Daylight || Harry Potter

Chapter Eighteen

Being part of a secret club was so much fun that I almost forgot about everything else. I forgot that I had other things going on, like Quidditch. Angelina was having us practice on an almost daily basis, and I was returning to my dorm stiff and sore. I was even taking up more time than my homework. In fact, McGonagall had exempted all Gryffindor Quidditch players from homework. Her reasoning behind this was that she'd gotten used to seeing the Quidditch House Cup in her office and she really didn't want to have to give it to Snape.

Since the first match of the season was coming up, tensions were pretty high, especially between Gryffindor and Slytherin. People were constantly trying to sabotage the players from each team. You could tell who was in the DA and who was not based on how they defended themselves. For instance, Alicia Spinnet managed to judo-flip the Slytherin Keeper, Miles Bletchley, who had tried to hit her from behind with a jinx while she was in the library. I don't think I've ever been more proud of her.

When the Slytherins finally realized that trying to hex us would only end with them flat on their backs or with bats coming out of their nostrils (Ginny's handiwork — she'd stopped one Slytherin from hexing Angelina), they turned to badmouthing and hurling insults. During breakfast one morning, Pansy Parkinson called, "Hey, Potty, I heard Warrington's sworn to knock you off your broom on Saturday!"

Harry snorted.

"Warrington's aim's so pathetic I'd be more worried if he was aiming for the person next to me," he shot back, which made Ron, Hermione, and I laugh and wiped the smirk off Pansy Parkinson's face.

Ron, however, was not used to this treatment, so whenever Malfoy did an over-the-top, exuberant imitation of Ron dropping the Quaffle, it hurt Ron's self-esteem. No matter how well he did during practice or how drastically he improved, just one snide comment from the Slytherins seemed to destroy whatever confidence he'd built up.

So on the day of our first match against Slytherin, Ron could be found refusing to eat at the Gryffindor table, sweating buckets, and his face as white as a sheet. He looked like he was counting down his final moments.

"I must've been mental to do this," he said in a croaky whisper. "Mental."

"Don't be thick," said Harry firmly, passing him a choice of cereals.

"You're going to be fine," I told him. "It's normal to be nervous."

"I'm rubbish," croaked Ron. "I'm lousy. I can't play to save my life. What was I thinking?"

"Get a grip," said Harry sternly.

"Yeah, look at that save you made with your foot the other day," I said. "Even Fred and George said it was really good —"

"Yeah, they even said they were considering admitting you were related to them after all."

Ron looked at us with a pained expression.

"That was an accident," he whispered miserably. "I didn't mean to do it — I slipped off my broom when none of you were looking and I was trying to get back on and I kicked the Quaffle by accident."

"Well," said Harry, recovering pretty quickly from this unpleasant surprise, "a few more accidents like that and the game's in the bag, isn't it?"

Hermione, Ginny, and Luke sat down opposite us wearing red-and-gold scarves, gloves, and rosettes. Luke had gone a step further. Across his forehead he'd written McKeon in blazing red and gold face paint. I grinned when I saw it.

"You like it?" He asked, a wide smile on his face. "Look at my shirt."

He stood up and turned around, revealing a fire-engine-red jersey with my last name and the number four on it, my team number.