"Magnus, who's that scrawny witchling up there?"

"That’s Minerva McGonagall, Stephen. She's first-year."

"Doesn't she know first years never make the team?"

"Try telling her that. She's got a head as hard as a Bludger. Make that two Bludgers."

They watched a few minutes as she dipped and darted about the pitch on her slender broom. It was the first night of tryouts and she the first to take to the air.

“What kind of sweep is that?" asked Stephen. "It's way too small for an Oakshaft. Handles more like a Moontrimmer, I'd say.”

“I heard her dad made it. He was a pro, long time ago.”

“I remember hearing about a Bobbie McGonagall�”played for Montrose...”

“That’s his sister�”Minerva’s aunt. She's named after Robbie ‘Ironpate’ McPherson�”the great Creaothceann player. He’s one of my idols, you know.”

Stephen knew. Magnus had more idols than a Babylonian king, most of them sports stars. “What about her father, the one who made that fag?”

“That's Jupiter McGonagall. Word has it his old man was so surprised after six girls in a row, that he didn’t even have a name ready. Just shouted “Jumping Jupiter!’ And it stuck.”

“You don’t say.”

“Minerva's father was a Beater for the Magpies about twenty years ago. Originated a move called The Hurdle."

“Never heard of that one.”

Magnus's eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s the best! The Beater goes full out, pretends he’s going to ram the ball-carrier. But then, at the last second, he jumps up over the Chaser. His broom slips underneath, and he lands on it again on the other side.”

“And he knocks the Quaffle away while he’s at it.”

“Naw, that’d be illegal. But it does cause a lot of fumbles."

"Yes," said Stephen, "I guess if I saw a bloke of fifteen stone or more coming at me like that, I'd probably drop the ball.” And piss myself, he thought.

“You could try it with the team," said Magnus, "if we get any good Beaters. I'd be willing to teach them."

Stephen tried to sound non-committal. "It’d be a crowd pleaser if nothing else.”

Magnus rambled on. He never needed much encouragement to talk. “He’s an inventor too, is Laird McGonagall. Always tinkering with brooms and carpets and such. Word is he helped Horton and Keitch develop that new braking charm for the Comet 140.”

“Oh, really?" Stephen was starting to get irritated with Magnus's braggadocio. "Well that broom--” he motioned to the witchling, who was now engaged in a complicated series of loops and dives�”“that broom is razor-thin. Don’t see how it could hold up under the conditions we play in.”

“Aye, like last winter against Ravenclaw. Never saw such a blow.”

More fliers now entered the pitch, calling out to each other, careering about, looping and feinting, chasing imaginary Quaffles and Snitches, dodging imaginary Bludgers. A few of the oldest were playing keepie-uppie, juggling a Quaffle among them, bouncing it off heads, chests, knees, and feet.

It had been a good idea, having tryouts the first day of school. Everyone was in top form, unencumbered as yet by other obligations--like homework--and raring to play. The boy named Stephen smiled to himself and called the session officially to order with a blast of his whistle. The dozen or so hopefuls plunged to the ground.

"Welcome, all," he said. “I'm Stephen Bechtel, captain of the Gryffindor House team. Most of our players last year were Seventh Years, so we have a handsome lot of vacancies for the team.”

Nervous titters and nudges within the group.

“Except for the Seeker. That's me."

“Well, that lets me out,” said one brawny fellow, to shouts of laughter.

"We'll start with some warm-ups, throwing the ball around and such, then do some Beating and maneuvers. I expect everyone to participate in everything regardless of your position. Let me emphasize that tonight's session is just a first look. No one will be cut outright. Unless of course you can't stay on your broom." More titters and nudges and shy glances sizing up the competition.

Stephen divided them into pairs for passing practice. It became obvious fairly soon that everyone was competent enough for that�”except perhaps for Magnus. Stephen remembered his tryout last year. Magnus didn’t seem to have learned much since then. He still couldn’t throw straight, although his arms were considerably stronger. This was bad luck for his passing-partner who had to chase the ball all the way to the Forbidden Forest on one of his mis-throws. But Stephen decided to reserve judgment. Anyone could have a bad start.

