Seeing McGonagall in the Headmaster's chair at the High Table was unsettling in a way that was difficult to articulate. It was unfamiliar territory for her as well, but she held herself together — credit where it's due. I found myself wondering whether Dumbledore had formally transferred authority to McGonagall, or whether he was still sowhere in the castle, quietly pulling the strings of its enchantnts.
Either way, as of today — Saturday, the twenty-fourth of February — McGonagall had been Acting Headmistress for a week and a half, and no one particularly objected. The position was an elected one, normally overseen by the Ministry and the Board of Governors, but they had rather more pressing things on their minds at the mont than Hogwarts. As for the false Dumbledore... my Transfigured copy had been buried without ceremony or witnesses, in the company of a narrow circle of wizards, on a small island not far from Hogwarts. A tomb had been erected there — white marble, no less. Rita Skeeter had inevitably found her way in, and the resulting Prophet article had included an announcent that she was beginning work on a biography of Dumbledore's life. So, as far as society was concerned, the Headmaster was dead.
Children, teenagers — they either recover from shocks very quickly, or they suffer long and stubbornly. Our Hogwarts population had both sorts, along with a small number who simply didn't care about Dumbledore, or who was Headmaster, or a great many other things besides. And given that McGonagall had elected not to cancel either the Quidditch match today — Saturday — or tomorrow's visit to Hogsade, many had moved past the shock of Dumbledore's supposed death rather quickly.
Sitting at the Hufflepuff table during breakfast, I found myself watching an amusing scene at the Gryffindor table. Ron Weasley was sulking at his friend Potter while chewing intently. The thing was, Harry had thrown himself into his studies, and was doing so alone — not wanting to be distracted. Ron was, predictably, unhappy about this arrangent. From what I'd heard and observed myself, he was a fairly typical layabout, of which there was no shortage. Potter was even making an effort to contain himself during Snape's lessons, keeping his feelings under strict control. It clearly wasn't easy for him. Snape looked satisfied. As for Daphne and , he had released us from Occluncy lessons with the words:
— Your continued attendance here no longer serves any purpose. You have learned to identify various forms of intrusion into the mind, and what remains depends entirely on whether you choose to develop your ntal faculties and self-discipline, or not.
So that chapter of our education was behind us. For Potter, however, much was only just beginning — it was obvious the boy had never learned to rein in strong emotions, and he was suffering for it now.
— What are you thinking about? — Herbert dropped into the seat beside , smiling pleasantly. — Not the match, surely? Glad to be back in action?
— Do you honestly think, — I set down my fork, having finished everything on my plate, — that just because I'm good at flying, I must enjoy it that much?
— Why not?
— Do you think birds enjoy flying?
— Oh, philosophical questions, — Herbert said in mock indignation, keeping his smile in place. — Not really my forte. But since you asked... I haven't the faintest. Flying is brilliant, isn't it.
— For birds, it's a survival chanism. Finding food. Trust , if they had the option, they'd sit on their backsides and chirp. And maybe not even chirp.
— So you're saying flying is a survival chanism for you? — Justin had been unable to stay out of this.
— Simply one thod of developing one's own capabilities.
— A profitable thod, too. You do get a little sothing for playing on the Sleipnir. And the broom itself, — Herbert pointed out with so importance. — Speaking of which, why haven't you taken your broom out of the team inventory? It's yours, isn't it.
— I don't see the need.
A few minutes later, our team had to make their way to the changing rooms, which we duly did. Leaving the Great Hall amid conversations about various things and the upcoming match, we walked briskly out through the main gates of Hogwarts and made our way to the annexe at one of the towers, not far from the Quidditch pitch. It wasn't exactly an annexe, to be precise — only a slight projection of the tower's façade — with most of the changing rooms and equipnt storage tucked inside the stonework itself. A rather odd architectural decision, if I'm honest.
Having changed and collected our brooms, we sat on benches facing one another, going over tactics and waiting for the magical signal from the referees indicating the pitch and the spectators were ready.
— So then, how are we playing, most esteed Captain? — Herbert was smiling at Tamsin.
I simply sat with my eyes half-closed, focusing. Zacharias and Ernie, who had made the team, were visibly nervous — this was their first match. But according to Tamsin, they'd been performing very well in training.
Tamsin gave a quick rundown of the tactics they'd be using against Ravenclaw. My role was straightforward — don't let any Quaffles through, and launch the intercepted ones as far down the pitch as possible. Thanks to my physical conditioning, throwing things at speed — with the broom adding sharp bursts and turns to the effort — was sothing I could do about as well as anyone.
On receiving the signal, we moved out to the pitch in good order, and ten minutes later stepped onto the grass of the arena. It was February, admittedly — damp, overcast, with the plant life in no hurry to recover from winter — but the pitch had been tidied and re-turfed, as it always was.
Ignoring the noise of the crowd, the slight bite of wind, the grey weather, we waited in focused silence for the match to begin, standing in our black-and-yellow robes, watching our opponents in blue across from us.
Then, on Madam Hooch's whistle, all three Quidditch balls were released into the sky, and the Snitch vanished instantly from view. Simultaneously, we all kicked off from the ground, mounting our brooms and scattering to our positions, while the lead Chasers went for the Quaffle. In a mont I was hovering in front of our team's hoops, listening to the feel of everything happening on the pitch.
