Amber Dreams

"Montgomery is an excellent Captain - "

"That, my dear fellow, is one way of putting it - "

" - better than Malfoy?"

"Beaumont or Augustus?"

Laughter.

Quidditch seemed to be the only topic of conversation that week. Even the Muggleborns, who had never seen a match played, were discussing and bluffing their way through the expectations. Ravenclaw had hung pennants from their tower above the West Wing, in blue and bronze, though the Slytherins had either neglected to show their support for their team so ostentatiously, or were confident enough in their own abilities that they simply did not need to. Their faith in the team seemed justified by the amount of time the Slytherins spent out on the pitch, through the foulest weather that the end of autumn could throw at them. The Gryffindors, who would not have a match until after the Christmas holidays, had limited their practise to once a week, though Montefiore, the Gryffindor Captain, did not take well to so little activity.

Albus and Lizzie, however, were not so affected by the talk of Quidditch. They had little knowledge of the rules, though Geoffrey had tried to explain the basics, and Albus preferred to walk through the grounds looking for the raven.

"He's a queer one, that Albus," was the way Pellinore put it, though he had become quieter and far less confrontational after his return from the hospital wing. Instead, he had put his efforts into less obvious taunts at Geoffrey, who tried to reign in his anger whenever the other boy was in the room. There had been a hex in the corridor that brought Geoffrey out in a painful purple rash, and though he had not managed to see who cast it, he knew it was Pellinore. In return, Pellinore's toad had been rediscovered in the Astronomy Tower, its cage suspended from the flagpole. The teachers had observed the various events with a disapproving air, although it seemed that Professor Barnacle was inclined to hear Pellinore's side of the story, which Geoffrey would vigorously complain about in the Common Room when neither his Head of House nor Pellinore were in sight.

"I simply cannot stand him. With his airs and his father, dropping the names of the Minister. Why, the Pettigrews are barely Pureblood at all, no offence, Lizzie," he continued, Lizzie not noticing anything besides her Latin assignment, "His grandmother was a Muggle from Bankside, and no matter than she should be, so my uncle said. And he supposes we Ollivanders are mere artisans, by deuce, I'd show him..."

Quidditch and Purebloods, that was the talk of the Gryffindor Common Room, and it was little surprise that Albus took to pacing the grounds, watching the skies. Looking back, he wondered whether if he knew what he was looking for, he would have ceased his search. Perhaps, he thought, and perhaps not. Geoffrey would remind him how ill-suited he would have been, had Albus not taken the burden, but that was in the past, and bygones had to be bygones.

They talked.

* * *

An Interlude.

"It's them, Professor. The Ollivander child, and the Mudblood. The Mudblood's got interesting heritage, I'll give him that."

There was smoke, and flames in the chimney. Silver and green on the desktop.

"Interesting heritage? Tell me more."

"I saw the wehrhremn on the grounds, by the Great Oak. And though the Mudblood did not recognise him, the creature certainly did. If his mother is who I think she is, then we must be dreadfully careful. They've asked Maudlin about the Stone, also, though they've not thought to look in the library."

"Is Madame de Worde one of ours, or do our foes have her?"

"She seems oblivious to both, Professor. But she'd be suspicious if we asked for the History to be moved to the Restricted Section."

"I don't think we need to go that far. But if they are truly curious, then we may as well encourage them. The wehrhremn, though, that is worrying. If my brother is here, and not in Azkaban, then the Mudblood must be protected. Their potential must be put to our use."

"Then you have decided they are the ones?"

"I have seen their dreams. There can be no doubt that it is one of them. We should inform our foes, though."

"Is that wise, Professor? We could take the advantage before they even realise who the potentials are."

"And have our opponents defeated, and all that potential gone to seed before the crop is harvested. No, we shall warn them. Tell one of our supporters, and have them disseminate the information."

"Very well."

* * *

It was the day of the Ravenclaw-Slytherin match, and the sky, having grown worryingly grey and overcast in the two days preceding it, seemed to have listened to the fervent prayers of the assorted students and teachers. The sun was gentle, and the pitch scattered liberally with brown leaves from the Forest, though they were not as dense as the ground around the great Oak. A half-hearted attempt to clear the ground had apparently been made, though to little avail, since the centre and little else was clear of leaves.

