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JK ROWLING QUIDDITCH THROUGH THE AGES PDF

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Stupid, reckless and bird-brained, but brave. Malfoy shrugged. Anyway, you develop something of a sense for these things. Save the world and all that. Everyone had time for that. Even Snape found time to get some action. I always knew there was a reason you got such good marks in Potions.

Your werewolf pal, Lupin. He knew Sirius and Remus were involved, it would have been impossible to miss. That must have been difficult. We all lost people. It was hardly a surprise to me when you came out. Even Ron and Hermione were shocked. It takes me back to sixth year.

I haven't been staring at your scrawny arse! Had he meant to imply that he found Harry attractive? Malfoy was right.

He was totally screwed, and not in a good way. OoooOOoooO Harry groaned. You win. Malfoy grinned, clearly pleased with his success. I go to Casinos sometimes and I gamble.

Usually poker, but blackjack has its place. Some of us grew out of Exploding Snap when we left first year. We should light the fire, I suppose. Think about cooking some food.

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I do hope you had the foresight to bring some decent food and booze with you. Some whiskey. They have some great flavours.

Lamb hotpot, mashed potato, beef stew. I simply refuse to eat anything that involves boiling freeze-dried items in bags. We are camping, Potter, not fighting a bloody war.

I quite enjoy cooking. I even made it without magic in case it offended your Gryffindor notion of doing things properly. It was hard to picture Malfoy slaving over a hot stove in an apron. He snickered at the mental image until he noticed his imaginary apron-clad Malfoy was otherwise completely butt naked and was now wiggling a perfectly gorgeous naked arse in his direction.

Harry shook his head to clear the image and cleared his throat. If we use the cooler and keep the food outdoors it should last for tonight and tomorrow. Goodness, Potter, I thought this was your area of expertise.

I assumed you knew how to fish, at the very least. He turned to look at Malfoy, who had his head cocked to one side examining the label on one of his bottles of wine, hair falling over his eyes. Comfortable, Potter? He sounded amused. His back hurt. He was definitely sleeping on at least two reasonably sized rocks.

He had inexplicably managed to snuggle up to Malfoy during the night and he moved away as quickly as possible.

Harry gulped.

Pulling a few toiletries and an old towel which was now more grey than white out of his bag he stumbled out of the tent into the morning sunlight and made his way to the shower. At least the campsite had a proper shower and toilet. Harry had deliberately chosen a campsite with proper running water and a shower block, not really sure if he could cope with a long drop and heating their own water.

Eating and sleeping with Malfoy for the entire day in such close proximity had been playing havoc with his hormones and he had spent most of the night restless, horny and sleeping fitfully with his dreams disturbed by images of Malfoy, young and vulnerable, smirking at Harry from his broom in his Slytherin Quidditch team colours, then older - laughing and smiling at a celebrity wizard on the front page of the Prophet.

Harry groaned. He seriously needed to focus on the task at hand and stop letting himself get so distracted. Unfortunately just thinking about Malfoy had made him hard and Harry grimaced. Could he? They were two gay men thrown together in isolated circumstances after all. It was just a fantasy. As much as Harry tried to think about someone else, anyone else, he kept coming back to icy blonde hair and grey eyes which taunted him.

Groaning, Harry decided to just give in to his fantasies, his movements becoming more frantic as the water coursed down his back, closing his eyes and feeling that familiar heat coil in his stomach. Fuck, Malfoy, what the--ah!

His breathing ragged, Harry tried to steady his racing heart and thanked his lucky stars that the showers had doors and that he had been wise enough to make sure the door to his shower cubicle was properly shut. I want a shower. I feel hideous. Harry gulped and pulled his towel tighter around his body. He felt very naked all of a sudden. Prepare for any eventuality. No need to be such a wanker about it, Harry. Harry resisted the urge to open the door and slam Malfoy against the wall and start kissing the very life out of him and began an uncomfortable walk back to the tent.

