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Chapter 15 – By the Book

Harry was in that warm, soft strata of slumber where you weren't quite so deep to be asleep, but not quite alert enough to be awake. Your senses were sorta working, but they were mostly insensate; your brain was happily traipsing through the lingering images of that wonderful dream; and the only thing you he concerned about was making this heavenly moment last an eternity.

Someone's opened the bedroom door, his brain informed him in that soft, carefree, lackadaisical manner which seemed to suggest that they could open whatever door they bloody well pleased as long as they didn't disturb him. He made a point of snuggling down, burrowing his head under the soft goose down duvet in a bid to use it as a shield against the world. This seemed to work and he gave a contented little snore of bliss.

Someone had opened his door? Harry thought again. His mind gave a little shriek of panic before it rushed off to push all the alarm buttons. Klaxons sounded and little red siren lights began to flicker in Harry's mind as he realised that someone was in his room. Bolton and Albright, shithole that it was, had prepared him for this. Being disturbed by some disturbed individual at some disturbing hour wasn't common in Bolton and Albright but it did happen. The intruder, whoever it was, skimmed around his room, their ragged breathing seemed unbearably loud and almost inhuman to Harry, who lay perfectly still as he marshalled his breathing. He kept dormant as he heard their back scraping along the wall as they shimmied between it and the bed, and getting his senses about him Harry began to make judgements. The breathing was happening about there, their back was scraping across the wall about there, and that meant testicular vulnerability was about...here.

His hand jabbed out of the bed on a intercept mission and he felt his fist connect with something suitably squishy and heard the pained OOMPH followed by someone coughing and dropping to the foetal position on the floor. Harry whipped out his wand from under his pillow, lit the tip with a thought, and aimed it down to the floor to illuminate the intruder.

"Marcus?" Harry said as he saw the huge brute curled up in the tight space as best he could.

"Right in the balls...balls," Bertram declared with a cawing laugh.

"Bloody 'ell Potter," Marcus squeaked from the floor. "What'd you do that for?"

"What do you mean: what'd I do that for?" Harry countered. "What are you sneaking into my room for?"

"Quidditch practise, you berk," Marcus growled as he uncurled himself and took some deep fortifying breaths. "Bloody 'ell, right in the spuds."

"Quidditch practice?" Harry said and he cast a Tempus spell in the air. "It's just gone five o'clock in the morning."

"Yeah, I know what the bloody time is," Marcus groaned as he got to his feet, albeit a little hunched over. "We start at six. So you's got an hour to get y'self ready. Merlin, if you're not as good as Snape makes you out to be I will personally rip out your intestines and 'ang you with 'em."

"Yeah, well, you'll have to wait till I'm up and dressed before you do that," Harry said. He flopped back on the bed and made a lazy go-away motion with his hand. Marcus, not quite liking the idea of being dismissed, grabbed a handful of bed-clothes and would have no doubt wrenched them away had it not been for the timely arrival of Harry's wand point being jabbed into his leg. "Do it and I'll cripple you," he warned lightly.

The boy snorted and let go, "I want you in the great 'all be 'alf-five and if you're late-"

"Gruesome death by disembowelling, got it." Harry said as he shut his eyes once again and snuggled down into the warmth.

Harry wasn't that opposed to early starts in all fairness, in fact he kind of enjoyed the quiet early morning atmosphere and the general serenity it brought about with it. Unfortunately this wasn't a sentiment shared by the rest of the team who, judging by Marcus's anxious prowls up and down the hall, hadn't arrived yet. Harry sat down in his usual spot at the end of table and due to the risk of projectile vomiting from the unflattering position of sixty feet in the air nibbled at a lightly buttered triangle of toast.

"Bastards!" Flint barked and stormed over to sit opposite Harry at the table, his huge shoulders hunched over and his mouth cut into a gruesome maw as he unsheathed the mouldering ruin of his enamel to the world. He grabbed up three slices of toast stacked atop each other and stuffed them into his mouth. "D'ou 'ern orght orf dat buk?" he asked around his breakfast.

"Did I learn ought off that book?" Harry hazarded a guess. Flint nodded his head as he chewed through the toast with industrial vigour. "Not really, I found a much better guide in the end, far more informative. At its core the game seems simple enough. The team consists of one keeper, one seeker, three chasers, two beaters, and—"

Flint swallowed, it sounded like a pig choking on a cabbage, and wagged his thick stubby finger in the air. "I don't need to know any of that shit; you don't need to know any of that shit. Do you know what you're meant to do or not?"

"Catch the snitch?" Harry said.

"That's it," Flint clapped his hands together in triumph. "You got it in one, that's all I need yer to do. Catch the snitch, earn a cool 150 points, and end the game with us in the lead. If yer manage to avoid the bludgers as you go about it, that's great. You don't need to worry about the goals, you don't need to worry about quaffles, and you don't even need t' worry about the team. Just catch that snitch, Potter."

"I'll try my best," Harry said.

