Chapter 1,             "That which is Caesar's, to Caesar"

Her lungs, already so strained and aching with need of release, stabbed her in ways she was far too familiar with, by this point of her life. Her broom, digging into her thighs, sensed her range of motion on its own accord and followed every natural inclination of her body. Behind her, blonde hair soared, striking the blue sky like a lightning bolt with all its glory.

She hadn't taken notice to any of it. Her eyes—arguably the most important tool of any good Seeker—were narrowed in, unmoving and determined. Victory was just within her grasp, mere inches from her fingertips. Achingly, she extended her reach toward the Snitch, grunting in effort, readying her palm to wrap around the familiar cool of the golden sheen, when the blast of the whistle sounded across the pitch.

Whirling to a stop, Mavis brought both her hands to her ears to block the piercing noise out, already filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. When she opened her eyes from the pained wince that had overcome her face, the Snitch was long gone, but it didn't matter anymore. That was game.

"Mayberry!" called Graham Montague, and she didn't even have to look to know he was gesturing her down to the ground, where the rest of the team had already been waiting, watching her run.

Swiping a hand down her face to blot up at least some of her sweat, Mavis tipped her broom toward her teammates, shooting down to meet them at the floor of the pitch. She was still breathless, but she worked her best to hide it, not allowing her chest to rise and fall any quicker or shallower than usual.

She glanced between her teammates, waiting for them to say something first, using the long beat to catch her breath as subtly as she could.

"You're too fidgety," Montague informed her bluntly. "Your timing is getting better on how long you spend chasing the Snitch, but you still grab at it too early. If we'd been playing an actual match, Mayberry, Potter would have stolen that from you like candy from a baby."

"Not to mention that dive technique," scoffed Malfoy, laughing along with Crabbe and Goyle's oafish chortles. "What are you, Mayberry, a Niffler? I mean, I've seen better duck-and-whirls from a troll—"

"Thank you, Malfoy," Graham cut in shortly, not so much as sparing Draco a glance over his shoulder. Then he tightened his lips, giving Mavis a disapproving look. "Though that wasn't exactly one of your best, to be fair. If we want to take the Cup this year, we need to spend some time drilling technique—"

"Or you could practice the rest of the team," Mavis spat out, unable to stop herself, the words flowing from her lips with the suppressed exhaustion from earlier; big huffs of air that lifted her chest and came out sticky in the hot air. "You haven't run a full scrimmage all week! Is there a reason I'm taking all the drills?"

"I'm assuming you're looking for an answer different than that of 'you're shit'?" Malfoy supplied, raising a hand.

"Beaters and Chasers in the air," Graham said at once, after a short burst of his whistle. "Work defence. Now," he added firmly, after none of the team made a move to mount their brooms.

"That better?" he asked Mavis, though something in his tone told her he wasn't really asking her opinion.

She inhaled sharply, glaring up at him with dangerous eyes. "I'm only saying—"

"I understand you think you're being overworked—"

"I'm not being overworked," she argued heatedly. "In fact, you could've let me run for another twenty. I'd be fine. All I'm asking is why you only want me out there—what good is it for a Seeker to practice on an empty pitch? I'm used to the Bludgers chasing me, Montague. It's like a bloody playground up there without any other—"

"I just don't want a repeat of last year," Graham said finally, hands on his hips, glaring down at her. "Is that reasonable, Mavis? You tell me."

A heavy silence settles between the two of them. Behind them, the Keepers, Miles Bletchley and Wilhelmina Mead, shifted uncomfortably on their feet, neither of them wanting to ask to go join the rest of the team so Mavis and Graham could have a more private conversation. They would barely meet Mavis's eye when she glanced back at them.

"It was pretty bad," Wilhelmina offers, as nobody else attempted to speak up.

Miles shoved her shoulder. "Shut up, Wil."

"In the air," Graham ordered over his shoulder, and Wil and Miles took off without a moment's hesitation.

"Last year," Mavis said carefully, "is in the past, Graham. I'm not making a habit of losing to Potter."

"Really?" said Graham, eyebrows high on his forehead. "Could've fooled me."

Gritting her teeth, Mavis gripped her broom until her nails were digging into her palms and her knuckles were ghastly white. "If you're going to hold last year's loss against me, then you better be holding our fumble to Hufflepuff against Crabbe. There better be some blame to Miles for losing the House Cup to Gryffindor two years ago."

Graham spread his hands, trying to diffuse the situation. Everyone on the Slytherin Quidditch team was painfully aware of the infamous fuse leading to Mavis Mayberry's temper—a short one, and one that often spontaneously combusted of its own accord. Mavis was angry at the world, and on many occasions, the brunt of her temper would be brought down upon her teammates. (Not that they don't always deserve it—trust her, usually, they do.)

