Harry Potter and the Quidditch Island

Broomsticks and Bad Dreams

Harry didn't sleep well that night. He had been thinking of Voldemort, biding his time as he planned ways of getting a hold of Harry. And then his thoughts had drifted to whom it might have been that was pulling all of these pranks. Swan seemed to think that they would be getting worse. But who could it be?

Cory was certainly a very possible suspect. He certainly hated Harry enough. But Cory didn't seem like the type to pull pranks, more like the kind of person who'd knock you senseless when you were all alone. Could it be Hawk? Maybe the fun loving joker image was just to confuse you. Harry still didn't know all of the campers very well. Braceb and Ogley, they were certainly suspicious characters. Or possibly Charlie Chambers: he might have planned all of these house-elf attacks on himself to get sympathy from the others and throw them off the truth.

Terry grunted in his sleep and rolled over. Harry narrowed his eyes as he sized up his sleeping companion. Could Terry be the one behind all of this? He was certainly in a good position to attack him. Maybe the bumbling, shy roommate was all an act.

Harry shook his head; he was being stupid. There was no point in second guessing his friends. It was all Voldemort's fault; he was making Harry feel like a mouse in a snake pit, just waiting to be attacked. And the worst part was that Harry couldn't do anything to stop it: all he could do was to go about his business blindly while other people took care of the situation. Harry turned over angrily and faced the wall. Why couldn't Voldemort just go after someone else for a change?

At seven-thirty, Harry awoke when he heard Ron ringing the morning bell. It took him a few moments to remember the night before, and doing so rekindled his anger. He dressed in a rush and stormed off to the cafeteria in a flurry of bad moods. The usually bangs and clatters were coming from the kitchen. Terry was already sitting at the table when Harry came in. He looked him over, puzzled at Harry's disposition.

It isn't fair, Harry thought angrily as he buttered some toast. He was sick of all living in fear of Voldemort. He looked up across the cafeteria at a few people who were whispering in his direction. He gave them a fowl snarl before turning back to his breakfast.

"Are you alright?" Terry asked finally. Harry looked at him and his face relaxed. Terry's expression was full of concern, and Harry couldn't believe he had even thought about suspecting him.

"It's nothing," he said. "I'm just tired."

"Well, maybe you should ask for some coffee or something," Terry suggested, "because I have a feeling that we're going to be in for another rough practice this morning. I bumped into Kitimer in one of the halls last night, and he was looking angrier than ever. Funny though, he looked like such a nice guy when I first saw him."

Harry sighed and took a long drink of juice. Terry was right, Kitimer's training sessions were getting harder and harder as time went by. But then again, the coach only had a limited time to get them up to par on their flying skills before the first cut.

"Terry, they said there were going to be two cuts this summer, right?" Harry asked.

Terry paused. "I think so," he replied. "I think that's what they said. After the first cut they just kick a few people out, while after the second cut I'm pretty sure that a few people leave and the rest are divided into the first and second lines. I think, but I'm not sure."

"Do you know when the first cut it?"

Terry paused again. "No, I'm not positive," he replied slowly. "But we're a week into July and the camp ends in August, so I guess it won't be too long now." Terry paused again, as if shocked by his own revelation. "Wow, I didn't realize how close the first cut is. It would really be too bad if we got kicked out now, after all of this effort. What a waste of a hundred Galleons. Do you think you'd get a refund?"

Harry shrugged and stared down at his food. All he wanted at the moment was to go home, any home. At least at his house on Privet Drive, they left him alone most of the time. Dudley, his massive cousin, wouldn't dare pull any pranks on him. Even though the Dursleys knew that Harry wasn't allowed to perform magic during the summer, they were still afraid that he might let their dangerous secret out into the world. The Dursleys hated to have anything to do with something that was out of the ordinary. Even though it was never fun, life on number four Privet Drive was looking very appealing compared to what he was dealing with at the moment.

