The Worst Defeat

Chapter Three

The Worst Defeat

Saturday 27 June 1992

"Tracey, did you hear about Professor Quirrell?" Cecilia giggled as she arranged her robes around herself on the Quidditch stand. "You'll never guess what he went and did last night."

"What?" I didn't want to watch this match, which would be yawning hours of Roger showing off that he was Ravenclaw's star Chaser. But no-one was staying indoors on such a warm summer day.

"He died!" Cecilia opened a large bag of jelly slugs, took two and then remembered to offer me one. "You wouldn't have thought so, would you? He looked dead healthy yesterday. But last night he took a walk deep into the dark underground of the school and while he was admiring himself in a mirror, he was attacked!"

I sucked the syrup out of my slug and let the blackcurrant flavour wash all around my mouth. "What was Quirrell doing looking in the mirror while he was down in the underground?"

Cecilia shrugged. "I always said he was odd, didn't I?" She giggled again. "Just imagine that – he was about to die and all he could think about was admiring his reflection! But you'll never guess what it was that attacked him. It was the last thing you'd think. Go on, guess!"

"A Nundu?" I hazarded, trying not to mind Cecilia's slowness to make her point. I had brought a red handkerchief, but Roger would never spot it among all these crowds. How could I let him know that I was cheering for Gryffindor? Could I persuade Cecilia to tell him?

"No, it was his turban! I swear it, Tracey – that turban of his turned around and attacked him!" She brought out a jade-green comb and began to sweep it through her hair.

"Did his turban strangle him?"

"No, it's even better than that. He was keeping something alive inside the cloth, and that... thing... is what suddenly went bad on him and attacked."

"I always knew that Quirrell smelled rotten," I said, clutching my red handkerchief.

"Yes, isn't it dead suspicious that he had a stinky head? My grandparents in the perfume business always say that bad smells come from the mouth or armpits or bum. But Professor Quirrell had a stinky back-of-head. We ought to have known there was something dead wrong with a person like that!"

"Oi! You two gas-bags!" grunted Vincent Crabbe from behind us. "Shut up your nattering and give us some of them sweets."

Not wanting to argue with someone as large as Vincent, Cecilia handed over four jelly slugs. Vincent stuffed two in his mouth, passed the other two to Gregory Goyle, stuck out his palm and demanded:

"Forgotten about Malfoy, then?"

"None of your tricks, Vincent!" I interrupted, flicking the red handkerchief at his face. "When Draco arrives, we'll give him his share. But we don't trust you to take care of the edibles while we're waiting for him."

"Ace, Tracey!" Cecilia squealed. "You're dead brave to stand up to them like that. You wouldn't even be afraid of the... thing... that killed Quirrell."

I wasn't convinced, but of course I didn't say so to Cecilia. There were lots of things that I didn't say to Cecilia. Despite that, being best friends with her hadn't been as difficult as I'd feared, for we never had any trouble thinking up things to talk about. Cecilia never bothered to do any thinking at all and she never put me to the inconvenience of choosing the topic, for she was so good at non-stop prattling that she never noticed if she said exactly the same thing five times over.

"Listen, when the match starts – " I began. But I had missed the moment.

"We should have known that Quirrell would die!" Cecilia enthused. "That Defence post is jinxed. The teachers there don't last long. Did you ever hear of a single one who survived?"

"I don't think they all die," I said cautiously.

"True, some of them just get dead sick. My stepmother remembers one who was stung by a manticore and had yellow stuff dripping all over his body. He had to stay at St Mungo's for – "

"Shut it, you two Jarveys!" Draco Malfoy was finally taking his seat behind us. "The match is about to begin so let's watch it in peace. Give me a jelly slug, Cecilia. Hand me your rattle, Crabbe. Tracey, where are your colours?"

"What? Slytherin isn't playing today."

"Quick-witted, aren't we? Exactly. Slytherin isn't playing. So for which team are Slytherins cheering?"

"Er..." As broomsticks bearing red players and blue ones swept down onto the pitch, I suddenly realised what the correct answer was. I forced myself to open my mouth and produce the word, "Ravenclaw?"

