.chapter two.

It took quite a lot of convincing on Cousin Jackson's part to keep Martin from wearing his Quidditch uniform (now complete with the big bronze C) to King's Cross. They came to a compromise wherein Martin was allowed to drape the uniform prominently over his luggage until it was loaded onto the train, and he was absolutely not allowed to wear the robes outside of practice and matches. Martin agreed, if grudgingly.

Martin was used to Cousin Jackson seeing him off at the station, waving goodbye until Christmas. He was not used to being greeted by a smiling face on the platform.

"Captain!" Arthur's now-familiar voice called from somewhere in the crowd of milling students. Martin craned his neck and looked about, but his height kept him from seeing too far. No one parted to let him through, and it took Arthur quite some time to politely step through the crowd (murmuring his "'scuse me"s and his "sorry ma'am"s on his way). Martin tried to duck away. It was far too late for that.

"Captain," Arthur said again once he'd come up alongside Martin (breathing a bit jagged from the work of swimming through the mess of students). "Brilliant. Do you want to sit with me? And some of the Hufflepuffs? I mean, I thought I should catch you before you got on the train and sat with someone else, because I think, since you're the Captain, you must have plenty of people who want to sit with you, and if I asked first maybe I'd get dibs, and—" He took a moment to gasp for a breath, and Martin took the opportunity to cut in.

"Yes, all right, slow down or you'll hurt yourself." Martin shook his head. "And you shouldn't have bothered, no one asks me to sit with them."

"Well, but," Arthur bandied, "now you're famous."

"No I'm—" Martin settled his shoulders a bit importantly, taking a look about to see if anyone had noticed his new uniform. "Well, maybe a bit."

"But you'll still sit with me? Us, I mean," Arthur corrected.

Martin nodded. "Are you... sitting with anyone on the Hufflepuff team?"

"Oh, yeah," Arthur said, grinning. "Carl is on the team, he's a Beater."

"Good," Martin said slowly, and he hauled his luggage up into the car. Arthur followed. While shuffling down the corridor past other happy student figures, Martin kept an eye on anyone he thought might be taking a look at his uniform, opening his mouth to mention that he was the Captain now, but no one did end up asking. Not even when Arthur introduced Martin to the three Hufflepuffs already sitting in a compartment at the end of the car, purposely flouting the big bronze C as he stuffed his luggage onto the overhead rack.

Carl, the Hufflepuff Beater, did seem to recognize Martin (which started a bubble of pride in Martin's chest). Unfortunately, Carl only recalled the incident in which Martin, in a match with Gryffindor last year, had flown into the path of one of his own Chasers and caused a really spectacular mid-air crash. The other two began to chuckle, even when Arthur pointed out that Ravenclaw actually had won that match. Martin tried his best to hide the way his face flushed, but Carl only elbowed him with a knowing smirk.

"You'll get better," he assured Martin.

"He's Captain now, he'll have to," said another of the Badgers.

"Oh, d'you remember Douglas? From Slytherin?" Arthur said blindly, his eyes on the trolley as it squeaked by in the corridor. "He'll be doing all the flying lessons this year." His voice blended into the surroundings as someone ordered something from the trolley and talk erupted in the way jovial talk normally did.

Martin couldn't find it in him to join in (he hardly had it in him to listen, the way Arthur's voice never seemed to take a break for breath). But he stayed, and he nodded every now and then when someone asked him something, and he watched the countryside go by outside the window. It was almost as if Martin were normal, like he'd found a friend after three years of books and brooms. Arthur broke off a square of chocolate and passed it to Martin, and Martin accepted without a word.

They met once a week in the library. Martin termed it neutral ground, even if Arthur did get a bit loud sometimes. They were very nearly given the boot on the first day (it was a Wednesday, and it had been a very early day for Martin, who had risen before dawn to fret about impending try-outs), when Arthur couldn't stop giggling about the incantation for the flower-conjuring charm, and Martin had shouted. Since everyone was looking at them, and they could single out the footsteps of Madam Pince, they booked it before they could get into trouble.

Coming to rest in one of the archways with a horrible sigh, Martin decided to end the lesson early. Arthur didn't leave. Instead, he asked why.

"Because I've got a lot on my mind," Martin snapped, but he backed down just as quickly. "You haven't got much to study just yet, I think you can do without a bit of extra wand-waving for this week."