Stupid bloody Malfoy and his satin. He pulled on some fresh clothes, his mind elsewhere, only turning when a blond head poked into the tent, damp and smelling of some sort of citrus shampoo. Harry cursed the fact that Malfoy used products which made him smell like something Harry wanted to eat.

It seemed odd to see blemishes on skin which was so perfect everywhere else. They looked as if whatever had caused them had been painful. Malfoy's expression went from shocked to sheepish and he pursed his lips. He looked away from Harry as if he wanted to be somewhere else. It couldn't be. Blood rushed to Harry's head and his heart pounded in his ears. Surely Harry wasn't responsible?

You should remember. Harry shook Malfoy from his grasp and pushed his way out of the claustrophic space. He gulped down some fresh air after yanking on his shoes and walked to a large tree a few meters away. He rested a trembling hand against the bark and retched. Look at me. Malfoy stood there, still bare-chested, watching Harry awkwardly. Every time Malfoy dressed, looked in the mirror, made love, sunbathed, he would be reminded of that argument, thinking that Harry had hated him enough to hurt him in that way.

Malfoy bit his lip and his eyes fell closed. Its okay. He moved closer to Harry and crowded him against the rough, uneven bark. They were close enough that his hot breath slid over Harry's skin, his body hot against Harry's.

Harry swallowed and his throat worked. Look what I did to you. He felt like he wanted to cry, looking at Draco Malfoy scarred for life at his own hand. Malfoy held out an arm and forced Harry to look away from his chest, drawing his gaze to the ugly blemish of the Dark Mark. This reminds me of doing something I love. They remind me of a stupid, foolhardy, handsome Gryffindor who was only a child but already ten times the man I was.

They remind me of two young boys fighting a war neither really wanted to fight. They remind me of two people, Severus Snape and Harry Potter, both of whom risked their own lives to save mine. It always will be. Draco Fucking Malfoy. No one ever gets to take that from me. Not cold, not angry.

Not anymore. He reached a tentative hand into Malfoy's hair, damp and silky beneath his fingers. Before he could move away, Harry let his lips brush against Malfoys softly, before drawing back. He wanted to soothe the scars on his chest and keep him safe.

He wanted to promise he would never hurt him again. He did none of those things. Instead he coughed and leaned back against the tree, feeling awkward. I am rather good looking.

Harry had handed Malfoy a water bottle, brushing his hand. They had been walking for just over two miles, making sure that they were well able to read a Muggle map and follow a designated route as they would need to supervise the students on their own walks.

As usual they had bickered almost continuously, but Harry was starting to feel uncomfortable as the tension from their earlier chaste kiss crackled between them. I hate camping, Potter. He had a compass round his neck and a map in his hands, which was covered by a plastic folder.

He supposed at least the cows served the purpose of stopping Malfoy from taunting Harry about the ill-advised kiss earlier that morning. As Harry watched Malfoy climb over the stile, he turned and smirked at Harry. Draco Malfoy had the best arse that Harry had ever seen.

With his green Hunter wellington boots pulled over skinny black jeans and a striped rugby shirt with the collar up, Malfoy looked far too good to be hiking. When he was over the stile Harry noticed Malfoy kicking at the ground and frowning.

Great for camping but not for hiking. You should have brought some proper walking shoes. Or maybe a quick cushioning charm? Where did you get your Muggle camping gear from, anyway? He'd been amazed Malfoy even knew what a wellington boot was, let alone owned a pair.

What the hell is this? Who keeps a fucking coat folded in a bag? It's supposed to be functional, not haute couture. Good lord. He pulled the hood up over his head and yanked at the toggles a little to tighten it. He looked positively crestfallen as he observed the rain begin in earnest, holding an arm out and listening to its pitter-patter on the material of the cagoule. We have that in the wizarding world too you know.

This Pac-A-Mac is horribly uncivilised. Do Muggles have to wear these with suits? Or they take cabs. I imagine the Muggle world probably has discovered overcoats too. He met Harry's gaze, his breath hot on Harry's face. From proud aristocrat to vulnerable and childish, it was like spending time with a bloody pet dragon who would be nuzzling your hand with one breath and coughing fireballs onto it with the other.

