| Part Seven |
How can anyone be this dense? How can he possibly not remember what Friday is? We've only celebrated together for the past five years!
Why, now that his attention has become so important to me, has Ron forgotten my eighteenth birthday?
Hermione had finally given up on concentrating on her studies for the evening. Adopting an if-you-can't-beat-them-join-them attitude, she was now trudging down toward the Quidditch pitch to watch the first evening of trials for the new Gryffindor side. Ron had kept them so late the previous evening, after all, she was unlikely to get to see her friends unless she stopped by the pitch.
She had to admit to herself that she was going to enjoy the night off from studying. No matter how annoyed she might be with Ron at the moment, she never could resist watching him swoop around effortlessly on his broomstick, crimson Quidditch robes pulled taut against his firm muscles by the wind.
Just thinking about it made the cool night seem quite a bit warmer.
Before the pitch even came into view, Hermione could already hear the players shouting to each other as they flew and passed and threw and caught. Their cheers for each other were swelling in pitch and volume as she drew closer.
Wait. Those aren't cheers. Uh oh.
When Hermione reached the edge of the pitch, she discovered the cause of the problem. Even if she hadn't spotted the silver-blond hair and green robes, Ron's words would have been enough of a clue.
"Oi! Someone get Hagrid! There's a jarvey loose on the pitch!"
Ron, Harry and Ginny had all landed and were converging menacingly toward a solitary figure whose squared shoulders betrayed no hint of nerves.
"Try getting your eyes checked, Weasley," drawled Malfoy through his sneer. "Maybe you need glasses like your four-eyed friend here."
"Looks to me like his vision is just fine," retorted Ginny, stepping forward with a defiant glare. "All I see is an overgrown ferret whose only grasp of human speech seems to consist of short, rude phrases. That sounds like a jarvey, to me. Or did you fail your Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L.?"
Malfoy snorted. "Call me names if you like, Weasel Girl, but it won't keep you from getting knocked off your broom once I get a shot at you."
Harry stepped in front of Ginny, nearly chest-to-chest with his longtime adversary.
"I wouldn't be so proud that you Slytherins all grew up playing Shuntbumps instead of Quidditch. Maybe if you'd worked harder on your Seeking skills than on fouling every player on the other team, you might catch the Snitch someday."
Ron, close by Harry's elbow, flashed a proud and vindictive smile. Hermione got the feeling that Harry had learned that barb from his best friend; Muggle-raised wizards didn't usually know anything about ancient broom games. Either that, or he'd memorised Quidditch Through the Ages when he'd checked it out of the library, First Year.
As Hermione watched, Malfoy's eyes shot white fire at his opponent. It was hardly a secret that Malfoy's pride was badly bruised by his inability to beat Harry to the Snitch.
Something flickered in Harry's eyes, and Hermione thought again about Harry's guilt over what had happened to the Death Eaters who had children at Hogwarts. Knowing Harry, now that Malfoy's parents were gone, he would start thinking of being orphaned as a quality that they had in common.
Harry's expression hardened again, and Malfoy's sneer sharpened in response. The tension between the Seekers was palpable. Someday, Hermione feared, something between those two was going to snap.
Harry's green eyes shone like copper salt in a flame. Hermione remembered the horrible brawl that had broken out after the Slytherin/Gryffindor Quidditch match Fifth Year. She hoped Malfoy wouldn't taunt Harry into a repeat of that day. It wouldn't look good for Ron if a fistfight broke out during his trials.
"We'll see who catches the Snitch in the end, Potter," replied Malfoy evenly, with a shrug that somehow dismissed and dispelled the entire conflict. "Meanwhile, you'd better hope your new teammates are up to the challenge."
With a dismissive glance at the minute, trembling pair of Dennis and Euan, Malfoy turned on his heel and strode away from the pitch.
After he'd left, Ron, Harry and Ginny exchanged a knowing grin. As Hermione approached, she overheard Ginny saying something about unbeatable new Beaters. She followed Ron's eyes into the sky, where a fourth-year witch she didn't know was holding a bat and chatting with Jack Sloper.
Hermione was quite sure she didn't like the way Ron was looking at the girl with the bat.
A blur of motion caught Hermione's eye, and she watched another unfamiliar witch catch a pass from Emma Dobbs and put a solid goal past Natalie McDonald, who was stepping in as Keeper while Ron dealt with the situation on the pitch.
Ron glanced over just then, and saw Hermione approaching. His face lit up, then clouded with shame. Ron knew Hermione didn't like to see him fight, but in truth she was proud of the restraint he'd shown on this occasion.
"Malfoy spying on your practise again?" she offered with a gentle tilt of her head.
A smile spread across Ron's face that made Hermione want to forgive everything and leap into his sweaty, Quidditch-scuffed arms right then and there.
"For all the good it'll do him," replied Ron, still wearing that same easy grin, but losing it to visible nerves as she stepped closer to the group.
He turned away before she could reach him. "All right, everyone, show's over, back to work!"
Ron clapped his hands, sending his teammates and hopefuls into the air ahead of him before he kicked off.
Hermione was left standing alone, staring up at the streaks of crimson in the darkening sky.