"You're thinking about try-outs, aren't you?" Arthur asked, practically hopping with pent-up excitement. "Mum's already said I'm not allowed to sit in on Slytherin's, she says I might go and give away all their secrets, or something like that. I think she might kick me out of their practices, too, but I don't blame her, really. I'm really, really awful at keeping secrets. Like last year, when I was sitting in on Slytherin's practice right before their game with Ravenclaw, and I saw Douglas do that thing—Can't remember it now, but it was really cool—and then I told Carl, who told everyone else on the team, who told most of the Ravenclaws—"

"No one told me anything," Martin said with a deepening frown.

Arthur paused in his ramble, thrown off track. "Well. If you like. I mean, I won't sit in on your practices, if you don't want me to, Captain."

"What? No, of course you're allowed to sit in," Martin said, furrowing his brow in confusion. "You went to all of them last year, it's not like you'll be trying to sabotage us." Martin sighed. "Not like you'd have to." He opened his mouth to elaborate, then shut it tight again. "I have Herbology."

"Brilliant, I have History of Magic," Arthur said, gathering his things together.

"They're on opposite ends of the castle," Martin noted, shaking his head.

"That's all right. I'm usually late to History of Magic anyway," Arthur said dismissively, shouldering his book-heavy bag.

"Why?"

"I get lost," Arthur admitted, looking only slightly embarrassed. He smiled through it.

Martin continued to the greenhouses in silence, Arthur tagging along beside him with a bounce in his step, humming something mostly without tune. And when they hit the courtyard, Arthur said his goodbyes and turned on heel to re-enter the castle. Martin simply could not make heads or tails of the boy, and, he decided, it was going to be much easier if he stopped trying.

And then, it came time to decide when Martin was going to schedule try-outs. There was a spot for Beater and Keeper open, and they were particularly hard positions to find decent candidates for. Martin's first act as Captain was going to be to place two incredibly difficult positions, and to fly with a bunch of novices who were going to show him up. Martin was a very proud boy, but he held few delusions about just how good a flier he was. He was determined to somehow better himself before he made a fool of himself and the name of Captain when try-outs came around. So, when the Captains gathered around the sign-up sheet to schedule the pitch, Martin lingered until last (the Gryffindor Captain in particular fixed him with a strange stare, as if he hadn't expected to see little Martin Crieff signing the sheet at all; Martin puffed out his chest as well as he could).

Martin took the last time slot available. And panicked. Slightly.

Panic sent him to the office of the only person he thought could help.

"Douglas," Martin's voice wobbled only marginally as he searched for the courage he knew he had put somewhere. "I need... your help." The phrase tasted bitter, especially when looking into that insufferably smug face.

"I'm so proud of you, Marty," Douglas began.

"Martin," the boy corrected him tersely (he could already feel the flush rising up his neck). Pride got the better of him, and he did himself one better. "Captain."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Douglas drawled. "I haven't been paying my proper respects. I'm in the presence of a Captain and I haven't even taken off my hat. Would you like me on one knee, or does your worship require the two? When it comes to sacrifice, would the Captain prefer a small mammal, or will only the blood of a First Year do?"

"Shut up," Martin bleated in defense, but he quickly clammed up again. "I mean—Douglas, please don't make this more embarrassing than it already is."

"And miss out on all the fun?" Douglas chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "For example, I wasn't sure what color your face might be at the end of this little interview; I'm putting my money on purple, but we've got some time yet."

"Douglas," Martin cut back in, and it was just harsh enough to elicit an amused smirk from Douglas rather than a snide remark. "I need you to teach me how to fly."

The older boy burst into loud laughter at once.

"I mean," Martin pushed through, raising his voice to be heard over Douglas's unstoppable, thigh-slapping mirth. "I mean, fly better. Properly. Douglas!"

"Oh, Ravenclaw is on its way to a stellar season, I can tell," Douglas said once he had gathered himself and wiped an imaginary tear from one eye. "You've certainly distinguished yourself already, Captain Crieff. The first Captain at Hogwarts who hasn't learned to fly."

"I can sit in on your lessons with the First Years," Martin managed to squeeze in. "Take notes. You won't even notice me."

