the 1969 match in which the Catapults' Chaser had played with a fractured fibula for over an hour - scoring nine goals in the process - before mediwizards dragged him bodily from the pitch.

"Oh?" Abby questioned, wide-eyed. She looked down at the cover. "Was he any good?"

Was he any good? Will felt as though his heart had thrown itself into the Hogwarts lake, or had at least sunk to somewhere near the vicinity of his knees. It was all right, he told himself, trying to muster up a reply. Really, it was. She only needed a little more time to really get into the book, and then she wouldn't be able to put it down. "Dangerous" Dai hadn't been named the "Man Responsible for the Greatest Number of Concussions and Marital Spats Among His Emulating Fans" for nothing. Will looked down at the robes in his arms, remembering why he'd come in the first place. He opened his mouth, but Abby's tentative laugh interrupted before he could speak.

"Sorry, that was awful," she said, cheeks turning pink. "Everyone knows who Dai Llewellyn was."

A breath of relief rushed out. She had only been joking - brilliant! Brilliant!

"Yeah, he was great," Will said, breaking into a grin. "My dad broke his collarbone trying out 'Dai's Death-Defying Divebomb'."

"My dad knocked off a third of the roof." A wide smile spread across Abby's face, and then, for a blissful moment, she wasn't "ABBY" to him, but the girl he'd known for four years already, the same one who managed to tip over at least four cauldrons a term. Without thinking, Will moved around the sofa and sat, placing the robes between them.

"Do you follow Quidditch?" he asked. Why on earth had he been so worried? This was dead easy.

"I do," Abby replied, tucking her hair behind one ear, "but I was...um...discouraged from trying out for the house team. After that first flying lesson, you know."

Will ducked his head, trying keep from laughing. He hadn't thought about that incident in years. Quite a lucky thing it had been that Madam Hambeck, the Quidditch instructor, had known how to swim.

"Hey, could you help me with something?" he asked.

Abby's eyebrows rose in curiosity, but before Will could get any further, he made the mistake of noticing that her lips were rather...curvy. His brain took a sharp detour from Quidditch robes, and his newfound confidence fumbled and fell, threatening to take his vocal ability along with it. There was a strangled sort of pause, which seemed to last for ages, and Abby's expression changed from curious to confused. Will took a deep breath and plunged onward, if only to keep her from questioning his mental competence.

"I, er...Robbie Welkin ripped a button off these in practice yesterday," he stammered, pointing at the robes, "and I'll make a right mess of things if I try to fix them myself. I know you have, er, needles and stuff..."

He stopped before he could say anything more pathetic than he already had, praying that she'd finish the sentence in the way he wanted. It would serve him right if "Oh, don't you know about the house elves?" floated off her lips, but if he'd got this far already, maybe chance was on his side. He braced his ears for the fateful words, which, blessedly, Abby didn't utter.

"Would you like me to sew it back on for you?" she offered instead, her face lighting up. "It'll only take me a moment. Let me get my things."

"That'd be great," Will managed. "Thanks."

She stood up and, after untangling her feet from the hem of her robes, made her way down the corridor to the girls' dormitories.

Will sunk back into the cushions and exhaled. So far, so good. He hadn't passed out, and she hadn't run away - well, except to get her sewing box, and she would be coming back (or so he desperately hoped). At least the dormitories were underground, so there weren't any windows from which she could escape. Encouraged, he took a moment to shoot a quelling glare at the handful of third-year boys who'd been observing their interaction from a nearby table. He didn't need spectators, and any other male was still unwelcome competition at this point. Cheeky, presumptuous little buggers.

Abby returned soon enough, and Will watched with curiosity as she threaded her needle and began to reattach the button with deft, even stitches. She worked quickly, he noticed. That had to be heartening - unless, she was just desperate to rid herself of his presence. He had showered that morning, hadn't he? Hadn't he?

"I hope we win tomorrow," Abby said, as she knotted and clipped the thread. "Slytherin think they're the favourite this year, don't they?"

Quidditch, yes. This was a manageable topic of conversation. "Yeah, they do. Now that James Potter and his lot have left."

"Good luck." She handed the robes back to him, flushing becomingly as their fingers brushed.

Too busy wondering how a girl's hand could be so soft, Will didn't remind her that he would have little, if any, involvement in the match' s outcome. He didn't even realize that she'd made no mention of Chocolate Frogs.

**

The locker room door creaked open, and Aristotle Kane poked his head inside. "It's time, men," the team captain said, his mouth drawn into a tense line.

Stowing the rest of his things into his locker, Will fell into line with the other players and moved out into the common area, where the team's female players were already waiting for them. Thoughts of Abby Loomis retreated into the background as the feeling of match day began to truly sink in. No one spoke above a whisper here; some players clenched and unclenched their brooms obsessively, while others looked as though they'd fallen victim to a Jitter Jinx. Will slipped into the second row of benches as Kane strode to the front of the room. The few audible voices came to a halt as the he took his place.

A detailed plan of attack usually came at this point, and the players waited for Kane's customary run-down of strategy and statistics. But the dark-haired boy stood, silent, for at least a full minute. The seconds ticked by, each seeming endless.

"There's not much I can tell you right now," Aristotle began at last. Will's eyebrows rose at the hearing the unconventional beginning.

"You know the importance of today," he continued, "both to our strategy for the season and to our team morale. I have only thing to tell you - "

The room had been silent already, but it hushed even further as Kane scanned the room, boring his dark eyes into each player.

"I see no reason why we shouldn't take this match."

Will's eyebrows rose even further. He was all for instilling team confidence, but that was, well, unusually brash for a Hufflepuff. Cool. Adrenaline and anticipation began to stir inside him.

"Slytherin know full well who they're playing today. It's only Hufflepuff, right? They expect us to play fair, to put up a good fight, perhaps to even give them a scare or two. They don't expect us to win. No one expects us to actually win. Which means..." his voice lowered to a steely whisper, "...we've got nothing to lose."