After a good breakfast, at which the players were noticeably absent, the students made their way across to the Quidditch Pitch, where the tall stand waited. Ascending the staircases, Geoffrey began once more to explain the rules to a rather reluctant audience. The wooden structure swayed occasionally under the weight of the crowd, and Lizzie squeaked and clutched at them both whenever it did so. Eventually they reached the top of the stands, and Albus was struck by the notion that this was a superb place to watch the skies down to the lake beyond the castle. He was unable to point this out to the others as, just when Geoffrey pushed them down into the last remaining seats, a sonorous voice rang across the pitch.

"Welcome, students, staff and guests, to the inaugural match of the 1865 Hogwarts Quidditch season. Below us, Madame Scrimgeour is preparing the Bludgers. Slytherin have a particularly strong team this year, although the addition of a new Keeper to Ravenclaw may hold some surprises, that's Millicent Gaggle for Ravenclaw, and I do believe Madame Scrimgeour has given us the signal. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I give you, Ravenclaw and Slytherin!"

And then it began.

It was nothing like anything Albus had ever seen before. At the last word of the commentator, the two teams leaped up into the air on their brooms, and a red ball was thrown up towards them, followed closely by two smaller, black balls that zoomed upwards, forcing players to dodge them.

"That's the Bludgers, Lizzie, you see?" explained Geoffrey, as a girl in Ravenclaw blue batted one away. The Quaffle almost darted between the Slytherins, as if they hardly needed to know where their team-mates were. "They are good," exclaimed Pellinore from the row below them. Albus hardly needed the interjection. If this was what they trained on brooms for, then he could hardly wait to be allowed to play properly.

"Of course, it's hardly Alley Quidditch," continued Geoffrey, pointedly ignoring Pellinore, "And they're not professional, but they can - "

A shout from the Slytherin stands interrupted Geoffrey as a Chaser put the Quaffle through one of the Ravenclaw hoops.

"First blood to Slytherin, with a good goal by Mortmain. That's ten points to Slytherin, and none to Ravenclaw. And now Ravenclaw with the Quaffle, to Gudgeon, back to - no, wait, a fumble, and back to Slytherin with an excellent catch by Fudge, showing that a pair of safe hands runs in the family. And a Bludger puts paid to Fudge, a nasty knock in the arm there, and retrieved by Malfoy Minor, and - "

One of the players, who had been still for much of the game, suddenly darted up, high above the pitch, hand out-stretched, red hair flared behind him. Albus could just make out a glint of gold in the sky, and Geoffrey whispered, "The Snitch..." just as it darted sideways. The Seeker turned in midair, but too slowly, as the Ravenclaw Seeker crashed into him. They disentangled, searching around for a glimpse of the Snitch, but it was gone. Below them, Slytherin scored another ten points.

"Why do they call him Malfoy Major?" asked Albus. Pellinore answered before anybody else could, "Hogwarts tradition. If there are more than three in a family at Hogwarts, we call them Maximus, Major, Minor and Minimus. The Malfoys always were a fertile lot, of course."

After the first appearance of the Snitch, the excitement dwindled slightly, the Quaffle leaping from hand to hand, captured, thrown, goals scored here and there on both sides, until once again the Snitch came into view, a flutter of gold near the Slytherin hoops.

"I'll venture to say that Malfoy Major has spotted the Snitch, and Beckeridge in fast pursuit for Ravenclaw. The Malfoys have a quick eye it must be said, and - Malfoy Major dodges a Bludger, good aim from Shacklebolt, but not good enough. They're racing neck for neck, and Malfoy has the edge... just... about AND HE HAS THE SNITCH!" roared the announcer, as the Slytherin Seeker grasped at the air, and the flicker of gold disappeared. Arm raised high, Malfoy Major flew back to the rest of the team, who shook his hand or kissed his cheeks in congratulations. Geoffrey noticed that the only one who didn't was Malfoy Minor, who nodded tersely. The Ravenclaws, defeated, had already returned to the ground.

"Short match, that one, eh?" said Pellinore, rather disappointed, and Geoffrey was annoyed that he had to agree.

"They go on much longer in Alley Quidditch, of course, but we don't get to play that often. Why, there was one that lasted from Goose Monday all the way through to the holiday of St Ruddigore, and we had to keep stopping to be called inside for chores."