"I can see where your first problem is, Martin," Douglas offered, for once seeming to come down from the high cloud he'd seated himself on. "I'm not sure if you know this, but most flying takes place offthe ground."

Finally, Martin's face did burst into color. "I'm not an idiot."

"No, certainly not. But, just in case, do bring a broom to the lesson."

Martin's concerned features dropped into disbelief. "Wait, just like that?"

"Just so," Douglas gestured widely. "Oh, but wait, not just so. Would you do a little something for me, just as an exchange of goods, so to speak?"

"What sort of exchange of goods?" Martin asked (already his mind was backing away from the idea of owing Douglas Richardson anything).

"Oh, nothing much." Douglas waved the idea off. "It's only that I really enjoy watching the games with a couple of my mates, and we usually get a little pool going—"

"I'm not helping you win any bets with... with inside tips," Martin butted in.

"A figure of such outstanding moral fiber, surely not," Douglas replied. "But supposing that you asked your little study buddy every now and then how everyone is doing at their practices?"

"He's not even allowed in on Slytherin's—" Martin began, and then it started to dawn on him. "Oh. Oh! I'll bet Professor Knapp-Shappey knew all about your plans. That's why she made sure Arthur wouldn't be at any of her practices."

"And here I thought I was being so clever," Douglas drawled. "All right, Captain Crieff, we'll call this an I-Owe-You. Lessons start on the thirteenth, right after lunch."

"Good," Martin said, trying to look as unaffected as possible. "Thank you."

"Damn," Douglas uttered just as Martin turned for the door.

"What?" Martin asked with a hitch as he spun around.

"You're really more of a strawberry pink, if anything."

"Goodbye, Douglas," Martin growled, turning quickly before his face had the chance to show purple and prove Douglas right.

Martin somehow summoned the nerve to keep his appointment with Douglas. After lunch, he returned to Ravenclaw Tower, found his uniform and his broom, and snuck into the courtyard where the First Years were already lining up. He steeled himself with a breath and placed himself at the end of the line, where he might not catch so much attention. Martin actually found himself silently pleading that Douglas wouldn't single him out loudly and very embarrassingly. It was bound to happen, but Martin hoped against all hope that, with all the First Years to take care of, Douglas might forget all about it. Unlikely, but he still put effort into hoping.

A boy sidled up alongside Martin, fumbling a bit with his broom, and Martin really wasn't planning on acknowledging the new arrival until he spoke up in a clear, happy whisper. "Hi, Captain!"

Martin's head whipped in his direction. "Arthur? What are you doing here?" Martin's jaw flapped for a moment. "I thought Prof—your mother said you weren't allowed on a broom."

"Well," Arthur began, "I told her that you were taking lessons with Douglas. I know I said I wouldn't tell, but I tried really, really hard and I almost didn't, and that's sort of like not telling. Anyway, she seemed to think it was really funny, but when I told her I'd like to go along with you, she said it sounded like a good idea. So, I'm as surprised as you are, Captain." He narrowed his eyes in thought. "Cap?"

"Why would you even want to come to flying lessons?" Martin asked incredulously, keeping his voice low.

"I thought," Arthur said with a shrug, "I dunno. Maybe I could make you look better. Or be your cheering section! That'd make you feel better, right?"

"I'm just fine without a cheering section," Martin blustered (the last thing he needed was another reason for Douglas to call him out).

"Either way, Mum said I could get back on a broom, so," Arthur said, his grin widening, "hooray!"

One edge of Martin's mouth decided it was worth a smirk.

Once all the First Years had stopped their chattering (Douglas helped a bit in that he began shouting, and which quieted them down rather quickly), the flight instructor began his instructing. Or rather, began his pontificating.

"You all probably have the big idea in your little heads that you're going to be the next big thing in Quidditch," Douglas said in a voice that somehow managed to be arresting and bored at the same time. "I can tell you, without a doubt, that you're not, and don't be upset when you can't get one leg over the broom to start with. I happen to have with me the perfect example of failure, actually. Arthur, could you join me up front, please?"

"Right-o, Douglas," Arthur said cheerfully, picking up his broom and scampering to his side. Martin wasn't sure whether to be glad that he wasn't the perfect example of failure or worried that his Charms student was going to kill all of them in some horrible accident. Somehow.

"This is Arthur," Douglas said once he had the Hufflepuff at his side. Arthur waved obediently.

