The Slytherin Transfer

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

No one confronts me further about my poor lifestyle choices, but that's likely because now I stay in bed instead of going to the Quidditch pitch, and I convince them I'm eating more.

The morning of the Quidditch match brings empty nerves to my belly, and a headache that only gets worse with every word wishing luck from fellow Gryffindors. I head to breakfast, walking down the long table until I find my seat.

". . . beaters are weak, so we need to wrack up some points quick and use that to our advantage," James is saying, speaking to the rest of the team and then looking to me as I sit down, "Cass, it's clear today, so fly out of the sun and no one will see you coming."

"Roger that," I mumble halfheartedly, and James goes off again. I pick at a piece of toast and will myself to eat it in order to have at least a little bit of energy for the game.

"All right, Cass?" Asks Caradoc, who sits next to me. I nod meekly, giving him what I hope is a convincing smile before looking to the entrance of the Great Hall just as Sirius walks in with Remus and Peter. I stare back at my toast as he scans the room, sees James, and comes our way.

"Prongs," he says, glancing at me briefly, "Cooke is out. His potion blew up in his face yesterday and now he's got a frog tongue. Madam Pomfrey says he's not able to play."

"You're kidding!" Exclaims James, looking excited as he turns back to us. "Okay. Cooke is out, everybody."

"We heard," Dorcas says dryly, pointing out the fact that Sirius is right there.

"But he's their best Chaser," states Marcus gleefully, and we all look over to the Hufflepuff table, where their team has their heads together.

"Precisely." James turns back to Sirius, "Do you know who's replacing him?"

"One of their beaters," says Remus, sitting down next to me and eyeing my barely touched toast. I take a reluctant bite to prove something, but it turns into a lump in my throat, and I wince, "Maglieri, I think. And then you know that seventh year, Robinson? He's taking Beater."

"Robinson?" We all ask in unison, and I feel my toast resurfacing.

"You mean the guy who failed all his N.E.W.T's last year?" Dorcas inquires shrewdly, "He's an asshole! I saw him play at tryouts, he's really dirty."

"Fantastic. That's just what I need, another bat to the face," I speak up.

"He's the meanest Hufflepuff in history, I swear," says Marcus, shaking his head grimly and taking a bite of his sausage, "I've got potions with him. A girl bumped into his desk on accident and he poured his cauldron all over her. She was in St Mungo's for weeks."

"They can't let him play," says Dasher, Mary's brother, in a desperate fashion, "that's foul."

"That's the game," states James firmly, getting back into captain mode, "Okay, so this is a minor inconvenience. Robinson can hit hard, and he will hit hard. On the bright side, they've got a stand-in Chaser, and I imagine he won't be very good. We need to get our points up and get them up fast."

But this proves to be difficult, a fact made blatantly obvious within the first few minutes of the match. Robinson is, for lack of a stronger word, lethal. Six foot five, bulky, and mean, he nearly takes off Dorcas's head in the first thirty seconds, then proceeding to give Emmeline a black eye, which she is forced to play through. Marcus and I do our best to get the bludgers aimed at the Hufflepuff Chasers, but Robinson will push us out of the way if we even get close to him. The five minute mark brings me a split lip from a rough elbow and James a bloody nose, which he mops up with his sleeve before Hooch can see. If the injuries aren't distracting, the commentary is.