This will be a story primarily focusing on the main character and narrator here is Miles Bletchley, Slytherin Keeper for the Quidditch team. The story will be an eventual Katie/Miles, which is probably an unusual pairing. (Including Miles himself is probably an unsual story to begin with.) Still, she won't appear in every chapter: As I wrote this, I decided that this story'll be like Hogwarts (and eventually the Wizarding World) from the perspective of a Slytherin minor character.

Miles isn't particularly fleshed out in the books, so I've made him a year older than Harry: placing him 3 years younger than Marcus Flint, 2 years behind Montague and Warrington, a year behind Derrick and the same year as Bole. This chapter takes place during the same year as Prisoner of Azkaban, but after the events of the main story.

This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction: I do hope you'll enjoy! F

It was damp in the team room, and the heat of seven eager Slytherins compounded my discomfort. We were gathered here, as usual, for pre-game preparations. At this point, all of us had our equipment on, and the only thing left for us to do was discuss team strategy. To my left, Lucian Bole smugly fingered his Nimbus 2001. Frowning, I turned to view the Slytherin Captain, who had entered the room. His eight years of experience in Quidditch made him a particularly talented player: it was his absence from the first game of the season, due to a Herbology incident, that caused us to lose to the Ravenclaws. He took up the post of captainship now with a renewed vigour and viciousness. Marcus Flint rubbed his paws together boorishly as he paced left and right, addressing me and the rest of the team with zeal. "Listen, Slytherins. Today, we play against Gryffindor again. This is my last game against the Gryffindors: let's give them a game they won't forget!" Today's match wasn't only for glory: if we lost this round, we had no chance of winning the Quidditch Cup. If we could not win the Quidditch Cup, that would be three years of defeat in a row, and three years of professional Quidditch scouts overlooking us.

Flint's face scrunched up in an ugly, snaggletoothed smile: the same smile he wore when his 'rough-and-tumble play' landed Duncan Inglebee in the Hospital Wing for two whole weeks, and that was for a practice match. A gut feeling told me any Gryffindor walking out of this match unscathed would be an anomaly. We capitalised on Madam Hooch's tendency to ignore most physical contact, and planned to use this to our advantage. In theory, the opposing team could do so, but we were about to show them how their nobility and pigheaded insistence to play fair was their disadvantage.

"Remember, it takes a functional arm for them to score," Flint slammed one fist into an open palm for emphasis, "and we wouldn't want that, would we?" The rest of his speech, which Flint clearly intended to be stir us into a frenzy, devolved into his usual pre-game rant about how Gryffindor's previous wins were a fluke thanks to Potter, and the only way to level the playing field was to level Potter's face. In addition, he outlined his intentions to punish 'both Weasels', who had directed an express delivery of three Bludgers into Flint's throwing arm in the previous match.

Two minutes of bellowing later, Flint's parody of a motivational rally had ended, and he dedicated himself to the challenging task of outlining game strategy. To his fellow Chasers, Montague and Warrington, Flint made the idea of passing the Quaffle to him at all costs extremely clear. Flint was clever: as the best shooter on our team, no one had reasonable grounds to contest his domination of the ball, even if he was a glory hound. The Chasers seemed to realize this, and with a blank look in their eyes and rapid nods, the Chasers murmured their agreements. Satisfied, the captain turned to the Beaters. To Derrick and Bole, Flint thought up eight different ways to phrase "Smash the Gryffindors", and violently demonstrated the manner they should do so. There was an devious gleam in Derrick's eyes, and Bole traced his bat with his fingers with a confident grin. Flint then directed his attention to Malfoy, our Seeker, and more importantly, sponsor. One thing the team could agree on was that he wasn't particularly talented. Not that we ever mentioned that to him. Whether it was his father's influence or deep coffers that got him in was unknown, but the subsequent purchase of top-tier broomsticks more than made up for it. If we could score enough goals, as we had done in the past, Malfoy's lackluster playing skills would be less of an issue.

"Don't let Potter get his filthy hands on the Snitch this time." Flint's voice was gravelly, but managed to convey enough threat, making Malfoy glance elsewhere nervously. An answer was about to escape from his lips, but Flint jabbed a spindly finger into the boy's chest. "It's my last game. If Potter catches the Snitch, I'll make sure it's your last game too!" he snarled. A pregnant silence passed, and Flint finally sauntered over to me.