Malfoy's eyes widened and then they pressed together as the heavens opened. Their lips crashed together, fierce and competitive, hard, biting kisses that landed as heavily as the rain fell around them. This was nothing like the soft, chaste brush of lips earlier this morning.

This was years of fighting, teasing and bickering all rolled into one hungry kiss. Harry opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, the rain falling more heavily, making their mouths and faces wet and cold.

Quidditch Through the Ages Overview

They were both breathing heavily. A surly barman wandered towards the bar, looking at the two men with a frown. Any food with those? Could we get a menu? Fish and chips are popular and the Ploughmans is good. Harry shepherded Malfoy to a small table next to a roaring fire and the two men took off their waterproof jackets in silence, before sitting on the wooden chairs and sipping their beers without speaking.

After they had taken a couple of sips, Malfoy pulled a face and Harry sighed with happiness, stretching his long legs out in front of him, relaxing back into his seat. He loved ale. Even pumpkin juice is better than this swill. They were obviously back to high and mighty Malfoy. Malfoy was nervous. Harry realised. He, Harry, made Draco Malfoy, playboy and socialite, nervous.

He could have crowed with delight and he wanted to pull Malfoy into his arms and kiss him as if no one was watching. In a pub. The whole point is to survive on what you have in your rucksack.

Survival instinct and all that. One of the reasons why it would be pointless to try to do this using magic. Well you did always like to break the rules. Why are you so nervous? I might have known you would be like this. Happy with your cheap little victory are you? Taking a couple of long gulps of his beer he grimaced. What the hell had just happened?

Harry groaned and put his head in his hands. Draco Malfoy was going to be the death of him. Five bloody miles and not a word passed between them, after Harry had attempted to make conversation and had been met with grunts and sneers from Malfoy. He no longer thought Draco looked attractive, bedraggled in his cagoule. He wanted to bloody hex him. You should try and light the fire, Potter. He was poking half-heartedly at the fire with a stick, teasing the flames, when Malfoy emerged from the tent, dressed in another rugby shirt, clean jeans and his biker boots.

His hair was still wet and his face looked flushed from the heat of the shower. The rain had made the ground damp, but the fire area was surrounded by large, flat rocks which had all but dried out in the quick spell of sunshine which had followed the rain.

With a couple of blankets laid out on the rocks, they made passable seats. What the fuck was that all about? I was really excited about doing this for Hogwarts.

I want it to be a success. It would be good for the kids to do things without magic, understand Muggles and all that. I feel cold as well, you know. You also put the tent up on a fucking rock pile and I hardly slept last night. I have a warm jumper you can borrow.

It's very fashionable. I can cook. That's decent of you.

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He spent longer than was probably necessary, but it felt so bloody good. He wanted to wash away the knots in his shoulders and the feelings of confusion and nerves that knotted in his stomach.

Sighing, he flicked off the powerful water, dried off and slipping on some flip flops headed back to the tent. As he approached he watched Malfoy for a moment, hunched over the fire, looking like a catalogue model, his pointed features highlighted by the light of the fire in the semi-darkness of the evening. On his ratty sleeping bag was an off-white jumper and a pair of jeans which Harry recognised as his own, folded neatly.

Harry pulled on his jeans and then fingered the jumper. It was thick, soft wool and looked handmade. He pulled it on and nestled into its warmth. The sleeves were too long for him and they fell over his hands.

Merlin, the jumper was huge. It must be far too big for Malfoy. Harry ran his nose over the sleeve. The jumper smelled like his cologne and something else that was definitely Draco. It was fucking incredible and Harry never wanted to take it off.

After pulling on his trainers, Harry moved towards Malfoy, standing awkwardly and not sure whether to take the space next to Malfoy or to sit on the as yet unused tartan covered rock. Thinking of the jumper and the neat little pile of clothes carefully laid out in the tent, he sat next to Malfoy. Any reason why you have lube in your backpack, Potter? Some of these no longer exist; others have survived or evolved into the sports we know today. The celebrated annual broom race of Sweden dates from the tenth century.