Draco paused to relieve Cecilia of another jelly slug. "Correct. If Gryffindor wins this match, Gryffindor wins the Quidditch Cup. If they lose, we get it. There's no way Ravenclaw has a hope of winning the Cup, so we're cheering for Ravenclaw to win this match. But you're all in black, Tracey. Where are your colours?"

I flushed and hastily stuffed my red handkerchief up my sleeve.

"We've brought an extra," interposed Daphne, handing me a blue pillow-case. She could spare it easily as she and Pansy had spread a bright blue tablecloth around their school robes, like a giant cloak or outsized banner. "There's so much news that there hasn't been time to – YES, RAVENCLAW!!"

Looking extremely smug, my brother Roger punched the air from his broomstick, while his boring friends in the Ravenclaw stands hurled their blue banners in a ribbon-dance. I gave my blue pillow-case a token wave.

Draco squinted. "Is there a broomstick missing out there?"

"Of course there is," said Pansy. "Didn't you lot hear? Potter's unconscious in the Hospital Wing, and the Gryffindor goons don't have a reserve. So they're playing this match without a Seeker!"

My heart plummeted. I hope their Chasers are good, I thought. It just wasn't fair that Roger should have such an easy victory handed to him.

"What? Really? Pansy, you are better news than the Daily Prophet!"

Pansy glowed at Draco's compliment. Before she could say anything else, the crowd erupted into cheers: Lysistrata Fudge had scored another goal for Ravenclaw. Millicent, from Daphne's other side, waved a blue scarf above her head and aimed a kick at a Gryffindor sitting in front of her, so Pansy and Daphne remembered to wave their tablecloth.

"So tell us the rest!" urged Cecilia. "What's wrong with Potter? Is he going to die?"

Pansy shrugged. "I'm surprised you don't know the rest of your own story, Cecilia. Potter was down in the underground when Quirrell died. The thing that attacked Quirrell nearly got Potter too. I wish it had got Potter instead of Quirrell!"

"I don't," said Cecilia with a shudder. "I wish it had got both of them. Quirrell was a rubbish teacher. I hope they find us someone better-looking next year."

"Anyway, Pomfrey thinks Potter probably won't die. But none of you have asked the really important thing yet. Hasn't anyone wondered what Potter and Quirrell were doing down in the underground last night? Bother, Johnson's going to score."

But she didn't. Jeremy Dorny saved the goal, and I shrieked, "Ye – ea – esss!" along with the rest.

"Go on, Pansy," I said. "Tell us why Professor Quirrell was wandering around in the middle of the night."

"Because he was a thief! Yes, you heard me right. He was trying to steal something."

"What?" we all chorused. Even the boys were centring more attention on Pansy than on the match.

Pansy paused theatrically, then told us. "The Philosopher's Stone. The magical Stone of boundless wealth and everlasting life! Quirrell somehow found out that there was one hidden in the magic mirror underneath the school and he'd gone there to steal it."

Even Draco was awed by this sensational story. A Stone of boundless wealth and everlasting life would be worth stealing; Quirrell didn't seem quite such a fool for trying his luck.

"Where did the Philosopher's Stone come from?" I asked eagerly. "How did it get inside a mirror?"

Pansy's face hardened. "Obviously," she snapped, "Quirrell didn't tell people that he intended to commit a theft. So how should we know where the Stone came from or how Quirrell knew about it?"

Millicent blundered into the conversation. "Then how do we know that it was a Philosopher's Stone?"

Pansy turned a pitying gaze on her. "Dumbledore frankly admits that he picked up the Philosopher's Stone from beside Quirrell's dead body. In other words, he stole it for his own use. Let's not be surprised if Dumbledore lives a very long time."

Draco's eyes shone like diamonds. "Perhaps the old codger will retire now that he doesn't need to work for a living. Perhaps the school governors will give us a decent headmaster next time. Oh... HOORAY!! Go, Ravenclaw!"

They all cheered, but my throat was as dry as a desert. The Ravenclaw Beaters were keeping Oliver Wood off his game. It was unfair, unreasonable, outrageous that Roger should be allowed to win at Quidditch so easily.

"What a shot!" exclaimed Draco. "That Chaser knows his game. Anyone remember his name?"

I froze in my seat.

"It's Roger Davies," said Pansy. "Didn't you know? He's our Tracey's brother."