Next, he lined everyone up. “When it’s your turn I want you to fly towards the goal. Polly here is going to arc the Quaffle high over your head so you can see it as it goes past and catch it on the fly. It's not that easy, but just see what you can do.” He demonstrated, throwing the Quaffle past a large girl, who chased it and caught it over her shoulder easily, without braking.

“Good job, McLaggen,” called Stephen. He turned back to the candidates. “Impressive, eh? Well, Polly’s been a Chaser for a long time. Now you must try not to look around before the ball is thrown. You want to sense it. When you see it overhead, you’ll know to start. Let your fag’s inbuilt accelerator take care of catching up."

Stephen smiled as he watched the newer players trying to carry out his instructions. Polly McLaggen had an inborn sense of timing and could lead a Chaser perfectly towards the goal, allowing him to catch the ball without having to double back. Still, only the most adept receivers would have the sense to divine the ball's direction as it soared overhead and get a good jump on it. He was surprised that one of the best was the skinny first year, McGonagall. Magnus, on the other hand, just couldn’t get the hang of it. His first time out, he started too fast and completely misjudged the angle of the ball. He was nowhere near it when it came down.

“MacDonald,” Stephen shouted encouragingly, “you’re trying too hard. Relax.”

His second time up, Magnus got the angle perfectly but lost track of it somewhere in mid-sprint and it hit him right on the back of the head. There was a collective sigh from his mates. No one tried harder at sports than Magnus, and no one was worse at them.

Now Stephen split the group into two lines facing each other about fifty feet apart, and they all took turns batting Bludgers back and forth. Stephen soon saw that there were five kids--three boys and two girls--who had the natural power and reflexes to Beat for the team though none was particularly accurate--yet. And none of them was Magnus. He took a Bludger to the face and two to the ribs before the exercise was over.

“This is fun, hey fellas?” he nasaled at one point. His mates, including McGonagall, looked at him sympathetically, but there was not a trace of anger or sarcasm on his eager face as he wiped the blood and snot off his cheeks.

Then they all went to ground and took a short rest while Stephen explained some basic moves, drawing diagrams in the air with his wand. He couldn’t help noticing the sparkling eyes and slightly twitching frame of the first year. Too bad she was so young.

“The Weave is a maneuver our Chasers use a lot. To practice it, I'll have you form three lines. The person in the center starts with the ball and passes it ahead of one of his mates. Then he immediately flies behind the person he’s just passed to. The person who has the ball passes it to the third person and flies behind him, the third passes it to the first, flies behind him and so forth, all the while progressing down the field towards the goal.”

McGonagall had a question. “So you're saying we always cut behind the person we just threw the ball to.”

“That’s the general idea,” said Stephen.

Once again, she caught on quickly, and her passes were much stronger than Stephen would have guessed. At the other end of the ability spectrum, Magnus MacDonald seemed to have no proper sense of direction and repeatedly fouled up his partners in the Weave by cutting into the path of the ball or throwing it into their backs. When he hit one of his mates in the head and knocked her off her broom, Stephen mentally re-christened him ‘Mangle-us.’

That night, despite all the exercise and fresh air, Minerva had trouble falling asleep. Something was sticking in the back of her mind, some unanswered question or unfinished task.

She got up to pour herself a glass of water from the bedside pitcher, but it was empty. She knew what that was about. Suze Yorke was in the habit of filling Tyger’s dish from anyone’s pitcher but her own. Minerva was suddenly twice as thirsty and very angry. She wished she knew the Aguamenti Spell Goodie used to fill the bath tub. She’d charm herself a jugful--no�”two jugs full of water--and pour one over Suze’s head. Fuming, she took her cup and made the trek down to the dorm toilet.