Kane waited a moment for the impact of his words to settle in, then singled out the Chasers first, speaking in brisk, clipped tones. "Welkin, Wicks, Rose - take every opportunity to score. No hesitation, no second thoughts."

He focused on the two Beaters next. "Van der Hoff, Evers - keep the Chasers free. I want all of your efforts directed toward protecting them. I want every point possible."

Kevin van der Hoff started to speak, no doubt to question the fate of the Seeker under this plan, but Kane held up a hand to silence him.

"We can't let the score get away from us," he said determinedly. "We need EVERY goal, and we need our Chasers alive for that. If I'm in dire need, then yes, help me out, but until then, I'll have to look after myself."

Lastly, he turned to the Keeper. "Monaco, don't you let a thing through those hoops." Margaret Monaco, who had been readjusting the fit of her Keeper gloves, gave a grim nod.

Kane appraised the team once more. For a fleeting moment, his stern visage broke into a giddy, exhilarated grin. Will wanted to jump up, soar onto the pitch, and defeat Slytherin single-handedly.

"Now GO," the captain cried out, "and fly strong! Fly because you love the air, because Quidditch is the greatest sport you'll ever know, and for the love of all that's good and magical, fly because you love Hufflepuff."

A loud whistle punctuated the end of his speech, signaling the match would begin in two short minutes. Those would be playing rose to their feet and gathered in a last-minute huddle. Watching them, Will knew that more than ever, he wanted to win. Spectacularly, decisively, by five hundred points. In a way that would make people never say "It's only Hufflepuff" again. He'd even take a margin of three hundred points. Aristotle Kane had put together a strong side, and why they hadn't performed better was baffling to them all. Of course, it was always easier to critique the game as a spectator - predicting the plays, gauging the passes, anticipating the goal attempts. Margaret Monaco guarded the hoops like a mother dragon defended her eggs, so he'd be a total prat if he tried to find fault with her.

He turned his eyes on the girl whose position he coveted. If nothing else, this was Margaret's last year, and Will felt certain he'd start as Keeper next season. She might be quick, but he had the benefits of height and weight, and...what was happening to her face? Margaret's complexion was pale to begin with, but now it seemed to be exploring a whole new range of hues. She looked much like his pet Crup once had after doing a series of back flips on a stomachful of really bad eggs.

"Does Maggie look a little off to you?" Will asked, turning to the short, blue-eyed girl sitting next to him. "Think she's nervous?"

Beth Attenberg inclined her head towards him, not removing her eyes from the huddle of players. "Her dad's a Manticore researcher," she murmured. "They used to keep one for a pet. She doesn't get nervous."

But something wasn't right, Will thought, as Margaret closed her eyes and began to take quick, short breaths. She looked as though a violent coup d'etat were being staged within her stomach, and the rebel faction was winning. Suddenly, Margaret bolted past the benches and around the corner. The sounds of a displeased digestive system soon followed.

Beth's eyes widened, and she clapped a hand to her mouth. ""Oh, no!" she gasped. "I've been telling Maggie for years not to make haggis part of her good-luck routine."

Stricken, Kane raced after Margaret. His voice was audible above the retches and moans, asking her if there was anything he could do, could she try not to splatter the practice Quaffles, did she need Madam Pomfrey, and would she be able to get on her broomstick in the next sixty seconds? The room broke out in a flurry of whispers.

"You might get to play, Will!" Beth exclaimed, a note of envy sneaking into her worried voice.

You might get to play. The words reverberated in his suddenly empty mind. Actually if the sounds Margaret was making from around the corner were any indication, he was playing.

"You're so lucky!" she sighed. "Aristotle played once last year with dragon pox, a sore throat, and two ingrown toenails. I'm never going to get in a match."

Unable to speak, Will simply gaped. Yeah, he had wanted to play, but he wouldn't object to an hour or two of notice. He knew many of the Slytherin players from his summer training with the Falcons, and while he'd never admit it to them, they were the favourites for a reason. They certainly weren't going to go easy on him. Dread the size of Hogwarts castle settled in his stomach.

Kane finally gave up on trying to be heard over the sounds of Margaret's stomach. He turned the corner to face the team, his own face a shade paler.

"Lowby," he said curtly, "you're in."

**

Part 4 - Keeping the Faith

**

His heart in his throat, Will stood up to file outside with the rest of the team. They could still hear Maggie's groans from beyond the corner, and as Will joined the jostling line, he had to fight back a wild urge to run off and join her. He even went a full five paces before he remembered to bring his Comet 220 with him.

The Hufflepuff section of the stands broke out in gasps, shouts, and other cries as the team entered the pitch, but Will kept his eyes low, concentrating on just placing one foot in front of the other. For all he knew, the noise might be cheers of support, and not weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, but he didn't care to find out at present. He certainly wasn't going to look up and see if Davey and Owen and other people were watching him.

As the center circle loomed nearer, Will heard the voice of Richard Tracy, the Slytherin captain, embroiled in a loud argument with Madam Hambeck. Looking up, he found Tracy's pointed finger and accusatory glare, directed right at him. Kane rushed forward to join the dispute, but Will ducked his head again and trudged on to his place at the top of the circle, nearest the Hufflepuff hoops. The game hadn't started yet, so the substitution was perfectly legal - at least he could feel secure in that. Once Tracy realized that he was just the reserve Keeper and not some Hufflepuff secret weapon, the Slytherin would probably start doing celebratory cartwheels down the length of the pitch.

"Hey, Lowby!" came an excited whisper from Will's left. He looked over to see Robbie Welkin, who was grinning rather maniacally. "Let's show them a thing or two, eh?"

Will managed a wan half-smile. He'd give his next two broomsticks for a thimbleful of Robbie's confidence. His stomach lurched as he watched the Slytherin players gather around the other half of the circle. Why had he signed up for this position in the first place? The Keeper never got to fly around much, he incurred the wrath of hundreds if he missed a block, and it was usually the Seeker who won the game anyway. He'd actually wanted to be a Beater since the time he was a kid, but he hadn't the size when he first joined the team. Kane had told him that he'd have better luck playing Keeper, and he'd just gone along with it...

