Quidditch

Milo waited for Friday to roll around with ever-increasing anxiety and anticipation. His time was entirely taken up with classes, spell research (Milo decided to start researching Benign Transposition, a handy 1st-level spell that swaps the positions of a pair of willing creatures), and magic item crafting. The latter was proving increasingly frustrating: one of the oft-forgotten requirements in creating a magic item was that, during the creation process the crafter or an assistant has to cast whichever spell the magic item most closely replicates. Normally, this is no problem at all—for a small charge, any item crafter could hire a high-level Cleric or Wizard to cast the spell for them. Milo, obviously not having this advantage, was severely limited in his choices of items to craft—and, worse, most of them produced effects he could already manage much less expensively by just casting a spell.

Despite the severe restrictions, the Milo that entered McGonagall's office on Tuesday was wearing a pair of sleek midnight-blue gloves with tiny yellow stars on the knuckles. Twice a day, Milo's new Arcanist's Gloves could add a significant amount of extra kick (+2 Caster Levels' worth of kick, to be precise) to his low-level spells.

To McGonagall's increasing frustration, Milo showed no noticeable improvement in his Transfiguration abilities, even under her expert tutelage.

"You have some sort of learning block," McGonagall had explained. "We just need to figure out how to work around it. If you can pull off even one successful Transfiguration, I'm sure you will have no trouble at all with further ones."

She'd decided to try trial-and-error. Since Transfiguration was largely performed in the mind rather than with the wand, she'd explained, it only followed that Milo had to try thinking differently, and the easiest way to do this was to change environmental factors more-or-less at random.

She made Milo try to Transfigure outdoors, indoors, while balanced on one foot, while blindfolded, while hanging upside-down, while inhaling burning incense, with his wand in his left hand instead of his right, with his wand held in his feet, with his wand held in both hands, with her wand, with no wand at all, while under water, and while floating in the air—and every possible combination of the above.

"Maybe," she said thoughtfully, "if you're blindfolded and slowly turning counter-clockwise while in the presence of a horned toad and the room is smelling of lavender—"

"Professor," Milo interrupted. "I don't mean to be rude, but... doesn't this strike you as a bit ridiculous?"

"Of course!" McGonagall said, and for a moment Milo thought she'd agreed with him. "Laughter! Maybe you'll be able to Transfigure while laughing. Tell me, Mister Amastacia-Liadon" (Milo rolled his eyes. He hated being called by his last name) "tell me, how many centaurs does it take to light up a wand?"

Milo sighed.

"I don't know," he said obligingly. "How many?"

"None," McGonagall said with the tone of someone saying something clever, "for Mars is unusually bright tonight."

o—o—o—o

When the other Gryffindors returned from their communal detention, they found Milo sitting in the Common Room stitching up his fifth-hand robes.

"Still working on that?" Ron asked, interested. "They already fit better than mine do—mind, mine were Charlie's originally."

Hermione stared at the thread Milo was using with interest.

"Is that—is that unicorn hair?" she gasped.

"Yeah, wand-grade." Milo said. "I was going to use silk, but it wasn't expensive enough."

"Wasn't expensive—" Ron said, his face going red. He paused to get control of himself with obvious effort. "You're just as bad as Malfoy, you are."

"No, no," Milo said, aghast. "It's just that, for my magic, I need to use magical components that cost a certain amount. And," Milo said with a grin, "when I'm done, these robes could fit Hagrid."

"How much unicorn hair—"

"Magic items resize to fit their wearers," Milo explained patiently. "Everyone knows that, Ron."

"Thought we weren't going to do that anymore," said Harry.

"Couldn't help myself. Everyone ready for tomorrow?" Milo asked, setting aside his under-construction Robe of Arcane Might. It would take another twenty days, but when he was done, Milo would be a force to be reckoned with. Or not to be reckoned with, Milo could never remember how that saying went.

"Yeah," Harry said.

"'Course," Ron added.

"Well—if you insist," Hermione said, although Milo guessed that her reluctance wasn't entirely genuine.

"Excellent. Let's begin, then."

o—o—o—o

Milo waited until he could hear the thunder from the Quidditch pitch outside to begin his heist.

"Invisibility," he muttered and withdrew his eleven-foot pole, looking appraisingly at Snape's office door.

With a deep breath to steady his nerves, he turned the doorknob with Mage Hand and gave the door a firm push with the wooden pole.