"Of course I'm holding the rest of the team to the same standard," Graham started, very careful with his words now, letting them come out slowly and cautiously. "But... nobody else on the team nearly got in a fistfight with their opponents, Mayberry. That was just you."

Suddenly her cheeks burned with the memory. She avoided meeting Graham's eye. "He was being... unsportsmanlike."

Graham scoffed a laugh. "Mavis, if the rules at this school were to go after everyone that isn't being sportsmanlike, there would be a lot more duels than happen already. My point is that you damn near got yourself suspended from the team last year. If you had, we wouldn't have had a Seeker in the final match. Do you see what I'm trying to say?"

A sour taste enveloped Mavis's mouth, and she fought back a scowl. "You're saying that you aren't drilling me on my Quidditch skills, you're drilling me on keeping my temper in check."

He smiled, nodding. "Yep."

"Like a petulant child."

Again, he nodded. "Mhm. And it's working."

For a moment, she stared at him, fury rushing in her ears and blocking out the sounds from above: Malfoy grunting as he whacked a Bludger toward one of the Chasers, Wil whistling for Miles's attention before he let a surprise quaffle slip through the goalpost.

Shunned in her own silence, Mavis didn't hear any of this. She crossed her arms and squared her jaw, exhaling a sharp sigh with her acceptance of Graham's strategy. It was a smart one, though it pained her to admit, and she swore to never say such a thing out loud.

"Oh, whatever," she finally grumbled, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Just call it."

Grinning in a self-assured kind of way that Mavis positively despised, Graham put the whistle between his teeth once more, letting the noise stab the stuffy Autumn air and alert the rest of the Slytherin team to the end of practice. Mavis was already halfway back to the locker rooms by the time any of her teammates hit the ground.

Officially, school hadn't yet begun. It was still, as far as the rest of the school was aware, the blissful span of summer holiday, the last quarter of which was reserved, at least for the students of Hogwarts, for heading off to Diagon Alley and reacquainting oneself with the harsh load of textbooks and spellwork necessary for the upcoming school year. As for the Slytherin Quidditch team, they had received special notice from Professor Snape at the end of last year's term to begin practice early, so long as their parents were available to Apparate them up to the school and come retrieve them once the practices were through—as well as, of course, seeing that no going into the actual castle was occurring; strict boundaries were set originally, but in the end, Snape treasured his Quidditch team about as much as the rest of them did (though he'd never say it out loud), and he allowed Graham to drill his team earlier on into the year than any other Houses were even aware.

By the time that particular Friday's practice was released—the last practice before school officially began, once again—it was just past noon, and, not by accident, the absolute prime hour for swooping into Diagon Alley. (most younger families began their shopping early in the morning, you see, to beat the crowds, but when the first, second, and third years all think they're going to get the best of the populace, the timing begins to grow into the most widespread of which people do their shopping. To combat this, fourth, fifth, and sixth year families believe themselves to be wise by saving their shopping until three or four o'clock in the afternoon, but the same issue occurs, where they all jumble up at once and still think themselves to be smarter than anyone else; it's only around lunchtime that nobody ventures into to Diagon Alley, under the stipulating fear that they will be one of hundreds to take advantage of the usually popular time period of noon. But, again, when many people think one thing is true—in this case, that they will find themselves amassed in a crowd if they dare try shopping during the most popular time of day—the opposite, in fact, becomes reality.)

By their sixth and seventh years, the elder members of the Slytherin Quidditch team were well-acquainted with the odd pattern of timing that was shopping at Diagon Alley. Some had been fallen into the habit since even their fourth or fifth years, depending on whether they had an elder sibling and their parents had already been through the same notions they themselves were going through now.

Draco Malfoy, though he hadn't a big brother or sister to teach him these life lessons, still believed himself superior to the rest of the students at Hogwarts due to his high familial upstanding and his pureblooded status. This was a fact not unknown by many—you'd have to be living under a rock to be unaware, in fact—but, yet, one Malfoy felt the need to parade and flaunt as though some underground secret that nobody had yet had the pleasure of knowing.

