Quidditch For the Ages: The Greatest Match of All Time

Part 1

It was brutally cold. The pitch had taken on the color of an eerie, translucent green, caused by the thin layer of ice that had frozen on top of the neatly trimmed grass. The wind was howling louder than a werewolf at full moon, accompanied by sheets of rain made vicious and stinging by the frigid temperature. Yet, as expected, hundreds upon hundreds of spectators had come trundling down the steps of the Great Hall en route to the match, skin protected by a thick layering of blessedly warm clothing, save for a handful of pearly translucent beings who, by way of being dead, did not fear nor feel the cold. If you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you followed an unspoken rule, one that held for most of wizardkind: All other things be damned, Quidditch was Quidditch and could not be missed. Yet the game set to be played out on the raw February day was perhaps more than a "regular" Quidditch match. It was war, a rivalry fueled by mutual loathing and centuries of contention, a conflict that had seen blood spilled and bones broken, either side vying with all its might to not only defeat the opposition but to dominate it, to humiliate it in front of all eyes, to see the enemy kneel and be humbled. This was never going to be an ordinary game. This was Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.

Below the buzzing crowd, the players of both houses were busy in their dressing rooms. Albus Severus Potter, captain and seeker of the Gryffindor Lions, was lost in deep concentration as he slipped on his scarlet and gold garb, fastened his wrist protectors, and furtively slipped his wand inside his pocket. After all, he mused, this was Slytherin. You never knew what to expect from that bunch of villains. He straightened his circular-framed glasses and looked himself over. Satisfied, he picked up his broomstick, the vaunted Lightning Bolt 3000, and brought it to his vivid green eyes. Now in his seventh year, Albus had ridden this faithful broom his entire life. It was a mark of its greatness that the market had produced no finer flying instrument since its creation. It and its master had tamed dozens of elusive Golden Snitches, yet the broomstick still looked as it had during Albus's very first match, a testament to both its consummate craftsmanship as well as Albus's gentle care. After all this time, he considered it more of a friend than a broom. He inspected it from emblazoned handle to gleaming twigs as he had done the night before, making sure nothing was out of place. When it was deemed ready, he slung it over his shoulder and turned to face his team. One by one he looked at them all, each filling him with a deep sense of pride. First was Hugo. Looking like a clone of his father (who was said to have been quite good in his day), Hugo was tall and gangly, and had not yet fully grown in to his stretched form. Yet he had a knack for reading a Chaser's mind and a penchant for pressure-packed saves. Now in his fifth year, Hugo had become an indispensable part of the team. The Gryffindor beaters, Jamie Wadham and Tom Leventhorp, stood laughing together in a corner of the dressing room. Both saluted Albus in mock earnestness upon meeting his glance. They were inseparable, and the importance of that was not lost on Albus. In fact, aside from their clear skill with a club, their rapport was the reason they had made the team. Albus knew how important it was for beaters to know one another, for only then could they truly play together. Jamie and Tom had flown together so long that each knew exactly where the other would be at any given time, maximizing their positive effect. Yet the two chums could not have been more different, much to the amusement of the Gryffindor squad. Tom was a boisterous prankster, and never missed the chance to rib a teammate. Jamie, however, was quiet and reserved. The only things that seemed to force him out of his shell were Tom's antics. As for looks, while Jamie could have been half-giant and towered over most people, Tom was the second shortest member of the team. Tom had a clean, boyish face, which stood quite apart from Jamie's imposing and grizzled countenance. The only thing the two boys had in common were their arms, which had been compared to the limbs of a Whomping Willow. Each could send a Bludger whizzing at an opponent at speeds that had competitors looking over their shoulders in fear. Albus turned his gaze to his Chasers. There was Jaskyll Moore, a tanned and tough sixth year whose strength was mainly in his defense; Michael Isley, in Jaskyll's year and just as stout; and then there was Lily. For a moment, he locked eyes with his little sister, giving her a quick wink and a smile, both of which were promptly returned. A bubble of confidence swelled in his chest, and for good reason. His sister was the only Chaser of Gryffindor that could keep up with Ulric Fogg. Although Ulric had the advantage in strength, Lily matched him in speed and guile. With her flaming red hair and deep brown eyes, she drew constant comparisons to her mother, and not just because of her looks. It was well known that Ginny Potter had been a talented Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, and many assumed, after seeing Lily dazzle in the sky, that she would follow her mother's footsteps. Her prodigious skill enhanced the already above-average play of Jaskyll and Isley, and together they played as a seamless unit. Albus cleared his throat and waited until he had everyone's attention.

