The Sorting and the feast that followed never failed to leave an impression on Deucalion, though not always for the best reasons. As he trod the familiar path to the dungeons with the wave of fellow students, he painfully swore that he must have eaten half his weight in various puddings. His voice was worn out from cheering and sounded almost as if heÕd captained an exceptionally long Quidditch match. Unlike many stuffy people in his House, Deucalion loudly whooped and whistled for each first year who was sorted into the great House of Slytherin.
It was a great House to be sure, Deucalion thought as he approached the blank stone wall that led to the Slytherin common room. He had always wondered what would happen if all the Slytherins at once had forgotten which wall was the correct one. That wasnÕt the case tonight, however. Ivan, who had been leading the first years, shouted the new password (ÒNundu!Ó) above the excited buzz, and students began pouring into what was practically home.
Deucalion felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Grindan Keddle, the stocky third year who had carried his trunk onto the train a few hours earlier.
ÒDuke, you wonÕt forget about me when tryouts come, right?Ó Keddle asked, his voice full of that passionate love for Quidditch that Deucalion readily understood. ÒI figured with one of the Mulcibers leaving, thereÕd be a spot open at Keeper. I know IÕm only a third year, but Duke, you were already captain when you were my age.Ó
Deucalion looked around him warily and lowered his voice so only Keddle could hear. ÒBetter you than Lockhart!Ó
Keddle chuckled knowingly and ducked back into the crowd. No one wanted to be Gilderoy Lockhart. He was always bumbling into trouble, even in his first year. After his abysmal Quidditch tryout last fall in which heÕd nearly managed to impale himself on his own broomstick before veering well off course and ending up in the lake, Deucalion had coined the phrase Òpulling a Lockhart.Ó
Unfortunately for Lockhart, the phrase had stuck and was used in everyday Slytherin banter whenever a fellow House member did something incredibly clumsy or stupid. Deucalion felt guilty about the phrase every now and again, but Lockhart had never looked the least bit upset by it, which was a somewhat comforting. In fact, he always looked extremely pleased whenever his name was mentioned, no matter the context.
The common room was still crowded, but it rarely remained that way for long on the night of the Sorting. Everyone was either too tired from the travel or too full of food to stay awake. Ivan, who looked harried indeed, was buffing his glasses with the sleeve of his robes as he explained class schedules to an eager-looking first-year girl.
ÒÑAnd then youÕll take Astronomy at night because thatÕs required too,Ó Ivan concluded wearily. ÒNow, I wouldnÕt worry about things too much because you wonÕt even be able to pick your own classes until your third year.Ó
Nodding, the girl followed several other young, nervous-looking students towards the girlsÕ dormitories. Ivan leaned back against one of the study tables and glanced up at Deucalion.
ÒThe first night is the absolute worst part of being a prefect, you know,Ó Ivan sighed as he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, his face lit up at a thought. ÒSo, when are you going to rally the troops for another year of Quidditch?Ó
ÒIÕve got the written notice right here,Ó Deucalion said with a grin. ÒI have a feeling weÕll be unstoppable again, Ivan.Ó
Deucalion walked briskly to the announcement board, which was devoid of everything except for the usual warnings against magical joke products. He smoothed out a piece of parchment that featured some of his neatest penmanship and a moving green snake that was winding itself around a Quidditch hoop. He scanned over the message one more time for mistakes before tacking it up.
ÒNice,Ó Ivan said as he read the note. ÒÔThree years. Three House Championships. Try out for the most successful Quidditch team in Hogwarts history, and help us shoot for Number Four.Õ Yeah, weÕre not the least bit conceited are we? Of course, itÕs true.Ó
ÒI try to be honest Ñ if itÕs in my best interests,Ó Deucalion said. He accidently hiccuped aloud and was unpleasantly reminded again of all the pudding he consumed, eagerly thinking of his bed. ÒWe both studied the numbers, Ivan. No teams have ever enjoyed our margins of victory. Not one.Ó
ÒThe 1846 Hufflepuffs came close, though,Ó Ivan pointed out.