Dodging those bloody Bundimun spores helped to clear her head somewhat. A spell�”that was what was troubling her�”specifically the messed-up spell Miss Trumulo's Free-or-something charm had revealed as the last one Rowdie Flynn’s wand had ever performed. There had to be a simple explanation for it. She knew that Rowdie had quit the Magicosm while yet a young wizard. Had it been because of the botched spell? She worried that Miss Trumulo had accidentally revealed some serious magical defect in her favorite relative. She wouldn’t think less of him for it�”well, not much less�”but she had to know the truth.

One person near to hand who might have a clue about it was Rowdie’s schoolmate, Sir Nicholas. She determined to find him and have the question out with him. She knew all the ghosts put in an appearance at the Great Hall at dinnertime. However, she was saved the trouble of waiting until then because, as she crossed the common room on her way back to bed, there was Sir Nick, sitting a few inches above a sofa by the fireplace, looking very glum.

“Hello, Sir Nicholas.”

“Who’s that?”

“Minerva McGonagall, Sir. I’m first-year.”

“Oh yes, I saw you trying out for the team this evening. Nice moves, young lady. Pity, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh nothing, but I do understand, believe me. I myself have been the victim of a number of unfair judgments--in both life and death.”

Minerva was not following this very well, though she did know about one particularly grievous miscarriage of justice,the one that had resulted in Sir Nick’s death. So she just said, “Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing… I’ve merely been rejected…yet again…as you most likely will be…oh never mind…”

Minerva remained silent. She realized now that he was talking about her chances of making the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He was wrong, of course--he had to be--but she wouldn’t argue the point with him. She waited patiently, and concentrated on not getting too close to his ghostly frame. She was already cold, and the guttering fire was not much help.

After a moment, he continued. “Well, if you must know, over the past year, I’ve been applying for membership in a few of the more prominent Spiritual Institutions..."

"Really? Which ones?"

"Oh, merely The Who’s Who of Agonizing Death-Throes… Most Haunted List…Exalted Order of Severed Windpipes...The Necrotic Knights..." His voice broke over the last words, and he sniffed and rubbed his nose. "My Five-Hundredth Death Day is coming up shortly..."

She resisted the impulse to pat his arm. "Oh, that's nice. When is it to be?"

"Nineteen ninety-two. I thought my age...and rank...and family name would afford me a place in at least one of those groups. But look at this! ” He threw four pieces of parchment onto the coals, one after another. “Rejection upon rejection...” Cold blue flames flared up about them. Minerva shivered a bit at the frigid miasma the insubstantial missives generated, but even more so at the unexpected vehemence of Sir Nick's next words. “Oh yes, and I received an offer to be placed on the Alternatives' List for the British Brothers in Blood…AND... an invitation to join The Severed Head Society’s WITCHES' AUXILIARY!!” He fed two more letters to the coals. “I could weep! I mean I wish I could weep�”but sadly�”no tear ducts. It’s so frustrating.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sir Nicholas. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I'm afraid not. Unless you have a ducal lineage or influence with the Beyond. But thank-you anyway.”

“I do have some�”uh�”friends who are ghosts.”

“Hmh�”doesn’t everybody,” he muttered. "Much good it does one..."

“Well, one in particular is someone you know--er--knew. Ralph Guthrie Flynn. He’s in a portrait in our Gallery.”

“Ah, portraits�”a treasured link with the Beyond. Little Rowdie Flynn, you say? Is he a relative? Oh, silly me, you’re a McGonagall, so of course he is.” He stared into her eyes. “You don’t look much like him. Yet I do see a certain quality of determination about your eyes and chin, and young Ralph was nothing if not determined.”

Minerva was feeling quite determined--and cold--by now, and she blurted, “I was wondering, Sir Nicholas. Could you tell me a bit about your years together at Hogwarts?”

Surprisingly Sir Nicholas did not find this impertinent. “Those golden days," he sighed. His troubles seemed to be dissolving in a wash of nostalgia. "Certainly. What do you wish to know?”

