The Darkening of Your Soul

Chapter 9

“You can’t just barge in here like this,” Malfoy yelled, his head sticking out from between his curtains, hair as dishevelled as Harry had ever seen it.

“Pretty sure you’re not going to stop me,” Flint growled and looked at Harry, who’d ripped open his curtains, wand in hand, at the first loud noise that woke him up. Reactions like that, honed by a war, were not easily forgotten. “Time to put your Galleons where your mouth is, Potter. I’m going to make some easy coins today.”

“Yeah, sure.” Harry was barely awake and even reached for his non-existent glasses on his nightstand, even though he hadn’t worn them for a few weeks now. “Lemme get dressed.”

Flint stood with his arms crossed (and his biceps were really, really impressive, even through his Quidditch robes) and watched impassively as Harry wormed himself out of his pyjamas and into his school robes as quickly as he could.

“Follow me,” Flint ordered once Harry barely had his shoes tied. Harry did without comment, though there were several sarcastic things he could have said. But he realized pissing Flint off before he’d gotten to show off his seeker skills was a very silly thing to do. Flint might call the whole thing off on principle.

They made the trek to the Quidditch pitch, which was still bathed in darkness except for some strategic lanterns that were glowing around the seating areas. The rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team was waiting for them. Harry knew all of them from his previous life, when he’d played against them as the Gryffindor Seeker. Flint, Adrian Pucey and Silvio Montague were Chasers, Miles Bletchley was the Keeper, Martin Overcliff and Gerald King were Beaters and seventh-year Terence Higgs was the current Seeker and would need to be replaced next year. Draco Malfoy had bribed his way onto the team with a handful of fancy broomsticks once upon a time, but Harry wasn’t about to spare his feelings by not gunning for the same position. He knew that on talent alone, he could beat Malfoy every time. And if Malfoy wanted to play Quidditch so desperately, he could try out for Chaser in their third year, when both Flint and Pucey would need to be replaced.

“This tiny first year here made some very big claims in the common room yesterday. Let’s show him his place,” Flint said as he accepted the oldest, saddest school broom Harry had ever seen from Montague. A Shooting Star that had probably been in use since Voldemort’s school days. Possibly Dumbledore’s. “Here,” Flint handed the decrepit broom to Harry, who gave no visible reaction. “You catch the Snitch, Potter, before Terrence here does, while the rest of us provides some distractions.”

Harry noticed that save for Higgs, the rest of the players were all holding Beater’s bats. So it was going to be like that. Harry didn’t mind one bit. He hadn’t flown in forever, not since his sixth year at least. He’d lost his Firebolt the summer he went on the run and after the war he hadn’t made the effort yet to replace it. That didn’t mean he hadn’t missed flying and chasing a Snitch around, because he had.

“Ready,” Pucey said, and released the Snitch from the crate. Immediately after, he released two Bludgers. Harry didn’t wait for further instructions but jumped on the old school broom and took off. Higgs was right behind him, flying a Nimbus 2000, the same broom Harry had owned during his first three Hogwarts years of his previous life until the Whomping Willow ate it.

That heady feeling of freedom, wind whipping his face, heart pounding in his chest, greeted Harry like an old friend. He didn’t even mind that the Shooting Star was by far the worst broom he’d ever flown. It leaned to the left, the braking charms were decayed and it bucked every time Harry made a sharp turn. Still, Harry didn’t let that stop him from enjoying being in the air again. He deliberately flew in the path of a few bludgers to test his brooms limitations and to warm up. Flint and the others didn’t hold back slamming the bludgers in his direction, but Harry had been playing Quidditch long enough that evading them was second nature by now. Oliver Wood had spent many, many cold and wet hours training them for that, after all. He kept an eye out for the Snitch but for the first fifteen minutes it remained elusive. Higgs kept up high, circling the pitch slowly.