"That isn't real Quidditch, Ollivander. That's just children's games!"

"It is not! Just because you have open spaces to play across doesn't make you a better player. Indeed, I should suppose it hardly challenges you, having little or indeed no buildings to evade."

"Very well, Ollivander," spat Pellinore, as they descended from the Gryffindor stands, "A race. First man round to the Astronomy Tower, across the Great Hall roof, and back to Gryffindor Tower. Want to wager a few Sickles? You won't have a chance, you know."

"A Galleon, then," hissed Geoffrey, as they left the stands, under the watchful eyes of the Prefects.

"Oh, now, let's not be too hasty!" spluttered Pellinore.

"Very well. 5 Sickles." They shook hands, and Albus thought they looked almost friendly. "When will we do it? Before prep?"

"Don't be silly. We'll do it at midnight. Montgomery's offered to lend me a broom, and I bet that Weasley would let you use his."

"Why, you had this planned!"

"Of course. There's no point in being hasty." Then Pellinore ran off after a group of his friends, who all looked back at the three of them, laughing.

"You're not really going to do this, are you, Geoffrey," said Albus, who had been listening absently to the challenge, in a voice that hardly showed whether he approved or not. Geoffrey nodded firmly.

"Of course I am. Besides, I wager I am as good as him. Will you stay up and watch us, Albus? Please say you will!"

"You're my friend, Geoffrey. Of course I will."

"I'll watch it too!" piped Lizzie, who had been listening eagerly. "Even if it is queer for people to fly."

* * *

They stayed awake after the lights went out, listening to the sound of the other boys, the soft, nasal grunt of Cadog, the heavy wheeze of Crowthorne. They refused to talk, so they sat, silent, the curtains around their bed drawn and their wands to hand. It was strange, thought Geoffrey, how fast they became a part of you; he could hardly imagine what it was like to be without one, to not have a light at the tips of your fingers and held in the palm, not to defend and fight, as little as a first year was able. He polished it each night and morning, not because he knew his father would want him to, but because it made sense. It was his wand, it would protect him, and in return he would owe it due reverence.

Breathing pervaded the night, slowly, endlessly, until somewhere, far away, a clock tolled for midnight.

"Come on," came a whisper from the shadows. Pellinore's voice. "I've got the brooms. Weasley said he won't disturb us."

Geoffrey clambered out of bed. They had kept their day-robes on, and they both looked a little dishevelled, but at midnight looks didn't matter. Geoffrey noticed, suddenly, that Albus was standing by the window, gazing out. He turned and looked at them. "I saw the raven out there. But I'm sure you will be safe."

Pellinore had the brooms in his hand, and thrust one towards Geoffrey, the one that didn't have quite so many bent twigs.

"We'll fly from a level footing, our feet touching the wall," he said, as he turned to open the latticed window. The moonlight grew tenser, no longer veiled by the lead and the cheap glass, and a trickle of cold air leached into the room. Albus didn't shiver. He had seen colder nights than these in the countryside. Pellinore kneeled on the window ledge, broom between his thighs, and then tipped out into the air. He fell for a moment, and then hovered, moving out of the way for Geoffrey to move out.

Geoffrey clambered out onto the windowsill, broom between his legs, and braced himself as a gust of wind blew hard into the room. Then he tipped and tumbled out, into the night, and hung, suspended. Then, placing his feet flat against the wall, he looked sideways at Pellinore, who nodded, curtly. Then Albus whispered into the night, counted down from five, and suddenly they were away on the count of one, and the night sped past Geoffrey, blue and black and silver. He could see the Astronomy Tower ahead, thankfully empty, telescopes dotted around the battlements like cannons against the stars. In the edge of his vision he could see Pellinore's hair, in contrast with the sky, and then the other boy drew nearer as he reached the Astronomy Tower, heading hard against the curve to block the other off.

Geoffrey ducked low, just as the other boy made to pass him, and he could feel the tip of the other boy's broom nudge against his own. Then he passed down, whilst the other boy swooped across overhead, but he knew that the tower was supported by a thick buttress on the other side, even if Pellinore hadn't noticed. He heard the sudden swoosh of the other broom as Pellinore saw the buttress, slowed and tried to swerve around the obstacle, but by that time Geoffrey was well clear of it all. This was everything Alley Quidditch should be, he knew, where the surroundings were everything, and a bad flyer with a good mind could always get the advantage.

