This is the Chudley Cannons Captain checking in for Round 4 of Season 7 of the QLFC.

Prompt: "This tastes nothing like chicken."

Word count (before A/N): 2,993 words

I am not JK. This is her world, not mine.

"Potter!"

Ginny jolted upright at her desk, a number of pages falling to the ivory white floor. Above her, paper cranes whizzed by her head, zooming from one end of the newsroom to the other.

Internally, she groaned. What could he possibly want now?

"My office!" the bodiless voice demanded.

Ginny stood slowly, dread inflating her lungs like a balloon. Above her, the cranes slowed, suspended in midair like a poorly organized party banner. The quiet hum of her fellow reporters fell to a growling hush as she made her way across the room and into Trevor Higgins' office.

"Close the door," he said. He was standing behind his desk, a bent pipe wrested between his thick pink lips. He had a moustache that reminded Ginny of a walrus and two big yellow eyes that rivaled the sun. She sometimes worried if she stared too long, her own retinas might burn.

"This isn't nearly as salty as I wanted, Potter." Higgins threw down a copy of her latest article on the Puddlemere versus Arrows match.

"Salty, sir?"

"Nitty gritty," he slammed his large fists against his desk, punctuating his words. "It's too straightforward—Marx missed a shot, Henderson scored, Grimby gets the Snitch. I want action; I want sweat, Potter. I want so much salt in this piece, I'm at risk for hypertension!"

"Er—right, of course."

Higgins stood straight again, his cat-like eyes scanning her. Ginny felt the pierce of his gaze tickle along the back of her neck and she self-consciously ran a hand through her hair, pulling it behind her ear. Why did one-on-ones with Higgins always feel like she was naked?

She bent her head. Did he sense her need to cover up? There was a scar underneath her left breast that extended across her ribcage and down to her right thigh. Suddenly, it began to pulse in time with her heartbeat, a nasty red gash vibrating beneath her clothes.

"You were the best damn Chaser I'd ever seen, you know," Higgins' voice pulled her back to the present. He wiped at his moustache. "It's a shame what happened between you and Haggarty—"

"If that's everything," Ginny cut him off. Her scar burned hotter beneath her shirt. She didn't want to talk about Haggarty, not while she was being berated for her subpar writing skills.

Thankfully, Higgins took the hint.

"Look. I needed a new Quidditch reporter and you needed this job, whatever your reasons may be. But this," he picked up her discarded draft, "it's a big pile of burnt anchovies."

"I'm doing my—"

He waved her off, handing the draft to her over the desk.

"Salty, Potter. Like a big slab of prosciutto."

"Salty?" Harry repeated, bouncing a two-year-old Albus on his knee. James, thank Merlin, had already gone down for bedtime, and Lily was just starting to sleep through the night. Now only Albus remained.

"Enough to cause a heart attack. Or hypochondria? I don't remember."

Ginny was seated across from her husband at their kitchen table. She had seven drafts of the same match scattered in front of her, each more dismally less salty than the last. Albus reached for one, but Harry stopped him, distracting the boy with a stuffed griffin.

"I just don't understand," she brought her hand to her head, clutching her hair. "I wrote it the way it happened. There weren't any big fights; no screaming matches between coaches. It was a fairly simple game. I can't make things happen that didn't."

She looked at Harry. "Can I?"

"Absolutely not," he shifted Albus's head to rest on his shoulder, the toddler's eyes finally starting to close. "You're not like Skeeter—you're a decent human being, for starters, and I have no doubt you're going to be a great reporter."

"Going to be," she grumbled. "How hard is it to write an article? Honestly, we teach writing to children! Why is this so bloody hard?"

Harry looked at her, his green eyes piercing behind black-rimmed glasses. It made her scar start to itch under her pajama top.

"You can always go back to the Harpies, if you wanted," he said it so softly, Ginny almost thought she imagined it. She stared at him, holding her breath, not ready to have this conversation again. Her skin began to crawl, heating up as the silence weighed down around them.

When he didn't speak again, Ginny returned her focus to her drafts, shifting them around until she felt they were lined up from worst to best. It was better not to fuss about the scar when Harry was around, anyways.

A clock ticked somewhere off in the distance. Albus began to snore. Harry finally stood, his eyes still on her, but Ginny refused to look up.

"You're the toughest person I know. You'll get it," he whispered. Then he disappeared down the hall.

Ginny grabbed the fifth version. It would have to do.

"No, no, no, no! I asked for nitty gritty, Potter. This is thick salsa at best!" Higgins clutched at her draft, his pipe replaced today with a cigar. He chewed on it, his teeth gnashing together.

"Salsa?"

"Thick salsa, Potter! Too thick—it would break my chip if I tried to dip it in." When all she did was stare blankly back, Higgins added, "Your audience is fighting through the onion and tomato chunks just to get to the good stuff. You understand?"

"Uh—"

"Smith!"

Ginny jumped. Seconds later, a lanky boy ducked into the room. He had on khaki pants that were too short and a black tie that was tied just a little too tight. His short blond hair stuck up in spikes and his pale blue eyes stared out at her from snow-colored lashes. Ginny recognized him as one of the new Hogwarts graduates—Bernard or Brenden. Something like that.