"Lowby!" Welkin whispered again, more loudly now as the buzz of the crowd reached a fever pitch. "You've practiced this, mate. You know what you've got to do."

With those words, a ray of sunlight seemed to spill down from the sky onto Welkin's head, and Will felt as though he'd found his new best friend. His heart stopped trying to pound its way out of his body. He did know what to do - he'd been preparing for months, and he'd read Darren O'Hare's The Seven Secrets of Highly Effective Keepers more than any of his textbooks. O'Hare had retired from the Kestrals years ago, but the man was a legend in Keeper circles (if not for his Quidditch exploits, then for his much publicized romances with heiresses, socialites, and one Admiral's daughter). Will could recite his advice from the dog-eared pages with no effort at all:

#1 - Keep your eye on the Quaffle.

Will unclenched his fingers from his Comet, where they'd been growing numb. Yeah, he thought with a breath of relief, he could manage that. Same for the next:

#2 - No, really - keep your eye on the Quaffle. Can't say it enough.

His distress now eased by a glimmer of hope, Will turned back to his teammate. For the first time that day, he noticed the sky - bright, but not overly so, and nary a breeze. Perfect weather for Quidditch. Hufflepuff had played every match of the last four years in some combination of rain, sleet, or howling wind - maybe they were fated for a miracle today.

"Thanks, Welkin," he managed to say, even more grateful now that his vocal chords were once again compliant.

Robbie was rolling his head from side to side, stretching his neck. "No problem," he said, and grinned again. "It'll all feel different once you're in the air, trust me."

A whistle blew, and Madam Hambeck strode out into the center of the circle, her red referee's robes billowing about her. Will mounted his broom and stood at attention, eager to test the veracity of Robbie's words.

"I want fair play from both sides!" Madam Hambeck called out sternly, setting down the crate that contained the Quaffle, Bludgers, and the Golden Snitch. She stared down each of the players in turn, as though daring them to try a foul in her presence. Once she seemed satisfied of their fear, she stooped and unlocked the crate. Will shifted anxiously. Once the balls were released, he'd have to fly as fast as he could to the hoops, hopefully before any of the Slytherin Chasers reached them.

"Let the game begin!"

Like a shot, Will kicked off from the ground and soared into the autumn sky. The wind whipped across his face as he raced towards the Hufflepuff side, and just as Robbie had predicted, worry gave way to airborne euphoria. In an instant, Will remembered with perfect clarity why he wouldn't trade his position for anything else, not even for the satisfaction of slamming heavy, dangerous, metal objects at other people.

He loved the decisiveness of Keeping, the simplicity of it all - in a matter of seconds, ten points were either gained or denied. Those moments always distilled down to just him, the Chaser, and the Quaffle, and though his insides twisted into knots each time one sped towards him, he couldn't get enough of it. Even a bloody brilliant Seeker couldn't always guarantee a win if the team had a rubbish Keeper.

Reaching the hoops, Will spun around at once, ready for any approaching onslaught. What a view the Keeper had, too! Robbie Welkin appeared to have taken quick possession of the Quaffle and was flying like a man possessed, dodging Bludgers, streaking around opposing Chasers, and passing to Todd Wicks and Elizabeth Rose with lightening speed. Kevin van der Graff and Angus Evers were swinging their clubs as if they'd taken every slight in Hufflepuff's history very, very personally, and the sky became a riotous blur of black and yellow, green and silver. Watched the beautiful sight, he mulled over more of O'Hare's wisdom:

#3 - A Keeper who leaves the hoops to try to score himself had best live in an Unplottable location, as his teammates will make short work of such a jumped-up glory hound.

Ha! No danger there, Will thought, as he circled the hoops in a Figure-Eight Loop. No Keeper had been thick enough to try that for ages. He wasn't going to fly any further away than he absolutely had to. Hufflepuff might have the Quaffle for now, but it would likely be on his end of the pitch very shortly.

#4 - A Keeper who fears death should reconsider his choice of sport - Muggle croquet might be more to his liking.

He'd never quite sorted out what croquet was, but anything that wasn't played in the air sounded rather boring. He'd take Quidditch and its broken bones any day, especially when - what was that?

A loud cry from the crowd had broken into his thoughts. Will squinted his eyes, trying to ascertain what had happened on the opposite end of the pitch. Todd Wicks was slumping forward over his broom, his hand over his nose. Slytherin Beater Ebenezer Spatchcock was shaking out his fist, grimacing in pain. Ah, a Transylvanian Tackle gone awry...well, that happened. Madam Hambeck flew toward Wicks, probed the bones of his face for a moment, and then performed what seemed to be a Staunching Spell on his nose.

Furious at the infraction, the Hufflepuff crowd filled the air with indignant noise. Will held his breath as Wicks approached the Slytherin Keeper to take the penalty. Yes! The shot was good. He allowed himself a short, smug laugh at Ellie Squires' expense. It was rather pleasant not to be the first Keeper scored on, and for what it was worth, Hufflepuff had the lead.

But Slytherin was in possession now, and they would be less than pleased at being shown up so quickly into the match. Will's pulse began to race as he saw the spot of red thrown into the air again. His eyes darted from one side of the pitch to the other, following the path of the Quaffle. His mind slipped into a frenetic whirl, and he turned to O'Hare again, trying to calm down before the Chasers got any nearer -

#5 - Trust your instincts. If they prove consistently faulty, refer to the counsel in #4.

But instinct wasn't everything, Will argued to himself, even though he'd never bring that up with O'Hare (the man had won three League Championships, after all). There was the angle of approach, the flier's seat on the broom, the position of the throwing arm, the movements of the Chaser's eyes. Even now, by their flight paths, he could see that the Slytherin players were gathering into what would probably become a Hawkshead Attacking Formation. As they neared, Will grew tense, ready to spring at the first throw. His breath quickened. He heard nothing, saw nothing beyond what was moving toward him on the pitch. The Chasers were closer, closer now...he could see their faces...Fletcher Anson, the lead, was pulling back his arm, aiming for the right hoop... Will had just started to initiate a block when the voice of the commentator rang out loudly, jarring his focus:

"And no, ladies and gentlemen, that's not Maggie Monoco with a haircut," the voice boomed. "Playing Keeper for Hufflepuff is fifth year William Manfred Lowby, not quite the runty little lad he was last season, but still a player with no real experience to speak of..."

