The Super Eagle was fantastic. Perhaps even beyond fantastic.
Deucalion did not mind that the Super Eagle sped around the pitch a touch slower than the latest Comet or Cleansweep; if he flattened himself against the handle, he could easily keep up with the faster brooms. The beauty of the broom was in its control, which was far superior to anything he had ever flown before. If he needed, he could take both hands off the Super Eagle without fear of decelerating or losing his balance. Just for show, Deucalion had actually hooked his legs tightly around the broom, flipped upside down, and scored a two-handed goal through the right hoop, all without killing himself.
After a few minutes of flying, he let Ivan have a go on the Super Eagle. It took only one lap around the pitch for Ivan to agree that there was something special about the broom. More than anything, Deucalion was pleased that he had not wasted his gold at Seeker Imports. The owner of that stand had a Bludger-shaped dent in his head, but he knew a good broom when he sold one.
ÒWeÕve got to build something like the Eagle, but it needs to go faster,Ó Ivan said after practice as he stared down the shaft of the Super Eagle. He had taken to dropping ÒSuperÓ off the broomÕs name, probably because he thought it sounded stupid. ÒIÕve never seen anything that can brake like that. And the way it turns . . . itÕs unbelievably good. Now, we just have to understand how the charms work.Ó
ÒWell, weÕre not finding out by stripping the Super Eagle down,Ó Deucalion said firmly. ÒIÕve already given away one of my brooms today, as you well know.Ó
Ivan smiled and shook his head. ÒYes, I remember that transaction. But what if we dismantled one of your older brooms that you never use anymore? Like that ancient Comet 180?Ó
ÒIÕll have to think about it,Ó Deucalion answered, still painfully remembering parting ways one of his most prized possessions only an hour before. However, Ivan was right, as he always was. ÒI guess weÕll eventually have to . . . I mean, if we canÕt take apart a racing broom and put it back together, we definitely couldnÕt build one from scratch.Ó
ÒOf course, weÕre still ages away from that point,Ó Ivan said as he stopped in the courtyard to dry the hem of his robes with his wand. Deucalion pulled out his wand to do the same, fearing the wrath of Apollyon Pringle, the caretaker, if he accidently marched puddles and mud into the castle corridors.
Ivan produced a neatly folded schedule from his pocket and studied the times for a moment. Deucalion looked over his shoulder and saw he had Care of Magical Creatures in a few minutes. Luckily for Deucalion, he had a free period, though it probably meant he should send a letter home. He had secured a long-standing position as the dutiful son, a role he meant to retain.
ÒWell, IÕve got to be off to feed Kelpies or pet Krups or something like that,Ó Ivan said before breathing a satisfied sigh. ÒIÕm glad we have this project. Although it will take over our lives, it helps me keep my mind off those idiots in the common room.Ó
ÒWait a minute! ThatÕs why youÕre so happy today? YouÕre using brooms as a distraction?Ó
By the time Deucalion had finished speaking, IvanÕs expression had turned dour and he had disappeared into a crowded corridor, darkly muttering something about Selwyn. Clearly, last nightÕs discussion about NatureÕs Nobility was still troubling him. Ivan was a hard case to figure, being a pure-blood and all. Why should he care what the fanatics thought? Maybe it was the duty of all the prefects to keep their eyes out for that sort of thing; it wouldnÕt be surprising if Dumbledore, the famous Mudblood supporter, had instructed them to keep watch for students who disagreed with his philosophies.
Whatever the case, Deucalion knew there would be serious problems on the Quidditch pitch if his two Beaters became mortal enemies. Some captains exclusively chose good friends for their teams or filled rosters with students whose parents had certain monetary connections. No matter the year, Gryffindor leaders always selected the wholesome types that got along, even if it meant a slide in talent. ThatÕs where Deucalion differed from the rest; he picked the best players no matter what.
However, there was one unavoidable problem to his recruiting theory: it would be difficult to win a match if Ivan and Selwyn ever decided to use their bats on each other.