Nothing exploded. Milo wiped sweat from his brow. Really, this is what Rogues are for, he thought sourly. Milo stepped cautiously through the apparently un-trapped doorway and entered Snape's office. He wanted to spend as little time in here as possible.

"Spontaneous Search," he cast. Milo located the Veritaserum instantly in Snape's cupboard. It was in a small cauldron next to one containing a thick, bubbling orange potion Milo wasn't familiar with.

Milo reached into his belt and grabbed a small ceramic flask, filled it with the truth potion, and gave it to Mordy, who was also invisible.

"Run this over to Hermione," he whispered. "I'll be right—"

Milo started as the office door slammed shut. He hadn't seen anyone enter, but there was no reason it couldn't have been someone invisible...

"See Invisibility," he cast as quietly as he could, though the spell didn't turn up anything.

He exhaled. It must have been the wind...

...there couldn't possibly be any wind in the dungeons, could there?

So, maybe I should use Detect Thoughts? While he debated spending another 2nd-level spell slot on what might be nothing, Milo suddenly felt himself being yanked upwards into the air.

"Gah!" Milo shouted reflexively as he dangled by his ankles.

To Milo's horror, the air near the door seemed to run like wet paint towards the ground, revealing a very smug-looking Professor Snape, wand brandished like a sword.

Unfortunately for our hero, the Disillusionment Charm only makes the target very, very difficult to see by changing their colour to resemble the background—rather like a chameleon—rather than being actually invisible. As such, See Invisibility—which only revealed invisible creatures and objects, was ineffective.

I'm still invisible, Milo reminded himself. Maybe this dangly spell affects a wide area and he doesn't actually know where I am...

"Finite Incantatem," Snape muttered, but nothing seemed to happen. "Accio Invisibility Cloak." Milo held his breath. Snape frowned, staring at his wand as if it must be broken. With a shrug, he cast "Accio Flour."

A heavy burlap sack flew from one of Snape's many supply cupboards and into Snape's hand.

Milo panicked. Flour was, in addition to closed doors, an infamous bane of invisible characters everywhere—it was much like a Cleric's Glitterdust.

"Ventus," Snape said with a sneer, and the flour in his hand was blasted around the classroom.

Milo looked up at himself: he was completely covered in the white powder, which gave away his position completely. He sighed.

"Look, I—" Milo began.

"Stupefy," Snape cast, and with a red flash everything went black.

o—o—o—o

Quirrell sat by himself watching the Quidditch match without much enthusiasm. Despite the crowd, all of the seats nearby him were strangely empty—likely because of the strong scent of garlic his turban emanated.

"Slytherin in possession again," Lee Thomas announced miserably to the audience. "Those Firebolts must be something else entirely." Lee sighed audibly. "Oh, and guess what? They scored. Again. That puts the score at 140-30 for Slytherin, although, might I remind you that all three of Gryffindor's amazing goals were made by Angelina Johnson, the lovely and talented—and, might I say, beautiful—"

"No, you may not," interrupted McGonagall.

"Sorry Professor. Anyways, oh, Slytherin's got the Quaffle again..."

To Quirrell's great surprise, Milo came and sat down next to him.

"Sh-sh-shouldnt you b-b-be with your friends?" Quirrell stammered.

Milo simply shrugged.

"I-I suppose you c-c-came to t-t-talk about v-v-v-vampires again?"

Milo stared up at him and frowned.

"Yeah," he said. "Remind me again where we left off?"

Quirrell eyed his student suspiciously.

"You w-w-were t-t-telling me how you b-b-believed that H-H-He-Who-M-M-Must-N-N-Not-B-B-B-Be-N-N-N-Named" (Quirrell resolved to say "Y-Y-You-Kn-Kn-Know-Who" from there on out, if only to save time) "had s-s-servants r-r-rounding up v-v-vampires."

Milo stared at him with an unusual expression.

"Did I, now?" he said softly. "And, have you thought at all about it? What do you think... Professor?"

Quirrell paused. What did he think? The truth of what he believed was something he tried not to think about, lest his master discover how odd he thought it that becoming a vampire hadn't been his first plan...

"The D-D-Dark L-L-Lord is widely known to b-b-believe strongly in b-b-blood purity," Quirrell explained. "I d-d-don't b-b-believe he would b-be w-w-willing to b-b-become a v-vampire."

Milo choked somewhat, but recovered quickly. Something is not right here, Quirrell thought. I have to press him for information... can he really bring back the dead?