“Um�”was he a good student?”

“What a question! Of course he...all Gryffindors are...um...well...to tell the truth, I don’t really know.”

Minerva bit her lip. It sounded like she also was about to have some bad news.

The ghost sensed her distress and hastened to add, “You see, he was my junior by a good bit�”closer to my sister’s age actually. We never had any classes together, so I can’t rightly say…”

“But you knew him.”

“Indeed. How could one forget Rowdie Flynn? Always getting into fights. He so loved a good skirmish.”

“Then he did some dueling. Wizard’s duels, I mean.”

“It’s interesting your saying that. Rowdie actually preferred fistisleeves. No�”fisticuffs. I believe that’s the Muggle term. He liked to get in close and slug it out with an adversary. He bloodied any number of noses in the year I knew him. But, of course, that was natural. First years don’t learn a great many spells that are useful in combat, except perhaps Stunners and Accios...and the good all-purpose Expelliarmus. And, of course, I reached my majority at the end of that year...”

“Did you never see him after that?”

“He visited my sister once or twice while they were still at school. I understand he didn’t get on with his father very well. I only saw him a few times after I left Hogwarts.”

“I heard he left the Magicosm�”gave up his wand and all. Do you know how that happened?”

“Sadly I was out of the country at the time. Otherwise I might have given him better counsel. He always was, as I say, a hot-blooded chap. How does he look now? Old and hoary like me, I’d imagine.”

“You don’t look so old, Sir Nicholas.”

“I suppose not. I was only ninety when I�”you know�”got the ax.”

Mineva frowned. “But cousin Rowdie doesn’t look old at all. No older than Da--my father. Fiftyish, I’d say.”

“So he died young? But that’s impossible, if all I heard is true…”

“What did you hear?”

“You know what happens when you die?”

Minerva was caught off-guard by the sudden change of subject. “Um--well--"

"You get a Choice: whether to stay in this world as a ghost or continue on into whatever it is comes next. Well, before that happens, you are given time, if you wish it, to visit some of your old haunts. Apt word, that. You know what I mean: home, school, your auntie's farm, the local pub... It helps in making The Choice, you see. Some�”like myself�” take up residence in one of those places. I did have some of my happiest times here at Hogwarts.” He sighed again and gazed into the dying fire.

Minerva didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts, but her feet were freezing now. “And my cousin--Rowdie. Did he come back to Hogwarts�”when he died?”

“That’s the odd thing. The Bloody Baron makes side-bets on which students will last the longest in a given year. He gave very long odds on Rowdie Flynn, what with his excessively chivalrous temperament and his tendency to rush headlong into battle. But after two centuries or so most of our contemporaries had been crossed off the Baron's list, but not Rowdie. And then I heard�”I was away at the time, trying out for The Headless Hunt�”that his ghost had visited the school, and then he went on into the Beyond. I never did get to see him. If that were true, he would have been at least two hundred years old.”

“But don’t ghosts keep on looking just the way they did when they died?”

“We can clean ourselves up a bit if the end was particularly gruesome. I was allowed this especially thick ruff to help keep my head on...and why the Bloody Baron didn’t trouble to cover up some of his ghastly wounds is beyond me... But I digress. To answer your question: yes, our appearance to you mortals is essentially the same as the way we looked when we died. So I don't see how your cousin could look 'fiftyish,' as you say, having lived nearly two centuries!”

“Well, I'm not surprised Rowdie lasted so long. I'm sure he was very good with Muggle weapons. And perhaps he carried some kind of powerful Luck Amulet...and used a Wrinkle-Removing Potion to keep himself young-looking.”

“Perhaps. Although he’s the last person I’d have thought would be concerned about his age...or his looks." A clock on the mantel struck one. "Dear me, look at the time. I have an appointment with the Grand Gobbet of the Sons of Exsanguination at four. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance, Miss McGonagall.” And he hurried off through the nearest wall, leaving Minerva more puzzled than ever about her cousin's fate.