"Hello, chaps and ladies," Arthur chirped. "And Captain," he added, for fear that the phrase "chaps and ladies" might somehow leave Martin unaccounted for.

"Arthur has been, until today, banned from even looking at a broom too closely for two years," Douglas said. "Quite wisely, I must say. I was on the crew picked to pluck Mister Shappey from the top of Ravenclaw Tower after he buzzed the rest of the First Years and nearly ran down our previous flight instructor. What possessed the good Professor Knapp-Shappey to put a broom back in his hands is beyond me, but I advise all of you with bad reflexes to pre-emptively hit the ground." Three of the First Years actually followed his advice and slowly lowered themselves to the grass. "Don't be an Arthur, boys and girls. Listen to Uncle Dougie, and I promise you won't break a single limb. I take no responsibility for scuffs and minor abrasions, but I will promise you the limbs."

Martin couldn't hide a scoff at the phrase "Uncle Dougie", but it went, thankfully, unnoticed.

In fact, Martin was surprised to find that Douglas hardly even seemed to notice that Martin was in attendance at all. He made his rounds as he instructed the First Years how to tame their brooms and hardly brushed by Martin as he hovered inches above the grass. Arthur stayed on the ground with the First Years who couldn't get proper command of their brooms ("It's all right, I like it on the ground, too. There are loads of fun things to do on the ground..."), and Martin controlled the urge to try something a bit more challenging than hovering. Most of him knew, however, that trying and failing would be just the thing Douglas was hoping for, and Martin wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

All went according to that plan until it was nearly time to pack up the brooms and get back to normal schooling. When Douglas ordered all the young fliers back to the ground, he rounded on the boy in the blue-and-bronze uniform to say, "Well, now that you've got off the ground, why don't we see how a Captain does it?"

Martin felt the weight of every single pair of eyes as they found him. He gulped down the leaden lump of nervousness that had solidified in his throat and tried some sort of smile. "Hello. Er. Douglas, I think you're doing a fine job—"

"Nonsense!" Douglas scoffed. "My mere instruction is nothing compared to the expertise of a bonafide Captain. Say, did you know that Martin—sorry, Captain Crieff—is the Captain of our very own Ravenclaw team?"

This seemed to excite some of them (several of them were wearing blue and bronze, and their eyes lit up with some sort of pride), and Douglas folded his arms with a smug grin as he watched it unfold. Arthur gave a look around at the expectant faces, returned his eyes to Martin, and offered both thumbs up.

"I don't think you did so bad, Cap," Arthur said fifteen minutes later, slowing his pace on purpose to keep up with the pathetic, limping gait of the Ravenclaw dragging the broom behind him. "That bit where you almost didn't fall off your broom was very good."

"And how about the part where I twisted my ankle and a bunch of eleven-year-olds pointed and laughed?"

"Not as good. But, you know, Madam Pomfrey can fix that up in just about five minutes. Like the time I tripped on that false stair—"

"I'm not going to the Hospital Wing," Martin groaned. "It's bad enough as it is."

"Oh, right." Arthur kept the steady, loping pace for a moment of silence, then with a sharp intake of breath began again. "So, how is a limp better than not-a-limp?"

"Arthur, if I go to the Hospital Wing, everyone will know how I got this limp, and that I fell off my broom and—well, it's just easier if no one knows that I'm taking lessons with the First Years and they think I got it... I don't know, doing something more dangerous than banking left."

"It was a nice bank, though," Arthur said, gazing off.

"It was, wasn't it?" Martin said with a bit of strength going back into his shoulders.

"Most of it."

"Yeah." Martin smiled through the aching in his leg.

Martin was very good at hovering by the time the Ravenclaw try-outs came along. He wasn't so bad at flying, really, when it came to staying in one place and trying not to knock everyone else out of the air. He was quite serviceable in the hanging there and watching everyone else fly around bits, which was really all he needed for the try-outs after all. There weren't many who came down to the pitch to try out, and only one girl went for Keeper, so Martin gave it to her right-out. She asked if she oughtn't get on her broom before she got the job, but he assured her that they needed someone, and any someone was better than no one.