"No, I don't want your best, I want better than your best," Marcus jabbed a finger at him.

"Well, best is sort of a superlative—right, better than my best, got you," Harry finished as Marcus raised a threatening fist.

"Come on, I'm not waiting around for those wankers any longer. I want to unwrap a couple of these new brooms and get myself suited and booted," Marcus grouched. He stood up, grabbed a golden plate and began to load it up with sausages, bacon, fried slices, hash browns, and another handful of toast before marching off out of the hall eating with his hands as he went. Harry snatched up another triangle of toast and rushed off after him.

Marcus skimmed the empty plate into the grass as they neared the long flat building bedded into the base of the quidditch stadium. The building had four doors each painted to match a school house and Flint unlocked the green and silver door with a strike of his wand against the handle. Inside was a simple hallway that had a door left and right decorated with the usual symbols to denounce boys and girls and a door opposite that simple read STORES. A cardboard box about five feet long and a couple of feet either side was dragged out of the stores and into the boy's changing area by Marcus. Harry followed him and found a room much like his old sports hall changing rooms at Dragon School. Benches and small lockers hemmed in the walls, a large bathing area was screened off in one corner, and there was enough space in the middle for people to flick wet towels at each other.

Marcus tore into the box like a mad monster, grabbing and ripping until he had a hole sufficient enough to reach through. He grabbed out a wax paper bundle tied up with string and smelt it with one long sniff up its length. "Love that smell," he said to himself. The paper was torn and shredded in much the same manner as the box. Inside there was a broom much like the one he had seen in Quality Quidditch Supplies at Diagon Alley, only this one didn't have Neville Longbottom wrapped around it. The broom looked fast standing still, as if its sleek presence on the earth was slicing the air asunder with ease.

"Nimbus 2001?" Harry remembered.

"Damn right," Marcus growled as he gave the broom a sniff in much the same way as he had the paper. "Would yer just look at the attention to detail. Every single tail-twig is individually sculpted and varnished, magnificent."

"Yeah, looks good," Harry, the layman, said just for something to say.

"Your locker's over there," Marcus waved a hand in some general direction as his eyes drank in the beauty of the broom. "Grab a broom too," he added giving the box a kick and then ambling away in a daze to a quiet corner where he sat down to gaze lovingly at the stick. Harry reached in and snagged a broom before retreating to where a wooden locker was marked Potter via a brass plaque.

He had new green and silver robes waiting for him inside and some rather solid protective equipment that he would undoubtedly need to assemble himself into. Without wasting time he began to get ready, and he had just slipped out of his school robes when the door was bashed open and a rat faced boy with keen beady eyes strolled in.

"Alright Marcus?" he said with a lazy salute.

"No I ain't bleedin' alright," Marcus snapped as he stood up and stormed over and grabbed the boy by the shirt front. "What the 'ell time do you call this?"

"5:45 man," the guy said with a little chuckle to placate the barbarian. "You said practise starts at six, and I'm here."

Marcus reared a fist back to punch him but let it drop. "Yer don't need ears to be a keeper, Bletchley. If you keep pissin' me off, I swear I'll box 'em in for you. Harry, this is Miles Bletchley our keeper. Bletchley, this is Potter, our head assigned seeker."

"Alright mate?" he offered Harry the same salute. "You're the evil kid with the creepy wand, right?"

"Yes," Harry rolled his eyes.

Clarence Hobbs and Aubrey Armstrong were the team beaters. Both boys looked to have started life in the monkey enclosure at the zoo but had grown into bigger yet no-better things. Clarence was a solid, thick, dense, heavy slab of meat and gristle with sandy brown hair pulled into a ponytail. His partner in crime Aubrey was keg shaped with a hanging gut and double chin, but the redwood thick forearms matted with thick fur and mountain slope shoulders suggested that if you were to peel away the substantial layer of fat you would find a very powerful and thick layer of muscle underneath. Adrian Pucey, a boy with a high forehead and rusty red hair arrived shortly after with Draco slithering in behind him, and thus rounding out the team.

Draco, a master of observation, noticed something was wrong pretty quick, and he raised a finger in Harry's direction without delay, "what is that half-blood cretin doing here?"

"That half-blood cretin is our seeker," Miles explained.

"No he isn't!" Malfoy shrieked indignantly. "I'm the team seeker."

"You were," Marcus said, "now you're not. So shut up, sit down, get changed, and be bleedin' happy that I ain't smacked you about the face with Aubrey's bat for bein' late." There was a ping, ping noise as Aubrey's metal beater's bat was slapped into his meaty paw.

"This is preposterous," Draco huffed and stamped his foot like a six-year-old. "My father paid a lot of money for those brooms and if you know what is—EEEE!" Draco screamed rather girlishly. This was because Marcus had grabbed him hard about the bits no boy wants to be grabbed hard by, and practically lifted him off his feet.

"I can't believe you got the balls to complain," Marcus said jiggling his captive up and down. "You arrive late and then tell me 'ow to run MY TEAM!" He bellowed in Draco's face.