***
When it came to writing letters, Deucalion thought it was easy to live up to his motherÕs expectations. Althaia Wilcott was very busy with her Healing position at St. MungoÕs and merely wanted a note every now and again, just to know he hadnÕt killed himself playing Quidditch or something.
ÒOf course, I still wonÕt be surprised to hear that Dumbledore had to comb the entire pitch searching for your scattered remains!Ó She had said sarcastically before Deucalion had left for the Wasps match. ÒThat poor man ought to be paid more to keep the likes of you from killing yourself flying brooms all day and night!Ó
It was just talk. After all, his mother had agreed long ago to marry March Wilcott, who was one of the top-ranked Quidditch referees in the world and made a handsome living doing what else? Riding broomsticks while trying to avoid the ire of players and fans alike. Deucalion suspected she secretly enjoyed making a production over worrying about what was more or less the family trade. He knew for a fact that his parents met while his mother was a Mediwitch at the European Cup.
Deucalion reread his letter as he climbed the last few steps to the Owlery, tripping up the last few steps in his concentration.
P.S. Ñ Ivan and I are working on a little outside project. Dad, any ideas on how to keep a broomstick in the air?
The postscript was just short and vague enough that his mother might ignore it and not worry. Of course, she had a very good reason to worry; over the years, Deucalion had broken nearly every bone in his body in the name of Quidditch. Anything with the word ÒprojectÓ in it promised further trouble.
Quaffle swooped down from the rafters and stood completely still as Deucalion tied the letter to her leg. He glanced up into the rafters of the Owlery and noticed IvanÕs pet, Nimbus, glaring icily down at them. Clearly, Nimbus had not forgotten his rotten experience at the train station.
ÒRemember, now, itÕs technically addressed to Dad, but he wonÕt be home from the tournament,Ó Deucalion said as he balanced Quaffle on his arm and led her to an open window. ÒJust give it to whoever is home, even if itÕs Aeson, though my brother is liable to lose it somewhere.Ó
Deucalion watched Quaffle launch off his arm in an almost silent rush of feathers and take to the sky. He leaned out the window and watched her slowly shrink into the cloudy horizon. No matter how many times he had watched her fly away, he never once stopped staring until she disappeared from view. He could never shake the mystery of it all: what was it like to fly without the aid of any object? With nothing but expansive wings and billowing air?
He knew it was stupidly philosophical. Poetic, yet a complete waste of time, Deucalion thought as he trotted quickly down the winding staircase.
***
Slughorn stopped Deucalion on his way to the History of Magic classroom, handing him two feet of parchment with the names of everyone who had signed up for Quidditch tryouts so far.
ÒThatÕs the whole Slytherin House, isnÕt it?Ó Deucalion asked with a smile spreading across his face as he scanned the list. ÒAnd itÕs been less than a day!Ó
ÒApparently, news of your brilliance travels fast in these halls,Ó Slughorn said excitedly, his jolly, large frame bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. ÒEvery first year signed the list after class this morning, I think. I hope all of them know how to fly!Ó
ÒWeÕll find out, wonÕt we?Ó Deucalion answered as he continued down the hall, list in hand.
He never regretted letting first years have an opportunity to try out, a chance that was denied by every other captain in recent memory. It gave new students an opportunity to see what tryouts were all about, though their odds of actually making the match squad were incredibly small because of stupid rules that said the first years had to fly those awful school Shooting Stars and Silver Arrows instead of bringing equipment from home.
Deucalion was certain he would have made the squad his first year if he had only been given the chance. Of course, the fact remained: no first year had been on a House team in more than seventy-five years.
After a few minutes, Deucalion arrived at the classroom for History of Magic, a course that should have been vastly more interesting had the professor not been such a complete bore. Deucalion swore Professor Binns should have retired twenty years ago Ñ if not fifty or sixty. March Wilcott once mused that his grandfather had Binns for a professor, adding that his grandfather always thought Binns seemed old all those decades ago.
