Fawkes was the one who saw it coming. But it made little impression on him until it banged against the central window of the Headmaster's office.
This had Dumbledore turning in his chair with fingers feeling for his wand. In the next instant he was smiling.
The Snitch again.
He watched it flit away from the cracked pane as though to make another attempt. But the Hufflepuff seeker was there to catch it. Miss McGonagall. She glimpsed him through the window, a rather terrified look on her face, now wheeling around on her Meteor 500 and... gone, in a flash.
"An engrained habit," Snape remarked, taking his hand away from the door through which he had been about to exit. He stood looking questioningly at Dumbledore's ambiguous smile. "I wasn't aware that a Snitch could develope a bias against a person, player or spectator."
"And not just during a game," said Dumbledore, "but during a team practice. What are we to make of this? You were fortunate not to have suffered a concussion in yesterday's contest between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. I confess that I didn't see the Snitch speeding toward the faculty box, either, until it was practically on your nose. You have remarkable reflexes, Severus."
Snape frowned. "You are taking this intrigue lightly, Headmaster. A bewitched Snitch that has now twice acted violently against me is not something one should regard as a prank."
Dumbledore nodded, brows raised, and leaning back in his chair he linked his hands on his lap. "Oh I quite agree. I have been considering who might be responsible for the rogue Snitch. No, not 'rogue.' Better to say 'endowed.' It is on a mission."
"I dare say. And with your permission, I should like to examine the Snitch after dinner. Perhaps I will be able to determine the source and the manner of this... endowment."
Dumbledore rose, his smile now a crafty one, and said, "I was just going to suggest that." He went over to the phoenix perch and laid a gentle finger on a tail feather. "He'll be molting soon."
Snape shrugged. "Won't we all."
"Severus, I've been meaning to ask you. What do you think of our transfer from Durmstrang?" The Headmaster was still peering at Fawkes.
"Much like all the other Hufflepuffs," came the reply in a negligent tone. "Studious. Quiet. Insufferably ordinary."
"It wasn't the outward appearance I was asking about," said Dumbledore. He faced Snape now without a trace of a smile. "We all know the maxim: still waters run deep. It is the degree of light, or darkness, of those watery depths that concern us."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "I have had no reason to suspect Miss Alice Minsky of being anything other than what she appears to be," he said, eyeing Dumbledore suspiciously. "An unusual type coming from Durmstrang, to be sure. But she is precisely the sort of student that her previous school would just as soon get rid of."
Dumbledore seemed surprised by this assessment, but immediately stroked his beard in feigned amusement. "That might explain why the Sorting Hat was so quick to place Miss Minsky in Hufflepuff. But I wonder..."
He gazed over at the shelf of artefacts where the ancient hat crouched, as it were, looking just a little ashamed of itself.
It was not in the nature of Giselle McGonagall, or in the nature of any Hufflepuff for that matter, to show anger. In a most exasperating situation you might see a Hufflepuff twitch an eye, or, in an extreme crisis, grind his teeth. But expressing a noisy fit was out of the question.
Even so, Giselle was at the point of actually raising her voice. She sat on her Meteor 500 coasting over the goal posts and watching Alice Minsky bash a bludger at one of the team's chasers, who was acting as an opponent, with such incredible force and accuracy that it was a miracle how Roscoe managed to keep from being knocked clear off his Firebolt.
Giselle just did calm herself before requesting, "Alice, you might go a wee bit easy on us. Really, you ought to be satisfied that two Slytherin players are still laid up in the hospital wing. We don't want any of us joining them."
Alice called back, "Sorry," and descended to the refreshment booth without the least sign of contrition.
The fifteen-year-old transfer was soon in the company of the other team members: the chasers Roscoe, Cassandra, and Bea; the keeper, Deidre (team captain), and the other beater, Felix, who was forever gawking at Alice as if she were a myth come to life.
Well, thought Giselle, who remained hovering above the pitch, Alice was even better than the Weasley twins according to Madam Hooch. And there was no denying her looks. Pretty in a reserved way, with her lustrous sienna hair and that mildly coquettish manner she had when she wasn't swinging her beater's bat like a psychopath.
Giselle took the 'sleeping' Snitch from her team robe pocket and stared at it. It looked so innocent now. She recalled the opening game of the season, just yesterday and so vivid in her mind. She was going after the Snitch like a diving hawk, the Slytherin seeker, Bruno, howling right next to her, when it swerved directly toward the faculty box. She had no choice but to angle up, and oh, such a collision with Bruno! Luckily he cushioned her impact with the ground; not deliberately, of course. But how strange that the Snitch had gone straight to a teacher as if on the attack. Nothing like that had ever happened before.
And then, not fifteen minutes ago, she goes ripping after the runaway Snitch only to see it slam against the window of Dumbledore's office! Aunt Minerva would be sure to hear about it.
Giselle shivered. Not good, not good at all, to have Auntie calling her onto the carpet and asking if she were in some way at fault... Well how silly! Snitches were absolutely immune to influences, she reminded herself. They were not subject to any known charm or hex. Surely Auntie would not suspect her of unsportsmanlike conduct. Imagine a Hufflepuff being accused of poor sportsmanship! The very idea!
The next day was Monday. Giselle's first period class was Transfiguration. Her table was near one of the tall lancet-arched windows. Her textbook was open and she was watching the shadows of falling leaves drifting over the page.
She and her fellow third-years were supposed to be reading the chapter on crustacean morphisms, while the fourth-years attempted to change clay sculptures into bronze. This explained the frequent shattering noises and the occasional loud thunk, as the items hit the floor from a too energetic wand waving.
"Haven't you been paying attention in your Charms class?" said Professor McGonagall to the fourth-years. "Swish and flick doesn't mean a wild gyration. Your wand should flow with the lilt of the canto. Miss Granger, I see you've finished your reading. Please assist Mr Longbottom in sweeping the floor."
"Yes, ma'am."
Giselle saw that Auntie was coming over to the third-years side of the classroom. Giselle focused on her assignment. 'Morphing a crustacean requires a good drying-out first, which, if neglected, can result in slippery outcomes known to have injured the spellcaster or others in the vicinity.' This had Giselle thinking of the Snitch. And so when Auntie's shadow darkened the page, Giselle looked up with guilt written all over her.
"Stay a wee minute after class, Gee," said Auntie in an unexpectedly fond voice. "And no, you're not in any trouble."
Then she added, as a rather disturbing after-thought, "But someone is. We just don't know who."
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