What if he didn't make the first cut? What would they do with him then? They would have to send him home, wouldn't they? He could always purposely fail. They wouldn't be able to keep him at the camp if he was terrible, even if he was a publicity stunt. It would raise too much suspicion and they'd be forced to send him home.

Harry heard a great laugh and turned his head towards the sound. Cory was staring at the kitchen, laughing loudly. Through the gap in the wall, Harry could see Ron shaking his arm madly, trying to dislodge the two house-elves who had clamped onto it. Harry glared at Cory. There was no way that he could let himself get kicked out of this camp. Not while Cory was still there. He'd just have to grin and bear it. Taking one last swig of juice, Harry stood up and headed towards the door, with Terry close behind.

When they arrived at the pitch, Harry was disappointed to see the outdated brooms lying in a long row across the middle of the pitch. And Harry wasn't the only one. As they filed in, grumbles could be heard from all of the trainees.

"This is stupid!" Harry heard Hawk exclaim. "I still don't see how running and playing with broken brooms is going to help me fly better." There was a murmur of agreement through the crowd.

"Well why don't you run an extra fifteen laps, Nackoronty," came Kitimer's sharp voice from behind them. He and the other coaches had just entered the pitch. "Maybe that'll clear your mind a little. Anyone else have a problem with my methods?" He glared at them all, as if daring them to speak up. "Right then, get jogging."

Harry sighed, but one look from Cory had him jogging towards the front of the pack with a look of grim determination on his face.

"Right then," Kitimer said, clapping his hands together when their laps were finally completed. Hawk continued to jog around the pitch, giving Kitimer murderous glares as he did so. "I think it's time that you all learned to fly the right way. But remember, if you're really serious about your flying, you'll make sure that your muscle mass is distributed evenly throughout your body even if we don't have time to work out during practice. Otherwise, your broom won't go as quickly because it'll have to spend precious energy balancing itself out. It may seem insignificant, but every little bit of speed is essential in the big leagues. You understand?"

There were nods from the boys. Harry was a little taken aback. He's never realized how much you have to watch out for if you want to play professionally.

"Now, as you've probably already noticed," Kitimer continued, "most of these brooms are Shooting Stars. One of the best ways to get top results from your broomstick is to be able to understand it. What do you know about Shooting Stars?" He stared around at the blank faces. "Come on people, I didn't have you singing those songs for nothing, even though it was pretty amusing."

There was a long pause. Then finally, one boy chanted shakily: "The year of 1955, the Shooting Star set to the sky."

"Good!" Kitimer exclaimed. "But that won't help you much. Think now, what do you know about the Shooting Stars?"

Harry paused, trying to recap what he had sang the week before. Then it came to him.

"As it aged it wouldn't climb, it got much slower over time."

"Excellent! Now we're getting somewhere. You see, the Shooting Star was probably the cheapest broom ever to be put on the market, which explained its rise in popularity. However, the manufacturer's hopes to put a cheap broom on the market made them cut back on manufacturing quality, so, while the brooms were relatively speedy when first purchased, they lost that quality as time passed. As they aged the brooms lost speed and height. So, because you're all riding those types of brooms, it's a good thing to know. It'll help make them more manageable. It's always good to know you limits.

"Another helpful thing to remember is that not all brooms are created equal. Most brooms are handmade so that there is added attention to detail. And because each broom is unique, each broom's flaws are unique. That's why, when I think you're ready to get your racing brooms back, I want you to spend at least one evening getting to know your brooms properly. It's important to know how your broom reacts to you and its surroundings. That way, you can compensate for any flaws."

Kitimer paused to allow all of this to sink in. Harry looked around at his fellow campmates and was relieved to see that they were just as bewildered as he was. It was good to know that he wasn't the only one who had never considered analyzing the behavioral patterns of a broomstick.

