The Girl Who Hid | ✓

|80| The Quibbler

Saturday was expected, although not.

The very best thing that could be said about the match was that it was short; the Gryffindor spectators had to endure only twenty-two minutes of agony. It was hard to say what the worst thing was, it was a close-run contest, between Ron's fourteenth failed save, Sloper missing the Bludger but hitting Angelina in the mouth with his bat, and Kirke shrieking and falling backward off his broom as Zacharias Smith zoomed at him carrying the Quaffle. The miracle was that Gryffindor only lost by ten points: I managed to snatch the Snitch from right under Hufflepuff Seeker Summerby's nose, so that the final score was two hundred and forty versus two hundred and thirty.

"Good catch," Harry told me back in the common room, where the atmosphere closely resembled that of a particularly dismal funeral.

"I was lucky," I shrugged. "It wasn't a very fast Snitch and Summerby's got a cold, he sneezed and closed his eyes at exactly the wrong moment. Anyway, once you're back on the team—"

"Maisey, I've got a lifelong ban."

"You're banned as long as Umbridge is in the school," I corrected him. "There's a difference. Anyway, once you're back, I think I'll try out for Chaser. Angelina and Alicia are both leaving next year and I prefer goal-scoring to Seeking anyway."

Harry looked over at Ron, who was hunched in a corner, staring at his knees, a bottle of butterbeer clutched in his hand.

"Angelina still won't let him resign," I said. "She says she knows he's got it in him."

I liked Angelina for the faith she was showing in Ron, but at the same time thought it would really be kinder to let him leave the team. Ron had left the pitch to another booming chorus of "Weasley Is Our King" sung with great gusto by the Slytherins, who were now favorites to win the Quidditch Cup.

Fred and George wandered over.

"That's my girl," Fred ruffled my hair. "Caught the Snitch right under Summerby's nose!"

My face warmed at the look Harry and Hermione gave me.

"It was a lucky shot," I mumbled.

Fred ignored my comment and looked over at Ron's crumpled figure, "I haven't got the heart to take the mickey out of him, even. Mind you... when he missed the fourteenth shot..."

When we entered the Great Hall for breakfast on Monday morning, Hermione was not the only person eagerly awaiting her Daily Prophet: Nearly everyone was eager for more news about the escaped Death Eaters, who, despite many reported sightings, had still not been caught. She gave the delivery owl a Knut and unfolded the newspaper eagerly while I helped myself to orange juice; as I had only received one note during the entire year I was sure, when the first owl landed with a thud in front of me, that it had made a mistake.

"Who're you after?" I asked it, languidly removing my orange juice from underneath its beak and leaning forward to see the recipient's name and address:

Maisey & Harry Potter

Great Hall

Hogwarts School

"Harry, this is addressed to us," I frowned.

I made to take the letter from the owl, but before I could do so, three, four, five more owls had fluttered down beside it and were jockeying for position, treading in the butter, knocking over the salt, and each attempting to give me their letters first.

"What's going on?" Ron asked in amazement, as the whole of Gryffindor table leaned forward to watch as another seven owls landed amongst the first ones, screeching, hooting, and flapping their wings.