The only good news of the subject was that Binns was so old and frail that classes never started on time; it always started twenty minutes late because he took so long shuffling to the classroom. After roll call was complete, class was already half finished, and no student would dare complain about that.
Deucalion walked into class with his book bag slung over his shoulder and was instantly surprised to see who was taking the N.E.W.T.s level. Rather, he was more stunned by how many people were not there. Nyles Cooper was the only other Slytherin, and there were only four other students besides him.
He glanced down at his wristwatch, and by his estimation, Binns would reach the classroom in a good fifteen minutes, unless he had downed some sort of ÒScurry Along PotionÓ to make him walk faster.
ÒDuke!Ó Cooper called excitedly as he patted the chair in front of him. ÒCome sit in front of me, so Binns wonÕt catch me sleeping.Ó
ÒHow do you know I wonÕt be sleeping too?Ó Deucalion asked teasingly as he did as Cooper had asked.
ÒLike I care what you do,Ó Cooper answered with a grin. ÒBesides, I know youÕre above napping in class. YouÕll just start mapping out Quidditch plays all over your notes instead. IÕve seen how you operate . . . Say! WhatÕs that you have in your hand?Ó
Before Deucalion could answer, Cooper had deftly plucked the list for Quidditch tryouts right out of his hands (ÒIf that were a Quaffle, youÕd be in trouble, Duke!Ó). Cooper hungrily looked over the list, snickering a few times at the names that appeared. Deucalion knew why: some students on the list were hopeless cases, like Gilderoy Lockhart. Still, Deucalion was determined to humor all Slytherins into thinking they had a chance.
Cooper dipped his quill in ink before adding his sloppy signature at the bottom of the list. ÒI know that itÕs pretty much understood that I was going to try out in vain again, but I thought IÕd make it official.Ó
ÒCome on, Coop, you were on the scout squad last year,Ó Deucalion said, grabbing the list back from Cooper. ÒYou have every chance to make the official team. We lost our old Keeper and one of our Chasers from last year. And frankly, IÕm not set on keeping Ro on our team.Ó
ÒRo? WhoÕs that?Ó
Deucalion laughed and then lowered his voice so those near them couldnÕt hear. ÒSofia Malfoy. Ivan and I started calling her ÔRodentÕ when we were by ourselves because, well, she looks like one. You know itÕs true! SheÕs got that pointy-looking Malfoy face. We shortened it to Ro because then we could call her that to her face without her actually knowing.Ó
ÒAnd thatÕs what everyone on the team calls her?Ó Cooper asked. He looked absolutely fascinated by the fact that anyone would publicly insult a member of the Malfoy family.
ÒOf course everyone calls her that Ñ though most of them donÕt know the reasons behind the name,Ó Deucalion said. ÒYou know RoÕs not too bright, and neither are her friends.Ó
Cooper smirked knowingly and dipped below the table to search through his book bag. Ever since they were first years, Cooper had dwelled on learning Òexclusive informationÓ about people. After five full years in Hogwarts, Deucalion was sure that Cooper could pen a nasty, truth-revealing tome on everyone at school, including the professors. Thankfully, Cooper had the decency to keep most secrets to himself, which was surprising, given his inclination to talk at every possible moment.
Binns was still scheduled to arrive in a few minutes, assuming he remembered where his classroom was located. Deucalion looked around again to make sure he knew everyone else. Not surprisingly, there was Florean Fortescue, the Ravenclaw who was by far the top student in History of Magic. Amos Diggory, a decent enough Chaser, was the only Hufflepuff representative.
Then there was the red-headed contingent of the class: Arthur Weasley and Molly Prewett. For a Gryffindor, Arthur was likable enough, though he had an uncomfortably public fascination with everything Muggle. On the other side of likability, Molly had been indoctrinated by her older brothers to hate Slytherins, but rightfully so. One of her brothers, Gideon, was the current captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
Of course, MollyÕs repulsion to anything Slytherin made her an all too easy target for teasing.