"...and Mother and Father, they're letting me upgrade today, actually," he was drawling in that awful, pompous voice of his, when Mavis emerged from the girls' changing quarters into the main locker room, holding her dirty Quidditch robes in one hand and tucking her wand into her waistline with the other. Malfoy didn't give her so much as a second glance; though she didn't try her hardest to meet his eye, either. He was busy, anyway, thumbing the base of his broomstick. "I told them this old codger had a scratch, and Mum told me we could replace it when we went to buy my textbooks—"

Then Wilhelmina, who hated Draco Malfoy's self-absorbed tangents as much as Mavis did, interrupted, asking something about Snape's Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum for the year, breaking the team off into another surface-level conversation about school and the workload for sixth years and whether fifth years would have enough time to study for their O.W.L.s and whatnot.

Mavis did not engage in any small talk; not that anyone asked her to. It was usual for the shallow chatter to take place inside the locker room during changing and hose-downs, because nobody on the team was really that close with each other outside of their common sport, except maybe Crabbe and Goyle with Malfoy, but even then it was rare for them to have full-blown conversations even outside of Quidditch. Nobody on the team truly would have chosen each other's company over, say, one of their other friends, one they know better and whose proximity was probably much more enjoyable than that of the Quidditch team.

Nobody was bothered by this arrangement, either, at least not as far as Mavis could tell; but it didn't stop her from wondering, each time she left the locker room and headed back to the bottom of the hill to meet her mum next to the viaduct, whether or not other Houses' teammates could host lengthy, full-fledged conversation with each other, perhaps even joke around in the locker room and pull tricks on each other. Certainly the Gryffindors could, at least, right? Was Slytherin the outliers, then?

Meeting up with her mum was never a ceremonious affair, and definitely none such today that Mavis suddenly felt a rush of affection toward her usually estranged mother, but it was nice enough to get a break from the fake background chatter of her teammates and sit in at least somewhat of a comfortable silence with someone whom had known Mavis longer than Mavis had known herself.

Faithfully, like usual, Mary Mayberry attempted conversation with her daughter, but with Mavis's bad temper still toddled dangerously close to the surface, what from her pointed talking-to from Montague and the stink emanating from her body due to having spent two hours on the pitch. Mavis let her mum prattle on as much as she wished, though she knew it wouldn't be long. Weren't many things to say, anyway.

Side-along Apparation was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. At least she hadn't been Splinched before; it was, and had always been, one of her biggest fears, after hearing tales of her great uncle Phineas whose entire left hand had been Splinched off.

Diagon Alley at one in the afternoon was, as presumed by the unerring schedule Mavis's family had adapted to through the years, more or less vacated. Sights and scents of lunch were emitted from every shop Mavis passed, and she shoved down the pangs of hunger rumbling deep in her stomach—she hadn't eaten since breakfast—to focus on the list she'd formed in her head of all she needed for the school year.

When they arrived next to the Twisted Witch Boutique—her mum's entirely favourite store in all of Diagon Alley—Mary settled a pack in her daughter's palm, chock full with enough Galleons and Knuts to feed a small family for at least a month. Then Mary turned into the shop beside her, muttering something of meeting back up in two hours, and Mavis was left on her own. This, she was fine with; she'd done her own Diagon Alley shopping for years, by now.

What she was not fine with, on the other hand, was the trio of wizards that already occupied Flourish and Blotts and turned their heads, in synchronisation with each other, to face Mavis when she walked in the shop.

"Hello," said Hermione Granger, rather cheerily for a witch such as her; Mavis had never had much of an issue with Granger, but she did know that it was usual for Hermione to be found with a giant chip on her shoulder, normally due to the enormous workload she burdened herself with. Still, she lifted a hand and gave Mavis a small little wave.

"Hello," chorused Mavis, keeping her eyes only on Hermione. If her gaze lingered over to either of the two boys swaying incompetently at her side, Mavis would not have been able to keep up a conversation with Hermione at all, so she chose to ignore Harry Potter and Ron Weasley entirely.

She moved past the three of them and began fingering through stacks of books. When she spoke, it was undeniably still pointed towards Hermione. "Good summer?"

"Decent," said Hermione, and now Mavis could hear the reluctance of her tone. She could practically feel the panicked glance shared between the three wizards behind her back. "Yours?"

"Oh, it's alright," Mavis said. It was almost as though a diplomatic meeting was taking place in the midst of a war, you would think, what with all the tension that had filled the shop. Mavis was practically choking on it. She rolled her eyes—always unable to stomach thick air and rooms with ignored elephants—and turned back to the three. She crossed her arms. "I'm not going to kill any of you, you know."

After another short glance shared sideways betwixt them, Weasley cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly on his huge feet. "We didn't think you were."

"Didn't you?" mused Mavis. She nodded to Hermione. "She's had her hand in her pocket since I walked in. You do remember you can't do any spells outside of Hogwarts yet, Granger, right?"