"M-m-more importantly," Quirrell stammered, "what y-y-you said earlier—is it t-true?"

Milo hesitated for a fraction of a second before speaking.

"Yes, of course."

"But—h-how?"

In the background, ignored by both of them, Slytherin scored again.

Milo paused.

"In the same way that all wonders are achieved," he said. "I think you know how."

Quirrell frowned.

"N-no, I r-r-really don't."

Milo looked vaguely disappointed.

"Where's Snape?" Milo asked suddenly. "I wonder what he might be up to while the students are all here, watching the game?"

Quirrell himself had just been wondering the selfsame question.

"Y-you think h-h-he's trying to g-g-get the Stone again?" Quirrell asked.

"Maybe. What are we going to do about it?"

To Quirrell's surprise, a small rat climbed up his leg without warning. Quirrell reached for his wand to hex it, but noticed the rat was holding a tiny roll of parchment between its teeth.

Unfurling it, Quirrell read:

Professor Quirrel,

Snape has me locked in his office. He hexed me and fled, I'm almost completely immobilized. You're the only professor who knows what he's up to. Help!

—Milo

The writing was messy and hasty, and the ink blotches ran in the wrong direction, almost as if it had been written upside-down.

"Oh," Quirrell smiled darkly. "I don't think you'll be needing to worry about Severus Snape for much longer."

Without another word, Quirrell stood up and strode out of the stands, his purple robes trailing behind him.

"Oh-oh OH!" Lee shouted, "POTTER'S SEEN THE SNITCH! HE'S GOING AFTER IT AND—"

Dozens of students nearby saw it happen. His face mottled with rage and frustration, Milo, to the horror of all watching, drew his wand and, pointing it at Harry Potter, clearly cast the Hurling Hex. Ignoring the shocked looks of horror on the bystanders' faces, Milo left the stadium.

o—o

Harry was shocked to find that his beloved Nimbus was, suddenly, actively attempting to throw him off.

"—what's going on?" Lee asked in alarm. "Potter seems to be having some difficulty with his broomstick. We were so close!"

"That's the signal, boys!" Flint, the Slytherin captain, shouted to his players.

Pucey, a Slytherin Chaser, abruptly screamed and went careening off into the stands.

The Nimbus gave another lurch, and Harry slipped off of it. For a moment he felt like this was the end, but he miraculously managed to catch hold of the shaft with his left hand.

Harry risked a glance at the rest of the match. The Slytherin team was in absolute disarray, flying chaotically and apparently at random. A second Chaser and a Beater joined Pucey on the ground as they abandoned their apparently uncontrollable broomsticks. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a tiny flicker of gold.

No... he thought. Could it be?

o—o

"Oi, Malfoy," Ron said with a sneer. "Think fast!"

Before he finished speaking, Ron chucked a Veritaserum-laced water balloon at Malfoy's face. That had been Hermione's idea: if all it took was a drop of the potion, then surely he'd swallow at least that much by accident, right? Not to mention how much got into his eyes. That rat always delivers, Ron thought to himself. Unlike Scabbers.

"Agh—what—WEASLEY!" Malfoy spluttered, water pouring all down his front. The crowd of students around him were too focussed on the game to pay much attention to yet another Malfoy vs. Weasley row.

"So, Malfoy, what are you up to?" Ron asked casually.

"Trying to decide what to hex you with!" Malfoy said, then frowned.

"I meant, what's your evil plan?" Ron clarified.

"It's none of your business that I'm trying to get the Slytherin team to stop pretending their fake Firebolts, which are really Nimbus Two Thousands in disguise, are going haywire because its only Potter that's been hexed and they're going to get flattened!" Malfoy clutched his hands over his mouth, as if to stop it from speaking. He glanced around frantically—where were Crabbe and Goyle?

"And why are the Slytherins riding fake Firebolts?" Ron asked, intrigued.

o—o

Harry was jostled back to his senses as his Nimbus gave another kick and his hand slipped about two feet down the shaft towards the end. In addition to rocking wildly back and forth, the Nimbus was still flying forwards at the speed it had been when Harry had last had control over it.

The Snitch, if that's what it was, was on the other side of the pitch. Harry swung his legs sideways, angling the broomstick, still bucking chaotically, around in a wide arc.