ÒYeah, which was odd, wasnÕt it?Ó Deucalion said curiously. ÒI canÕt imagine Hufflepuff ever being good at Quidditch. TheyÕve been just miserable ever since we started school.Ó
As they were about to enter the winding dormitory hallways, Deucalion noticed a sight he had never witnessed before: his other Beater was reading, surrounded by a small collection of interested-looking people. Surely Edgar Selwyn was not already studying for his O.W.L.s! From everything Deucalion observed, Selwyn probably relied on his admittedly ruddy good looks and social standing to get by in his schoolwork. Of course, that method only worked for certain professors.
Deucalion did not much care for Selwyn. He had that tiresome elitist streak in him, except that unlike the Malfoys, his family no longer wielded much influence or power in the wizarding community. Money? Yes, the Selwyn family had quite a bit of that, but March Wilcott often noted that the family gold was usually wasted or hastily spent.
However, Selwyn was an excellent Beater, so Deucalion was forced to act friendly. Otherwise, he was tempted to dump an entire cannister of Lady RubyfieldÕs Unbearable, No-Stop Itching Powder (ÒYouÕll be magically miserable for weeks!Ó) into SelwynÕs trunk.
ÒAre you doing some pre-class research, Selwyn?Ó Deucalion remarked in an airy, conversational tone, the sort of voice he would put on for his fans and admirers.
Selwyn smirked and lifted up the book cover so Deucalion could read the title: NatureÕs Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. ÒWeÕre just checking to see if all the new first years are pure-bloods. Imagine if the Sorting Hat sent us a Mudblood!Ó
The remark sent a howl of unpleasant laughter through the group, and Deucalion noticed that little Lucius Malfoy had managed to weasel into SelwynÕs gang. He had an amused smile on his pale, angular face as he glanced down the names in NatureÕs Nobility, the book that, according to the cover, promised to be the definitive answer to all questions of blood status.
ÒDo you think the Sorting Hat would make those kind of mistakes?Ó Ivan said as he sidled up next to Deucalion. ÒI donÕt think itÕs our job to ÔfixÕ things for the Hat. And what would you do once you discovered someone whose lineage wasnÕt to your liking? Torture them?Ó
Lucius ran a thin finger down the page. ÒOf course you would say something like that. One of those girls was named ÔBerry,Õ wasnÕt she? I donÕt see that name on here. Oh . . . whatÕs this? I donÕt see the name ÔBerdahlÕ either. Is there something you need to tell us, Ivan?Ó
ÒYou idiot!Ó Ivan reached forward and snapped the book shut against the table, nearly catching LuciusÕ fingers between the covers. ÒMy family came here from Norway! Why would the Berdahls be in this book? Better check your facts, Malfoy, before you start making accusations about blood status.Ó
Lucius narrowed his eyes in a menacing way and said nothing, but Deucalion could tell he was nervous. Ivan was no small sixth year. He was no slouch with his wand either.
ÒWell, better be a Berdahl and be a supposed pure-blood than a Wilcott and be a known half-blood,Ó Selwyn said knowingly.
Deucalion shot a glance at Ivan, who already had his wand at the ready. Either he was preparing to fight or getting ready to stop one. Considering IvanÕs hardened expression, both options were equally likely; he knew the conversation could only grow worse. Deucalion held up a hand for Ivan to stop before leaning heavily on the table and lowering his voice.
ÒAre we really going to have this conversation again?Ó Deucalion asked. Selwyn was always clung to blood status as the all-important factor in judging people, and apparently his friends had joined the obsession. ÒSure, my motherÕs a half-blood, but me? A half-blood? Really, Selwyn, if you think that jab will work after five years of being in Slytherin, IÕd be an emotional wreck by now. Besides, if IÕve done the math correctly, IÕm more of a three-quarters blood.Ó
Ivan snorted an undignified chuckle and lowered his wand to his side, but he didnÕt look quite finished with the conversation. ÒJust see here, Malfoy, donÕt get any ideas about terrorizing Miss Elizabeth Berry, or whoever else you donÕt find in that book. Besides, I donÕt know how you can put much faith in this anyway. They sell NatureÕs Nobility to make money off the rich; that business plan doesnÕt exactly promise accuracy.Ó
ÒMy father helped fund the book,Ó Lucius said reproachfully.
ÒIf thatÕs all the faith you need to condemn other people, then so be it,Ó Ivan said as he turned towards the dormitories, leaving Lucius with a murderous look stamped on his thin features.