"This isn't going to be a long speech-"

"Thank heaven for that, Albus, because you were never good at them," interrupted a loud voice from the back. The dressing room burst out in laughter as Albus looked over at his Keeper. "You just concentrate on getting your hands on the Quaffle Hugo," he said. "I swear, sometimes I think we have Nearly Headless Nick guarding the goalposts." Hugo's smile widened at the teasing, and the team cracked up again. Albus allowed a few moments of laughter before continuing, his face serious.

"All jokes aside, we know what this game means. We've got the best ruddy team Gryffindor has seen for at least 30 years, maybe ever." His team cheered.

"But that's Slytherin out there we're facing. Besides the fact that they have an excellent team-" a chorus of boos drowned him out, which he quickly silenced with a wave of his hand. "It's no good saying they aren't up to scratch. Everyone they have can fly, and fly well. And with the weather the way it is, one bad mistake could cost us the game."

He saw a flicker of doubt appear on his teammates' faces. He nodded his head confidently and continued, his voice loud and pierced with emotion. "But we, and the whole damn school, know that as good as they are, we could out-fly them on a BUNCH OF SHOOTING STARS WITH BLINDFOLDS ON!" His team roared, each nodding and stamping vigorously at his words. "They are going to use every dirty trick in the book to stop us. Inferior talent often attempts to balance the odds by doing so. But we ARE PREPARED. We're the best team in this match, and if we fly like we're capable of, those snakes won't stand a fool's chance." Albus took a step closer to his team, who stood up, sensing the moment. Albus smiled and stuck out his arm. Taking the cue, each member placed their hands on top of his, seven people enjoined as one. Albus took one last look at his mates, all looking at him with determined anticipation. "Now let's go out there and show them what Gryffindors are made of!"