"But I don't want you flying your brooms just yet," Kitimer continued. "Right now I want to get down to the basics. I want to take apart what you know and get you to fully understand how each movement affects your performance. I want you to be able to apply this knowledge to make yourselves better flyers. Now mount your brooms. And make sure you do it properly!" he added quickly. "I don't want to spend another lesson teaching that to you again. You've got a lot to learn and only a week for me to teach it all to you."

Carefully, the boys mounted their brooms and stood, waiting for Kitimer's instructions. After making sure that all of the boys were standing with perfect posture, Kitimer continued his lesson.

"Now, to get a proper start when flying, you have to have a proper kick when you push off into the air." Cory made the slightest noise, but Kitimer heard it and shot him a terrible look. "Something funny, Mr. Rodricks? If you already knew that then why weren't you doing it properly?" Cory straightened up, and Harry had to force himself to stifle his laugh at the look on Cory's face. "None of you were. But I think your kicks will have improved after the exercises you did last week. And I want you to keep doing them. A proper start in a Quidditch game could determine who scores the first points, and sixty-seven percent of Quidditch games are won by the team that scores first."

For the rest of the lesson that day, and the next, Kitimer taught them how to fly substandard brooms. Harry was surprised at the results he got. Kitimer's methods may have seemed painful, time consuming and pointless, but they worked. Kitimer taught them everything they needed to know about posture when you were flying. It was remarkable how even a single toe out of line slowed you down, but by the end of the day the results Harry was getting were amazing, even if he was flying a Shooting Star.

On Wednesday, they were given their brooms back, an action that got more than a warm response. And, as it turned out, Harry was flying his Firebolt much better than he ever had in his life. Kitimer's flying lessons were becoming more and more like physics lessons, and yet they were still enjoyable. The coach was getting results fast, which Harry supposed was why he was hired, since Kitimer had only a week left to train them. As much as Harry respected Madam Hooch, Hogwarts' flying teacher, it was amazing to learn from someone who knew what it was like to fly professionally, someone who could give them hints and pointers and tell them exactly what to do. Throughout the rest of the week, Kitimer had them flying all sorts of drills, racing, throwing Quaffles, swinging Bludger clubs: the works. Harry soon found that Kitimer was much more enjoyable when he wasn't disgusted by them.

"It's important that you have a good understanding of each other's positions," Kitimer explained one afternoon. "Understanding your team mates, how they play, and how they react is what's important. It'll hold you together. Knowing how your teammates work, being able to anticipate each other's moves: that is what separates the good teams from the winners."

Friday turned out to be an extremely hot day. Harry was relieved that Kitimer had them flying; there wasn't even the hint of a breeze in the air. Everything, down to the leaves on the trees, was still.

"All right soldiers, listen up," Kitimer called out early that afternoon. "You've all improved a lot, I'm impressed, and you should all be very proud of what you've accomplished in such a short time. Still, there are only a limited number of positions available on a Quidditch team. The results of the first cut will be posted after dinner on Sunday. Which means, ladies and gentlemen, that today and tomorrow are your last days to prove yourselves."

This statement gained Kitimer many looks of indignation and anger.

"Why didn't you tell us that before?" Hawk exclaimed. There were many cries of support. "I mean, we could've--"

"What, Nackoronty? What could you have done? Tried harder?" Kitimer laughed. "Now what would be the use in that? We aren't looking for people who are going to hold back until the big day. If you don't give one hundred and ten percent in practice you won't be prepared to give one hundred and ten percent in a game. That's what we've been looking for in these practices. Yes, the coaches have been here to judge you," he said, looking at the stunned faces of his trainees. "Maybe next time you're in this situation, you'll think better than to hold back. All right, lets go people, I want to get a better look at Group One..."

Harry headed towards the bleachers with one half of the group. Kitimer had divided them into two groups so that he could give them more personalized attention. Harry slumped down in a seat a few rows above the pitch and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was hard to pay attention in such heat. He closed his eyes and tried to relax...