"N-No," Draco panted as he tried to claw at the restraining hand, "I swear!"

"If you wanna keep on complainin', then fair enough. But you'll have to do it in a squeaky voice because I swear I am this close to ripping these off," another jiggle up and down, "and flushing them down the toilet. One more word from you, Malfoy!" Marcus left the threat hanging and let Draco go. The second year boy sniffed, held his head up as best he could, flicked his fine blond hair back, and limped over to his locker stopping only to grab a broom as he went. And thus the mutiny was avoided.

The quidditch pitch was occupied (or infested if you listened to Marcus) by Gryffindors. The little red and gold figures bobbed about in the air, and the rot had spread to the stands where a few avid supporters had come to watch them train. Being on team sasquatch meant Harry and Draco practically went unnoticed, after all, when everyone was craning their necks to look at the summit of Mt Armstrong the people down on ground level barely got a look in.

"Ain't you meant to be in detention, Woody?" Flint declared as he lead the battle formation forward.

"Professor McGonagall quashed it," Oliver Wood said as he approached with his little army at his back. "What are you doing here, anyway? I already booked the pitch."

"We know, but seeing how we have new brooms to break in-" Flint gestured at his sleek new broom in his hand.

"Those no good Snakes have got 2001's too!" the voice of Ronald Weasley chirped up from the pack of red and gold Gryffindors. "Those slimy gits!"

"—Professor Snape wrote us a recreation form," he said fluttering a slip of paper around like it was a winning lottery ticket.

"I think you mean requisition form," Hermione Granger voice clawed through the air with the all the pomposity a thirteen-year-old middle class girl could muster.

Wood snatched the chitty from Marcus's hand and began to scan it east to west, "huh-huh," Marcus chuckled. "Looks like you should have gotten McGonagall to write you out a re-recreation form at the same time she was skipping you out of detention." This, quite rightly, was met with a snort of disapproval from the Hermione J. G. who was undoubtedly buried in the crowd of bigger people in much the same way and Harry and Draco were.

"But we've got brooms to break in too and players to train," Wood declared, and waved his own Nimbus 2001 for emphasis. Their brooms appeared to be painted in Gryffindor red and had lions etched into the handle in gold.

"Yeah, I noticed that, and if I had known Johnson was hocking her cunt so you could afford decent brooms I might have made a donation, huh-huh-huh," Marcus made the obligatory thrusting motions in the air to the great amusement of the Slytherins and the great disgust of the Gryffindors.

"I'll have you know, Flint, that ours came from a legitimate sponsorship deal," Wood said snootily, bearing himself up to his full height and proclaiming the words over the ruckus that had erupted from the crowd of onlookers. "We didn't do some underhanded deal like you lot."

"Underhanded deal? You should try and snag some respectable wizarding bloodlines into your house," this came from Draco who was pushing his way between Flint and Hobbs and presenting himself for attention. "If you had—oh Merlin, it's true! Wobblebottom is on the quidditch team!" he howled with laughter, "oh this is too much—And Weasel too!" For a moment it seemed like Draco was having a fit, his howls of laughter were making him snort and choke and when he ran out of breath his guffaws came in a long wheeze. Unfortunately he got better and drawing in a new fresh breath began to laugh afresh.

"We're reserves," Ron declared angrily. Harry caught a glimpse of the gangly red head in his red and gold uniform as he accosted Malfoy in the no man's land between the two opposing forces. To his left stood Neville Longbottom looking sickly and out of place in his own team strip.

"I don't know what you are, but reserved isn't it," Draco said, his pale face was now tomato red and tears of laughter were glittering on his cheeks. "Wobbles is on the quidditch team!" he declared again and started to guffaw heartily once more. He went so far as to throw his head back and grab his aching stomach as he wheezed, "Wobbles on a broom! OH MAN!"

"Shut up!" Ron said angrily, "just shut your stupid ferret face!"

"Oh boy, next you'll be telling me the mudblood is your new lead chaser!" Malfoy shot out between chuckles.

It became immediately apparent that this was a bad thing to say as the whole Gryffindor contingent gasped in horror and then immediately tried their best to skin Draco alive. Unfortunately Draco saw sense and ducked behind Mt Armstrong before anyone could get hold of him. It was only some quick thinking and sneaky wand pokery that saw Ronald Weasley able to utter the cry, "eat slug Malfoy!" and cast a spell, which literally backfired. The grey murky bolt of magic shot from the handle of his crudely mended wand and struck Ron dead centre of the chest. In the next moment he was vomiting forth a rather large grey slug that flopped onto the ground with a splat and caused all the Slytherins to laugh afresh.

"Forget this, it's not worth it!" Wood shouted angrily, "let them have the pitch! They'll need every bit of help they can get come November."

"Ye-BLARGH!" Ron said as he let another slimy slug ooze out of his mouth and onto the floor.

"We'd best get him to Madam Pomfrey," Neville said as he took his friend by the shoulders and started to lead him away with the others.

