The Hogwarts Lonely Hearts Club

Quidditch and Quill Nibs

"Is Potter even any good though?" Fred Weasley was asking on Friday evening, as the final confabulation took place in the Gryffindor Common Room on the eve of the big match. "The Claws say he's good, but has anyone actually seen him fly?"

"Does it matter? The rumour is he has a Firebolt!" Ron Weasley whined next to him, the envy clear in his saggy tone. "That would make even an average flier ten times better."

"And it's Harry Potter we're talking about ... he doesn't seem to make a habit of being bad at anything," Dean Thomas mused ruefully.

"He is the perfect build for Seeker, too, have to give him that," Alicia Spinnet mused. "Lithe, nimble ... he'll be like a whippet in the sky."

"Maybe we should try and call the game off," Katie Bell suggested. "We can all pretend to have come down with Dragon Pox, too, just till Chang gets over having the real thing. We can all say that Diggory has been snogging us while his girlfriend is sick. That's not too much of a stretch to believe, is it?"

"Wouldn't be fair on Potter, though," Fay Dunbar cut in. "If he's looking forward to playing, it would be quite cruel to make up a lie just to stop him flying against us."

"But we are trying to stop him flying against us," Fred pointed out.

"Yeah, whose side are you on anyway, Fay?" Angelina Johnson scowled.

"Gryffindor's, of course," Fay shot back. "I'm just saying ... we're supposed to be the 'brave' House, but it looks like we're so terrified of letting Harry Potter play one Quidditch game against us that we're being reduced to dirty tricks to try and stop him. How very Slytherin of us. I say let's see what he's got and try to beat him fair and square."

With her head still turned away from the conversation, Hermione grinned to herself and felt a strange surge of affection for Fay just then. Her emotions were behaving rather rebelliously at the moment. They were being very naughty and not obeying Hermione's usually strict controls over them. How very odd that was.

"Why does Potter suddenly want to play at all though? That's what I want to know," George Weasley went on. "One minute he's quieter than a house-elf, the next thing he wants to be a match winner at Quidditch. What makes a bloke just up and change like that?"

"That's easy, my dumber, uglier twin," Fred smirked. "Either lots of gold, or the promise of victory kisses from a pretty girl. Are there any greater inducements to be had?"

Sat alone at her table nearby, Hermione couldn't help but splutter out a choke at Fred's suggestion. Her pulse thrummed loud in her ears as silence fell over the little group behind her.

"You okay, Mione?" asked Ron.

"Yeah fine," Hermione replied, too thrown to even grimace at the use of her contracted name. She needed to invent an excuse and fast. "Just a Bertie Bott's Bean that went down the wrong way, that's all."

"Ooh, chuck us one while you've got them out, then," Ron urged.

"Sorry ... last one," Hermione invented, surprised at how easily she was able to fib.

"Shame. Save me one next time, yeah? Back to Potter though, I think he just wants to show off, that's why he's playing on Saturday," Ron confidently told his audience. "Flashy broom, chance to get his name in lights ... he seems the type. Even by doing nothing I think he knows he's drawing attention to himself. I bet he loves it, really. I would, if it were me."

Hermione felt her blood pressure tighten in her veins as something powerful rose in her chest ... something distinctly protective. It was so fierce and involuntary that Hermione was powerless against it as it surged through her. She span in her chair and glowered at Ron ... she couldn't help it.