"Good family, Tracey," said Draco. "Any more jelly slugs, Cecilia?"

"No, you had the last one," lied Cecilia. There was one slug left, but it was squashed. As soon as Draco looked away, Cecilia stuffed it into her own mouth. "Whoops – cheer again, Tracey!"

Roger had scored again, and there was nothing for it but to let Cecilia pull me to my feet and mechanically wave my blue pillow-case above my head.

"What's wrong, Tracey?" asked Daphne. "Aren't you glad that we're winning?"

I felt like screaming that "we" were not winning anything and the whole Ravenclaw team should be shoved down the sewers. But that kind of attitude would kick me to the bottom of the Slytherin pecking-order. If I wanted to keep my friends, I ought to start by smiling at them.

"The exams wore me out," I said. "I – er – hope the goals keep coming!"

Pansy glanced at me sharply, but before she could think of anything to say, Gryffindor scored. Pansy stood up to lead a cat-call of boos. Most of our classmates followed her example, although Theo Nott remained in his seat looking bored.

"Come on, Tracey!" hissed Cecilia. "Don't you care that the evil Gryffindors scored?"

"But it isn't nice to – that is – won't we be in trouble if we get caught out boo-ing?"

"Who'll catch us?" interrupted Daphne scornfully. "Oh. Snape wants us to sit down again. But we aren't in trouble. I'm sure Snape doesn't really mind!"

"I've finished writing our chant," said Blaise Zabini. "We can sing this next time we score." He waved some ripped notepaper in front of Theo's face, then handed it to Draco. Draco guffawed and passed it on to Pansy, who tittered.

I stared in horror at the words. If I didn't chant, they would know I wanted Ravenclaw to lose. That was tantamount to saying I cared more about Gryffindor – our traditional enemies – than about Slytherin. And I couldn't care less about the fools in Gryffindor. I just needed them to win this match.

But Sylvia Fawcett scored another goal for Ravenclaw, so I stood up with my housemates and choked out the words.

Eagles fly and Lions die: Fawcett makes them pay!

"It is going to be all night," I pointed out. "Dunstan isn't going to be in any hurry to touch that Snitch. She'll wait until Ravenclaw have racked up more goals than any Hogwarts team has ever scored before."

"Or until she's hungry," said Pansy.

Cecilia and Daphne didn't seem to hear. Cecilia was leaning across Pansy to whisper, "Tracey's brother is dead fit, isn't he? Jeremy Dorny might be saving a few goals, but it's Roger Davies that my sister fancies."

"And mine," said Daphne, "and Vincent's too. Not that she has a chance, with a face like hers! Tracey, do you know if your brother has a girlfriend?"

It wasn't a good moment to tell them how much this subject bored me. I took a deep breath and reminded them, "He is only fourteen. So probably not."

"But does he fancy blondes or brunettes?" persisted Cecilia.

"He prefers having both at the same time," I replied crossly. "Especially flatterers who tell him he's the strongest, handsomest, cleverest, most powerful wizard in history."

"Shut up!" said Draco. "Who cares about his girlfriends? He's about to score again!"

I clenched my fists, willing Roger to miss the goal this time. He feinted, aimed for Oliver Wood's fingers, then suddenly the Quaffle was flying through the far goal-post. The whole stadium exploded with cheers and boos, while the second-year Slytherins joined us in shouting Blaise's chant.

Catch the Snitch and win the pitch! Hip, hip, hip hooray!

I might as well close my eyes as I would know from the cheers when I had to chant again. I wondered how much Roger would have humiliated the Gryffindors before Barbara Dunstan finally caught the Snitch.

When the cat-calls had stopped, Theo spoke into the silence. "Tracey has a point."

"What?"

"There's nothing to stop the Ravenclaws playing on and on for months – making no attempt to catch the Snitch – until they've won the Quidditch Cup, the House Cup and every other award Hogwarts can give them, just in Quidditch points."

Vincent screwed up his face, trying to work this out. Gregory didn't bother trying.

"Hooch said she was going to stop the match at five o' clock," said Blaise.

"I'm not waiting that long," said Theo. "We want Ravenclaw to win this battle, but we want Slytherin to win the war. So pick a score. When do we want this Quidditch match to stop? And how are we going to stop it?"