Fliers race from Kopparberg to B. The course runs straight through a dragon reservation, and the vast silver trophy is shaped like a Swedish Short- Snout. Nowadays this is an international event and wizards of all nationalities congregate at Kopparberg to cheer the starters, then Apparate to Arjeplog to congratulate the survivors.

A twenty-foot- high pole was topped with an inflated dragon bladder.

One player on a broomstick had the job of protecting this bladder. The bladder-guardian was tied to the pole by a rope around his or her waist, so that he or she could not fly further than ten feet away from it.

The rest of the players would take it in turns to fly at the bladder and attempt to puncture it with the specially sharpened ends of their brooms. The bladder-guardian was allowed to use his or her wand to repel these attacks.

The game ended when the bladder was successfully punctured, or the bladder-guardian had either succeeded in hexing all opponents out of the running or collapsed from exhaustion.

Stichstock died out in the fourteenth century. In Ireland the game of Aingingein flourished, the subject of many an Irish ballad the legendary wizard Fingal the Fearless is alleged to have been an Aingingein. One by one the players would take the Dom, or ball actually the gallbladder of a goat , and speed through a series of burning barrels set high in the air on stilts. The Dom was to be thrown through the final barrel.

The player who succeeded in getting the Dom through the last barrel in the fastest time, without having caught fire on the way, was the winner.

Scotland was the birthplace of what is probably the most dangerous of all broom games — Creaothceann. The game features in a tragic Gaelic poem of the eleventh century, the first verse of which says, in translation: The players assembled, twelve fine, hearty men, They strapped on their cauldrons, stood poised to fly, At the sound of the horn they were swiftly airborne But ten of their number were fated to die.

Creaothceann players each wore a cauldron strapped to the head. At the sound of the horn or drum, up to a hundred charmed rocks and boulders that had been hovering a hundred feet above the ground began to fall towards the earth. The Creaothceann players zoomed around trying to catch as many rocks as possible in their cauldrons. Considered by many Scottish wizards to be the supreme test of manliness and courage, Creaothceann enjoyed considerable popularity in the Middle Ages,. Shuntbumps was popular in Devon, England.

This was a crude form of jousting, the sole aim being to knock as many other players as possible off their brooms, the last person remaining on their broom winning. Swivenhodge began in Herefordshire. Players sat backwards on their brooms and batted the bladder backwards and forwards across a hedge with the brush ends of their brooms. The first person to miss gave their opponent a point.

First to reach fifty points was the winner. At Queerditch Marsh, however, a game had been created that would one day become the most popular in the wizarding world. Fortunately for us, she kept a diary, now in the Museum of Quidditch in London. The excerpts below have been translated from the badly spelled Saxon of the original. That lot from across the marsh have been at it again.

Playing a stupid game on their broomsticks. A big leather ball landed in my cabbages.

I hexed the man who came for it. Was out on the marsh picking nettles. Broomstick idiots playing again. Watched for a bit from behind a rock. Throwing it to each other and trying to stick it in trees at either end of the marsh. Pointless rubbish. Gwenog came for nettle tea, then invited me out for a treat.

Ended up watching those numbskulls W. That big Scottish warlock from up the hill was there. Gwenog told me she often played herself.

Went home in disgust. These extracts reveal much more than Gertie Keddle could have guessed, quite apart from the fact that she only knew the name of one of the days of the week. Firstly, the ball that landed in her cabbage patch was made of leather, as is the modern Quaffle — naturally, the inflated bladder used in other broom games of the period would be difficult to throw accurately, particularly in windy conditions.

Thirdly, she gives us a glimpse of the forerunners of Bludgers. Could he have been a Creaothceann player? Was it his idea to bewitch heavy rocks to zoom dangerously around the pitch, inspired by the boulders used in his native game? We find no further mention of the sport played on Queerditch Marsh until a century later, when the wizard Goodwin Kneen took up his quill to write to his. Kneen lived in Yorkshire, which demonstrates the spread of the sport throughout Britain in the hundred years after Gertie Keddle first witnessed it.

