The Slytherin Transfer

31: "I guess chivalry isn't dead."

"And Robinson hits another bludger at Meadowes!" Calls Gardner, the fourth year Gryffindor, from the box, "I'd hate to see that pretty face ruined, good thing she dodged it . . ."

"Potter's got the quaffle, he's going down the pitch, passes to MacDonald, little brother of another gorgeous fifth year. You know where to find me, Mary," says Hocks, speaking loudly with the help of the wand pressed into his neck, and there are scattered laughs from the stands, "they're going to goal, pass fake to Meadowes, heading straight in, and — OH!"

The whole crowd hisses as Dasher gets a bludger right to the arm. There's a sickening crack, and he goes flying sideways, yelling out in pain. Robinson looks gleeful as the whistle is blown and the small boy is taken off the pitch.

I beckon Marcus over, feeling anger course through me.

"I've got a plan, and I might be barking mad, but we best try it considering how much of a catastrophe this is."

He nods, and as the game ensues — our team down one Chaser but not suffering too badly considering how good James and Dorcas are — I explain the plan, and Marcus and I venture to opposite ends of the pitch. I feel faint and nauseous, courtesy of the lack of sleep and eating, but I nevertheless nod grimly at my ex-boyfriend, our bats at the ready.

"Meadowes and Potter in a thrilling game of keepaway, meanwhile it looks like Milton and Borden are doing some strange synchronized dance," Hocks says, watching as Marcus and I begin in a circle around Robinson, the bludgers both flying our way.

The large boy looks around at us, confused, but we've already begun. Hitting both bludgers across the circle to one another, Marcus and I trap Robinson, leaving him to blindly try and bat the balls away and escape the circle.

"We've never seen this, folks!" Yells Gardner as the crowd cheers in excitement, "a sort of Bludger Tornado, and Robinson is trapped in the middle. He does not look happy."

Eventually, one of the bludgers hits him in the shoulder, courtesy of Marcus. This only seems to make him more angry, but also distracted, and my next hit clocks him straight in the skull, knocking him out cold. As he falls off his broom, Marcus and I dive forward to catch him, lugging his heavy weight to the ground as the whistle blows and the play stops once more. Madam Hooch looks livid, though we haven't technically broken any rules, so all she does is give me and Marcus stern glares as she calls people on the field to help get Robinson to the hospital wing.

James beckons everyone to the air, and we join together, one man short, all of us looking uneasily at the score.

"It's any man's game — absolutely brilliant, you two, never seen anything like it —" he says to me and Marcus as we approach, and everyone murmurs in agreement, patting us on the backs, "Dorcas, you and I need to keep the quaffle away from them, and stall while Caradoc looks for the snitch. We're outmanned on offence, so we just gotta keep it away."

We all nod, looking like quite the rough bunch. Emmeline is sporting a swollen purple eye, James's face is covered in dried blood and his teeth are stained red, half of Dorcas's hair has fallen from her ponytail, and my split lip breaks open when I yawn, more blood oozing out.

"And the game is back on, this has to be the dirtiest one we've ever seen . . ."

The match continues for half an hour before Caradoc catches the snitch, and by that time we're so beaten and exhausted we barely celebrate. We fly towards the ground, and I feel myself growing even more faint as I dismount my broom. I barely have time to process anything when the ground hits my cheek, and I realize I've fallen. The black that edges my vision consumes me, and I succumb to the darkness, hearing voices all around me but not caring what they say.