Hooch hissed as a bludger whined past her head. The crowd groaned collectively, some because the bloodthirsty ball hadn't collided with the woman, and the rest because the fear had been it would. She glared around in the chaos of mid-game and yes, there he was. When Hooch had agreed to this whole memorial exhibition and had found out she'd be playing against her generation of the Chudley Cannons, the witch had a funny feeling her old adversary might take the opportunity to make an ass of himself.
"Apsley, you bastard," Hooch barked, moving her broom to confront her attacker. A paunchy man in his fifties with the remnants of good looks smiled at her from where he sat in mid air, brandishing his beating stick.
"Wotcher, Hoochy," he called, waving jovially. "S'all part of the game you know- or have you forgotten the way things go while at your posh position teaching all of Dumbledore's kiddies how to mount a broomstick?"
Xiomara closed in on the aging Cannon's beater and hovered a challenging few inches away. "Bludgers may be part of the game, you old letch, but suffering the use of them as settlement for a twenty year-old vendetta all because I didn't want to fuck you is pushing it. Grow up, Apsley." Hooch swiped sweaty silver spikes away from her goggles and leaned her broom away from the conflict to re-enter the game. Apsley sat dumbly on his broom, looking after her with an longing expression, shadowed by embarrassment.
"Bloody ass," she grumbled, trying to resituate herself in game play. Hooch wasn't afraid of Quidditch brutality, she usually relished it. However, it had it's place in a real match, not an exhibition game. Especially not in an exhibition game that was meant as a twenty-year reunion for so many Quidditch players who had been forced into retirement when the league closed during the first war against the Dark Lord.
Xiomara shook herself out of her brooding as she at last traced the play of the quaffle. Confident she could now be of use, she sidled up parallel to her old team mate.
"Oi, Griffiths," Hooch yelled, giving Wilda the signal for one of their old plays. Wilda Griffiths grinned, but soon her confidence gave way to an expression of panic as she gazed transfixed at some event unfolding behind Xiomara. Hooch, hair raising and sweat suddenly chilling wrenched her broom around in time only to dodge one of the two bludgers screaming towards her. The witch grunted as pain penetrated the dense uniform padding around her shoulder and shuddered down her arm and spine. The wind pushed from her lungs, Xiomara couldn't cry out as she slid from her broom and dropped towards the pitch below.
"Do you s'pose she's alright?"
"I dunno- did you see how far she fell?"
"What the bloody hell happened, anyway? I mean, this is Hooch we're talking about here."
"That tosser Apsley and his mate only sent both bludgers after her at once, for whatever reason- she could just dodge the one in time, and then the other got her full force…"
"Would you all please clear the area- please clear the area!" A medi-witch had come upon the scene and was officiously attempting to attend the injured. The spectators, Hooch's team mates, remained mostly oblivious.
"Look here- she's coming round!"
"Yes, I saw her eyes flutter."
"Move you blockheads!"
Hooch opened her eyes to see most of her field of vision filled by the ruddy , frustrated face of the exhibition's head medical witch, Hazel Harriot. Looming on the fringes were several of her team mates and some of the opposing team's members, mostly the women. Xiomara's eyes began to roll back as the full pain of her accident came upon her. A strong hand grasped her jaw.
"Hooch- focus on my voice and keep your eyes open."
Xiomara gazed up into the face of the medi-witch again, grinding her teeth against the constant throbbing which seemed to envelop her body.
Harriot grimaced. "Good girl, stay with me. We're taking you to Mungo's. I know it hurts but you'll have to try to stay awake. You've conked yourself on the head quite spectacularly and your shoulder was probably shattered by that bludger that caught you."
Hooch tried to move her right arm in that bizarre instinct that tells one to test out potential injuries. She cursed loudly.
As if in answer, her would-be healer shook her head in disbelief. "Did you think I was having you on? You people, despite your delusions otherwise, are not impervious! Lie still now, we'll be transporting you soon."
Hooch let her eyelids sink in the renewed heaviness passing through her dejected body. What a ridiculous mess this had turned out to be.
"She's losing consciousness again," barked the medi-witch. "Where the bloody hell is that evac team?"
In answer, someone delicately arranged the fallen chaser's crumpled form into the standard transport position.
"Immobilus," murmured Harriot, and the barely lucid Xiomara felt the familiar beginnings of a gut wrenching emergency apparation to St. Mungo's Hospital.
Mairead Briston smiled, satisfied with the deep turquoise smoke that now spiralled out of her pewter cauldron behind the counter at Anemone's Alchemy. The better-than-caffeine wakefulness draught had always been a bit daunting to the young witch, even after her two years at Staunton's Master Potions Academy, and though she'd brewed it flawlessly hundreds of times, Mairead always waited for the less than desirable explosion which would ensue should any small detail in the process have been overlooked.
She levitated several vials over to her working counter and began ladling the finished potion into them for sale. On the fourth vial, a commotion at the shop door caused her to spill some of the cooling draught down her arm. The liquid tingled strangely on her skin before evaporating and leaving a deep fuchsia stain on her robes. Grumbling to herself, Mairead looked over to the door to see two middle-aged witches, backs towards her, arguing. Feigning involvement with her work, the young woman eavesdropped on their conversation- something about these two had piqued her interest.
"Bronwyn, honestly- I've been in that wretched hospital for near a month. Now I've finally escaped, I believe I can manage to open a door own my own."
Mairead, her empty vials sitting forgotten on the counter , now listened without pretence. She was perplexed by the familiarity of this woman's voice.
Bronwyn huffed in annoyance. "Mara! The medi-witch who discharged you said you're not to be using that arm so much as to scratch your own arse!"
"I don't believe those were her exact words," came the catty response.
Mairead muffled a snicker, almost at the same time she realised what the nagging witch had called her friend. A tingle of unease spread along her skin. But it must be a coincidence- she hadn't seen or even heard of the Hogwarts flying instructor for years. To run into her now would be, well, Mairead wasn't sure. Wanting some distraction now from the other's conversation, she returned to bottling her potion, though she couldn't help but listen for some clue as to the woman's identity. But why? What would it matter, really, if the woman were Hooch or not? What difference would it make either way? It had been so long…
"Hooch, you dolt. You know what I mean, so leave off it. You already looked knackered, so hadn't we better just get your potions and go home?"
Xiomara sighed resignedly. "Fine."
The couple, for that's what they sounded, approached the counter. Mairead, mind whirring, could only hope Xiomara Hooch would not recognize her.