ÒHey, Molly!Ó Deucalion called out.
ÒWhat do you want?Ó She asked bluntly as she turned in her seat to face him.
ÒGive your dear, older brother a message for me,Ó Deucalion said in his most lighthearted voice. ÒThe Slytherin team will embarrass his Lions in the House Cup again this year! What was the score last time? Oh, yeah, it was 510 to 40, but I imagine you were there. . . probably in tears too.Ó
ÒShut up, Wilcott,Ó Molly said, her face starting to match the color of her hair.
ÒItÕs all in jest,Ó Deucalion said, his voice still calm. ÒIÕd let you poke fun at me if my team was that bad.Ó
ÒYou wonÕt think itÕs so funny when we win this year,Ó Molly replied in a matter-of-fact way.
Cooper, who had probably been trying not to snicker through the whole exchange, burst out laughing. ÒLike that will ever happen, Molly! The DukeÕs too good! And Ivan Berdahl is as good at strategy as the professionals. Not a bad Beater, either. HeÕs loads better than that Ñ whoÕs on your team Ñ Frank Longbottom?Ó
Deucalion glanced over at Arthur Weasley, who looked uncomfortable indeed. After years of being in the same classroom, Arthur surely knew everything Deucalion said to Molly was entirely in jest. However and perhaps more importantly, Arthur was now dating Molly, the girl who was more fiercely dedicated to her House than anyone else at school.
ÒHufflepuff has a new Quidditch captain this year, right?Ó Deucalion turned to Amos Diggory, hastily steering the conversation away from the enjoyable but more uncomfortable topic of Gryffindor bashing. He would hate to put Molly into some sort of rage on the first day; he planned to wait a few months into the term for that.
ÒItÕs Ludo Bagman,Ó Amos said. ÒHeÕs a fifth year and a very good Beater too.Ó
ÒYes, but heÕs a bit . . . dense, isnÕt he?Ó Fortescue asked as he looked up from his book, seemingly for the first time since Deucalion had entered the classroom. ÒI mean, he did drink that bottle of Skele-Gro last year, thinking it would make him taller.Ó
ÒHe probably shouldnÕt have tried that in the Great Hall,Ó Arthur said with a disgusted look on his freckled face. ÒThat was a real mess when he chugged the whole thing and ÑÓ
ÒIÕll admit to him not being the smartest in our House, but that doesnÕt mean he wonÕt bring Hufflepuffs back to respectability,Ó Amos said quickly before breaking into a handsome smile. ÒThat is, if he puts me on the team again this year.Ó
Every time Amos Diggory bragged about his flying skills, Deucalion battled a strong desire to roll his eyes. Amos was so laughably average as a Chaser. He never figured in as a potential problem when Deucalion worked out the game plans. Honestly, it often looked as if the Hufflepuffs were playing with two Chasers instead of three.
And Ludo Bagman as a captain? That was an interesting development. Deucalion had not seen a list of House captains, though he knew Gideon Prewett, MollyÕs older brother, was a returning captain and the newly promoted Head Boy. He wondered briefly who would be heading the Ravenclaw squad.
Suddenly, a girl breathlessly burst through the doorway, clutching a precarious armful of textbooks and rolls of parchment. With a few surprisingly long, leggy steps, she had crossed the room and taken the empty seat next to Deucalion while quickly warning the class of the professorÕs whereabouts.
ÒI saw Binns shuffling this way! Maybe weÕve got minutes Ñ maybe seconds Ñ to go before the fun ends.Ó
As quickly as sheÕd sat down, she began rapidly setting out her ink well and parchment with bizarre, meticulous precision. Deucalion was sure the quill was pointing toward the parchment at a perfect, 45-degree angle. Once finished with her task, she sank down into an unladylike slouch at her seat and turned to him.