Dear Olaf, How are you? I am well, though Gunhilda had got a touch of dragon pox. We enjoyed a spirited game of Kwidditch last Saturday night, though poor Gunhilda was not up to playing Catcher, and we had to use Radulf the blacksmith instead. The team from Ilkley played well though was no match for us, for we had been practising hard all month and scored forty-two times. The new scoring barrels worked well.

Three at each end on stilts, Oona from the inn gave us them. She let us have free mead all night because we won as well. Gunhilda was a bit angry I got back so late. Your cousin, Goodwin Here we see how far the game has progressed in a century. The goals are no longer trees, but barrels on stilts.

One crucial element in the game was still missing, however: The addition of the fourth Quidditch ball did not occur until the middle of the thirteenth century and it came about in a curious manner. Chapter Four The Arrival of the Golden Snitch rom the early s, Snidget-hunting had been popular among many witches and wizards. The Golden Snidget see Fig. B is today a protected species, but at that time Golden Snidgets were common in northern Europe, though difficult to detect by Muggles because of their aptitude at hiding and their very great speed.

The diminutive size of the Snidget, coupled with its remarkable agility in the air and talent at avoiding predators, merely added to the prestige of wizards who caught them. A twelfth-century tapestry preserved in the Museum of Quidditch shows a group setting out to catch a Snidget. In the first portion of the tapestry, some hunters carry nets, others use wands, and still others attempt to catch the Snidget with their bare hands.

The F. In the final portion of the tapestry we see the wizard who caught the Snidget being presented with a bag of gold. Snidget-hunting was reprehensible in many ways. Every right-minded wizard must deplore the destruction of these peace-loving little birds in the name of sport. Moreover, Snidget-hunting, which was usually under- taken in broad daylight, led to more Muggle broomstick sightings than any other pursuit. We know this because of the eyewitness account sent by Madam Modesty Rabnott of Kent to her sister Prudence in Aberdeen this letter is also on display in the Museum of Quidditch.

According to Madam Rabnott, Bragge brought a caged Snidget to the match and told the assembled players that he would award one hundred and fifty Galleons1 to the player who caught it during the course of the game.

Madam Rabnott explains what happened next: The players rose as one into the air, ignoring the Quaffle and dodging the Blooders. Both Keepers abandoned the goal baskets and joined the hunt.

The poor little Snidget shot up and down the pitch seeking a means of escape, but the wizards in the crowd forced it back with Repelling Spells. Well, Pru, you know how I am about Snidget-hunting and what I get like when my temper goes.

Let the Snidget go free and let us watch the noble game of Cuaditch which we have all come to see! Pru, all the brute did was laugh and throuw the empty birdcage at me. Well, I saw red, Pru, I really did. When the poor little Snidget flew 1.

Equivalent to over a million Galleons today. Whether Chief Bragge intended to pay or not is a moot point. You know how good my Summoning Charms are, Pru — of course it was easier for me to aim properly, not being mounted on a broomstick at the time. The little bird came zooming into my hand.

I stuffed it down the front of my robes and ran like fury. Golden Snidgets were soon being released during all Quidditch games, one player on each team the Hunter having the sole task of catching it. When the bird was. Rowling - Quidditch Through the Ages Dodano: Abigail Anna Gibs. Alan Campbell. Alexandra Adornetto. Alexandra Bracken. Amanda Hocking - Trylle. Becca Fitzpatrick. Cassandra Clare books. Christina Lauren.Alan Campbell. Or maybe a quick cushioning charm?

What is so wonderful about Comic Relief is that its costs are sponsored, therefore it does not take money for its own administration from the money given by the public. He looked away from Harry as if he wanted to be somewhere else. He wanted to bloody hex him. You need to get laid. I would be deceiving my readers if I said that this explanation made Madam Pince happy about handing over a library book to Muggles. Quidditch Today I was really excited about doing this for Hogwarts.