The Slytherin team watched them bustle away and ignored the odd insult and curse aimed at Malfoy and the rest as they did so. It wasn't until the final trailing fan had oozed out of the stands did Marcus clap his hands together and give a whoop of victory. "Them queers think they've got it in the bag."

"Where did they get them brooms from?" Pucey asked.

"Nimbus Broom Company," Miles Bletchley said. "Seems McGonagall got herself involved and wrangled a sponsorship deal with the company. Her team would get gratis brooms and Nimbus got to use his Wobbles's mooning face on their adverts and inform the world at large that he wraps his oversized buttocks around one as a member of the Gryffindor quidditch team. By the sounds of things they've stuck the fat lump and his chum in as reserves."

"He can't even get his fat backside off the ground," Malfoy said down his nose. "The fool broke his wrist in our first flying lesson. I honestly wish he'd just curl up and die somewhere, and take that buck-tooth mudblood with him."

"Who gives a shit now, anyway," Marcus cut through the banter and shook his broom victoriously. "We've levelled the playing field, ain't we! And that means we'll crush 'em like we did last year and the year before and the year before!" He lumbered over to a wooden trunk that the Gryffindors had obviously brought but forgot to retrieve and kicked it over. The top spilled open and two leather and iron balls (bludgers Harry remembered from his lesson with Tom and Gargamel a few nights ago) shot out like balls from a canon. They swerved around in the air at a tremendous pace and began to rocket back towards the team. Harry watched in a stunned state of amazement as the ball made a beeline to rearrange his face and could do nothing more except think: well, that's frightfully dangerous, isn't it. At the last moment there was a loud clang as the ball met the bat held in Hobbs's paw and it was sent spiralling away into the air. Armstrong copped the second ball with a smack of his own that sent it skyward. This fine act of beating was proceeded by a weeeee as the two huge boys zipped into the air in chase of their quarry.

"What are you lot standin' around for? Get up there and get workin' on your game," Flint ordered the rest. Draco, Miles and Pucey all stumbled forward quickly and Pucey grabbed the large inert leather ball that had rolled out of the chest and onto the grass (quaffle, Harry remembered), and took off into the skies with the rest following. Harry was about to do the same, but Flint gripped him about the back of the neck and hauled him close. With Harry secure and at his side he reached down into the trunk and decanted a tiny golden ball no bigger than a golf ball. "Ever seen a snitch before?"

"No," Harry said.

"Ever seen a snatch before, huh-huh-huh," he ruffled Harry's short hair and pushed him away playfully. "Nah, this is a snitch, mate. Damn small and right quick." He held it in the shovel he called a palm and two fine golden wings unfurled and began to hum as they beat faster than the eye could see, and then it flew off faster than the eye could watch. "Go grab it, mate, but be wary of Malfoy. He's not too keen on you havin' his spot, and 'e looks right keen on making you look a fool. Go on," he clapped Harry twice on the cheek companionably.

Harry's first and only foray into the flying art had been upon a gnarled broom with moss growing on it, a far cry from what he was using now. The Nimbus 2001, so lovingly gifted for his use by one Lucius Malfoy was different, and it was fast...very fast. He was fifty feet up in a heartbeat and a heartbeat later he was a hundred feet up, and pulling the broom to a stop he was glad to notice that with speed came outstanding control. He looked around at the limitless sky and the world around him in wonder, this was as close to be free as a human could possibly be, he thought...or it would be if you weren't being made to play under duress, he added.

From what he remembered of the game he had seen in Tom's memory a few nights ago the seekers mainly stayed high and maintained a keen vigilant eye. Harry did the same, keeping his head on the turn and his eyes on a swivel, and there he remained ever vigilant for a slip of gold. Far below him the game played out uncaring of him. Marcus and Pucey were throwing shots and Miles and the two beaters were now tormenting Draco by smacking bludger after bludger after bludger at him. Harry remained vigilant, but soon enough boredom began to creep in and so he started to loop around the pitch at a slow lazy pace mostly for something to do but also to get the feel of this broom.

Gold! Harry saw it! Nothing more than a little twinkle, by the stands...was it the snitch? Is that what they looked like? He bolted forward to investigate but his moment of pause and inaction meant it was gone. He knew what to look for now, knew what to expect, and he wouldn't second guess himself next time—after all his future schooling hinged on this sport. He returned to patrolling the pitch at a snail's pace and ignored the many threats and shouts from Marcus as he did so. He caught a flash of gold flittering out of the tail of his eye and this time he didn't hesitate. He hauled the handle around, tucked his feet up on the pegs, hunkered down and shot after it. A missile couldn't have moved faster, he was across the pitch and screeching around the hemline of the stadium at record breaking—and bone breaking—speed. The snitch, it was definitely the snitch, zipped away as he drew close and Harry kept his eyes zeroed in on it. It banked left, he followed; it dived, he dived; it scooped into the air, and he scooped after it. The world was nothing but a hazy blur of colours around him. He saw green grass, blue sky, brown stands, grey castle, green and silver Armstrong, grey castle, blue sky, green grass, and then he was threading himself through the tight silver goal hoop as the golden snitch zipped its way through with the greatest of ease and the greatest of speed.