His grey eyes bored into me, and I felt my blood curdle. Marcus Flint was not as well-built as the other Chasers, but Merlin have mercy on those who incur his wrath. "Bletchley, don't mess this game up. Do your job, Keeper." It wasn't so much a request as it was a statement. Dumbly, I nodded, Flint never once breaking eye contact with me.

Flint turned away from me, and once more swept his gaze over the team. "We'll hit them as hard as we can.", he declared. He clenched his fists together, then nodded. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. 'We'll do just that."

"Gryffindor scores again! Excellent play by Alicia Spinnet, over there, it's not often we see a fifth year pull off a Finbourgh Flick with that much ease..." Lee Jordan's Sonoros-enchanted voice rang a tad too loudly as he gleefully recounted the events of the match thus far. "40-0! If the Slytherins are to make a comeback, assuming that's possible... (Just kidding, Professor!) they'll have to step their game up!" As the raucous seas of red and gold that lined the spectator stands cheered, I felt Flint's steely eyes bore into me from across the pitch. I was inwardly relieved that this would be his last game, and by extension held no more authority over me after this.

In my defence, I wasn't playing too shabbily. An early-game rush by Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson were rendered ineffective thanks to a quick deflect with my broomstick, The first two times Gryffindor scored, I was busy dodging a stray Bludger sent my way by the Weasley twins. Lee Jordan was still blabbering on, "It seems like Warrington is looking to regain possession of the Quaffle! He's going alongside Chaser Johnson... watch out, Angelina! Close one there, folks, he nearly- FOUL! That's got to be a foul if I've seen one!" Hooch was flying over to Warrington, angrily blowing her whistle and gesturing. For the first time in the game, the jeers and boos were coming from the Gryffindor spectators, out for payback.

"Madam Hooch has awarded Gryffindor a penalty for that disgusting case of Bletching by Warrington (Shame on you, snake!)." I hastily took my position on the pitch. "Chaser Johnson's taking this shot..." I took a deep breath, readying myself. "There goes the Quaffle!" Instinctively diving to the side, I clawed at the air with my left hand, feeling a soft thwump. The Quaffle was quickly passed to Montague, and I observed it as it was forwarded to Flint. From then on, the game took a turn in direction, as Flint began to hammer away at Gryffindor. Weaving his way in and out of Bludgers, he quickly entered the scoring zone. Our first chance to score! Say what you want about Marcus Flint: bumbling oaf, conniving plotter, brutish thug, but he definitely knew his way around a Quaffle. It seemed like the Gryffindors were wary of his prowess, for Lee Jordan's commentary took on a worried tone.

"Chaser Flint enters the scoring zone... but Oliver Wood is prepared! This is it, gentlemen, expect another excellent save by Gryffindor!" The miniscule figures of Flint and Wood were playing a game of cat-and-mouse, as Flint prepared to pull off numerous feints, yet was deterred by Wood's cautious hovering. The tense situation, however, was defused by Warrington's timely arrival.

"That's a foul! Marcus Flint is joined by another one of his thugs... Thought you'd get off easy, didn't you?" The euphoria in Jordan's voice was disgusting. Hooch seemed to take notice of that instance of Stooging, declaring the Quaffle to now be in possession of Gryffindor.

That buffoon! Was Warrington on our side, or theirs? Malfoy had virtually no chance to catch the Snitch, meaning Slytherin needed to score sixteen more goals. Thanks to Quidditch's odd emphasis on the Seekers, coupled with Potter's sheer luck and sharp eye, whichever team captured the Snitch tended to end up the victor: in this case, them. The situation began to look grim. We needed those sixteen goals to win. I needed those sixteen goals! I was determined to close the gap.

Clutching the Quaffle, Johnson sped straight and me and the hoops. Ducking, she avoided the meaty paw of Montague, and picked up the pace.

"Angelina Johnson speeding across to pitch to personally deliver another Quaffle into a Slytherin hoop... There she goes! She narrowly dodges a Bludger sent from Derrick... No, wait, she doesn't, and the ball is now taken by Warrington, er... Katie Bell appears to have pulled it straight from his hands! Watch out for that brute, Bell..." I sighed, once again readying to dive and block off a goal. Shifting my gaze around so as to appear distracted, I took a quick a look at Bell. As she closed in, her eyes were trained on the left hoop, and I prepared to dive for that goal the moment her wrist moved.

