Chapter Ten- "Meet Colin Creevey, Harry's personal fangirl."
I'm so glad it's the weekend! Time to relax after the first week of school.
However, I'm shaken awake several hours earlier than I would've liked by Angelina Johnson.
"What do you want?" I moan.
"Wood's called a Quidditch practise," she mutters.
I grab my glasses and look out the window. There's a thin mist hanging across the pink and gold sky.
"Angelina," I groan, "it's the crack of dawn."
"Apparently it's part of our new training programme. Come on, grab your broom and let's go."
Mumbling darkly, I climb out of bed and try to find my Quidditch robes..
"See you down there," she says, then leaves.
When I find my scarlet team robes and pull my cloak on for warmth, I scribble a note to Hermione, Elinor and Maya, stick it on May's head and go down the spiral staircase to the common room, my Nimbus Two Thousand on my shoulder.
I meet Harry when I enter the common room. He looks as tired as I feel. We don't say anything just nod at each other.
We've just reached the portrait hole when there's a clatter behind us and Colin Creevey comes dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched on his hand.
Bet you, that's the photo of him.
I'm betting against myself....
At least I know I'll win!
"I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Harry! Look what I've got here! I've had it developed, I wanted to show you, your friends as well -"
I look bemusedly at the photo Colin is brandishing at us.
A moving, black and white Lockhart is tugging hard on an arm which I'm guessing is Harry's. His arms putting up quite a fight and refusing to be pulled into view. As I watch, Lockhart gives up and slumps, panting, against the white edge of the picture.
"Will you sign it?" says Colin eagerly.
"No," says Harry flatly.
"Don't worry, I'll make him sign it," I grin at Colin. "But not now, sorry Colin, but we're in a hurry - Quidditch practise."
I climb through the portrait hole, Harry close behind me.
"Oh wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a game of Quidditch before!"
Colin scrambles through the hole after us.
"It'll be really boring," Harry says quickly but I cut him off before he can continue.
"He's kidding, it'll be really interesting!"
I'm enjoying Harry's embarrassment.
Does the make me a bad friend?
Eh, not my problem.
"You are the youngest house players in a hundred year, aren't you?" says Colin, trotting alongside Harry. "You must be brilliant. I've never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is that the best one there is?"
"Harry's younger than me, he's the one that's really talented."
Harry glares at me, and I stick my tongue out in retaliation.
"I don't really understand Quidditch," says Colin breathlessly. "Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly round trying to knock people off their brooms?"
"Why don't you ask Emily?" Harry says, smirking. "After all, her dad is a famous Quidditch player."
What a prick, he's knows how much I hate Quidditch!
Can I punch him now?
"Really?" Colin says wide eyed. "Can I have a photo with you as well? And could you get your dad to sign it?"
"After practise," I sigh heavily. "And yes those balls are called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team, who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters."
"And what are the other balls for?" Colin asks, tripping down a couple of steps because he's gazing open-mouthed at me.
"Well, the Quaffle- that's the biggish red one - is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers - I'm one of them - on each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goalposts at the end of the pitch - they're three long piles with hoops on the end."
"And the fourth ball -"
"- is the Golden Snitch," I say, "and it's very small, very fast and difficult to catch. But that's what the Seeker's got to do, because a game of Quidditch doesn't end until the Snitch has been caught. And whichever team's Seeker gets the Snitch earns his or hers team an extra hundred and fifty points."
"And you're Gryffindor Seeker, aren't you?" says Colin, turning to Harry.
"Yes," says Harry, as we leave the castle and start across the dew-drenched grass. "And there's the Keeper, too. He guards the goalposts. That's it, really."
But Colin doesn't stop questioning us all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch pitch, and we only shake him off when we reach the changing rooms. Colin calls after us in a piping voice, "I'll go and get a good seat, Harry!" and hurries off to the stands.
Rude, I'm here too!
As soon as Colin is out of view, I turn to Harry and punch him hard on the arm.
"Ow, what was that for?" He asks, trying to hide his smirk.
"You know what that's for, you dick," I mutter as we enter the room.
The rest of the Gryffindor team are already in the changing room. Wood is the only person who looks truly awake. Fred and George are sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to Katie and Angelina, who are yawning.
I sit down next to George, who smiles at me, and Harry sits down next to me.
"There you two are, what kept you?" says Wood briskly. "Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get into the pitch, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training programme, which I really think will make all the difference ..."
Wood is holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch pitch, on which are drawn many lines, arrows and crosses in different-coloured inks. He takes out his wand, taps the board and the arrows begin to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood launches into a speech about his new tactics, Fred's head droops right into Angelina's shoulder and begins to snore.
The first board takes nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there is another board under that, and a third under that one. Sighing, I lay my head on George's shoulder, ignoring the fluttering of my heart.
This is what happens when I don't eat food in the morning!
"So," says Wood, at long last, jerking me from a wistful fantasy about what I could be eating for breakfast, "is that clear? Any questions?"
"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?