He could see the snitch, buzzing above the stands. Nobody else seemed to notice it, they were too fixated on the havoc that Harry's and the Slytherin's broomsticks were wreaking. Harry was just a few yards away from his target when the broomstick gave a particularly powerful kick and he lost his grip entirely—literally and figuratively.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" he screamed, flying through the air in a high arc towards where the Gryffindors were sitting. His Nimbus, meanwhile, continued flying over the audience and into the distance like a speeding bullet.

A red-and-gold sea began to part in front of him as Gryffindors fled. Harry saw a tiny flicker of silver ahead of him and desperately reached forwards. It was just over a foot away... now just inches...

Harry's gloved hand clasped around something round and heavy when everything went dark.

The last thing he remembered was Neville's horrified face.

o—o

The door to Snape's office re-opened and Mordy, now visible, scurried through. Milo was still hanging upside-down, which was making him dizzy and likely gave him all kinds of circumstance penalties.

Milo glanced up from his furry friend and saw Quirrell's trademark purple robes and turban.

"Hey," Milo said. "Did you get my note?"

"I-i-indeed," he stammered. "Liberacorpus," he muttered, and Milo slammed into the ground.

"Well, that was embarrassing," Milo said. "Writing with Mage Hand is a really weird experience, I'm surprised you could even read that."

"Show m-m-me your w-wand," Quirrell commanded. Milo stared at him blankly for a moment before remembering he even had one.

"What, this old thing? Sure, it's all yours." Milo pulled his chestnut wand from his pocket and tossed it to the professor. Quirrell caught it with surprisingly quick reflexes, and examined it closely.

"A-as your Defence Professor," Quirrell said absently, "I w-w-would advise against s-s-surrendering your w-wand in the f-future." Milo snorted.

"What am I going to do, poke you with it?" he asked with a laugh, standing up from the floor. At some point while he was stunned, Snape had cleaned all traces of flour from the office.

"Priori Incantato," Quirrell said under his breath. If he was surprised when nothing happened, it didn't register on his face.

Apparently satisfied, Quirrell handed Milo back his stick. Weird, Milo thought. Wonder what that was all about?

"Erm," Milo said. "I don't suppose we can leave now? Before he comes back?"

Quirrell gave Milo a quick appraising look.

"H-have you ever h-heard of Polyjuice P-Potion?" he asked.

"Uh," Milo said. "Maybe? It was in something I'd read in the Library." He frowned, and, for once, succeeded on a skill check. "It lets you disguise yourself as someone else, right?"

"C-correct," Quirrell said. "W-would it s-surprise you that s-someone is w-walking around right now l-looking like y-you?"

"Well, that can't be good," said Milo, somewhat irritated that they weren't leaving yet. "I wonder what Snape's up to?"

"H-he tried to f-find out how I was d-d-defending the Stone," Quirrell said. "After that, I d-don't know. W-walk with me," Quirrell commanded.

Milo shrugged and followed. Mordy, whose little rat legs couldn't keep up, sat on his shoulder.

"I n-notice your m-mind jumped straight to the P-Potions Master," Quirrell said. "W-why?"

"He's working for Lucius Malfoy," said Milo. "Who was a Death Eater, and therefore working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." As Milo filled Quirrell in on his theory about Draco, Snape, and Lucius, they approached Quirrell's office. The simple wooden door opened with a wave of Quirrell's hand.

"H-how do you know that L-Lucius is still loyal to the D-Dark L-Lord?" Quirrell asked. "Hasn't h-he told the w-w-world that he was 'b-bewitched,'" Quirrell said the last with a sneer, sitting down behind his desk.

"Well, for one, that's obviously a lie. Everything about the Malfoys has evil written all over it. But also, when I was summoned here, I woke up in the Malfoy manor surrounded by dark wizards in masks that sound an awful lot like the old Death Eater getups."

"S-so," Quirrell mused softly. "They're still active, even w-without their m-master..."

"Oh," Milo added as an afterthought. "While I'm here, want me to protect your office against vampires?"

"W-what?" Quirrell asked. He seemed totally thrown by the question. "Why?"

"To keep Vampiremort from murdering you in your sleep when he fails to get the Stone," Milo said. It took effort not to add 'duh.'

"Wh-what exactly c-can you do against v-v-vampires? Y-you're only eleven," Quirrell said, taking a sip from a glass of water that he created with a wave of his wand.

"Ah," Milo countered. "I might be twelve, now—I don't know when my birthday is."

"Q-quite besides the p-point," Quirrell said.