Draco latched on. "Three hundred," he said. "If Ravenclaw stop playing when they have three hundred points, they've thrashed Gryffindor, but we've beaten them to the Cup. But if Ravenclaw reach three-forty, then they'll beat us to the Cup."

"How are you going to stop the match if you're not playing?" asked Vincent.

Theo dived under the stand without replying. He emerged two rows behind us, whispering furiously in Terence Higgs's ear. Higgs cackled and nodded, evidently agreeing to whatever Theo was planning.

At Roger's next goal, the other Slytherins became a little more cautious in their cheering. Theo returned, his face expressionless, shaking a blue rattle. Millicent demanded, "Where have you been?" but Theo looked mysterious and wouldn't tell her.

I stopped paying attention. Ravenclaw raked up goal after goal, with Roger scoring two-thirds of them, as Wood didn't seem to be playing properly at all. Scamander and Goldstein made sure the Bludgers were persecuting the Gryffindor Chasers, and if they did contact the Quaffle, Dorny made save after save. But my housemates were no longer urging me to cheer.

"I know it's a bit difficult for Tracey," whispered Daphne. "She's torn between her brother and her house."

"But you don't have to worry." Cecilia patted my arm soothingly. "Your brother's dead brilliant, and Theo has fixed it so that he can't hurt Slytherin."

Finally, finally, when Ravenclaw were sitting on a sickeningly stupendous seventeen goals to one, there was a brilliant flash of gold. Something blindingly bright whizzed through the air and almost hurled itself at Barbara Dunstan's cheek. She lifted her hand to find out what had stung her and discovered she was holding the Snitch.

The match was over.

Suddenly Pansy's blue tablecloth had dropped to the ground, and a green one was billowing over her head. Our section of the stadium was a mass of green and silver, and we were singing new words to Blaise's song.

Grab the Cup and lift it up! Snakes take it away!

"But I thought you said she wasn't going to catch it?" said Vincent in confusion.

Several other people were confused, including Madam Hooch. "That was a ricochet movement," she said. "Something hit this Snitch and pushed it towards Miss Dunstan. But there's nothing visible on the pitch."

"I can find it for you," volunteered Professor Flitwick. "Accio! Aaah... something has landed in my hand, but it's invisible. Apparecium! It's just a gobstone... a commonplace glass gobstone. I wonder whose fingerprints are on it?"

It was a well-used gobstone on which at least a dozen wizards had left some kind of magical trace, so no-one was ever accused of using it to disrupt a Quidditch match. Flitwick might have been shrewd enough to work out who had laid the guilty charm, but what could he do? Higgs was in his final year, only days away from leaving Hogwarts for good, so there was no point in punishing him. And Ravenclaw had been playing with an unfair advantage.

It was Gryffindor's worst defeat for three hundred years, so Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup. But we lost the House Cup because Dumbledore, biased as usual, trumped up some excuse to give extra house points to Potter and his mad friends.

Early on Thursday morning, the exam results were posted. I raced to the exam notice board before breakfast and searched for my name on the list of forty first-years. There! I had come seventh overall. Even the great Harry Potter and his annoying friend Weasley, who were tied for fifth place, had only averaged two percent more than I had. Theo, who had managed three percent more than them, was the only Slytherin ahead of me.

"Are you gloating, Tracey?" Draco was standing behind my shoulder. "Will Mummy and Daddy be pleased with your results?"

The list showed that Draco had come eighteenth, just behind Susan Bones. He must be furious that I had done better than he had. Remembering his family's prominent position in magical society, I forced a laugh.

"I can't imagine they'll care. Exams aren't everything."

"Besides," said Draco casually, "your brother has beaten you."

"What?" My eyes pricked as I slowly scanned the third-years' results sheet. It was true. Roger had come second in his year. Unlike the swot who occupied the top place, Roger also had something called a Gardiner Award, which was apparently for "contributions to Quidditch, music, art and good citizenship."

I shrugged and forced the wobble out of my voice. "As I said, our Mum and Dad don't care that much."

But it was a lie. Mum and Dad would be pleased with Roger.

And they would know for certain that he had done better than I had.