Beating the Boys

A/N: This fic was written as a reserve for our Chaser 2 on Falmouth Falcons. The prompt for this round was to write about an assigned ghost, Edgar Cloggs. No optional prompts were used because it is a reserve fic.

I swear I heard/ read somewhere that the Slytherin team became all-male on purpose (during Harry's years at Hogwarts, and before), yet looking at the Potter wiki I discovered there were several female captains (Captain apparently being capitalised... so I stuck with it). This lead to the inspiration of writing about discrimination and whatnot, and well, here were are. All but one name in this fic is a combination of names of past players. As we know, Slughorn apparently boasted knowing and helping Gwenog Jones, but I played around with this information and his canon characteristics to see just how much he 'helped.' An OC, Douglas Flint is my headcanon for Marcus' brother (or at the very least cousin), from whom he got his skills and attitude.

I hope you enjoy this fic! It is dedicated to our wonderful Seeker, Sunne, for all her hard work. A huge thank you to Cara and Ari for beta'ing (and Grammarly hehe).

Word count: 2992 words (Gdocs and ).

September 12, 1985

This was the year, he was sure.

Floating as close to the Quidditch pitch as he dared, Edgar looked around at the nervous faces clinging to their brooms. It was his favourite time of the year—apart from game days—and he couldn't help but beam at them. His smile was strongest, however, when his silver eyes clapped on a young girl, her eyes narrowed in determination.

Yes, this was the year: the year that Gwenog Jones, fifth year Slytherin, would take her rightful place as Beater. Taking his regular place up in the Quidditch stands, Edgar prepared to clap her on, as the new Captain, Edward Lazenby, stepped onto the field.

September 12, 1980

"Good luck, youngsters," Edgar said, clapping at the line of boys and girls trudging past him.

Both polished and tattered school broomsticks were slung over their shoulders, making even the most built of the group appear small and frail. Edgar resisted the urge to reprimand some of the students for not taking better care of their brooms, and instead flew up into the stands. The try-outs were about to begin; he could tell them off later.

Selecting a seat, he continued clapping, watching the group line up. The older students stood tall, puffing their chests out, whilst a few of the younger boys began to fidget. One young blond looked as though he was about to throw up. Edgar chortled to himself, remembering feeling the very same way when he had first tried out for a Quidditch team—The Hogwarts Hogs, a multi-housed team known for their dangerous play. Ah yes, they had good times.

Turning his gaze to the front of the line, his eyes fell upon the three Slytherin boys standing in front.

"Line up, maggots," the taller of the trio said, staring down each student. Edgar recognised him as the Captain, Douglas Flint.

"The Slytherin Quidditch team is made of the finest, strongest champions Hogwarts has ever produced. We are winners, and there will no room for the likes of… weaklings," Flint continued, his eyes glittering.

The two boys behind him nodded their heads, eyebrows furrowed and arms folded across their chests.

"You, you and...you." Flint pointed to three of the smaller boys, all of whom held school brooms rather than the latest Cleansweeps. "Get lost."

The boys looked at each other, confusion clouding their features. Flint's words seemed to be too much for the young blond and he threw up on the grass. Everyone around him took a few steps back, except for the Captain, who continued to pace the line.

"See what I mean? Weaklings."

Edgar shook his head. He knew from hours of watching practices that the Slytherins were ruthless compared to the other teams. He agreed that winning was important, but to instil fear into the younger students trying out? Well, that was just uncalled for, and he had half a mind to tell them off.

"Ladies, step forward," Flint said, smiling.

Four girls—ranging from their second to third or fourth years—shuffled forward, looking relieved.

'At least the captain was decent enough to allow the ladies to try out first,' Edgar thought.

Flint smiled at them, lifting a hand to his pointed chin and scratching it, as though he was thinking. His two teammates sniggered into their hands, and Edgar's confidence in the Captain began to fade.

"I'm happy to inform you that… you will never make this team! What are you even doing here? Get lost!" Flint shouted.