Something hard and meaty slammed into his side, he swerved violently to the right, his hands gripped and wrestled the broom handle to keep him straight, and before he could do so a vast wooden buttress hove into view. Harry flipped into a roll at the last minute, and heard the schum as the buttress breezed past his ear. The quick and hasty correction was the wrong way however and he found himself weaving and threading his way through a forest of support struts, beams, buttresses, and braces all networked together to keep the vast stands high in the air. He slalomed left and right, snaking his way between the beams with no margin for error, ducking and diving to avoid the braces as he went. Bright morning sky beaming in overhead marked the cut off point between one set of house stands and the next, a two foot wide gap of empty space that Harry capitalised on. He pushed down on the broom's foot pegs with his legs, hauled on the handle with his hands and went from horizontal to vertical in a blink. He exploded through the gap scraping his back and fingers on the woodwork as he went and found himself hovering above the stands, the game still going on around him. Draco was giving chase, he was on the opposite side of the pitch and looking remarkably determined and somewhat competent. Harry turned himself around to intercept him, and set off at break-neck speeds to do just that.

"You're not having my spot, Potty!" Draco bellowed over the rushing winds as Harry sped into the dirty air churned up his wake. Harry ignored him, the boy was mouthy and what he wanted wasn't his concern, what was Harry's concern was getting that snitch and staying on the team and in school. Inching closer towards the boy wasn't difficult as Draco wasn't sat right on the broom, he wasn't streamlined enough with his head was held a little too high and his legs not tucked up enough. All these little imperfections made a big difference, and it slowed the other boy down just enough for Harry to carry on gaining on him inch by inch.

Harry brushed his handle into Draco's tail-twigs, slapping them aside and disrupting the boy's handling, Malfoy kicked back, using his leg to push Harry's broom away. "Just piss off and take the Chaser position, you mongrel!"

"What, and deny the opportunity? No thanks!" Harry yelled back, his voice straining to be heard over the wind that rushed passed his ears. Draco swerved left and Harry swerved right to avoid Hobbs who was bobbing around picking his nose. Harry smoothed his profile down on the broom, sped up to draw level with Draco, and then charged into him. They clashed together, Harry weathered the impact whilst Draco spun wild only to return with his own slam into Harry's side an instant later. They butted sides as they raced around the inside bowl of the stadium jostling and pushing for every inch they could get. Draco quickly broke off to avoid Marcus who had arrived in his flight path and when he came charging back to deliver another slamming blow found nothing to blow against. Harry, who had rolled under the boy in a tight barrel roll, gave a victorious whoop as Draco overshot the mark and kept on charging sideways until his powerful broom's handle clipped the wooden safety barrier that hemmed in the stands. The broom jarred to a complete stop and Malfoy, due to a little quirk known as physics, didn't. He was catapulted off the broom, flew unaided for several meters and landed with a clattering rattle amid the rows of wooden benches and chairs, where upon he rolled, bounced, and screamed until he impacted with some force and agony against the wall of the stadium.

So much for Draco, Harry thought, as he snatched his hand out and caught the little golden snitch that seemed to have stopped to watch the show. He felt the flittering golden wings tickle his fingers and held his hand aloft to declare it caught and subdued.

"Bloody 'ell," Marcus declared as he broke off his practise to make sure Harry did indeed have the snitch gripped in his hand. "Snape weren't wrong about you, was 'e?"

"Not half," Miles added as he flew over to join the conversation. "The way you plastered Malfoy into the stands was top stuff. I bet he don't come looking to try his luck with you again. Shall we go see if he's alright?"

"Sod him," Marcus extended a hand which Harry shook, "welcome to the team, Potter. Now, don't just stand around lookin' stupid. Go get it again!" He reared his arm back and hurled the golden snitch as hard as he could into the air. The wings unfurled and with a glitter of gold, it was gone. Harry gave a sigh, didn't Marcus know how much trouble it was to capture one of those things?

After spending the entire morning buzzing around in the sky chasing after a little golden ball and snagging it seven more times Marcus finally called the practise session to an end. They dug Malfoy out from the pile of benches and chairs to which he had made an impromptu bed and waved him off in the direction of the hospital wing, which he headed towards rather shakily and with more stagger than swagger than he was accustomed too. After a quick sloosh down and getting dressed once more in attire more befitting ground perambulation the team parted ways to do whatever they did on a Saturday. Harry made a beeline to inform Tom of the good news and recant the glorious take down of the malignant Malfoy. He said a hasty hello to Tabitha as he passed her by in the common room and took the helical steps three at a time down and down and down until he burst into the circular room and felt the joy and exhilaration flee from him at the sight of the usual suspects crowded around the sofa looking conspiratorial. Able offered him a sneer and Felicity gave some off the cuff remark about the smell.