The interruption was as welcome as a Fwooper's call at five in the morning. Will's head inadvertently turned, and in that moment, his concentration faltered. He left a fraction too late, and though he nearly threw himself from his broom in an attempt to stop it, Anson's shot sailed straight through, unchecked. The Slytherin stands went wild.

Will's face burned as he flew behind the hoops to gather up the Quaffle. Ten points to Slytherin, just like that. How could he have been stupid enough to fall for such a ploy? He knew better, and if he'd only had a few more seconds, he would have remembered O'Hare's thoughts on the matter:

#6 - If you've got an ounce of sense to your name, don't listen to the commentator. The score of the match (or anything else that idiot says) doesn't change your job at all.

He tried in vain to shut the jeers and heckles out of his ears, but the amplified chant of "Manfred! Manfred!" was impossible to ignore. His ire grew as he returned to his place, ready to send the Quaffle back into play. If he had his way, that commentator bloke was going to find himself with a bedful of Dungbombs tonight. And a Larvae Lozenge in his breakfast porridge.

Seething, Will hurled the ball at random towards one of his Chasers. He wanted it as far away from him as possible. But the pass was ill-fated; he threw too hastily, before Elizabeth Rose was ready. As she fumbled with the Quaffle, unable to get a firm handhold, Slytherin Chaser Kathryn Felder swooped overhead. In a flash, she plucked up the Quaffle like an apple from a tree, and sent it in over Will's head before he could lift a finger to stop it.

Once again, the Slytherin crowd rang out in joyful chorus. All color left Will's face, and he desperately contemplated fleeing the pitch, changing his name, and taking up residence in Uganda. Slytherin - twenty, Hufflepuff - ten, thanks to him. He wouldn't have been surprised if Darren O'Hare himself had Apparated right then and there, to take action before he could disgrace the position any further:

#7 - If you can't manage to save the blooming Quaffle, haul your sorry arse off the pitch and let a real Keeper do it.

Will stared dumbly at the ground, as though hoping to find some hole in which he could cower and wait out the next millennium. Many a Keeper had lost points this way, and their names were all retained in the public consciousness on an ignominious list. Wigtown had even sacked Lila Ackermum for committing such an error (although Will was fully behind the decision, since her blunder cost Wigtown its place in the 1972 league finals). Now he'd joined their dubious ranks, due to carelessness and stupidity and the pressures of a match that he suddenly didn't want to be in anymore. His limbs felt leaden, and he could barely motivate himself to go and retrieve the Quaffle. Why couldn't the editors have made an amendment to The Seven Secrets? Surely they could have thought to add that word of caution:

#8 - Make eye contact with your Chasers, you ruddy fool, unless you actually WANT to lose the lead, let down your teammates, and have your Keeping ability and general intelligence in high question.

Finally comprehending that unless he wanted the students to storm the pitch, he had no choice but to move, Will ducked behind the hoops yet again. A gust of air blew across him as he reached out for the red sphere, and he glanced up to find himself face-to-face with his team captain, who looked as pleased as a Manticore awoken from its noonday nap.

"Sorry - I'm sorry," Will mumbled, staring at his hands. Maybe Kane would decide that Hufflepuff fared just a good a chance without a Keeper. Maybe he should pack his bags for St. Boffo's School for Magical Misfits and Wayward Wizards right now.

Kane turned his head away. His eyes skimmed across the pitch as he spoke in harsh, yet measured tones. "No more of that, Lowby, you hear?"

Will gave a meek nod.

"Slytherin always runs up the score quickly - if they get too far ahead, it doesn't matter if I catch the Snitch. YOU CAN'T LET THEM DO THAT."

Madam Hambeck's amplified voice cut into their conversation as Will nodded again. "Two more seconds, gentlemen," it resounded, "and this will be considered an official time-out."

Kane clapped him on the shoulder and sped off. Will returned to the front of the hoops, and was just about to send the ball in when he saw Robbie Welkin, unguarded, hovering halfway down the length of the pitch. A crazed notion began to form in his brain. A pass that long was foolhardy under any circumstances, and downright risky against a team like Slytherin. Considering the egregiousness of his recent bungles, it would be comparable to prancing into the Appleby stands wearing a "Wise Wizards Worship the Wasps" t-shirt. But Slytherin would be expecting something cautious from him now, something prudent, to make up for his abysmal start. If he didn't find the nerve to attempt this now, he might never regain it. The Quaffle felt as though it were jumping from his hands, itching to find its way to Robbie.

Will steeled his resolve, before he could talk himself out of anything, and caught Elizabeth's eye. "Welkin," he mouthed. He saw Elizabeth's eyes widen in understanding, and without a pause, she shot straight up into the air, leading several Slytherins with her. Todd Wicks followed her cue and zoomed sharply off to the right, leaving an open path to Welkin. Will quickly feigned passes in both of their directions, then, before common sense could dissuade him, he marked his target and threw for all he was worth.

Robbie seemed to have sensed what was coming. He raced forward to catch the Quaffle, executed a skilled flip to change direction, then sped like a Snidget on fire to the Slytherin hoops. The Slytherin Chasers changed course once they saw what was happening, but Robbie had a substantial lead, and the enthusiasm of the Hufflepuff Beaters further hindered those who chased after him. He did a quick Woollongong Shimmy to rid himself of opposing Seeker Bruce Patman, who tried to help thwart the goal, and threw for the right hoop. Will flinched, almost unable to watch, but he couldn't help but shout when he heard the ring of the score bell. With a faint laugh, he ran a hand across his face. It had worked. They were tied. Perhaps he wouldn't request a transfer to St. Boffo's just yet.

