Title: Off the Pitch
Summary: Of Quaffles, Bludgers, Snitches, and tales straight from the locker-room. The House rivalries, broken arms, legs, noses, and hearts; Quidditch season is every season and no one's died in ages, so captain's shake hands, mount your brooms, release the snitch, and let the game begin. The Gryffindor Quidditch team, through the ages. Featuring Charlie, Oliver, Angelina, Alicia, Katie, George, Fred, Minerva and loads more.
Disclaimer: I do not own it
Author's Note: This is a collection of one-shots of varying length, ridiculousness, and chronological order. Featuring different players – mostly revolving around Gryffindors – and their interactions with each other. I hope you enjoy and please drop a line, I'd appreciate it immensely.
To be updated sporadically
Written because I love sports, and know with intimacy the kind of camaraderie, aversion, disappointed, and fervor they can inspire.
Technicalities:
"Twenty-three!" Yelled Professor McGonagall in their faces. She was standing hunch-backed, and arms braced on the top of the desk. Her face was red, hair disheveled, and spit almost flying from her mouth. Fred and George had never seen her so irate. "Twenty-three charmed desks! How – what – Timothy Davis is in the Hospital!"
"Technically –" began George.
"The Hospital, Mr. Weasley. There is nothing technical about it! What were you thinking? What possessed you –? In a classroom full of Slytherins!"
"Well, that was basically the point –" began Fred.
"Silence, Mr. Weasley! You could be expelled for this! Twenty-three desks tap-dancing across the classroom! My classroom! The disrespect – unutterable stupidity – What am I supposed to do with you?"
"They weren't supposed to tap-dance."
"I imagined more of a waltz –"
"One more word from either of you and I'll send you out packing!" screamed Professor McGonagall. Fred and George obliged, if nothing else then to save her from spontaneous combustion. "Of all the irresponsible – never has Hogwarts seen – I don't know what was to be gained by it – enough already to worry about without having you two blundering – and with the Slytherin match tomorrow – why you couldn't have waited until next Monday – I don't know what Gryffindor is going to do without their two Beaters –"
"Professor!" said George, abhorred.
"You wouldn't!" said Fred.
"Wouldn't I, Mr. Weasley!" said Professor McGonagall. "Goodness knows you deserve it!"
"But Gryffindor!"
"The Cup!"
"Perhaps losing the Quidditch Cup might knock a bit of sense into you!" said McGonagall, "I don't know what else will!"
"Professor!" they said in unison.
Professor McGonagall was a perfect image of trembling rage. Fred and George clamped their mouths shut, lest she really did carry out her threat.
"I am disappointed in you both," she said jerkily, seemingly barely containing her anger. "You have behaved irresponsibly – I – I really should – you would fully deserve it…."
Fred and George waited. This was why the key was to not get caught.
"You will serve detention tonight – however long it takes you to finish clearing out Professor Sprout's storage shed. I suggest a thick pair of dragon hide gloves and something to cover your noses."
Fred and George could barely breathe.
"Twenty points from Gryffindor – each. That is all. You may go."
Fred and George exchanged glances. Professor McGonagall sat behind her desk and took out a quill and several crumpled rolls of parchment.
"Professor…" said Fred.
"That is all, Mr. Weasley," she said irritably, not looking up from the essays she was grading.
"But –" said George.
"That is all!" Fred looked at George and George looked at Fred. They looked back to Professor McGonagall's bowed head, and moved towards the door.
"Just be sure to finish it all tonight!" she snapped from behind their backs. "I want you up bright and early for that match tomorrow or they'll be worse to pay than detention!"
2. Author's Note: Here's a bit of Weasley silliness. Some of the updates will be along these lines while some will hopefully hold a bit more gravity.