"Coo, you don't half look mangy, Potter," Chester said with some measure of cordiality. "How did your practise session go?"

"Better than I expected," Harry replied shortly as he moved into his room and was greeted by Bertram, who had appeared to have spent a happy afternoon tearing the feathers out of his pillow and scattering them about the place. "Bertram!" Harry cried as he took in the utter devastation, and blew away an errant feather that fluttered passed his nose.

"Afternoon...noon," Bertram cawed and reaching his beak into the hole in his pillow case ripped out a beak full of feather and tossed them into the air.

"Will you stop that," Harry cried as he grabbed the bird and pulled him away. "What the hell has gotten into you?" Bertram's answer was to blow a raspberry at Harry and let himself be carried to the headboard where he happily perched. "You better pray Tom has a spell that can re-stuff pillows or I'll be plucking you for down, I mean it."

Snapping open his trunk Harry reached in and grabbed the Macabre Wand that he had tossed in there before leaving for practise, and then his eyes caught sight of something that made him do a quick double take. It was the price label on the bottom of his telescope, a price label he knew very well was on the bottom, not the top. He looked a little closer at the contents of his trunk and got the feeling that something was not right, it was in much the same way you notice something missing from a room despite not knowing what it was or where it once lay. Everything was just slightly off-kilter and he got down on his knees to investigate.

"Anyone been in here whilst I was gone, Bertie?" Harry asked at some length.

"No...no," Bertram declared happily as he bounced across the headboard and back again.

So when had this happened? He wondered. For the last four or five days his forays into trunk had been normally in the early morning when light wasn't exactly perfect and his brain was foggy with sleep. He normally reached in blindly, grabbed his toiletries, his clothes, school equipment and snapped it shut again. And returning things to his trunk was normally done without attention being paid. Was it whilst he was at practise just now, or was it when he was in the library last night, or the night before? Anger wormed into his guts and bled into his veins as he thought of someone rooting through his stuff, pawing through his belongings, no doubt stealing whatever they could. Harry ground his teeth and carefully drew out his telescope. He turned it the right way up carefully and slotted it back into place, that was how it should be, the little silver handle at the top where he could grab it. He would never put it in upside down, so it was obvious someone else had definitely been tampering. He picked up the little money pouch and pulled it open to find all his money still inside, so money wasn't a motive. He scooped up Bathilda Bagshot's A History of Magic and put it back where it belonged next to Miranda Goshawk's The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) and then he noticed something that was missing and frosty fingers of fear ran up his spine before a blazing trail of anger followed in their wake.

William Golding's Lord of the Flies was precious to him for many reasons. Yes, the smell of home might have long fled its pages, but just seeing the book and feeling its texture and reading its wonderful story could bring back a flood of wonderful memories to him. The idea that it was gone and the trigger to those memories gone with it, made him furious. The very notion that some cretin had no doubt stolen it and burnt it or ripped it to pieces made him want blood. It took every ounce of his self control not to explode in a wrathful ball of vengeance then and there and go hunt down the animal that took it and make them pay for it. Thankfully he had more self-control and forethought than that, no, first he would make sure the book was definitely gone before he went seeking blood.

He took out all his books and stacked them on the carpet, he removed all his clothes and unfurled them, he shook out his toiletry bag, carefully decanted every bottle and jar out of his potions kit. Before long he stared down at the wood and leather skeleton of his trunk. Nothing, not a sign of it. He double checked everything as he quickly re-filled the trunk, making sure everything was as neat and carefully arranged as it should be. Still no sign of the book. A quick search of his little room revealed similar results, the book was not here-it was gone, taken, stolen.

It had to be his current classmates, the older students had no need to go searching through his room and they certainly didn't need to steal his books. Harry's hand gripped his wand and he stormed towards the door with every intention of crashing through it and demanding answers of the lowlifes beyond. Common sense saw him stop at the door and he glowered at it, his anger and fury slipping away to make room for doubts and considerations. How does one accost a group of people over an alleged theft? They'd no doubt deny all knowledge and snigger up their sleeves at him. Then what could he do...except go absolutely ape and field-test some of Tom's spells on those assembled, and that would just get him expelled. Besides, he wasn't the shouting type and this sort of thing required shouting. Maybe he could search their rooms on the quiet, he thought, get his book back without confrontation or shouting. It was strange how a moment of stupid reflection could douse burning rage, and in a snap of his fingers he'd gone from raging bull to lip-biting introvert. Of course it was also strange how one braying laugh from Able Farrows sounding through the door had the ability to pour fuel on the fires, reignite them, then happily fan the flames.

Driven forward by sheer fury and not at all in his right mind Harry found himself outside his room and staring at Able, Felicity, Matsuko, Chester, Bellamy. They were all just lounging around, Chester on the floor doing some homework, Bellamy tucking into a pie he'd purloined from the great hall, Able in his chair yapping, and Felicity styling Matsuko's silky black hair. They all gave him that unwelcomed stare and seemed to still, as if waiting for him to do a trick.