And now he soared across the Great Hall, the roof bound in lead, appearing like silver in the moonlight, and then past the empty flagpole that tipped the far end of the building. The lake hurtled into his view, wide and rippled by the wind, reflecting the sky poorly. Despite the waves disrupting the mirror of the lake, he fancied he could see himself down there, a mere speck against the pinpoint stars.

Pellinore was catching up, though, and he marvelled at the waters for a mere second, before ducking his head as low as he could against the wind. It wasn't enough; a sudden gasp of wind pushed him down, off course, and he swung down into a green courtyard, trapped in a vortex of wind. Up above him, Pellinore was trapped in the same tunnel, and they struggled against it, alone in the night. The wind howled against Geoffrey's ears like a wolf or an angry mother, and he couldn't help but succumb to it, hitting the green grass at an angle. Seconds later, Pellinore joined him, hitting the earth clumsily. The wind gave out in the still of the courtyard, and they lay there, silently, ragged gasps leaving their bodies.

It was a full minute before they realised that somebody was waiting for them in the courtyard, a dark figure, leaning against an apple tree, a glowing pipe showing a bearded face.

"Well, well, well. I do believe we have two young boys in trouble," hissed the headmaster, before he lifted them bodily off the ground and on their feet, marching them off to his study.

* * *

"Mr Ollivander, Mr Pettigrew. I was taking my usual late night walk from the kitchens to my chambers, when I saw an interesting sight in the ceiling of the Great Hall. Do you know what I saw, young boys?"

"No, sir," they both said, sullenly.

"I am inclined to believe that you do. I saw two people flying across the roof of the Great Hall, young children. I have extraordinary eyesight, young boys, and I espied that they wore Gryffindor robes, and I also saw that they were caught in an unnatural storm. Ever mindful of my young wards, I hurried out to aid them."

He took a long pull on his pipe, before puffing out a long sigh of purplish smoke. Pellinore muttered something, an excuse of some kind. The headmaster interrupted angrily, spittle flying through the smoke.

"I do not have time for excuses, and even if I did, I wouldn't give a Jobberknoll's pizzle! Detention, the both of you, and fifteen points from Gryffindor."

"But sir!"

"Twenty points," said Phineas, smoothly, and he smiled politely. "Go on, go to bed. You will be dealt with in the morning."

Geoffrey stared at the man for a few seconds. He was sure he recognised his eyes, but...

He's the Headmaster. Of course you've seen his face before. Yes, that would be it.

And, feeling slightly more comforted, he turned and walked out of the room, without a backwards glance. As he reached the open door, through which Pellinore had already left, he heard the Professor speak again.

"By the way, Ollivander, congratulations on winning." Geoffrey stopped on the threshold, and muttered a thank you.

"And tell your friend that if the raven does not wish to be found, then the raven will not be found. Or at the very least, it would be better to look in the Library."

"Thank you, Professor," replied Geoffrey, finding his voice.

"Oh, don't thank me. Schoolboy duels and petty struggles are of little consequence to me, of course. Now, I require my scarce moments of rest, and you are interrupting them. Another five points from Gryffindor, I think. Good night!"

The Professor waved a hand, and the door slammed shut, pushing Geoffrey onto the little ledge. His head felt clearer now, away from the smoke, though the smell still lingered uncomfortably. The silvery snake-head rose up, bringing the winding stairway up with it, and he walked down the scales into the corridor. The floor was cold, penetrating even through his shoes, and he shivered, a shiver that ran up his body and pulled at his spine. At night, the passages seemed more ominous, the torches barely smouldering, the grey moon passing only fragments of light onto the colourless stone.

He could see a flash of mousy hair far ahead, and he ran towards Pellinore. His feet pattered across the floor, a rhythm, a chant, safety in numbers, safety in numbers, and he was not sure whether it was the sound of his feet or the thoughts in his head. A hand slipped into another, and they walked back to the Gryffindor Tower, not looking at each other, until they reached the portrait. Then they took their hand away from the other, and clambered through the portrait, entered the Common Room, and ascended the stairs. Albus was still waiting there, by the open window, and he nodded, and said nothing as they climbed into their beds, and pulled the drapes roughly shut, and then all that could be heard were the exhalations of the sleeping boys.