The two boys behind him began to roar with laughter, slapping their knees as the girls' faces fell.

"What do you mean?" a blonde asked, shifting from foot to foot.

"What I mean, love, is," Flint said, walking up to the girl and standing so close to her that their noses were almost pressed together, "that you can't try out. You won't get on, no girls are allowed… get the idea? No way am I going to let anyone unworthy on this team! Go on, all of you, scram!"

"You're off your rocker," the blonde said, taking a step back.

The other girls nodded, folding their arms and remaining rooted to the spot.

Flint threw back his hand and laughed. "My word, boys, they're thicker than I thought," he said, before sneering. "Slughorn approves. The team will be all-male and that's final. Go on, the lot of you, scram!"

The blonde flinched. Clutching her broom, she spun around and walking off. When Flint continued to glare at them, two of the other girls turned and followed suit, muttering about something Edgar could only presume was curses.

Edgar began to float down the stands, ready to tell the team off. They were being ridiculous; witches could play Quidditch, perhaps just as well as wizards. They certainly shouldn't prevent them from trying out.

Before he could get past the front rows, however, a voice rang out.

"You've got to be kidding me! Witches are amazing Quidditch players!" one of the second years, a brunette, shouted.

Flint and his friends smirked, amusement dancing in their eyes. "If you mean amazingly bad, then yes, yes they are," one of the boys said, more laughter echoing his statement.

''Oh, ha, ha. Why was Slytherin's last Captain a girl then, mmm? I'm pretty sure you won quite a few matches with Lucinda Talkalot at the lead," the girl said, folding her arms.

Flint shook his head. "We could have achieved more without her."

"And Emma Vanity? Jody Jacknife? Oh, and what about Jo King, who single-handedly won the 1956 match with catching the Snitch? They were all female players, or do you think Slytherin would've won with just the thick-skulled males on the team of those years?"

"Well, you certainly know your history, kid. Now bugger off."

"I want to try out."

"'I want to try out,' wah, wah," Flint mocked.

Laughter erupted around the pitch, this time, louder as some of the students trying out joined in. Wiping away a few tears on his face, he said, "Let me tell everyone here, right now, and you can spread it around. I'm Captain now, and I can tell you, there will never be another female on this team, ever.

"Now beat it, before Lament here becomes tempted to hit you with his bat." Flint leered down at the girl, using his height advantage to intimidate her.

The girl stared around at the other players, face red and eyes blazing. She straightened her back, trying to match Flint's height, and spat at his shoe.

"Fine! I wouldn't want to be on a team with sexist pigs anyway, even though I know I could crush you all," she said.

Spinning around, she threw her broom to the ground and stormed off. Flint waved at her before barking at the recruits to fall back into line.

For the first time in his afterlife, Edgar ignored the try-outs. His gaze focused on the young girl marching away, a heaviness in his still heart. He could see tears welling in her eyes, and as one slipped down her cheek, he saw her increase her pace.

1985

"You can't join in!"

"Go back to painting your nails!"

Edgar curled his fist, listening to the other Slytherins yell at Gwenog. They weren't going to let her play, and he had feared as much.

Gwenog kept her chin raised, however, refusing to back down.

"Afraid, are we?" she mocked, causing the boys to glower at her.

Lazenby stepped forward, raising his hand to silence them. Edgar waited with baited breath as the boy cleared his throat, looking around at the gathered crowd. "I think we'll let Jones here try-out—" a few moans were heard, but Lazenby silenced them with a glare, "—like any other player." Nodding at Gwenog, he continued, "Just don't expect us to go easy on you."

Gwenog shook her head, mounting her broom. When Lazenby bent down to flick the locks of the Quidditch chest, she shot up into the air, gripping her polished bat. The Bludger barely had a chance to zoom into the air when taking a swing, Gwenog sent it soaring towards the Hufflepuff stands.

"Well done, lass!" Edgar shouted.