ÒJust remember to tell our other Beater that blood matters,Ó Selwyn told Deucalion after a long pause. ÒIn a few years, Mudbloods wonÕt be able to take a step out of their homes for fear of retribution. I promise that.Ó
ÒYouÕre talking about killing, you know,Ó Deucalion said, hesitating. ÒSurely you donÕt mean that!Ó
ÒIÕm just saying thereÕs a movement going on that will finally purge those . . . unworthy to use magic,Ó Selwyn said. What was that look on his face? Satisfaction? Glee?
ÒThatÕs disgusting,Ó Deucalion spat out the words.
ÒThatÕs what will happen,Ó Selwyn corrected. A girl with attractive dark eyes and long black hair laughed airily behind him.
Deucalion knew he probably bore the most horrified expression on his face as he hurriedly left the conversation. SelwynÕs comments made him feel dirty somehow, yet they seemed almost prophetic. Of course, pure-bloods have been disdainful of Mudbloods for as long as anyone could remember. That was nothing new. After having seen the book on the study table in the Common Room, however, everything seemed more real now. Selwyn spoke as if the war of words were going to become a battle with wands.
The Slytherin House had never promised to be most accepting crowd; after all, Salazar Slytherin had made it clear to the other Founders those many years ago that he did not want anyone of unworthy parentage to attend Hogwarts. However, Deucalion seriously doubted Salazar Slytherin would have whipped out his wand and started cursing half-bloods within the school walls or anywhere else. After all, there was nothing clever about outright violence.
As Deucalion rounded the corner into his familiar room, he saw Ivan lying flat on his bed, still fully clothed and staring vacantly upwards. Ivan remained silent as Deucalion kicked off his shoes and began rooting through his nearly overflowing trunk in search of his pajamas. Ivan, being a full pure-blood with parents in respected professions, had nothing personally to worry about from SelwynÕ threats, but he looked troubled nevertheless. Maybe that was just his latest someone-stepped-out-of-line stern expression he had learned from his father.
Finally, as if heÕd come to some grand realization, Ivan spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
ÒSlytherin has changed, Duke.Ó
ÒI know.Ó
Hours passed before Deucalion finally put his mind at ease enough to drift asleep. He could not stop thinking about Selwyn with his horrible smile and equally disturbing words. The idiot had just called for a strong-armed reestablishment of the pure-bloods, as if they didnÕt control everything already; there had never even been a Minister of Magic who was not from a long line of magical ancestors. Were those the popular sentiments in Slytherin? Deucalion sincerely hoped that was not the case.
***
DeucalionÕs thoughts about the night before were quickly set aside when he awoke the next morning to see Ivan stacking his school supplies onto his bed. It was strange to see Ivan energetic so early because he usually dragged around in grumpy silence for the first hour or so, but today was different. He had already dressed in his school robes, and a few sheets of hastily rolled parchment were sticking out of his right pocket.
He had seen this look a few times before, and it could only mean one thing: Ivan had a scheme. The last time Deucalion had seen him so eager before breakfast was the time he had been struck with a vision for their Chaser gloves.
ÒYouÕve got an idea, havenÕt you?Ó Deucalion asked sleepily.
ÒWeÕre still practicing before classes start, right?Ó Ivan asked back, ignoring DeucalionÕs question.
ÒWhaÑ well, of course,Ó Deucalion said as he crawled out of his bed, noticing that the rest of the boys in his year were also in various stages of waking up.
ÒGood, good,Ó Ivan muttered as he stuffed a few books into his schoolbag. He picked up his old Cleansweep and began straightening a few bent twigs on the tail before pausing suddenly. ÒOh, we had a deal, didnÕt we?Ó
ÒA deal?Ó Deucalion asked sleepily as he pulled on a pair of socks.
ÒWell, you said if you bought a new broom Ñ which you did Ñ that I could have your old one,Ó Ivan said bluntly. ÒIÕm wanting to, well, redeem my prize.Ó
It felt like a stone had been dropped into DeucalionÕs stomach as he looked at his seven broomsticks arranged neatly beside his trunk. He hated the thought of parting with any of them, including the ones he had not flown in years, but he remembered his stupid promise. Why did he agree to give away equipment that helped him be the best Chaser at Hogwarts? A better question was whether or not the Super Eagle would be a suitable replacement. He had not learned much from flying it unsuccessfully in the Leaky Cauldron, except that it elevated quickly.