Harry was chasing the Snitch; he could see it just ahead of him. But his Firebolt wasn't going fast enough. He could see the Snitch zigzagging through the air, taunting him, but he couldn't reach it. His broom suddenly stopped and tilted over until it was completely vertical. Harry slipped off and began to fall through the air, except it felt like he was falling through molasses. Slowly he inched closer and closer to the ground...a town was becoming visible...he was going to land on a graveyard full of mourners. But were they mourners? They were all wearing black cloaks...and masks. Then Harry's stomach gave a lurch. Death Eaters.

He started clawing at the air, trying to get back up to his broomstick, but he couldn't, he just kept floating down towards the ground. He watched as they got closer and closer, he would fall into the middle of their circle any second now...but then he stopped. The collar of his robes had gotten caught in a tree. So he hung there, as still as could be, watching as a tall, thin and extremely white man appeared and walked through the Death Eaters to the middle of the circle...walking ever so confidently...a tall thin man with red eyes and a nose like a snake's...with a short, balding man groveling at his heels...

"Faithful Death Eaters!" he exclaimed with a high-pitched voice that was as cold as ice. "My plan has come together perfectly...my spies have found him...and soon he will be ours..."

A ripple went through the ring of masked wizards, each murmuring with vicious pleasure.

Harry held his breath, trying not to make a sound. If Lord Voldemort or any of his Death Eaters heard him...

"He has escaped many times," the cold voice said quietly, "he is a lucky child. And he has his supporters, namely that Mudblood-loving fool Albus Dumbledore." He spat into the earth. "But their plans to protect him have failed this time. I know where he is and he will soon be brought to me. He is mine. Soon, Harry Potter will be mine!"

With a screeching, ear-splitting laugh, Voldemort thrust his wand in the air, which emitted angry red sparks. At that moment, Harry's scar began to burn violently, as if the sparks had lit it on fire. The fire was spreading, his entire body was shaking from the pain. He couldn't help screaming in agony; the pain in his head was unbearable, he felt like he might faint. Then he heard a crack. The branch he had caught on had snapped...he was falling...falling into the hands of Lord Voldemort...

"BREAZLEY! Someone get Mr. Breazley NOW!"

Harry grabbed his scar, which continued to burn as violently as ever; he was still screaming. He could also feel a large lump forming on the back of his head. Harry opened his eyes and saw that he was on the pitch; he had fallen down the risers. He stopped shouting and tried to sit up, feeling his face burning red with embarrassment, but before he could move Swan put a hand on his chest and made him lie back down.

"Don't move Potter, I don't want to risk anything." Swan barked, sounding more like he was angry than concerned.

Harry lay back down, feeling rather stupid. His head was still throbbing and his scar still stinging and he was sure his face was redder than a tomato. He was very aware that all eyes were on him as he lay on the edge of the pitch, surrounded by the coaches. Thankfully, the photographer was too shocked to take any pictures.

In a few moments, Ron had entered the pitch, looking tired and confused. He looked over at Harry, who was still rubbing his forehead, and his face turned white.

"Take him to the infirmary," Swan said quietly. "Nurse Midley will know what to do with him. You're not to stay with him, Breazley," he said sharply as Ron helped Harry up. "I haven't forgotten your punishment."

"Stupid git," Ron mumbled to Harry. "Was that about...?"

"Yeah," Harry replied quietly. "I don't know what happened. One minute I was sitting there and the next I had fallen to the pitch."

Ron didn't say any more as he helped Harry back to the manor, but the expression on his face told Harry exactly what he was thinking. They entered the manor and headed towards the library, but turned down a narrow corridor before they reached it. This corridor was lined with paintings, and Harry noticed that the subject of all was medicine. There were paintings showing medicine men performing spells in jungle villages, of medieval doctors playing with odd machines, and a particularly noisy painting of a makeshift medical facility that had been set up in the middle of a war. At the very end of the hall was a door with a red cross in the middle of it. Ron opened it and helped Harry in.