The match continued, and the plays and players soon receded into a haze. Will wasn't certain if he'd been on the pitch for twenty minutes or two hours - all he knew were strained eyes, stinging palms, and a growing exhaustion in his tense body. He'd long since tuned out the score and most of the crowd's noise, focusing only on the Quaffle.

As predicted, the Slytherin Chasers were swift, strong, and not above deflecting the ball off his head. Occasionally, he would hear the telltale gasp of the crowd, signaling the presence of the Snitch. Out of the corner of his eye, he would see Aristotle Kane - dipping, diving, and doing every other sort of aerial acrobatic possible to impede the other Seeker - and he would know that Hufflepuff was significantly behind. Will wasn't sure how much of a reputation he had left to salvage, after those first two lapses and the lamentable number of missed blocks since, but he'd decided that on Helga's honor, he wouldn't give in to Slytherin. Even if the next Quaffle thrown knocked his gourd clean off.

The sound of Madam Hambeck's whistle, indicating a timeout, was a welcome reprieve. Will took a moment to shut his eyes and wipe the sweat from his brow, before flying down to the ground to meet his teammates. Many of them looked as though they'd seen better days, and Will realized that he must appear quite at place in their midst - his face stung something fierce from where he'd successfully blocked a shot with his right cheekbone.

Aristotle Kane was the last to join the group. Wild-eyed and wild-haired, the captain showed the strain of the match when he almost collapsed on the ground.

"If you've got anything to say, say it now," Kane panted, as the Beaters helped him to his feet. "I'm not calling a timeout for any reason. We've got to run them into the ground."

Will lowered his head. Slytherin must have called the timeout, then. Were Tracy and his lot plotting a way to quickly end Hufflepuff's misery?

"I'm sorry, all," he groaned, in the direction of his feet. He closed his eyes, ostensibly to rest them, but more because he was imagining his future as a Quidditch pariah, consigned to a life of whispered taunts and disappointed sighs as he walked the halls of Hogwarts.

Elizabeth Rose stopped fiddling with a loose front tooth and laughed.

"Will," she exclaimed, "we're only 160 points behind!"

Will's eyes flew open, and he jerked his head up to stare at Elizabeth. That was all? Holy Hippogriffs, they could win this thing.

"Yeah, 160 points," Kane repeated, grinning at Will's look of open shock. "We won't sack you just yet, Lowby. Now, what are you seeing out there?" he asked, turning to the team.

"Galloway's marking you," Kevin van der Hoff volunteered, as he popped a dislocated finger back into place. "Only Spatchcock seems to be going after the Chasers."

Kane paused, and a devious smile began to twitch at the corners of his mouth.

"Is she, now?" he replied thoughtfully. "Perhaps Gertrude will help us in our hour of need." He paused again, as though running over a plan in his head. "Beaters," he said at last, "keep Patman away from the Snitch. Chasers, pay NO attention to what I'm about to do. Just be ready to score, and see that you DO. Welkin, you're our best penalty scorer - REMEMBER THAT."

Will couldn't tell what Robbie thought of the cryptic comment - the Chaser's bloody lip and eye swollen half-shut made reading his expression difficult - but Robbie nodded all the same. The shrill sound of Madam Hambeck's whistle cut Kane off before he could go further.

"Right, then," the captain said, steeling himself to re-enter the fray. "We're within striking distance, people. Let's end this match now."

Rejuvenated, if only in spirit, the team took off into the air. Will returned to his sentry at the hoops, and the other players gathered around, waiting for Madam Hambeck to release the Quaffle again. Something curious was happening on the pitch, though... Will watched, bemused, as Aristotle Kane began to fly in a close, tight circle around the Slytherin Beater whom van der Graff had mentioned. Really, Kane had to be either barking mad or exceptionally brave - according to rumour, even the Minister of Magic was afraid of Trudy Galloway, a seventh year Slytherin with bad hair and a temper to match. Everyone knew what had happened to the hapless first year who ate the last of Trudy's favorite jam tarts last Tuesday, as the boy was still cross-eyed. But here was Kane, zipping in and out, in and out, almost to Trudy's face, doubtlessly infuriating her.

The Quaffle was back in play now, but still Kane continued his games, hemming Trudy in to where she could barely fly an inch in either direction. Will squinted at the bizarre spectacle - was there a point to this, or was Kane just severely dehydrated? He caught his breath as Ebenezer Spatchcock flew closer to the duo, doubtlessly to come to his teammate's aid. At that same moment, a Bludger came spinning onto the scene. Will tried to pull his eyes away, but the Quaffle was far off, so he allowed himself another look. This was like giving Fizzing Whizbees to a Porlock - something interesting was bound to happen, and Kane wasn't flying away nearly fast enough if he was trying to get out of Trudy's range...

OOOF!

But then again, perhaps that was the point. The sound of man and Bludger connecting was heard throughout the pitch. Spatchcock wielded a powerful club, but he was slower on a broom than treacle in January, and he'd placed himself inadvisably close to Trudy's foe. He hadn't stood a chance once she swung; Kane had flitted off at the last moment, and the Bludger had caught Spatchcock in the stomach, nearly unseating him from his broom. Will could hear the incensed cries of the other Slytherin players, but as there was no injunction against attacking your own teammate, Madam Hambeck didn't halt the play. In the hullabaloo created by those few seconds, Elizabeth caught the Quaffle and added ten more points to Hufflepuff's score.

But the fun wasn't ending there...as Squires threw the Quaffle back in, Kane began flying back and forth in front of Trudy, punctuating his antics with dainty waves. The Beater, now livid, was looking from left to right in search of a Bludger to do the job that the last one hadn't. Will watched with a sick sort of fascination as she finally, upon finding no Bludgers at her disposal, pulled back her club. She wouldn't...oh, she would. Trudy's club went flying through the air, Aristotle Kane as its marked target. But - what in the blazes...? Robbie Welkin was flying directly towards it. Was he daft? If he wasn't careful, he was going to catch the club right in the knee...oh. Perhaps that was the point, too. Madam Hambeck's whistle cut through the air, and Hufflepuff's best penalty scorer flew forward to take the shot. Spent in mind and body, Will could do no more than let out a weary chuckle. Hufflepuff was a bloody great house.

