A/N: If I delete this or anything randomly, I'm sorry! FF doesn't work well for me, I have to do things over and over again or they won't show. Dx

Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own Harry Potter, Ginny, Marcus, or Quidditch, no matter how much I wish I did. If they were mine, I wouldn't be posting this on FF, I would be busy making it canon. Siriusly. ;P

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"Can't you just smell the excitement, Ralph? This is building up to be one amazing game!"

"You bet it is! The Falmouth Falcons haven't come this close to crushing the Holyhead Harpies in decades, and with their 'Let's win, or break some necks trying' motto, they may just end up killing each other off before the game ends!"

"Y'know, that raises some questions, doesn't it? If every player dies, how do you tell who wins?"

"Ooh, quiet Don! The Falcons have just signaled an end to their time-out! Their keeper and captain, Marcus Flint, was having a rough time with all those bludgers the Harpies set at his head, but it looks like he's conscious again. Oh, and the crowd is going wild!"

"With happiness or disappointment, Ralph?"

"Well, that depends on who you're rooting for!"

The two men were seated high above the enormous quidditch arena, in a cozy box with an amazing view of the violent game below. They were grinning like children, calling out and remarking at every move the players made, just like good commentators should have. This was great for the fans with less-than-enviable seats, but not quite as good for the players, as you can imagine. Especially not when they heard their teams or themselves talked about. It tended to catch their attention, just in the way someone saying your name would, and could leave even the most well-thought-out plays in shambles. Of course, there were plenty of exceptions. The mention of his name and the roars of the crowd worked like caffeine on Marcus Flint, who snapped out of his concussion-induced stupor enough to shoot his broom up above the stadium and perform a stunning backflip before returning to his post in front of the golden hoops. He grinned smugly at the looks on the Harpies' faces, and the thunderous applause his antics were met with.

"That was amazing, Don! I wish I could bend like that."

"I wonder if Flint can dance like a hippogriff, huh?"

A whistle shrilled from the floor of the arena and the game started off even more furiously than when it had been paused. The Harpy chasers, who were in possession of the quaffle, positioned themselves for one of the team's signature moves. As would be expected, have a team of only small, limber women opened many more pissibilities for plays no other team could pull off. It was, he imagined, the only real advantage the team had.

The three women flew into a single-file line, with the middle chaser holding the quaffle tightly under her arm. Flint readied himself, pulling one knee up under his chest. He quickly recognized this as their favorite move, and a particularly difficult barrage to stop.

The Harpies' beaters split apart on the other side of the field, each zooming for their respective bludger. Flint was momentarily distracted with deciding how likely it was he would be hit again, and almost missed seeing the line of Harpies shoot straight up into the air. As hard as he tried to focus on the incoming bombardment of quaffle, the man's attention was grabbed again by one of his own beaters, who managed to whack a bludger so hard it knocked a Harpy off her broom and was still headed straight towards him.
The chasers were diving now, and they were almost right on top of him. This, he thought unhappily, was when it got hard. One would split to the left, one would fly right under him, and the third would zip around his head and try to score. All he had to do was decide which would do which, and stop the third without knocking himself or any of the Harpies to their deaths.

"I love this play, don't you Ralph? The Harpy chasers are all three diving at Flint in their signature 'beak-breaker' move! Any second now and they'll break formation and try to make- there they go!"

Thanks Merlin for announcers. Flint saw the red-haired chaser break first and catch the quaffle from her teammate, just in time. He zipped out of the way of one chaser, pulled up to avoid the second, and was almost in front of the-

"Ouch! Did you see that, Don? It looks like Harpy chaser Ginevra - I'm sorry, Ginny Weasley was just knocked off her broom by the same bludger that attacked her beater, Katherin Johanness. That's got to be painful!"

"Hey, why is no one on the field? Hey... Hey! Why is nobody on the field?! She's gonna break her neck if she lands like that, Ralph!"

The Harpy chasers Flint had dodged seemed not to be listening to the announcers at all. A Falcon had recaptured the quaffle and now all five were duking it out in the middle of the stadium. The conscious beater was actually wresting with both of her Falcon counterparts, and he was a little surprised they hadn't managed to throw her off her brom yet. Everyone else was preoccupied. Nobody else was looking at the falling chaser, nobody else-

"Hey, would somebody catch her?!"

"Bloody..."

Flint grunted exasperatedly and nosed his Nimbus into a steep dive before he even realized what he was doing. If she died, it would be his own team's fault. His fault for not taking initiative. And if her death meant the game was called... The man pointed his broom at and even steeper angle. He could fly faster than she could fall, but the question was more along the lines of could he-

"Got'cha," he said with a note of triumph in his voice, grabbing the chaser by the scruff of her robe and breaking her head-first plunge He didn't pull out of his own dive, though. Ten feet from the ground (a relatively safer fall), he dropped her again, and pulled up as quickly back to his post as he could. There was the chance no one noticed he was gone and hadn't tried to-

"Score! By the Holyhead Harpies! And with one chaser down, I daresay that's a feat!"

"Would you look at that, Don? The Falmouth keeper and team captain gave up a goal to save the enemy's chaser! That's got to be the least Falcon-like behavior I've seen in all my years of announcing."

"I guess your true colors don't show until a pretty little redhead is falling to her death, eh Ralph? Everybody, come on. Give it up for Marcus Flint, that was amazing! Hard to believe he played for Slytherin in his school years, eh? Amazing!"

"Try telling his teammates that if they lose, Don!"

Flint growled under his breath, shooting a deathly glare at the announcers' box. He hadn't thought anyone would have time to score. He never would've given up a goal for another team's player. He never would've given up a goal for anything! He almost wished that red-haired chaser had fallen to her death. Marcus Flint, the keeper so dedicated he wouldn't give up a goal for life itself! Had a tough ring to it.

"Oh, I don't think he'll have to worry about that, Ralph! Not even four hours into the game and it looks like the Falcon seeker has just made a dive for the- HE GOT IT! HE GOT THE SNITCH, RALPH!"

"The Falmouth Falcons beat the Holyhead Harpies for the first time in 57 years! Amazing! Amazing, Don! The Falcons win!"

The crowd exploded into cheers, completely drowning out whatever the announcers were saying about Favio Bollard and his incredible seeking skills. Flint didn't care, though. He didn't need to know anything more about the game. He'd won! They'd won! His team had fucking crushed the Harpies by one hundred and thirty beautiful points! It was a landslide victory, and the best win he'd had in his entire time as captain. In all excitement, the Weasley chaser was pushed completely out of his thoughts.

Flint stood up on his broom and threw his fist in the air, and the crowd roared again. Even he, the man so opposed to showing any emotion besides anger, laughed with elation. His whole team, seeming to have forgiven their captain's rescue, flew in a line next to him and stood up on their brooms as well. While the Harpies filed off the field, most likely going to check on their newly-invalidated chaser and beater, the Falcons circled the arena twice on their brooms, yelling and applauding for themselves right along with half of the crowd. Flint laughed again, he couldn't help it. Not only was he now the big damn hero of quidditch, he was the best captain Falmouth had seen in more than half a century. The game couldn't have gone any better if he had planned it.