"Which of you has been in my room?" he asked politely and bluntly, even in his fury he couldn't bring himself to bellow and stamp like some charging moose.

"No one," Felicity said with a snort, "who would want to go in your stinking room?"

"Someone has been!" Harry snapped louder than he intended. "Someone has been riffling through my school trunk, someone has stolen my stuff, and someone had better give it me back."

"What are you talking about, Potter?" Matsuko said with a frown creasing her face. "No one has been in your room. At least not to my knowledge."

"Yeah mate," Chester threw in as he rolled onto his side to get a better view of the situation. "I've been here all morning, and no one's been in your room. I'd tell you if they had."

"Do you think I'm that stupid? Do you honestly think I can't tell when you've been through my stuff? Especially when you leave half it upside and the other half out of order!" he shouted now, and he aimed his glare at Able because he was his prime suspect. "I want it back and I want it back in the exact condition it was taken."

"Coo, you'll need to look further afield, then, because we ain't got it, mate," Chester said.

"You're being awfully quiet, Farrows? Don't you have something to say?" Harry asked the boy who had sat and watched the whole show unfold with a smirk growing on his face.

"Not really," Able said with a snort of laughter. He stretched his legs out and put his hands behind his head. "I just want to sit here and enjoy watching you make a complete fool of yourself. Potty, no one has been in your stupid room and no one wants to steal whatever crap a mongrel like you owns. So shut up before your shouting wakes up Snoozing Simon outside."

The clouds parted, of course, Snoozing Simon of Salisbury, what a wonderful idea. They might be able to put a unified front up against him, but Professor Snape, well he had authority and he had powers to search other people's rooms. Striding out into the stairwell he saw the small portrait of the sleeping man and started to bang on the canvas with a fist. "Hello! HELLO!" He yelled at it, "WAKE UP!"

"Who—what!" Simon of Salisbury cracked open a pale blue eye crusted with sleep and blinked out of his portrait at Harry. "What is the meaning of this, young man? Waking a man up from his sleep with all your banging and yelling, it's preposterous. I am very well going to warn your head of house. Just you watch!"

"Do it," Harry snarled at the portrait. "Go on, fetch him and bring him down here the quicker the better." At least with Professor Snape in attendance they could sort everything out by the book.

"I will! And Severus will not be pleased!" Snoozy Simon stood up from his rocking chair and on shaking old limbs shambled out of his golden frame. Harry stalked back into the room and stood before his door, he didn't want anyone sneaking anything back in whilst they had the chance. No, he wanted them caught red-handed. During the wait he let his eyes skim around the room, who was nervous, who was fidgeting, who was shifting around for a quick exit? The answer was no one, Chester was back to drawing, Able wore a big grin, Bellamy was licking the residue off his plate, and Felicity was berating Matsuko for her choice in shampoo. If the culprit was here then they were certainly playing it cool.

Professor Snape arrival was marked with his usual fanfare and theatrics including but not limited to billowing robes, dark stare, and odd smell of mushrooms. "Which one of you insipid little morons has been causing a ruckus? Speak!" He demanded.

"It's Potty, Sir," Able said, relishing every moment of it. "He's accusing us of being thieves."

"Yeah, as if we'd steal from him," Felicity threw in.

"Is he really," Professor Snape said as if bored of the subject already. He snapped around and let his black gimlet gaze impress itself upon Harry, "Potter, is this true?"

"Yes sir," Harry had to force himself not to sneer the reply. "My trunk has been tampered with and someone has stolen one of my books."

"Oh Merlin," Felicity tutted and sighed, "no wonder he's in such a tizzy, someone's stolen a book...dun-dun-duun."

"Are you sure about this, Potter?" Professor Snape asked with his usual sharpness and complete lack of sympathy.

"Yes sir, I'm not stupid. I know when someone has been rummaging and I know when something is missing. I've searched my room and I've searched my trunk, and it is simply not there."

Professor Snape drew in a breath, as if he was bracing to give a rather impressive speech. "I can get to the bottom of this mystery in mere seconds, Potter," he said and withdrew his wand from his pocket. "With a single spell I can summon the book from wherever it is. But I warn you, I will not be best pleased should I find the book is exactly where it should be, and that my coming down here on this fool's errand has been a waste of my precious time. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," Harry said. "Cast away, I really would like that book back."

"Very well. Now, before I begin would anyone like to take a moment to perhaps remember some vital piece of information, like perhaps where they might have seen the book last?" No one moved, no one offered any suggestion. Professor Snape nodded his head as if to conclude that portion of the investigation, "Potter, what is the title of this book?"

"Lord of the Flies," Harry said. Professor Snape stared front and centre and with a face blank of emotions and he gave his wand a lavish swish through the air. There was no sparks, no flash of light, not even a funny smell, but something went bump and it certainly wasn't from Harry's room. The professor looked over at where the noise had come from, namely in the direction of Able's room, and pointed his wand in that direction and swished it again. The bump sounded again and this time it was followed by a thumping rattle of bumps as if several something's had fallen down.