Acros the stadium in the other dressing room, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was sneering. To him the day was no more about victory then it was about crushing Potter. Smug, too-big-for-his-britches Potter, the Golden Boy Who Could Do No Wrong, and the rest of his Gryffindor cronies. He clenched his fist, imagining for a second the overwhelming rapture of capturing the snitch in the face of those Gryffindor bastards, of soaring through the crowd, arm raised and index finger extended, as his house and supporters bellowed frenzied cheers and chanted his name. He licked his lips, imagining lowly Potter sinking to the ground in utter defeat. He closed his eyes for a second to savor the delicious image. Looking down, he cast a scornful gaze at his broomstick, a Lightning Bolt 3000, leaning silently against his locker. Scorpius picked it up with distaste. He despised it simply because Albus Potter had the same model. He was brought up to not only have the best of everything, but to be the best as well. Yet Perfect Potter on his equal broom somehow managed to always find a way to best him. Scorpius was an excellent student; it was not through schoolwork that he was beaten. It was always on the pitch. But to Scorpius, nothing could hurt more than losing at Quidditch. It was the ultimate showcase of skill: speed, agility, power and strategy rolled into one mouthwatering athletic event, a sensory delight for the spectator as well as the player, where decisions were made in a fraction of a heartbeat and the game could change just as quickly. Potter was almost famous for his victories, and it killed Scorpius; it gave him physical torment that he felt deep in his chest, an invisible knife that shredded his heart ever more with each frustrating foil. He shook his head, shaking off his depressing reverie. He looked down and saw that his knuckles were white against his broomstick, and he loosened his grip as he turned around to survey his team. There was Salacus and Sebastian Bancombe, his twin hulks with arms as thick as their clubs. They could hit a Bludger harder than a nesting Horntail, and with their long dark hair and brooding expressions, they could be mistaken for the large reptiles as well. His eyes roved to his Keeper, Piers Dunham. If Slytherin had a weak spot, it was Dunham. Long and strong as a Keeper should be, Dunham could just as comfortably make an incredible play as he could bungle an elementary stop. Scorpius was sure that one day soon Dunham would be a great Keeper- he just required more training. Only in his third year, Dunham was easily the youngest member of the squad, and it was clear he was nervous. His hands were shaking as they clasped his broomstick, causing his Nimbus 2004 to appear as though it were vibrating. Piers spotted Scorpius eyeing him and quickly looked away. Scorpius next turned to his Chasers: William Warde, Julian Cobham and Ulric Fogg. All three were excellent flyers and tacticians, and all were speedy and lightweight like Scorpius himself. Will and Julian were brown-haired, but after that the similarites ended. Will's nose was long and jutted out at an odd angle, a souvenir from one too many fists. His hair was shaved down to his skull, and his blue eyes were hollowed deep within his head. The effect was quite alarming, and Scorpius had been delighted to find that he was as efficient a Chaser as his visage was a nightmare. Julian, on the other hand, had wavy, silken locks, a dead center nose and hazel eyes that could pierce a girl's heart. He was muscular despite his medium build and could charm a witch as well as he could take the lead in the Hawkshead Formation. And then there was Ulric. Ulric, the gem of the lot; Ulric, who had put through more goals than the entire Ravenclaw side the last year; Ulric, who seemed to have a preternatural gift for scoring. It was as if he could sense a play before it unfolded, and his ability to avoid Bludgers was something bordering on myth. The burden of beating Hugo Weasley would fall mainly on his shoulders, and as he regarded him, Scorpius felt assured that Fogg was up to the task. Ulric rarely spoke, and even more rarely was he spoken to. He emitted a distinct aura, one that many labeled as nothing less than dangerous. His eyes were so dark it appeared as though his pupils melted into his irises, and his stare was said to make one feel as if he were naked. Yet where others might see threat, Scorpius saw majesty. He saw Fogg as a symbol of the historic greatness of Slytherin House, a being of a bygone era unfortunate to be born into the wrong time. Ulric was his best friend, the only student at Hogwarts Scorpius felt at ease confiding in. He gave Ulric a confident smirk. Fogg returned the greeting with a slight inclination of his head, and Scorpius grinned. This was his team, one handpicked with the utmost judiciousness and created with the sole purpose of defeating the reigning champions of the Quidditch Cup. They could not fail. They would not fail.

"Brothers," he began, outstretching his arms to them all. "Today we exact revenge." The dressing room was silent save for the hoarse growls of the Bancombes. "Today we begin to take back what will be ours." The Slytherins whooped. Scorpius' eyes gleamed bright with determination, and his voice rose. "Today we teach that unbearable bunch of blood-traitors what a PROPER Quidditch team, from a PROPER House, can do." His thoughts settled on Potter as his men whooped again, and a scowl crossed his features. His eyes narrowed as he continued. "Today we prove, by any means and to everyone, that it is Slytherin who will be champions, that is Slytherin, not Gryffindor, that reigns supreme, that it is WE—WHO—ARE—BEST!" As he shouted the last word, his team stood together and whooped one last time. Then he turned his back and led them purposefully onto the pitch.