"It's easy, really," Milo said. "I just carve a few holy symbols onto the doors, windows, vents, and, ideally, every brick of the wall. You've already got the garlic covered—I don't suppose you can get Holy Water in this universe? Eh, nevermind, it's suboptimal anyways. 'Course, the vamp can just Dominate you with a look—you guys have anything like Protection from Evil?"

"W-what is this 'Protection F-From E-E-Evil?'" Quirrell asked.

"Handy little spell. Makes it hard for Evil creatures to touch you—they can't at all if they're summoned—and makes you totally immune from all forms of mental control, whether the originator is Evil or not."

Quirrell dropped his glass, which shattered on the hard stone ground.

"Permanently?" Quirrell asked, his expression carefully neutral.

"Nah, just for a few minutes. Want me to Prestidigitate that?" he asked, pointing at the shards of glass.

Quirrell shook his head, carefully waved his wand, and the glass shards were gone. He looked and moved as if every part of him were focussing on the simple cleaning spell.

"I think," Quirrell said slowly and deliberately, "that it would be best, if we are to work together, if you explain to me just how your magic works."

Milo shrugged.

"It's simple enough. There are ten levels of spells, from 0th to 9th. There are thousands of spells out there that wizards have invented (and a few dozen by Sorcerers), but I can only cast ones that I've written into my spellbook. Every morning, I can prepare a fixed list of spells from my book, and I can cast those—and only those—at any point that I want. How many spells, and of what level, is determined by my Wizard level—not to be confused with spell level. I'm a level five Wizard," Milo said proudly, "so I can cast up to 3rd-level spells. At every second Wizard level, I can cast a higher level of spell."

"So, you can increase in level? How?" Again, Quirrell seemed to be spending a large amount of effort concentrating on his words. Maybe it's a trick to avoid stuttering? Milo thought.

"There are a few ways, but the main one is combat. Defeating monsters and such gives me Experience Points, when I have enough of those I go up a level."

"You said you could cast up to 3rd-level spells. Could you give me an example?"

"Sure... Summon Hippogriff."

Milo decided, in hindsight, that summoning the largest possible creature that he could manage into Quirrell's compact little office may not have been the best idea.

The Hippogriff, a massive, aggressive Magical Beast that looked like the front of a giant eagle on the body of a horse, let out a roar that knocked the stunned Quirrell out of his chair.

"Uh," he said. "Sorry about that." With a deliberately casual wave of his hand, Milo dismissed the voracious omnivore before it developed a taste for human flesh.

"So, you gain power directly by being involved in combat? By defeating your foes?"

"Yup."

"Does the strength of the foe matter?"

"Oh, yeah. The harder the challenge, the more XP I get—assuming, of course, that I survive."

"Indeed."

"So, about the vampires and Protection from Evil—" Milo began.

"It is of no matter. I already told you that I don't..." Quirrell paused. "I mean, as I was telling your doppelganger, I don't believe the Dark Lord will become a vampire; he has always believed strongly in blood purity" he said, smoothly changing the topic.

"That's why the villains always lose," Milo said. "Blinded by their own prejudices and killing their own minions. If I had minions," Milo said with a slightly dreamy expression, "I'd treat them right. Well, I mean, I'd work them like slaves, I wouldn't pay them, and I'd feed them only enough to keep them from starving to death—it's just efficient—but aside from that, I'd treat them right. Oh, and if I can find some way to keep them working without needing sleep, I'd use that, of course, but honestly."

"Do you have any theories," Quirrell said carefully, cutting off Milo's rambling speech, "as to why Lucius brought you here?"

Milo frowned.

"I'd just sort of assumed it was an accident," he said. "I mean, whatever they were doing, it didn't look like they expected an eleven year-old to appear on their dining room table in the middle of it."

"And yet, you yourself admitted that you could, one day, have the power to bring back their lord."

"I don't follow," Milo confessed.

"You can bring back the dead," Quirrell said. "That makes you, Milo, a prize greater than any Philosopher's Stone."

Before Milo could respond, there was a brisk rap on the door.

"E-enter," Quirrell said, looking frustrated, his concentration evidently broken.

The door opened to reveal a very, very angry looking Professor McGonagall.

"You," she said, pointing at Milo. "Come with me." Her tone brooked no dissent.

o—o—o—o

"Blimey," said Fred as Harry was carried out of the stands.

"Just once, we're going to be able to throw a party on a Friday—" said George.

"—and the star of the show won't be in the hospital wing—"

"—and on that day, the house-elves will overthrow their masters, and become lords of the universe."