"That's bull!" Able shouted incredulously. "You're joking! I haven't stolen anything from that mongrel, I swear!"

Professor Snape ignored him and crossing the room in four long strides he yanked open the boy's bedroom door. There was whistle in the air and Professor Snape ducked aside as Lord of The Flies flew past his ear. Harry had to make a hasty dive to catch it before it smashed into the floor, and he immediately began to inspect it for damage. Finding the precious volume, feeling the familiar cover, and finding the pages all intact and undamaged made all the resentment and anger ebb away...well most of it. Bloody Able Farrows!

"Mister Farrows, why do you appear to have Potter's book in your wardrobe?" the potion master asked in a slow, languid tone.

"I didn't!" Able yelled his voice cracking with the emotion he was putting into it. "I haven't seen that book in my life. I swear. Chester, you know I've not been anywhere near Potty's rubbish."

"Whatever reasons you had, I would sooner you didn't do it again," the professor cut through his tirade. "I can't be expected to traipse down here every time Potter fails to adequately secure his belongings." The blow to Harry's gut couldn't have been more real if Professor Snape had turned around and walloped him one right in the bread basket. All that resentment and anger came crashing back in a heartbeat and he could only stare on in disbelief. Of course he should have known the man wouldn't play fair, he should have expected the whole fiasco to be twisted and turned around in such a way as to make it all his fault. One look at Able's suddenly smirking face showed that he had realised it too. "Now, if you children are quite done I have two incredibly delicate potions brewing and a stack of Hufflepuff work to mark. I would appreciate not being disturbed again, do you understand?"

"That's it?" Harry said shortly, "you're not gonna even punish him?"

"What for?" The man oozed the words and let a smile twitch at his lips. "For your lack of forethought in protecting your belongings? You should count yourself lucky that I don't give you detention for disturbing my Saturday afternoon. You're supposed to be a Slytherin, Potter, and I would suggest you start acting like one, and tat includes not tattling to the teacher like some Gryffindor. Do not make me come down here again," he warned before swooping from the room like an oversized bat.

"I don't know where that book came from, I swear," Able said once they were alone.

"He probably planted it himself," Felicity said. "Didn't you see how quick he was to get you punished. I bet it was payback for you getting him into trouble over that flying lark."

Able didn't say anything to that accusation, but the smirk dropped from his lips and he gave Harry a suspicious look. Harry glared back and the bubbling anger seeped into veins, drove his muscles, and singled his vision. Harry didn't move fast, but he moved with purpose and more importantly he moved towards Able. Bellamy darted out of his way; Chester curled up to let him pass without incident, and Able, who had seen which way he was heading, started to back up frantically.

"I didn't take it, honest!" he spluttered, holding his hands up in surrender and staggering backwards.

Harry hounded him all the way to the wall, and the other boy plastered himself against it. Able's throat worked to swallow his fear as Harry took away his person space and closed the gap to a hair's breadth. "Do you honestly think I believe you? Do you honestly think I'm that gullible?" He whispered.

"I haven't been in-in your room, I mean it," Able muttered thickly, his voice getting tangled up in his throat as he did so.

Harry ignored him and discounted his pleas, "Professor Snape is right, we need to act like Slytherins and start taking care of our own problems. And my problem is you."

"I-I haven't don't any—" Able started to wail.

Slipping the wand from his pocket Harry jabbed the point into Able's hip, "Skausaparatus," he cast.

There was a muffled crackle and Able slid down the wall as if he'd been deboned. His leg twitched and convulsed violently, his body writhed, and the only sound he made was a loud anguished Mmmmm noise as if he was trying to scream through a clenched and unyielding jaw. Then it stopped as quick as it started and Able was left trembling on the floor, his breathing coming in raggedy patches and sweat beaded his forehead. Harry inspected the tip of his blackened wand and saw it wasn't damaged by the spell, so he jabbed it into Able's thigh ready to give him the good news again."No," Able begged hoarsely and shook his hands in a wild no-more gesture. "I didn't go in your room, man!"

The spell was practically dripping from the tip of Harry's tongue, but he stopped himself from casting it. The last thing he wanted was to explain why he had hospitalised someone and with what spell he had done it with. He drew his wand up and pressed it under Able's chin. "Touch my stuff again, and I'll scramble what little brains you have and make them leak from your ear," Harry whispered and Able nodded his understanding.

His swooping from the room was very Snape-like, stiff, direct, and without a farewell. The last he saw of the group they were rushing around to console the injured party. He left them to it as he had more important things to do, namely inform Tom of what had happened and then fix his pillow.

God, I can't believe the audacit— Harry stopped writing as the ballpoint pen he was using snapped under the strain of his fury. He took up a quill, -y of some people.

You sound a tad upset. What's wrong, tell me everything.