"Well," said Harry Potter, annoyingly, taking a step forward like a heroic saviour. "Last time we ran into each other, there was a bit of a duel—"

"That was Malfoy, actually," recalled Mavis, shaking her head dismissively. "I just enjoy adding fuel to flames, so I jumped in. That's not illegal now, is it?"

"Look," said Harry, spreading his hands. "We don't want any trouble. Just in here to get Hermione some books for start of term. Then we can part ways."

Mavis lifted a noncommittal shrug, internally rather impressed with herself for keeping her cool for such a length time. "You don't need my permission to go shopping, Potter."

"Right," said Ron flatly, disbelieving. "As if you aren't waiting for us to turn our backs so you can hex us sideways. We're not stupid, Mayberry."

"I beg to differ," she said, rolling her eyes. "Look around you, you numpty. Even if I was going to try and challenge you to a duel—which, believe me, may be a good wish of mine, but definitely not an intention—it would be me and what army? Come on. Let's use our brains here, if you've got one. Or, I suppose; would that be a hand-me-down from your brothers, too, Weasley?"

She caught his grip around his wand tighten, his knuckles whitening with restraint, eyes narrowing. Hermione placed an easy hand on his arm like she could stop him if he got riled up. Next to Mavis, Ron Weasley had possibly the worst temper in their year, constantly known for blowing his lid and losing control of his magic all at once. He usually embarrassed himself in the process, too, so Mavis liked to poke at him until he blew. It was a short but sweet game.

"We're going to leave now," said Hermione, clearing her throat. She still managed a small, tight-lipped smile in Mavis's direction without looking her in the eye.

She hurried Ron out the door first, the bell atop the threshold jingling ferociously with the tenacity of which Hermione had let it slam behind her. Harry was the last to go, lingering (possibly on purpose, possibly not) by a stack of books on Quidditch, letting his fingers glide across the top cover; and though Mavis wasn't looking at him, she thought she could feel his eyes on her, not any of the books.

"Harry!" called Hermione, from out the door.

"Mummy's calling," Mavis said over her shoulder, barely a beat of hesitation later. She rose to her tiptoes in order to pick a random book off its shelf just so her hands would have something to do.

Behind her, she could've sworn she heard a faint laugh. When she turned, angry now, Harry wasn't smiling. She wondered if maybe she'd made the noise up on her own.

His striking eyes, behind the wiry frames of his glasses, were glued to the book in her grip, pressed against her stomach. She wrapped her arms further around it to hide the title because she still wasn't sure of just what exactly she'd picked off the shelf, and she hoped it hadn't been something awful—

"Encyclopedia of Toadstools," Potter read aloud, before her sleeves took the title of the book out of his reach. He seemed to be hiding a smile now, and Mavis wanted to hit him. "Getting ready for an Herbology N.E.W.T. then? I'd've thought you'd want to focus on your Potions career."

She curled her lip in disgust, whirling back around to replace the book (rather harshly) on its shelf. "It's for a friend," she lied, because that was less embarrassing than saying she'd just picked it up at random to keep herself from strangling him.

"You've got those?"

Mavis's lips tightened to a straight line. Still facing her back to Potter, she inhaled sharply, gathering her wits about her. Then she spun back to him.

"What?" she said sharply, as though she were an exasperated mother talking to an ill-tempered child.

He cracked a smile—a real, crooked one—and tipped his head to the side. "I'm—I'm only joking."

Mavis did not laugh. She did not even smile. "It's not a funny joke," she informed him. "Why would you say that? What if I told you you've got a crooked nose?"

His smile fell and he reached up, almost subconsciously, to his nose, gingerly letting his fingers trace its shape beneath the bridge of his glasses. Then, frustratingly, his hand fell and revealed another sideways smirk.

"'S'funny," he admitted, his shoulders rising and falling with a half-laugh. "Come on. Do you ever laugh, Mayberry?"

"I'm afraid not," she said thickly, probably looking a bit like she was doing her Severus Snape impression. "Do you ever stop talking?"

Harry nodded innocently, his lips straightening and not opening again to prove his point. Mavis's chest burned with irritation.

"You should probably go," she said flatly, turning back around to trace the bookshelf for its Potions contents. "Wouldn't want Won-Won to be late for his financial aide appointment."

She wondered if Harry's smile finally fell at that, but she didn't turn around to check until she heard the telltale ringing of jingle bells above the doorway and the slam of the door hitting its mark.

Author's Corner :P

Oh Potterberry.... you are so love... you love each other ... Just only one half of you knows it. Give it a few chapters. ❤️