ÒVery well,Ó Deucalion said, feeling noticeably reluctant. ÒIÕve got my newest Comet and Cleansweep with me. Take your pick.Ó
Ivan studied the two brooms for a moment, picking them up and studying the shafts for cracks or other damages. When he realized both brooms were in perfect working order (which of course they were), he rubbed his chin reflectively. Deucalion knew Ivan wanted to select the best broom, but honestly, there was little difference in the two, especially for someone who played Beater, a position that required more personal balance than anything else.
ÒYou always used your Comet when the weather was nice, but took out the Cleansweep when it was pouring or windy,Ó Ivan proceeded aloud with his decision-making process. ÒDoes that mean you care about your Comet more, and your Cleansweep is something you just use in bad weather to save wear and tear on the Comet? Or is it that your Cleansweep is actually more stable and controllable, given that you fly it during storms. Or maybe ÑÓ
ÒOh, just pick one!Ó Deucalion interrupted loudly, causing Nyles Cooper, who had drifted back to sleep sitting upright, to tumble heavily out of bed in surprise. Deucalion winced reflexively as he heard the thud and groan behind him. ÒSorry about that, Coop.Ó
Cooper crawled out from a mess of blankets and staggered to his feet. Thankfully, he did not embarrass easily and laughed along with the other boys in the room, going so far as to wrap the green blanket around him like a toga. ÒWell, thatÕs one way to wake up on time! So, Duke, whatÕs this about you giving away brooms? Or did I dream that part up?Ó
ÒIÕm getting one as a reward for helping Duke pick out his new beauty,Ó Ivan said, not taking his eyes off either broomstick as he spoke.
ÒThatÕs a good deal!Ó Cooper remarked as he rubbed his eyes. ÒLucky you, Ivan! Lucky you! So, which one are you taking? That Comet sure looks nice.Ó
Because both brooms were equally excellent, Ivan at last resorted to the least precise method of selecting: closing his eyes and blindly reaching his hand towards one. After a few seconds of grasping at thin air, he grabbed ahold of the Comet and opened his eyes hesitantly before breaking into a sheepish smile. ÒLooks like IÕm going with this one.Ó
ÒTold you the Comet looked nice!Ó Cooper said, still in awe of the free broom. ÒWouldnÕt it have been a shame if you accidently picked out DukeÕs old Shooting Star with your eyes closed?Ó
ÒThen I would have picked again,Ó Ivan immediately answered as he swung the Comet over his shoulder. ÒYou ready to get your schedule, Duke?Ó
Deucalion took one last, prolonged look at the Comet before freeing the Super Eagle from its box, which warranted another gasp of jealous, excitable wonder from Cooper. ÒAll right, letÕs go. We should get in a good hour of Quidditch in before lessons!Ó
Scheduling classes was always a dull chore, especially since Deucalion had already planned what he was going to do when he left school. Unlike the more studious professions like that of a Healer or Auror, being a Quidditch player required roughly the intelligence of a rock. His desired job was a blessing and a curse because he had no clue which classes to continue on the N.E.W.T. level, but on the other hand, he could take whatever he pleased.
Professor Slughorn, the Head of Slytherin, was strolling down the long tables of students to hand out schedules, making great effort to stop his massive girth from blocking the walkway. Slughorn eventually reached Deucalion and absolutely beamed when Deucalion announced he was continuing Potions.
ÒIÕve got the Golden Boy!Ó Slughorn bellowed excitedly. Professor McGonagall, who had been helping a Gryffindor with scheduling, glanced up and shot him a disapproving look. ÒWhat else to do plan on taking, mÕlad? It looks like I have you down for Charms, Transfiguration, and History of Magic. Surely youÕll add one more!Ó
Deucalion looked down his list of options, as if deciding what to order at a cafe. ÒHmmm. . . well, letÕs make the last one Defense Against the Dark Arts because thereÕs always a chance of jinxing someone in there.Ó
Slughorn laughed merrily as he handed Deucalion his schedule. However, the professorÕs expression instantly became downcast when Ivan said he was not planning to take Potions because he had scheduled six courses already, including the dreaded Ancient Runes class. Apparently, he needed it for studying his familyÕs books on wand crafting.
