A Hogwarts Legend: Round Two [2]

Chapter Ten

"I've got a question, Oliver," says George, and I lift my head of his shoulder to look at him. "Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?"

I try to muffle my laugh but Wood hears it and glares at us.

"Now, listen here, you lot," he says, glowering at them all, "we should have won the Quidditch Cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately, owing to the circumstances beyond our control ..."

I shift guiltily in my seat. Harry and I were unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.

Well, they were two players down....

Wood takes a moment to regain control of himself.

"So, this year, we train harder than ever before ... Okay, let's go and put our new theories into practise!" Wood shouts, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the changing rooms. Stiff-legged and still yawning, we follow.

We've been in the changing room so long that the sun is up properly now, although remnants of mist hang over the grass in the stadium. As we walk onto the pitch, I see Ron, Hermione and Elinor sitting in the stands.

"Aren't you finished yet?" El calls incredulously.

"Haven't even started," says Harry, looking jealously at the toast in our friends hands. "Wood's been teaching us new moves."

"Here," El tosses me a few slices of her toast.

"Awh, bae, you're sharing food with me!"

"No, I'm not, that's Maya's." She motions to her left.

I look and burst out laughing. Maya is lying down on one of the stands, still in her pyjamas, fast asleep, with my note still stuck to her head.

"EMILY!" Wood yells and I sigh.

I mount my broom and kick at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air whips my face, my hair flying everywhere. I soar right round the stadium at full speed, racing Fred, George and Harry.

"What's that funny clicking noise?" calls Fred, as we hurtle around the corner.

I look into the stands. Colin is sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.

"Look this way, Harry! This way!" he cries shrilly.

Awh, I love him, can I keep him? He shall be my pet!

"Who's that?" George asks.

"No idea," Harry lies, before flying away.

"He's lying," I mutter to George. "Meet Colin Creevey, Harry's personal fangirl."

"What's going on?" says Wood, frowning, as he skims through the air towards us. "Why's that first-year taking pictures? Irony like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training programme."

"He's in Gryffindor," I say quickly.

"And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Oliver," says George.

"What makes you say that?" says Wood testily.

"Because they're here in person," says Fred, pointing.

Several people in green robes are walking onto the pitch, brooms in their hands.

"I don't believe it!" Wood hisses in outrage. "I booked the pitch for today! We'll see about this!"

Wood shoots towards the ground, landing rather harder than he means to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounts. Fred, George and I follow.

"Flint!" Wood bellows at the Slytherin captain. "This is our practise time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!"

Marcus Flint is even larger than Wood. He has a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replies, "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."

Angelina, Katie and Harry have come over, too. There are no girls on the Slytherin - sexist little shits.

"But I booked the pitch!" says Wood, positively spitting with rage. "I booked it!"

"He's acting like a five year old who's he his toy taken away," I mutter to George, who struggles to keep the grin off his face.

"Ah," says Flint, "but I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practise today on the Quidditch pitch, owing to the need to train their new Seeker."

"Yeah, but let's be honest," I say, stepping towards the Slytherins. "Snape's word don't mean shit. No one cares if you got permission from him. McGonagall on the other hand ..."

"You've got a new Seeker?" says Wood, distracted. "Where?"

And from behind the six large figures before us comes a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face.

Draco freaking Malfoy.

-_-

"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" says Fred, looking at Malfoy with dislike.

"Funny you should mention Draco's father," says Flint, as the whole Slytherin team smiles still more broadly. "Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team."

All seven of them hold out their brooms. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words 'Nimbus Two Thousand and One' gleam under our noses in the early-morning sun.

"Very latest model. Only came out last month," says Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. "I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps," he smiles nastily at Fred and George, who are both clutching Cleansweep Fives, "sweeps the board with them."

"You realise my dad could get us those as well," I say, putting my hand on my hip. "But he told me personally that they don't have as good balance as the previous model, and why get those when the Firebolt's coming out next year? Waste of money really."

No one says anything for a moment, all the Slytherins staring at me.

"Oh look," says Flint. "A pitch invasion."

Ron, Hermione, Elinor and Maya are crossing the grass to see what is going on.

"What's happening?" Ron ask Harry and I. "Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?"

He's looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes.

"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley," says Malfoy, smugly. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our team."

Ron gapes, open-mouthed, at the seven brooms in front of us.

"Good, aren't they?" says Malfoy, smoothly. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives, I expect a museum would bid for them."

The Slytherin team howls with laughter.

It wasn't that funny....

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," says Hermione sharply. "They got in on pure talent."

"OOOOOOOO!" El and May jeer, high-fiving Hermione.

We've taught her well!

The smug look on Malfoy's face flickers.

"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spits.

Bitch say what?