"Go for it, Katie!" Lee Jordan's excited cheer drowned out my thoughts, and Katie took his cue to launch the Quaffle. It swiftly cut through the air, heading for the... right hoop?

No! I couldn't let this one through. My reflexes took over, and quickly shifting my centre of mass, I frantically willed myself to reach the right hoop in time to stop the Quaffle. It was just out of reach, the leather tantalizingly brushing against my fingertips. A last ditch dive forward was the only way to protect the goal, and so I leaped off my broom.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. My fingers closed around the soft ridges of the ball, but I was no longer on my Nimbus. Instead, I was plummeting towards the ground rapidly. Out of the corner of my eye, my broomstick hovered lazily, instead of flying under me as I had planned. Lee Jordan's commentary became meaningless chatter. The air whistled around my ears. The ground pulled closer. Wincing, I braced myself for impact. The sharp crack of bones breaking would surely follow...

There was a rush of air to my left, and my body jerked to a halt. I was no longer falling. There was a firm grip on my right wrist, and I was slowly hoisted on my broom. Perplexed, I blinked twice, right hand clutching my Nimbus in a death grip, left hand grabbing the Quaffle. I looked to my left, right into the brown eyes of Katie Bell. Reaching over, she quickly gave me a soft pat on the shoulder. "You're no longer in danger now." Her voice was kindly.

As the two of us hovered side by side, I felt my jaw slacken, the rush of adrenaline during the fall and the ensuing turn of events puzzling me. Did a Gryffindor Chaser just save an opponent? However, just as quickly as she had rescued me, Bell briskly leaned into me, wrapping one arm around me. First saving me, then hugging me? Is she raving mad?

I was immediately proven wrong, for she immediately peeled away, emerging with the Quaffle in her left hand. Uh oh, I just played right into her plans. She flashed me a roguish grin, then zipped up. Dazed, I traced her path with my eyes. Bell pulled off an elegant loop-the-loop, before sending the ball through the left hoop. There was a resounding gong, before I snapped out of my daze.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL'S GOTTEN INTO YOU?" Peregrine Derrick roared. He had flown up alongside me, Beater's bat in hand and giving me a nasty look. We were fifty points down, and I didn't blame him. My sloppy keeping was a detriment to my future in Quidditch, and my team. "Bletchley, let any more Quaffles through and I'll see to it that you're off the team faster than you can-" A Bludger whizzed by, prompting Derrick to angrily give it a smack. He cast one final glare my way, before shooting off in pursuit of another Bludger.

"I think Potter's spotted the Snitch!" Lee Jordan declared. From my spot in front of the goals, I made out both Seekers going neck to neck, racing each other in a tight loop around the center of the field. Distractedly, I swatted away a Quaffle launched at the middle hoop by Spinnet. My chest tightened. If Potter caught the Snitch, we were going to be flattened by more than 200 points.

The loud cheers of both Slytherin and Gryffindor died down to a murmur; even the Chasers seemed to momentarily slow down as they watched the spectacle unfold. Malfoy was throwing himself at Potter to try and knock him down, but the Gryffindor retaliated in kind. Their scuffle finally culminated in a sharp twist up, as the two Seekers relentlessly pursued the Snitch.

Another Quaffle flew my way. I grabbed it, then tossed the Quaffle to Montague. We exchanged slight nods, before he turned himself around and passed it forward to Flint. The captain' clutched the ball tightly, hunching slightly as he headed towards the-

"POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH!" Lee Jordan crowed, and Hooch blew her whistle. That was it. The game was over. "200-0! Gryffindor's absolutely dominated this game!" The cheers of the spectators were deafening, and on the other side of the field, the Gryffindor supporters mobbed the team, triumphantly hoisting the players into the air . Meanwhile, our side of the stands slowly emptied themselves. I clenched my fist. Fair weather friends. As the team landed on the pitch and sullenly filed into our locker rooms, I took a final look at the Gryffindors, but Bell didn't look my way.

Do leave a review explaining which parts you liked, and how I can improve! Even a simple comment about whether you liked or disliked the story will go a long, long way! The story is also unbeta'd, so any help pointing out mistakes, whether plot or prose is appreciated!

Cheers! -Ruck