An Opus Alchymicum Vol 2: The Witch-Consul's Riddle

A Slip of the Tongue

Hi readers! This is an unrelated fanfic note, well sort of. But my original novel has just passed FIFTY sales on Kindle and 10k reads on Wattpad (if you're reading this there). That's precisely 10'050 more reads/sales than I expected and I can only think that some of my fanfic followers must be partially responsible for that. So, as I cant thank you there, I'll do it here! Thanks very much! I've made enough royalties now to buy a whole pint of Guinness ... once the pubs reopen!! So cheers!

Now, on with Chapter 9. Which isn't as rude as the title suggests....

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"What do you mean 'I'm not very good!!'" Hermione cried in a shrill voice.

"I mean ... you're not very good," Quidditch Captain Oliver Wood repeated dourly. "Sorry, kid. Some people just aren't cut out for flying. Next!"

Hermione turned her crestfallen expression to Harry, who was still breathing in a big sigh of relief at the decision.

"Harry ... what did Oliver mean by that?" Hermione asked in a tiny voice.

"Er ... it sounded fairly self-explanatory from where I'm standing," Harry replied.

Hermione looked shocked, as if she genuinely expected Harry to stand up for her. The fact that he hadn't was almost fundamentally impossible for her to process. But he was totally unmoved, despite her disappointment. It was this, more than anything, that brought the truth slamming home to her.

"Was ... was I really that bad?"

"It wasn't so much that you were bad," Harry began gently. "It was more that you were ... well ... wonky."

"Wonky?" Hermione frowned.

"Wonky," Harry repeated.

"What do you mean, wonky?" Hermione demanded, crossly.

"Well, you know what a straight line is, yeah?" Harry asked.

"Of course I do!"

"Not on a broom you don't!" Harry informed her, fighting a laugh at Hermione's hilariously furious frown. "Oh, and another thing ... when you fly, it helps if you go high enough so that your tip-toes don't still touch the grass!"

Harry couldn't hold the laugh in any longer, but it made Hermione stomp in her frustration.

"I'm not a fan of heights, okay?" Hermione huffed moodily.

"Then why did you try out for Quidditch!?" Harry asked incredulously. "Flying high is sort of in the description!"

"Well, you were trying out, so I thought it might be fun if we got onto the team together," Hermione explained. "You're really good, by the way. A natural, I'd say."

"Maybe," Harry blushed. "But I've been going flying at least once a week for about seven months! Was that your first time on a broom?"

"Second, after our flying lesson the other day," Hermione griped. "I didn't think I was that awful."

"You weren't," Harry offered, supportively. "You weren't as bad as Neville or ... or Crabbe."

"But I wasn't any good, either?"

"Well ... no," Harry confessed. "You were a bit wild, actually. I was really a bit terrified that you'd fall off and hurt yourself."

Hermione smiled weakly at that. There was something about Harry being concerned about her that melted her insides every time. It soothed that disappointed throb in her chest, at what she saw as her letting him down by being a poor flier. But if he was actually pleased that she wasn't putting herself at risk, that was okay too, Hermione supposed. Though she was still rather cross about the whole thing.