ÒI guess Binns is slow as always,Ó she said. ÒI hope you werenÕt saving this seat for anyone special, Wilcott?Ó
ÒOh, IÕm not much into seat-saving in a seven-person class,Ó Deucalion replied with a sudden sinking feeling taking hold in his stomach. What was her name? All he remembered was that she was that clumsy Gryffindor who had famously Transfigured Professor McGonagallÕs hat into a giant beetle by accident. And ÒClumsy GirlÓ was probably not the name here parents gave her.
ÒUm . . . whatÕs your name again?Ó Deucalion asked awkwardly.
ÒClio Bridges,Ó she replied, not sounding the least embarrassed. She arched an eyebrow teasingly. ÒSay, did I see you at the Wasps match the other day?Ó
ÒYeah, Ivan Berdahl and I were there and. . .Ó Deucalion trailed off when he heard the rhythmic shuffle in the hallway.
Binns had finally rounded the corner and began walking at a painfully slow speed up to the podium. With withered hands, he lifted his heavy textbook and opened it to somewhere in the middle, probably just for effect. He never used a book or notes when teaching. The ÒDroning of Death,Ó as everyone called it, was about to begin.
Before the lecture began, Clio leaned over quickly. ÒWeÕll talk about the match after class, right?Ó
The Droning of Death only had a beginning and an end; there were no particular highlights in between, unless Deucalion counted the time Arthur Weasley fell asleep and tumbled loudly onto the floor. The clatter did not phase Binns in the slightest, though Deucalion presumed that was because the ancient teacher did not hear it.
So Clio Bridges was a fan of Quidditch? Maybe she was just a supporter of the WaspsÕ idiot Seeker Bradley Carrigan. Deucalion had not seen any newspapers since the match, but he assumed Carrigan had survived his fateful flight right into the goalpost. It would have surely been the talk of the hallways if he had endured a permanent injury.
Deucalion had always enjoyed history, but Binns drained all the enjoyment of the subject from the classroom. Deucalion performed the readings and other assignments on his own time and treated History of Magic like his own study session on other things. In their second year, he and Ivan had learned to flawlessly charm other books to look like the History of Magic book on the outside. Both of them used this knowledge to get through the more tedious class sessions.
For his first reading of the semester, Deucalion had chosen to pour over IvanÕs battered copy of Racing to Market to look for any broomstick insight. He had picked that Silas Fincher book since it was closest in dimensions to his history textbook, which was always an important consideration when charming.
After what felt like an eternity Ñ a special effect of a Binns class Ñ the lecture finally ended, and Deucalion hastily began shoveling his belongings into his bag. He glanced over at Clio Bridges. Despite setting out all her ink and paper so neatly to begin class, she had ended up with a large stroke of ink on the side of her face and all over her hands as well. She did not seem to mind, however.
ÒSo. . . Quidditch,Ó Clio began casually, taking a seat on the table as Deucalion finished packing. Over her shoulder, Molly Prewett shot a disapproving look. ÒI thought I saw you and Ivan on the way into The Meadow, and I was right.Ó
ÒWell, why didnÕt you wave at us or something?Ó Deucalion asked curiously.
Clio shrugged. ÒApparently, itÕs not like you would have recognized me anyway, Wilcott.Ó
ÒAh, thatÕs is a good point,Ó Deucalion grinned sheepishly. ÒSo, are you a Wasps supporter? I canÕt imagine why anyone else would want to go to that lopsided match. I mean, I only went because the WaspsÕ management gave me free tickets in hopes that I play for them one day.Ó
ÒIt must be amazing to be that good at Quidditch,Ó Clio marveled as they set off for the Great Hall. ÒMy mumÕs forever in love with Carrigan. She broke into tears when he ran himself into the hoop after catching the Snitch. She has posters of him everywhere! All over the house! I canÕt say my dad is too thrilled.Ó
ÒSo youÕre not in love with Carrigan?Ó Deucalion asked.