"Smith, take Potter here and review her latest. Smith's our newest editor, Potter," Higgins turned toward Ginny now. "He's young and hungry. That's the kind of reporter we need here!"

Ginny snatched the proffered draft hanging from Higgins' hand and followed Smith out the door. It slammed closed behind her, causing her to jump yet again. Honestly, she thought, this job would give her a heart attack with all the sudden loud noises.

"No offense," Ginny huffed out at Bernard-or-Brenden as she continued to follow him to his desk, "but I'm twenty-six. I think that still counts as young."

That made Smith chuckle. He pulled up a second chair and offered it to Ginny once they made it to his desk. The top of the desk was cluttered with written-on parchment and broken quills. There was a rather large ink stain across the center of the desk, poorly covered by a spiral-bound notebook. The pages in the notebook looked crinkled and folded with notes sticking out on every end.

Beneath the desk, Smith's rubbish bin overflowed with used cranes.

A creeping doubt wriggled its way into Ginny's mind: did Smith always write multiple drafts, crossing out and rewriting his stories? Her stomach plummeted; until last night, she hadn't ever written multiple drafts for one article. She'd been on the Quidditch beat for about three months, too. That was at least sixteen matches—sixteen articles that all ended in chastisements from Higgins.

Smith's eyes looked at her expectantly, and suddenly, Ginny felt much too old to be there. This teenager was her mentor now, wasn't he? A boy of nineteen with acne-riddled skin and clothing that didn't fit properly.

Was she falling that far behind?

Ginny gulped.

"So," Smith began, "I'm new here, but I've studied the art of journalism for a few years. I'm on lightfare right now—wedding announcements, obits, where the best broom polish sales are, things like that."

"Yeah?" Ginny pushed down her growing doubts, instead focusing on the present. "Where are they then?"

"Hmm?"

"The best broom polish sales?"

Smith's smile was contagious. Ginny sank into her chair, more of her anxieties leaving her.

"I'm Ginny, by the way," she stuck out her hand. There was no doubt this boy knew exactly who she was—was it the Potter or the Quidditch that gave her away?—but that never stopped her from introducing herself.

"Bertrand." Ah! that was his name. Ginny nodded.

"So, Bertrand, you're here to help me be… more salty with my writing. Or is it less salsa-y now? You know, I can't keep up with him. Last week Higgins told me I had a hot dog on my hands." Ginny leaned in closer to Smith. "What does that even mean?"

"In Higgins-speak, you probably wrote a dud. No offense of course," Smith said.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Does he always speak in food metaphors?"

"He used to be the restaurant critic for Witch Weekly," Smith's voice lowered, his eyes glancing over to Higgins' closed door. "He doesn't like to talk about it, but last I heard, he was reviewing a new bistro on Knockturn Alley. Gave him nasty food poisoning, enough to make him leave the entire column behind. He didn't really want to write for the Daily Prophet, either, but it was this or he'd be writing women's fashion."

"Honestly, I would have loved to read that column," Ginny smirked.

Smith grinned back. "Wouldn't you though? Higgins On High Fashion has a great ring to it."

"Or Fashion By Trevor."

Smith laughed even harder. "Well, unfortunately for us, we'll never see what could have been the greatest fashion column of the century. So, let's see what we can do for you."

Several hours later, Ginny was scribbling away at a thirteenth rendition of the Puddlemere-Arrows match, her ink bottle practically empty. Everyone else had gone home for the day, save for a few stragglers who were itching to jump on any nightly stories that were bound to crop up. Smith twirled in his office chair, throwing balled-up parchment at the cranes still whizzing above.

"Oh god," Ginny smacked her hand against her forehead. "He's going to tell me this is like a buttercream cake with too much frosting and not enough dough!"

In the next instant, the parchment was crumpled up and thrown at the growing pile of paper near Smith's feet.

"I'm hopeless," Ginny's head dropped between her hands. Beneath her shirt, she could feel her scar rub against the fabric. "This is not good. Not good at all. I'm not cut out to be a writer!"

"Hey, hey," Smith leaned forward in his chair, placing a tentative hand on Ginny's shoulder. "Come on, we all have those moments. But writing isn't all perfect, is it? It's practically eighty-five percent passion and fifteen percent luck."

"Is it?"

"Of course!" Then Smith's voice sounded hesitant. "Don't you think?"

Ginny let her hands fall from her face so she could see the boy. He looked so full of hope and wonder, it pained her. She had passion once, just not for writing.

Her scar began to pulse.

"Why do you do it?" she asked quietly.

"Write?"

Ginny nodded.

"Well, I write because I like stories," Smith shrugged. "I've always wanted to tell stories, even when I was little. Beedle's faerytales were my bible growing up. I fell in love with the art of storytelling."

"But news isn't storytelling. It's—news."

"I disagree," Smith rolled his chair closer to Ginny's, his voice quieting. "There's stories in everything—history is always written by the victors, they say. The very fabric of society is based off of what people tell each other. Some of our oldest spells came from wizards who had to describe the after-effects to their companions. And then those companions had to trust what they heard.