September 15, 1984

The itch to play was growing stronger and Edgar wasn't sure how long he could hold it in. If it were up to him, he would zoom out onto the field and float by the Keeper, helping him to block the Quaffles. Alas, the rain was pelting down, and even if the Quaffles didn't pass through his fingers, Edgar didn't want to be responsible for causing the lad to fumble the ball or fall off his broom.

Sighing, Edgar settled back on the bench. He had been disappointed to find that his new favourite student, a young brunette, had not tried out this year. Every year—save for the last when no one had retired from the Slytherin team—she had brought her broom along, determined to show the boys what she was made of. Every year, she had been rejected, the Captain and his cronies either letting out a rogue Bludger to follow her, or flat-out refusing to watch her play. The year before last, the girl had ignored their jeers and took off, hitting several Bludgers towards the boys who didn't see them coming. It had been to no avail and now it seemed she had given up for good.

It was a pity, too, for several Chasers and Beaters had already fallen, and the Captain now seemed to be at his wit's end. Flint was shouting obscenities at the boys clad in green and silver, hands waving about when they weren't slapping his forehead in frustration.

"Come on! Concentrate you twats!" he roared, circling the pitch. "Crockett, lift your broom tip! You, blondy, eyes on the ba—"

The shouted instructions didn't seem to help, and even before the captain could even finish his sentence, Edgar watched as two of the boys collided in mid-air. He stood, prepared to ensure they weren't seriously injured, and to fetch Madame Pomfrey if they were when they both righted themselves.

"Pathetic! Absolutely pathetic!" Flint shouted, hitting the hilt of his broom. "Warrington, look for the Snit—Merlin's beard! Hit that Bludger, Lament!"

Copying Flint, Edgar closed his eyes as a Bludger zoomed towards the Captain. The boy might've been a great big prat, but that didn't mean he wanted to watch him get hurt. It appeared he would, however, when a loud crack! split the air, followed by several gasps.

Peeking out of one eye, his curiosity getting the better of him, Edgar looked back to the field. Astonishingly, Flint was still on his broom, hands covering his face and his skin pale. His face was not covered in blood, nor was it too badly crushed—although, with a mug like his, it was a little hard to be one hundred percent certain.

Opening both eyes, Edgar scanned the pitch, wondering what had happened. Several of the players had paused what they were doing, but it was the rather thin, dark-skinned boy sitting astride his broom, a large grin on his face, who caught his attention. The boy's bat was held high in the air, dark eyes twinkling as he followed the path of the Bludger now speeding away to the opposite end of the pitch.

"Good job, mate," one boy said.

"Yeah, fantastic!"

The brunet grinned and dived towards the grass. The other boys followed suit, including Flint, who was trembling.

When they reached the ground, Flint nodded at the boy. "Good flying—Bolton? Feeney? Whatever, you're on the team," he said, before turning to glare at Lament. "You might even replace twit here who doesn't seem to remember which end of his bat to hold!"

"I thought girls weren't allowed on the team," the brunet said, leaning on his broom. "Ever."

The Captain turned back to him, eyebrows raised. "They're not."

"Oh? But I am, aren't I?"

Along with the other boys, and even a few girls also watching the practice, Edgar gasped when the boy winked and bent over. Shaking his head, what had been cropped hair was now long locks, shooting out of his skull. When the boy stood back up, the hair reached down to his waist, shining with the raindrops clinging to it. The boy was not finished, however, and, with a wiggling of his eyebrows, he transformed them into thinner, more shapely brows. The boy's eyelashes also thickened, and with one last shake of his body, he transformed into his—or rather, her—natural self.

"What the—"

"Surprise!" the girl shouted, staring around at the boys, giggling at the way their mouths were popped open.

Flint was the first to recover, closing his mouth and narrowing his eyes at the girl. "Y-you? You? You're not—you aren't—you're that girl!"

"Jones, Gwenog Jones." The girl rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips. "Wow, after all these years, your knowledge seems to have grown, hasn't it?"

"But—"

"Yes?"

Shaking his head, Flint stepped forward. "No, I've told you, you're not in this team. I will not have a girl play for us again!"

