Disclaimer: Not mine. 'Nuff said.
*~*~*~*
It was all his fault.
Her first game.
"Catch the snitch."
"I hope I don't get hit by the bludgers," she had remarked before
they flew out onto the pitch.
"Don't worry about them, we'll take care of the bludgers," he had
reassured her rather hastily. They would be playing Slytherin, and he had
figured that the Slytherin Beaters would focus more on their experienced
Chasers than the little slip of a girl in her second year...the Reserve Seeker.
Less of a threat to them.
They were about even with the score when the snitch had made an appearance.
Her beautiful, dark, almond-shaped eyes had seen it first. She dove...
He had been busy firing the other bludger at Flint, and when he had noticed the
girl diving downwards at the spot of gold, Terence Higgs at her heels, the
bludger pelted by Derrick was too close.
The other Beater, Roeper, had been at the other end of the field entirely.
As it was, he barely had time to catch her as she tumbled from her broom, a
tiny angel from up high, with a pained scream, her right arm broken and
useless.
Slytherin won, of course.
He had never hated the Serpents so much. But he hated himself even more. He,
Roger Davies, had broken a promise. A promise to take care of the bludgers, of
her.
She opened her eyes, and found herself lying in the infirmary, her arm bound
up, aching slightly. And he sat by her bedside, a look of abject misery on his
face. Was he upset that she lost the game?
"Sorry," she whispered softly, "I wish I could have won the game
for us."
He stared at her, blue eyes owlishly wide. His mouth opened, but nothing came
out for a moment. She paused, and remembered that there was something else that
she had to tell him.
"Thanks for catching me, Roger."
He was a big boy, nearly as tall as his father and still growing. Big boys
don't cry, and he didn't. But he came dangerously, scarily close.