By looking at it, it seemed to Harry that the infirmary had been made specifically for the members of the Quidditch camp. There were ten beds lining the sides of the walls at one end of the room, and large cupboards lining the walls at the other. There was also a wooden desk at which a small, plump witch was snoring loudly.

"Nurse Midley," Ron said loudly, "I need to talk to you. She sleeps a lot," he said in an undertone to Harry. "She doesn't really have much to do." He rapped his fist loudly on the doorframe. Nurse Midley snorted and woke up, looking disgruntled.

"Can I help you?" She looked at Ron with narrowed eyes.

"There was an accident on the pitch," he replied, trying not to glare back at her.

She looked at Harry and gestured for him to sit on a bed. Ron walked over to her whispered to her, explaining what had happened. A sudden expression of realization went across the nurse's face, and she pushed Ron out of the way and rushed over to Harry.

"Come here sonny, over here." She flicked her wand at an empty spot of floor and an examining table rose out from it. The top of the table was made form the same wood as the floor, so it was hidden perfectly when it wasn't up. Harry lay down on the table and the witch proceeded to examine him with all sorts of odd contraptions. After a few tests, she ran what looked like a long metal pencil over his scar and shook it. Immediately, a large puff of purple smoke came out of the end. It must have meant something to her, because after staring at this cloud for a few moments, she waved it out of the air and helped Harry back over to one of the beds.

"Take two of these," she said, thrusting two large round orange pills in his hands, "they will help with the pain from that bump on your noggin. And take this one," an oval shaped yellow pill, "for that scar. And then take a sip of this." She handed him a small green bottle. "You need to sleep."

It seemed odd to Harry that she knew what to do, cursed scars weren't common after all, but he took the medicine without question. Almost instantly, his eyelids became too heavy to keep open, and he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

When he opened his eyes, Harry saw that the sky outside was red. He sat up quickly and tried to take off his blankets, but Nurse Midley had rushed over and pushed him back into bed.

"You're staying here tonight," she said curtly. "Mr. Breazley will be here soon with your dinner."

As if on cue, the door opened and Ron came in, pushing a cart with a dish of food on top.

"Hey," Ron said quietly when Nurse Midley had sat back down at her desk. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible," Harry replied angrily. "I missed the entire practice. There's no way I'm going to make the first cut now. They're going to think that I can't handle a little heat. Cory'll really like that..."

"Don't talk like that," Ron said. "They know you can fly, it wasn't your fault." He was trying to sound reassuring, but Harry could hear a note of anxiety in his voice. This only made Harry feel worse; how could he leave Ron here all alone?

"How am I going to face them all?" Harry muttered angrily. "I'm going to be the laughingstock of the whole camp."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that until tomorrow," Ron replied, handing him his dinner tray. "You're supposed to spend the night here. Swan wants to keep you under constant observation and all. And here," he bent down and picked a few books off of the bottom of the cart. "Amy gave me these, I thought you'd like them. I know I don't want them." He shook his head. "She and Hermione should really get together."

Harry smiled weakly and twirled his fork in his spaghetti. Ron stood up.

"Well I've got to go, loads to do. And I don't like the way Nurse is looking at me either." Ron sighed. "It's all because of those stupid house-elves, they fed her assistant an entire bottle of that sleeping stuff last week. She still hasn't woken up. Don't worry too much about the practice. There's always tomorrow. You can make it up then." He smiled, but it was very strained. Harry could tell Ron didn't have much confidence.

After eating all that he could (Nurse Midley kept insisting that he have extra helpings) Harry tried to flip through the books Ron had given him, but it was no use. All he could think about was how terrible his practice had been, and how embarrassing it would be when he saw everyone the next day. Only a little while ago he was thinking about not making the first cut on purpose. But now, he was lying in the infirmary, racking his brain for ways to make up for his terrible performance. He couldn't give Cory the satisfaction of seeing him fail. Harry didn't have long to worry though; Nurse Midley could obviously see how distressed he was, because she came over a poured the sleeping draught down his throat and forced him into a deep sleep.