The humour of the situation made a rapid departure, however, as soon as Robbie scored. Will summoned all his remaining strength. His eyes stung with sweat, their vision blurred, but he didn't dare shut them for a moment. A green blur was streaking down the edge of the pitch, veering in sharply. Will braced himself. Richard Tracy had an arm like a trebuchet with a grudge, and now that a mere 140 points separated them, Slytherin would be taking no chances. At that angle and speed, the far left hoop was the only one Tracy would be able to hit with any kind of accuracy. He was still a good distance away, but he was readying his arm to throw...

Will's heart pounded one frantic, final time as the Quaffle left Tracy's hands, but a flash of memory, the most vague recollection, hit just as he set his Comet in motion. Last August, on the Falcons' pitch, the final match of the training session. A wicked twist on the Porskoff Ploy. Tracy had flown in like this - the Keeper hadn't been able to see it, but Tracy had released the Quaffle just before the scoring area. Kathryn Felder had been there, too, playing on Tracy's side. Unseen by the defense, she'd swept in sharply from the opposite side, intercepting Tracy's throw in mid-air and sending it into the far right hoop in one quick, fluid movement. Disconcerted by the new Chaser who had unexpectedly, yet legally, entered the scoring area, the Keeper hadn't known what hit him. The right hoop had been completely unguarded, and Felder had scored. Will had gone home that night discussing the finesse and precision of the play with Patrick, but he'd never given it another thought, until...now.

Without pause, Will flung his entire body weight backwards, barely keeping his broom with him. An inner voice whispered that he'd be the biggest prat on earth if he were wrong, not to mention dead, if his legs couldn't keep their upside-down hold on the broom. But he knew he'd seen this play before...he stretched out his arms, reaching as far as he could, never more grateful for summer growth spurts than when the Quaffle met his fingertips in a brutal crush of bone. He hadn't acted quickly enough to save the ball, but the nudge sent the Quaffle off-course. It caught the edge of the hoop and bounced away, and the Hufflepuff stands erupted into a frenzy.

His fingers throbbed in pain, but Will knew he didn't have a second to dwell on them, or to take in Felder's mystified expression - the Quaffle was still fair game. He sped toward it, and was trying ineffectively to scoop it under one arm when a greater wave of jubilation and noise swept over the crowd. Will looked up to see Aristotle Kane descending on the pitch, battered, bruised, and holding the Snitch. Numb, he let the Quaffle bob away. By Merlin, they'd pulled it off. He'd maintained the score, and they'd beat Slytherin.

In a daze of pain and incredulity, Will turned his Comet with his one good hand and began to fly down to where his team had congregated. A baffled giggle kept slipping out of his mouth - Slytherin! The favourites! Vanquished by Hufflepuff! He blessed the names of Darren O'Hare, Madam Hambeck, and the makers of his Comet 220. He would remember this day for the rest of his life.

The team was hovering a few feet above the ground on their brooms, some whooping in celebration, others sobbing openly. Aristotle Kane looked as though he were under a very strong Confundus Charm. For the first time since the match began, Will turned his eyes to the stands, searching, searching... Was she there? Had she seen - ? He didn't have to look long - one face stood still among the jumping, screaming swarm of students. She was leaning against a railing, as though she'd just run down the steps to it, and her mouth was open in a wide, joyous smile. Will raised his uninjured hand in greeting, and his heart skipped a beat when Abby Loomis returned the gesture, her smile stretching out even more. There they remained, their gazes locked for several glorious seconds, until a congratulatory cuff from Angus Evers slammed Will off of his broom and onto the ground, where he promptly lost consciousness.

**

Part 5 - Instinct

**

For the first few seconds after he wrenched open his eyes, Will had no idea as to where he was. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his brain to stir from its sluggish state. Before long the feel of crisp, tightly tucked sheets, along with the antiseptic smells of Healing Potions, registered with his senses, and he knew himself to be in the Hospital Wing. The sight of Madam Pomfrey helped a bit, too. He was still clueless as to what had sent him there, though - an explosion in Potions, perhaps? Food poisoning? Had someone substituted his toothpaste for Mr. Bungle's Anti-Fungal Cream again?

Will wriggled an arm out of his linen cocoon to prop himself up, wanting to appraise his surroundings. As soon he moved, his aching body brought the memories back without delay. The match against Slytherin! His eyes opened wide at the recollection of Hufflepuff's win, and he looked down at his hand, which, although now bandaged, no longer hurt. Madam Pomfrey must have healed it while he was unconscious. A grin spread across his face. This had been one bloody fantastic day so far, and he didn't want to spend one more minute of it in bed.

So as not to attract the matron's notice, Will quietly tugged at his sheets and peeked underneath to ensure that his trousers were in place. He happily noted their presence, then inched closer and closer to the edge of the bed. If he could just locate his trainers, he could slip past Madam Pomfrey, who was occupied with treating other students, and be on his way...

"Lie down, Mr. Lowby!" a voice commanded, just as his feet touched the floor. Madam Pomfrey wasn't even looking in his direction, but her voice promised to turn him into a fluffy pink bunny if he didn't comply.

Will flopped back onto the bed in resignation. Bugger it! The common room was probably brimming over with celebration, and for reasons he was not about to confide to Madam Pomfrey, he really needed to get there. He let out an indignant grumble, but the hospital matron was still seeing to a second-year Hufflepuff whose face was dotted with green and silver pimples, and so she paid him no mind.

Despite his sore muscles, Will fidgeted and tossed with nervous energy. He craned his neck to see what that Ravenclaw girl in the bed across the way was reading. Something about pride...Pride of Portree, perhaps? They'd been playing well of late, and might even have a shot at a title, if only their Seeker would wake up from his latest coma.