He got the Chasers to fly around while the prospective Beaters tried to knock the bludgers into them, and a few of them really weren't so bad. Maybe this Captain thing would be easier than he thought. The obvious choice for Beater was Third Year Linda Fairburn (she walloped harder than any of the boys, and left more bruises than any of them would ever admit to). Besides all that, she flew circles around the rest of them and never said a thing about it, like that was the sort of thing everyone was supposed to be able to do.

As Martin managed his landing (wincing at the pressure on his poor ankle), and as the rest of the fliers joined him on the ground, he chanced to glance the stands to see a fair number of people had come to see the try-outs. They usually got a few spectators at practices, but Martin couldn't remember his own try-out being a crowd-drawing event. There were, however, several people gathered in the Hufflepuff seats and throwing up cheers as the event came to a close.

Martin shook his head. It was his classmates: Arthur Shappey and all the First Years who had gotten their brooms off the ground that afternoon—all of them clapping for no reason whatsoever. Douglas sat behind them, reading the Prophetand seeming to ignore the lot of them.

Carolyn was frowning down at another set of papers when Douglas Richardson entered her office without knocking and took the seat across from her. She didn't bother to look up.

"I can't see the point of locking your door if I'm only going to jinx it open," Douglas drawled.

"It's a Charm, Douglas. I can't imagine how you made it through school," she rebutted, her eyes still firmly locked downward. "Why are you in my office? They've given you a perfectly nice one all to yourself."

"They gave me a perfectly nice closet with a chair inside, yes," Douglas answered. "Yours is so roomy, I didn't think you'd mind the company."

"Spit it out," she demanded flatly.

"You sent your boy to my lesson," Douglas spat.

"I did. And the school is still intact, imagine that."

"You were deliberately trying to sabotage me, weren't you?" He leaned in. "Sending your cleverly-disguised disruption in the form of your only son threw me for a bit, but I muddled through the entire lesson with those little ragamuffins without losing a single one to injury or madness. I believe I've earned my fifty galleons."

"If you're intent on wrestling fifty galleons from a poor old woman, be it on your own head, Douglas." She finally broke to stare across the desk. "How would you say the Crieff boy is doing, then?"

"Don't try to change the subject, I'm intent on wrestling fifty galleons from a poor old woman." Douglas held his hand out expectantly. As she pulled out her coin purse, he continued. "It's surprising, really, how competent a flier Marty would be if he managed to settle down long enough to trust his instincts."

Carolyn held back the monetary offering. "You would say that Ravenclaw might stand a chance this year, then? If Crieff managed to get his act together?"

"Carolyn!" Douglas chastised. "You weren't thinking of putting my well-earned money down on a bet for the Quidditch Cup this year, were you?"

"Don't pretend for a moment you won't do the same," Carolyn sniffed.

"Certainly not; I was planning on it all along, but I find myself in an interesting position," he said as she made to hand the money to him. "I could, for all intents and purposes, cleverly mislead you to put your trust in the wrong team entirely. If I weren't certain you would put the whole lot on Slytherin to win regardless. Your loyalty will get you in trouble one of these days, Carolyn."

She yanked the hand with the money back into her territory. "Is it a wager, then? My fifty on Slytherin to win the Cup?"

"That rather gives me excellent odds, doesn't it?"

"Against your bet on Ravenclaw."

"Hold on," Douglas suddenly sobered. "Ravenclaw? For the Cup?"

"You did say that Martin was looking rather hopeful, didn't you?"

"In the way that he won't endanger lives, maybe," Douglas backpedaled. "He's not worth fifty galleons!"

"Well, it's rather up to you, then, isn't it?" Carolyn smiled happily. "Put that fifty down on Ravenclaw, and, if by some miraculous occurrence I happen to be wrong, you can wring another fifty from me at the end of the year. Get your golden boy Crieff to fly in a straight line and you might come close."

Douglas was not a man to back down from an honest bet (or dishonest, if he was the one being dishonest), but this seemed particularly cruel. However, there was something else that Douglas Richardson didn't like to back down from. A challenge.

"Fifty galleons, you said?"

Carolyn chuckled and continued to mark her papers.

AN: Many thanks go out to my beta for this chapter , what a lovely gal! I have nothing to say but I LOVE YOU ALL for sticking with me so far. YOU'RE ALL BRILLIANT! Thanks so much for reading, leave us some love, and remember to STAY AWESOME!