Chapter 62

o—o—o—o

The entirety of Gryffindor house, and to a lesser extent the Hogwarts student body as a whole, became increasingly excited as the first Quidditch match of the season loomed. Milo was surprised to find that, against all narrative convention, the tournament was to be opened with Gryffindor playing Slytherin on Friday.

"It's just wrong," Milo said to Harry after the black-haired boy returned, covered in mud, from last-minute practice on Tuesday. "You can't play Slytherin on your first match."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Harry said nervously. He'd seen their team captain a few days prior. Flint (Slytherin's team captain), Harry thought, could have been a distant cousin or nephew of the Hallowe'en Troll.

"You should be fighting them last," Milo pressed. "After a series of ever more difficult games that proportionally match your Quidditch skills. This just doesn't jive."

"Wouldn't that be something," Harry muttered tiredly. He flopped lazily onto one of the Common Room's overstuffed armchairs. Between Gryffindor's communal detentions, his homework (Snape seemed to be assigning the whole class extra work solely to keep Harry occupied before the match) and Wood's frantic Quidditch practice sessions, he'd hardly had any time to relax since his release from the hospital wing. Milo, as usual, had his nose buried in his spellbook, proving about as indefatigable as Hermione when it came to studying—although the similarities broke down shortly after that. While Hermione was practically obsessed with her homework, she was scandalized by how little Milo cared about his school-related studies when, on Wednesday, Milo turned in his assignment for Defence Against the Dark Arts (eighteen inches of parchment on Vampires), which was revealed to be a page full of weird numbers and data, seemingly filled in at random.

"So, about this match tomorrow—" Milo began.

"Don't mention it," said Harry. "Please."

"Oh, okay," Milo said, sounding somewhat hurt. "I was just going to say that I think I can keep you from getting grievously injured by Bludgers. No big deal, though."

Harry paused. There was a short, but noticeable, glint in his eye.

"Really, now?" he asked.

"Mage Armour," Milo muttered. "There. You're surrounded by an invisible force field."

"You're just putting me on, aren't you," said Harry suspiciously.

"No, it's true. Watch this," Milo said, and threw a nearby mug at Harry.

"Ow!" Harry said, as the ceramic cup hit him in the chest. "That really hurt!" (in the background, ignored by everyone, was a quiet "Hey! That was my mug!" from Neville).

"Uh," said Milo. "Look, nobody can predict rolling a 20, okay? Happens to the best of us. Let me try again." Milo picked up a Sickle (the silver coin, not the Simple Weapon).

"No!" Harry said, raising his arms to cover his head. "I'll just... I'll just trust you on this one, okay? I'm protected by an invisible force field that will help against speeding Bludgers but can't stop small ceramic cocoa mugs. I'm going to bed."

Harry started climbing the staircase to the tower that held their dorm room.

"Oh, wait," Milo said suddenly, "I'd been meaning to ask you something."

"Sure, what's up?" Harry asked sleepily.

"Well, you've got all these piles and piles of gold, right?"

"Look," said Harry seriously. "I didn't ask for them, right? I can't help being rich—"

"No, it's not that at all. The thing is, well, I need your help."

Harry frowned, all trace of exhaustion gone.

"Sure. What can I do?"

"Well," said Milo, feeling somewhat awkward about asking a friend for money, "you've probably noticed that I tend to use the same spells a lot."

"Uh, yeah, I guess."

"That's because where I come from, Wizards mostly learn spells from other Wizards. But there aren't any of those here," ("Hey!" said Neville) "so I have to develop all of my spells myself."

"But I'm rubbish with spells," Harry said. "You should ask Hermione for help."

"I don't, er, need your, um, expertise, exactly. You see, I get two free spells per level, but to get any others I need weeks of research and access to expensive materials."

"Oh," said Harry. "So you need money."

"...Yeah. But it's for a good cause—you know, fighting Evil and stuff."

"Sure, how much?"

"And I know of numerous ways in which I can turn 3rd-level spells into a way to make us phenomenal amounts of gold—"

"No, look, really, it's okay."

"—so I'll be able to pay you back when I get some free time, probably over the holidays."

"I don't mind, it's not like I'm using it for anything."

"Oh. You mean, you'll really share the loot?"

"'Course, we're friends. Although I sort of object to calling my parents' money loot—"

"Swag, then."

Harry sighed, but decided to ignore it.

"How much do you need?"

"You're not going to like it."

"Just tell me."

Milo told him. Harry didn't like it.

"A thousand galleons?" Harry spluttered.

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