He squinted his eyes, trying to get a closer look at the book's cover, but then the girl glanced up at him and smiled. Flustered, he quickly abandoned that diversion for counting the bedpans stacked along the far wall. He had only reached thirty-three before he gave another impatient grunt. No one else from his team was still here! Will wanted only to be examined, cleared, and sent on his way to whatever (or whoever, hopefully) awaited him in the Hufflepuff common room.

The steady "tick, tock" of the clock on the wall only taunted him further. Will stared hard at the back of Madam Pomfrey's head, trying to telepathically communicate the urgency of his situation. She continued to ignore him, however, and went about tending to a Slytherin student whose hands were sporadically morphing into badger claws.

"Does it hurt, Mr. Logan?" she inquired, applying a salve to the boy's reddened knuckles.

"Every time," he dolefully replied. Will rolled his eyes, feeling less and less sympathetic as the precious minutes passed by. Each one was another opportunity for Abby Loomis to decide that Robbie Welkin was really the man for her.

At last Madam Pomfrey bustled down the aisle to Will's bed, her mouth set in a thin line.

"Can I go?" he asked as she approached, sitting up eagerly.

"No," she answered, lifting up his bandaged hand and turning it from side to side. "I'm not certain that I want to send you back to your common room just yet. I can only imagine what sort of wild revelry is going on at this very moment."

"Madam Pomfrey," Will said, trying to ply her with an angelic smile, "Hufflepuffs don't really go for that sort of thing, you know. I'm sure the party's over by now."

The matron laid down his hand and raised an eyebrow, looking far from convinced.

"That excuse will not work with me, Mr. Lowby," she said. "Might I remind you that I come from Hufflepuff House myself? I know exactly the manner in which students carry on, and my left foot still has an ache from the time George Garner trampled on it during a Badger victory dance."

Will screwed up his face as Madam Pomfrey began prodding his cheekbone and lifting his eyelids to peer into his eyes.

"I don't know what the Headmaster is thinking, letting young children play at such a sport," she continued in mounting fury. "I've fixed chipped teeth, broken bones, and a handful of concussions today - and that was only among the spectators! Those Bludgers are horrid enough, without three-quarters of the students hexing each other. I'm of half a mind to tell Albus Dumbledore just what I..."

"Can I take this off, at least?" Will interrupted, pulling at the gauze on his hand.

Madam Pomfrey paused from poking at his face, and her countenance seemed to soften.

"I would like you to leave the bandage on," she said, more kindly this time, "if only to remind you not to do anything foolish in the celebration. I well remember how your friend Mr. Gudgeon tumbled off a table last year."

"Please?" Will tried again. He deemed it prudent not to mention that Davey had actually fallen from the chandelier.

"You may remove it tomorrow morning," she said, frightening Will with what appeared to be a twinkle in her eye. "Don't fret so, young man! You might even thank me for it later."

Without another word, Will seized his trainers and was out the door.

**

An hour later, Will understood the meaning behind Madam Pomfrey's parting comments, and he wasn't grateful in the slightest. No fewer than seven different girls had approached him so far, cooing and fussing over his bandaged hand. Under other circumstances this might not have been such a bad thing, but when he was trying to maintain a conversation (or a pathetic approximation of one, more accurately) with the girl he really did fancy, the attention was decidedly unwelcome.

Of course, Abby herself had touched his hand twice, something Owen had said was always a good sign. But then, Owen also once thought that if you drank a Pumpkin Fizz after consuming two Acid Pops, your head would explode. He probably wasn't the best authority.

Will glanced around the common room, which was in the most raucous state it had been since that time two years ago when castle-wide plumbing problems had caused the cancellation of exams. Madam Sprout had just retired to her own quarters, her eyes gleaming with joyous tears, leaving only a mild admonishment to not stay up too late. Now, if only the hordes of students would heed her counsel and leave him and Abby alone. Priya and Chrissy were making no secret of their observation and amusement, and Will's friends were no different.

"You played well today," Abby said, the apples of her cheeks turning pink. Her eyes darted to a nearby sofa, where her friends sat giggling.

Will was never more grateful that the victory was so fresh in everyone's mind. Given a few more days, Abby might remember that he had also let in three-dozen Slytherin goals. But that was a trifling point now, when she thought him partially responsible for the miraculous win.

"You must have sewn on a lucky button," he replied, his mouth moving more quickly than his mind. He wanted to beat his head against the wall as soon as the words came out. "Lucky button"? Could he be a bigger idiot? Worse yet, his mates seemed to have heard the comment from their position by the butterbeer. Their obnoxious snickering was probably audible down in the dungeons.

If only he and Abby could find somewhere to talk without an audience...the Hufflepuff quarters weren't lacking in additional rooms, but he didn't want anyone to see him leading Abby off. They might think he was after something...which he was, in truth, but not a very big something. Maybe he would tell her she was pretty, or ask her to accompany him on the next visit to Hogsmeade. At this rate, he'd be a doddery old geezer before he managed either.

But first, he had to try to salvage himself from the button remark. "I owe you some chocolate frogs for that," he said, shooting a sideways glare at his hecklers.

"Chocolate frogs?" she questioned. "For what?"

"The button."

Abby was quiet for a moment, brow furrowed, but then her mouth rounded in understanding.

"Did Owen tell you that?" she asked, ducking her head. "I, er, didn't think he'd be thick enough to fall for it."

"Oh, he would. I once had him convinced that Stubby Boardman was my uncle."

Abby glanced up and laughed. "Really?" she asked, seeming more at ease. "Do you think you could get his autograph for me?"

"Well, he's awfully busy with the band right now," Will mused, "but he's coming by the house for Christmas dinner. I'll see what I can do."

He paused after the remark, hoping Abby wouldn't think him too much of a fool, but then she broke out in a wide grin. Perhaps there was hope for him yet, lucky buttons notwithstanding.

"I'm happy that we won," she said, in a soft voice that Will could barely hear over the din. He was having trouble listening anyway, when she looked so admiring and pretty... Her hair was down around her shoulders in the way he liked best, and he felt as though he would happily give up food, Quidditch, and any of life's other pleasures to have her look at him like that every day.