ÒWell, I canÕt deny heÕs good looking,Ó Clio said quickly. ÒI, however, went to the match just to watch some good Quidditch. Well, good Quidditch on one side of the pitch anyway Ñ though the All-Stars had a good Porskoff Ploy, didnÕt they?Ó
Deucalion paused for a moment. Clio actually sounded like she watched Quidditch on a different level. For a clumsy Gryffindor, Clio at least acted as if like she knew they game. And if it was acting, it was good acting indeed.
ÒThe All-Stars didnÕt really have a chance, but that was to be expected, I guess,Ó Deucalion replied. ÒThe only thing really good I got out of the evening was a new broom.Ó
ÒWhat kind?Ó Clio asked seriously though she had just seen her ink-smuged reflection in a mirror and was rubbing her cheek ungracefully with the sleeve of her robes. An old toothless witch in a nearby painting of a bygone dragon hunt was laughing wheezily.
ÒYouÕve probably never heard of it because itÕs an obscure American broom,Ó Deucalion started. ÒItÕs called the Super Eagle. Even I had never seen it before, but I flew it this morning. ItÕs incredible!Ó
ÒIÕm shocked youÕve never heard of the Super Eagle,Ó Clio said with certainty, half her face now bright pink from rubbing. The persistent ink was still there.
ÒWhat do you mean by that?Ó
ÒI guess youÕre too into Quidditch to have seen the Super Eagle,Ó Clio responded. ÒItÕs the international standard broom of Quodpot.Ó
Deucalion was stunned, though he was not sure if he was more stunned by learning the purpose of the Super Eagle or that Clio had known the truth so easily. ÒHow did you know?Ó
ÒItÕs easy, Wilcott,Ó Clio said. ÒFirst, you can tell because of the special coating on the wood shaft. You know, to protect it from Quodpot explosions. Secondly, I read Silas Fincher religiously. HeÕs the American reporter, so he covers a lot more than just Quidditch.Ó
ÒIÕll admit to being very, well, impressed,Ó Deucalion said seriously. He was surprised his jaw was not hanging agape, but it appeared to still function correctly. ÒHow are you not on the Gryffindor Quidditch team? Surely you play.Ó
ÒOh, IÕm a decent enough Keeper,Ó Clio said, looking back and forth as if there were scarlet-and-gold spies afoot in the hallway. ÒGideon Prewett only picks his friends. ThatÕs why weÕre so awful, but IÕm sure you had figured out those reasons already. ItÕs not like IÕm giving away any important secrets. Anyway, I suppose I should be going. You are, after all, a Slytherin, and IÕve been taught that we naturally hate each other.Ó
ÒNaturally,Ó Deucalion agreed with a grin. ÒI canÕt be seen walking the halls with my sworn enemies, being as important as I am to the Slytherin House.Ó
ÒBut before I go. . .Ó Clio reached deeply into the pocket of her robes, pulled out a folded newspaper, and handed it to Deucalion. ÒSilas Fincher was at the match and wrote up a story for the Salem Gate. I found a copy before boarding the train. Go ahead and take a look. You know, sometimes reading FincherÕs report is even better than going to the match itself.Ó
ÒYou saw me reading Racing to Market during class, didnÕt you?Ó Deucalion asked, half-accusingly, half-embarrassed to be caught not paying attention. ÒIÕm not good at disguising the inside pages.Ó
ÒYeah,Ó Clio answered simply as she clapped Deucalion boyishly on the shoulder and strode quickly into the Great Hall, her messy bob of hair bouncing behind her.
Deucalion looked away from Clio and back down at the newspaper. How lucky could he be to find someone with a copy of the Salem Gate, especially one with a Fincher story? Instead of following Clio to lunch, he turned and headed back toward the dungeons. In spite of himself, he felt his face grow warm. He prayed no one saw.
That Clio Bridges. That clumsy Gryffindor with ink smudged all over her face.
She was perfect.