Once scheduling was finished, Deucalion and Ivan slipped out the castle gates towards the Quidditch pitch, traipsing across the grounds still soaking wet from the night before. The two of them had long since learned that flying was the greatest way to begin the school day, weather and schedule permitting. Today was no exception because they would finally see the Super Eagle in action; it had taken everything in DeucalionÕs power not to forgo breakfast altogether in favor of flying on his newest broomstick.
ÒI canÕt believe youÕre going to take more Potions,Ó Ivan said in wonder as he studied DeucalionÕs class schedule. ÒI always thought you hated that class. I got an ÔOutstandingÕ in it, but I got bored measuring out little piles of dead bugs.Ó
ÒOh, you havenÕt seen through the plan, yet?Ó Deucalion asked mischievously.
ÒBeing miserable is a plan?Ó Ivan answered sarcastically back.
ÒItÕs not all about misery, Ivan, although it will involve some of that,Ó Deucalion explained. ÒThe plan is all about pleasing Slughorn because heÕs like a magical gateway to privileges. If he thinks I enjoy his subject, he will let me book the pitch for practice as often as I want. Maybe heÕll even secure some practice robes for the reserve team.Ó
ÒAnd maybe. . .Ó Ivan said with surprising eagerness while opening a flap of his bag. ÒAnd maybe he will allow us to work on our little project without much interference.Ó He pulled a few tattered books and presented them in turn to Deucalion.
Most of the books were familiar just by glancing at the covers, because Deucalion had copies of all of them at home, and his were all as equally dog-eared and used-looking because he had read them so often. Among the titles in the stack were The Ollerton Boys: How the Cleansweep Revolutionized Broom Sports and Racing to Market, both books written by popular American sports reporter Silas Fincher, as well as the current edition of Kennilworthy WhispÕs standard Quidditch Through the Ages.
ÒWeÕre going to study these books then?Ó Deucalion asked, though it was more of a statement. It would not be the first time the two of them had spent time burying their heads in texts that were not required by classwork.
ÒWe have no idea where to start building a broom, right?Ó Ivan reasoned, his expression becoming purposeful. ÒThe materials will be easy enough to find, but the methods, well, who knows? IÕve never seen a step-by-step guide. We might as well learn from the best. . . because thatÕs where we want to end up. The greatest broom makers of our generation.Ó
ÒYou really think weÕre up to that?Ó Deucalion asked in amazement. Only a day ago, Ivan sounded skeptical of the plan, but something had changed his mind. ÒThe greatest of our generation? We donÕt even know how to start.Ó
ÒI was thinking this morning, ÔWhy not?ÕÓ Ivan said excitedly as he launched off the muddy ground on his new Comet, spraying the front of DeucalionÕs robes with water and dirt.
Laughing, Deucalion wiped off the cover of Racing to Market and immediately realized what had caused IvanÕs change of heart. Randolph Keitch, one of the developers of the Comet brooms in the 1920s, was standing in the middle of his expansive factory floor and showing off the latest model to a crowd of reporters. Occasionally, a figure would dart across the cover; Deucalion assumed it was co-founder Basil Horton giving a broom demonstration (or perhaps just flying around for fun Ñ he was always considered something of an oddball).
Why had he never noticed the cover before? There was something thrilling about it, as if the picture had become a mirror. He briefly imagined talking to the reporters and showing them through a giant warehouse of Quidditch goods; meanwhile Silas Fincher was approaching him for a book deal. It would probably take years to get to that juncture, but he and Ivan were only sixteen. The possibilities were endless.
ÒAre you coming?Ó Ivan shouted as his shadow passed over Deucalion.
ÒHow could I miss this?Ó Deucalion yelled back, knowing Ivan probably didnÕt hear a word he said because of the wind.
Deucalion fully understood IvanÕs vision as he hurriedly dropped the book into the bag and readied the Super Eagle. Wilcott and Berdahl could become the next Keitch and Horton. Maybe even better.
All they had to do was figure out how to make wood fly.