But just as he was about to open his mouth in reply, he caught sight of another ambush about to take place. Connie Andrews and her two friends were coming towards him at a swift pace, looking scarily intent. He should have known how to evade his admirers by now, but they seemed to be getting more persistent. One of the sixth-year girls cut in front of Abby, nudging her to the side. Will saw her falter backwards, and although he reached out in frantic desperation, he only managed to catch her fingers for a brief moment. He caught her eye, pleading with her not to leave.

Will tried to mumble an excuse and flee before Connie could link her arm in his. The extraordinarily good timing of Aristotle Kane proved to be a godsend. Standing on the butterbeer table, the Quidditch Captain started up a rousing chorus of "Rise and Shout, the Badgers Are Out". The entire common room soon joined in, Will's assailants included. While the girls were temporarily distracted, he took a step away and started to pull at the wrappings on his hand. Stupid, naff bandage! Madam Pomfrey would just have to get over it - he was going to get rid of the thing and all the trouble it brought.

He was busy ripping off the last of the gauze when he felt a tug at his elbow. He turned his head to see Abby tapping her wand on the statue of Helga, a gigantic stone badger. Puzzled, he saw Helga slide aside, and Abby darting inside the narrow gap. Will scanned the room quickly. No one was watching them; it was now or never. Without a second thought, he took another step backwards and ducked into the small space, Helga gliding shut behind him.

Squinting in the newfound darkness, Will found himself facing a narrow, spiraling staircase. The sharp click-click-click of shoes on stone echoed upwards and ahead of him. Dazed, he began climbing the steps, taking two at a time. He was going to be alone with Abby, at her instigation. Brilliant. If his luck held, she wouldn't remember that he'd only got in the match today because of bad haggis. He tried to coerce his facial muscles into looking self-assured and composed, as though this sort of thing happened all the time. But it didn't, and he could feel his knees already starting to shake.

A cauldronful of possibilities whirled in his head as Will rounded the final curve. He never made it to the top step, though. That would have bowled Abby clean over, as she was standing on it. She must have stopped there, turning around to see if he had followed. Startled, Will grasped for the railing to keep his balance. Their faces were perilously close, close enough that he had difficulty focusing. He'd never quite looked at her from this perspective before. Even seated, she was always shorter and a respectable distance away. But now he saw eyelashes, the soft contours of skin, lips that had made him lose coherence before.

Abby gasped in surprise, and her breath, quick and warm from the brisk ascent, danced across his face. Will fought valiantly to keep his knees from buckling. The proximity was mesmerizing, and his solitary lucid thought was that if he leaned in, just a little bit, something wonderful and terrifying and altogether very cool might happen. A gulp swelled up in his throat as he moved a scant fraction forward. But he hesitated, and to his deep dismay, Abby stirred from her spot. Well, now he knew why he wasn't in Gryffindor.

"It's quieter here," she said, taking an unsteady step into the circular, moonlit room behind her. "I'm sorry, though...you probably want to be with your friends."

Shaking his head - as much to clear it, as to give her an answer - Will followed Abby into the room. He looked around in curiosity. "What is this place?"

"Hufflepuff Turret," Abby said, moving over to a window. She ran a hand back and forth across the stony sill. "I come here to study sometimes. It's rather drafty, so I'm usually the only one."

Drafty? Will let out a genuine laugh. Coming from the Lake District, this was nothing. He leaned against the wall and fumbled in his robes until he'd found his wand.

"Caleo Penetralis!"

Within seconds, the room began to fill with warmth. Pleased with himself, Will slid down until he was settled on the floor. "Although, this is still none too comfortable," he said, resting his elbows on his knees.

Abby turned from the window, her face brightening. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I can help you there." She reached for her own wand, and then pointed it in his direction.

"Demulceo!"

The hard stones beneath to soften like malleable clay, until Will felt as though he were sitting in his dad's overstuffed armchair. He eased into the cushioning, relaxing, until the idea occurred that she'd cast a spell on his bum. Well, not on his bum, exactly, but close enough. He felt his face burn, unsure whether to snigger or sigh. The same realization must have come to Abby, because she whipped around quickly to look out the window, her face obscured. An awkward pause ensued, during which Will racked his brain for a way to say that she was welcome to cast any spell that she pleased on him.

"Do you want to sit down?" he finally croaked. His voice had broken almost a year ago, but it was now threatening to return in full disharmonic glory. Abby shuffled over from the window, keeping her eyes on the floor. They stayed on her lap as she sat down beside him.

If only this could be conducted on broomsticks, Will lamented internally. Then, he'd have a Murtlap's chance of knowing whether she was going to fly right or veer left, soar high for a Porskoff Ploy or dip in a Wronski Feint. So many things indicated that she returned his interest, but for some inexplicable reason, it was still so hard to believe. It felt like Keeping blindfolded.

And yet, here she was, with him. Not looking at him, but not cringing in his presence, either. Her right hand was plucking at her robes, as though something wouldn't let it stay still. Acting before his fears could persuade him otherwise, Will dropped his own hand onto it. He heard Abby's breath catch, and she didn't move for a moment, but then she shifted her fingers, letting them intertwine with his.

Will felt ready to explode into a thousand pieces. Abby's shoulders were rising and falling rapidly, and his own heartbeat seemed liable to cause internal damage. When she finally looked up at him, and the moonlight made her face more beautiful than anything he'd ever seen, he was surprised his heart continued beating at all. She lifted her other hand; it hovered for a moment in the air, and then lit on his swollen cheekbone. Will had forgot his battle scars of the day. He probably looked grotesque, but she didn't seem to mind.

"Is that painful?" she murmured, smiling slightly, her fingertips brushing over the bruise.

"No," Will replied, but he barely knew what he was saying. All he was certain of was that his head seemed to be tilting, as was hers, and that his eyelids had no inclination to stay open. How funny, his mind crazily noted. All afternoon, he'd been trying to keep approaching objects at bay. And yet now, as their lips came together in a glorious, bumbling meeting, and Abby made a sound that sent a shiver straight through him, he knew this was one shot he was not about to block.

THE END

**