"Sure, when I write a wedding announcement, not everyone in England's going to read it. But it's that couple's story. They deserve it to be told properly. Tuesday's match might not have been spectacular, but not everyone got to see it, right? That's why you've got to paint the picture for them."

"You make it sound so effortless," Ginny sighed.

"It's anything but," Smith smirked. They sat for a few moments in silence before the boy tried again. "Think of it this way: writing takes skill, just like Quidditch. It's not everyone's forte."

"Great," she snorted.

"But like Quidditch," he pressed on, "practice helps."

Ginny closed her eyes, unable to look into Smith's youthful face still glittering with hope.

"I know you're trying to help by using Quidditch as a metaphor, but honestly, Quidditch is the last thing I want to think about," she said. In fact, the more she sat and wrote about the same stupid game, the more her scar pulsed, like a jagged, red itch gnawing at her skin.

"Why?" Smith's voice cut through the pain.

"Because, and that's all I'll say," she spat back. Ginny clenched both her fists, her heart beating in time with the still-pulsing scar.

"Is this because of what happened?" Smith's voice broke through the silence. "The accident?"

Ginny opened her eyes, catching Smith's blue ones in what Harry might have described as her "death glare." Venom rose in her throat.

"I don't mean to pry," Smith said tentatively. "I just figured, what with the accident and the career switch, maybe your writing is being… impacted?"

Tears pressed against her eyes. She didn't like talking about it, so she deflected.

"I came here, because I have three children to think about," she whispered. But in that quiet newsroom with most of the lanterns dimmed, she could hear how hollow her words were.

"You don't have to explain anything to me. Honest. I-I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, you shouldn't have," she whispered, her eyes falling to the crowded desk in front of her. "But maybe I should talk… I've always felt so comfortable on a broom, you know—I didn't see her coming. I've had Quidditch accidents before, sure, but none had ever been like that. So much blood," the scar pulsed extra hot. "And Haggarty. When it happened, I saw her eyes."

It had been hailing. The match had been going on for hours with little hope that either Seeker would catch the Snitch. Harpies versus Cannons. Ginny had just returned to the league after giving birth to Lily, and she felt ready to take on the skies. But then lightening cracked, Jonatha Haggarty took the bolt right to the chest, dropping the Quaffle in the process. Her broom veered into Ginny's path, their bodies colliding, stealing away Jonatha's last breath. They were so high up, too far away for anyone to really notice as the life left Jonatha's eyes. But Ginny saw.

Ginny tried to spin in the air, tried to cushion her fall, but Jonatha's broom sliced her open like a sack of flour when they hit the ground. Blood poured out. The hail was still pelting against her skin, but all Ginny could feel was Jonatha's lifeless hand still clutched in her own.

She woke up a week later with a scar as long as her three year old son and a desparation to get as far away from the sky as possible.

"I never want my children to be without a parent," Ginny wiped away one of her tears. "I have no clue how to write an article, but I'll be damned if I ever get on a broom again."

Smith, bless him, kept his mouth shut and his eyes downcast. Ginny slowly breathed in and out, hoping to gather her wits about her, but each time she thought she had it under control, another batch of tears leaked out.

At least her scar wasn't pulsing anymore.

Finally, she said, "Higgins would call this soggy bread, wouldn't he." She held up one of her drafts. It had caught most of her tears, turning the paper into a wet ball.

"Yeah, he would," Smith laughed. "If you don't mind, Ginny, I think I have an idea that might help you with writing next week's Quidditch column."

She looked at him expectantly, a glint of fire in her eyes.

"This tastes nothing like chicken."

Higgins was sitting at his desk, Ginny's latest piece on display in front of him. Smith's idea had been brilliant, albeit painful, and he had helped her work on it late into the night until it was perfect.

Even Harry thought it was some of her best work.

"Excuse me?" Ginny asked incredulously.

"No, no. That's a compliment," Smith interjected. Ginny looked from the boy to her boss.

Higgins nodded. "Everything tastes like chicken these days, and that's somehow supposed to be a good thing. But I call doxies on that, Potter. This is journalism. We shouldn't be spouting out the same swill that Witch Weekly does every week."

"Okay—"

"We gotta stand out, be original! This isn't chicken, Potter, it's pheasant. Duck! The richest tasting foul you can think of!"

Ginny stood a little straighter.

"My only question is, you sure about this?" Higgins' yellow eyes were like two competing suns, each making his chubby face glow beneath their light. She wanted to look away, save herself from getting burned, but she held his gaze.

His concern was commendable; did she really want her life put on display like this?

That ship sailed when she married Harry, she thought, and Ginny knew it was best that this story came from her. Her scar was surprisingly docile beneath her jumper.

"I'd feel more comfortable if I talked to a few of Jonatha's friends and family members before it goes to print. Get their voices in there, too," she said.

"Biscuits, Potter!" Higgins enthusiasm made her jump. "We'll make a reporter out of you yet."

He handed back the draft, the words staring up at her. Sorting Through the Storm: Why I Left My Quidditch Career. The headline could use some work, but that was a job for her editor.

Today, Ginny was the writer.