"But Flint, she's been hitting Bludgers all day—" one Slytherin piped up, and Edgar was almost certain that he had winked at the girl. If the girl made the team—as she should—Edgar would make his next project to set the two up.

As he suspected, Flint didn't look so happy.

"Shut it, Lazenby," he said, nostrils flaring. "I didn't ask for your opinion. This little bint will never be on my team, and that's final."

If Edgar was in Gwenog's shoes, he might've taken a whack at Flint for his attitude. He had hoped the Captain would improve over the years and not grow more stubborn. Perhaps a good hit to the nose would improve his attitude?

Instead of punching the boy, or mouth off at him, Gwenog shrugged. "I thought as much," she said, turning away.
With her broom in her hand and nose in the air, she stalked away, swaying her hips for what Edgar could only assume was to irk the boys more. A smile still lit her face, and before she left the pitch, she added, "It was a pleasure showing you how Quidditch is really played."

Edgar could hear the boys grumbling, turning back in time to see Flint throw his own broom to the ground. None of them seemed to notice that he was cheering on Gwenog.

1985

Another Bludger zoomed towards the brunette, and Edgar had to resist the urge to close his eyes, sure that if his heart could beat, it would have been thrumming against his chest. If he had looked away, he would have missed the way Gwenog beat it away with perfect precision. Like most of the Bludgers sent her way, this one had somehow been faster, whizzing at her at a high speed. Edgar had a feeling one of the team had something to do with it, but kept his lips pursed; Gwenog was doing fine.

A pearly tear slid down his cheek, and he quickly brushed it away. He was so proud of his girl, and it seemed now, as she twisted upside down and hit yet another Bludger, her hard work had paid off. Professor Slughorn had not done anything to kerb the team's bias rules but had allowed Gwenog to use the pitch to practice whenever it was free. She spent almost every waking hour available to her practising her moves, allowing Edgar himself to give her some flying tips, such as the roll she had just used.

Now, as a final Bludger was sent her way, he floated on the edge of his seat, yelling encouragement at the top of his voice. "Go on lass, you can do it!"

It worked for the Bludger was sent speeding away, and, taking a small bow on her room, Gwenog flew to the ground. Edgar floated down to meet her, his smile mirroring her own. A few of the other tryouts—at least those who were not trying out for the Beater position—clapped at her performance, quieting only as Lazenby came to stand in front of them.

"Well, I must admit, I have not seen such masterful flying in a long while," he said, smiling at the recruits. When his eyes passed over Gwenog, his smile increased. "I think we have a team decided now."

Edgar tried to squeeze Gwenog's hand in support, only to find he passed through it. Gwenog noticed, however, and grinned at him, making him feel warm inside.

"Alright, the Slytherin team for the 1985–86 year is as follows: Matthews will be our Seeker," Flint said, nodding at a short but sturdy blond. A few boys clapped him on the back, the other Seeker try-outs kicking the dirt. "Our Keeper will be Bole," more applause followed. Lazenby glanced up at Gwenog for a moment with another smile, before continuing, "And the other filling members will be Snotcroft, Craggy and…"

Edgar held his breath, trying again to squeeze Gwenog's hand. Though she looked confident, he could sense that she was holding her breath.

"...Urquhart. Right, well done, team!"

"What?" both Edgar and Gwenog shouted, staring at the Captain.

Lazenby winked at them, placing his clipboard against his hip. "Sorry, love, it's for the good of the game," he said, waving for the other boys to leave the pitch.

Edgar lunged forward, ready to throttle the boy, but upon feeling a hand pass through his body, stopped. "That-that-that un-sportsmanly, little fiend!" he spluttered, looking at Gwenog.

Her eyes shone with tears, but they did not fall. Instead, she shook her head, a smile still gracing her lips. "Don't you worry, Edgar, I will get my chance. I'll show them, one day, just you watch."

Edgar wanted nothing more to hug her. He knew she was right, though; Gwenog Jones would show them and the Slytherin team would realise their loss.