I could already sense the Snitch — I knew where it was, where it was heading — but the Seekers couldn't. They opened the ga in the classic fashion, patrolling the upper level, circling above the players who were slowly warming into the match. Ravenclaw had opted for a strategy of rapid, aggressive attack from the outset, pouring maximum effort in from the start. This was sensible — our team was half composed of players with no experience of real matches, complete with the crowd, the pressure, the weight of expectation.
They managed to build an advantage early on, though Tamsin — our captain — had anticipated exactly this and issued simple instructions: settle into the atmosphere, but do it quickly. We won't rush at the start. The hoops are safe.
For , hovering in front of those hoops and waiting for a Chaser in blue to co streaking in for a shot turned out to be, if anything, more absorbing than I'd expected. A Quaffle arrowed toward the right hoop; I shifted instantly, intercepted it, and with a sharp spin sent it straight into Tamsin's hands — she'd been waiting for precisely this near the Ravenclaw end, with Ernie alongside her.
— ...the Quaffle intercepted by Appleby, Hufflepuff's captain! — Lee Jordan's voice rang out across the pitch. — She instantly builds on an astonishing pass from Granger — a run, a dodge from the Bludger! A give-and-go with Macmillan, Appleby at the hoops, the shot — and Hufflepuff are on the board! It seems Granger's move from Chaser to Keeper hasn't weakened the team by very much at all!
— Quite right, Jordan, — McGonagall's voice joined in from above; she had evidently not been able to bring herself to retire from her role as colour comntator, her love of Quidditch being, by all accounts, too deeply ingrained. — It's gratifying to see that despite a full year's absence and half a new line-up, the Hufflepuff team continues to treat us to excellent play.
Having shut out the noise around for maximum personal effectiveness, I tracked only the movent of players and balls — intercepting Quaffles with sothing approaching certainty, and ducking the occasional Bludger that ca my way. Our players knew what to do when a Ravenclaw Chaser broke through successfully, and they worked to reach one of a dozen pre-established positions in advance, into which I could deliver an intercepted Quaffle with consistently high speed and precision.
When I'd been a Chaser, I was often the attacking force myself, leaving the other Chasers to focus on interceptions and defending our half, reducing the shots on goal and lightening the load for Herbert. Now the situation had shifted — I didn't need much cover, so the Chasers could spend most of their ti on the Ravenclaw half, or close to it. The Beaters, similarly, could focus on the opposing Beaters rather than trying to knock back attacking Chasers — because either way, I'd protect the hoops. And Herbert, for his part, looked frankly delighted to no longer be anchored in front of the hoops, fretting about his inability to get stuck in properly. There he was, weaving through the sky, hamring Bludgers with his bat, clearly enjoying himself thoroughly — and playing brilliantly for it.
Ti passed. I slipped into sothing close to an automated state, absorbed in monitoring the match and relying primarily on instinct — tracking every movent of everything on or near the pitch that ford part of the ga. Constantly calculating probable trajectories, likely developnts, optimal outcos. I even found a kind of quiet satisfaction when a teammate — or an opponent — acted in accordance with my best projections. Our newcors didn't yet have a strong feel for the ga and rarely moved in the way I'd have chosen for them, but Herbert and Tamsin had solid experience and more often than not did exactly the right thing. From my perspective, at least — no more than that.
Rather to my surprise, when the whistle sounded and the match was called, I felt a mild pang of disappointnt. We drifted down to the ground and gathered together, the stands erupting around us, so students running out onto the pitch, while my mind — shifting its focus — pulled not the flights and manoeuvres but the statistics and the final score to the surface.
— Victory! — the team were shouting happily, jumping with their brooms in hand.
Soone clapped on the shoulder, others simply celebrated, and in a noisy, jostling crowd we made our way back toward the castle.
— Well then, — Herbert fell into step beside . — How was it, being Keeper?
He looked tired and worn — the match had run genuinely long, almost four hours, and his role had taken a serious physical toll.
— You know, — a smile made its way onto my face. — I rather enjoyed it.
The noise of many cheerful voices made conversation sothing of an effort — one had to raise one's voice to be heard.
— I thought it would be fairly dull, deflecting attacks without much tension. But I found my own interest in the observation, the calculations, all of it. And when your movents matched my projections — that was genuinely satisfying.
— Well, that's the main thing, — Herbert nodded happily. — We play for the enjoynt of it, after all. And they...
He nodded toward the Ravenclaw team.
— ...don't look particularly upset either.
— They're not, — Tamsin squeezed in between us. — They were testing different tactics throughout the match, clearly working out how to crack our defence. And they managed it, to a reasonable degree. The only thing was...
A sharp elbow in my ribs — not painful, but noticeable.
— ...you didn't let a single Quaffle through. We won by a goal difference of one. Again! How brilliant is that.
Everyone was genuinely pleased — and though Hufflepuffs might say we don't play for the victory, that doesn't an the victory itself isn't satisfying. Yes, the Seekers on both sides hadn't covered themselves in glory, and the heavy cloud cover had quite literally swallowed the daylight, turning an overcast afternoon into sothing closer to murky dusk in which spotting a tiny ball was difficult enough, let alone the players around it. But the match had remained within the bounds of decency — nothing like the brawls that Gryffindor versus Slytherin could descend into.
After changing, stowing the equipnt, and making ourselves presentable, our team — tired but in fine spirits — made their way to the Great Hall, where almost all the students had already gathered in anticipation of dinner. Or lunch. Given the match's extended duration, the al fell sowhere between the two, and it was difficult to say, strictly speaking, what it actually was.
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