Up in the announcer's booth, Gil Jordan was teetering on the edge of his seat, involved in a heated discussion with his co-announcer, Niles Bacon, about the upcoming match. "Look, those Potters are the best fliers Hogwarts has seen in anyone's living memory. I doubt even McGonagall could recall a better Gryffindor squad." Niles, a Ravenclaw, quickly opposed this opinion. "You're not giving Malfoy his due," he said carefully, enjoying the discomfort of his friend. Gil bled scarlet and gold, and many detentions had been meted out due to his occasionally non-partisan announcing. "Malfoy has put together more than a decent team this year; they're fantastic," Niles insisted, pointing a finger into his friend's chest. "And you know it." Gil nodded exasperatedly. "I doubt two teams of this caliber have ever faced each other before in Hogwarts history," he conceded. "I never thought I'd see the day that Malfoy would find two slugs as big as the Bancombes who actually knew how to ride a broom." Niles chuckled. "But let's not leave out Fogg in the middle with his two companions. Those three don't need a levitation charm to soar." Gil shook his head. "Fogg could score ten goals with Longbottom and Slughorn as his mates," he joked. Or at least Niles thought he was kidding. "Potter better hope his sister plays up to scratch today," he said. "She's the only one who could match Ulric talent for talent." He looked to his friend, and noticed that Gil was staring out onto the pitch. In a moment, it became apparent as to why. Both teams had appeared from their dressing rooms, walking toward the center of the pitch where Madam Fugota, the flying instructor, stood waiting with her whistle. Gil stood up. Taking out his wand, he tapped it to his throat and muttered, "Sonorus!" before winking at Niles, who did the same.

"Ladies and gentleman, ghosts and elves, honored teachers and respected students-"

He was cut off by a raspy voice behind him. "Enough with the pleasantries, Jordan." Gil turned to see Professor McGonagall shuffle into her usual seat behind him. Although long since retired, Minerva McGonagall could never quite break from Hogwarts. She maintained the connection by frequenting Quidditch matches, and had never missed Gryffindor play. "I think everyone is excited enough as it is without your embellishment." Gil nodded and turned back to the crowd. "Welcome everyone to the first game of the 2024 Quidditch Cup!" The stands were vibrating with excitement. "Today we are honored to witness an historic match! A clash of titans! A meeting of masters! A war of-"

"Jordan!"

"Sorry Professor. Ladies and gentleman, GRYFFINDOR vs. SLYTHERIN!" The crowd erupted into unbridled tumult.

From behind him, Niles heard Professor McGonagall's scratchy laugh.

"Professor?" he inquired.

"You're too young, Bacon," she said, still smiling. "I've seen more Quidditch matches than you can shake a kneazle at. But I've never seen the crowd this energized." Niles was hit with a profound sense of wonderment. Yet as he looked out at the two teams standing opposite one another in the winter chill, their expressions as frosty as the ice beneath them, he felt a seeping cold spread down his spine. Whatever McGonagall had seen in her day, he had to agree with her. These two teams had come to play. He heard the former Headmistress give one more sharp chuckle.

"Merlin's beard boys, if they disbanded the houses, the Hogwarts team could play for England."

The thundering of the crowd always gave Albus goose bumps. From his first game until this one he knew there was nothing quite like hearing the fevered clamoring of the crowd, the sound of hundreds of fans frothing at the mouth in expectancy of the coming action. Walking onto the pitch, the ground cracking at his feet, Albus felt the familiar swooping sensation in his stomach that only pregame nerves could bring. He looked to his right and found Hugo, whose face had blanched. Hugo always became a wreck on game days. That morning Albus had literally had to force two pieces of buttered toast down his Keeper's throat. Now, however, the kid needed confidence, not food. As they approached midfield, Albus walked over to him and put his arm around Hugo's shoulder. Hugo looked up at Albus, the fear plain in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly cut off by his Captain. "I don't want to hear anything from you, Weasley," he said, his tone stern. "We both know it would probably be something stupid anyway." He smiled, and saw a twitch begin at the corners of his cousin's mouth. "You know what to do. You've done it a hundred times before. You guard those goalposts like I know you can, and Fogg and that pretty boy Cobham won't stand a chance. You're a king compared to those dimwits." Hugo looked up at Albus, fear still plain on his face yet with something new mixed in, something Albus quickly labeled as fierce pride. "And when we win, the first butterbeer's on me." He patted Hugo's shoulder and walked to the center of the pitch, leaving his cousin, although still pale, with a grin.

More to come...feel free to review and let me know what you think.