A/N:
Thanks so much to Cass, Gen, Holly, and Elaine, I love you all sm aah * cries*
Flame and Fortune
If there was one thing everyone remembered about Fred, it was his fascination with fireworks.
The Potions dungeon fiasco that had left the entire school brewing Forgetfulness Potions in the spare classrooms? Fred. The breathtaking, stupendous flaming Catherine wheel and dragon fireworks that were famously sighted during their final-year flight for freedom? Fred. The one who cleverly decided to feed a Zonko's firework to a Salamander, resulting in the poor lizard zooming around the Gryffindor common room for what seemed like a glorious eternity?
Fred. Always Fred.
The one who'd been there with him since the day they'd been born - literally. His partner-in-crime, his fellow prankster mastermind. The louder one, the more flamboyant and dramatic of the two (though most people couldn't tell the difference). The one who had ended up on the floor of the Great Hall, his eyelids closed by trembling fingers and his face stiffening into a morbid half-smile.
But if there was one thing that people didn't know about Fred, it was his longtime wish to one day attend a Meteorite match. With his tendency towards firework-related pranks, it only made sense that he'd want to watch a Quidditch team that celebrated victory by trailing sparks from their brooms.
And though George couldn't watch it with him, he sure as hell could watch it for him.
So that was exactly what he was going to do.
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He could have kissed Ginny when she offered him the spare ticket at their Monday family dinner, but he somehow knew she would have shrieked, punched him on the nose and Bat-Bogey Hexed him in three seconds flat. (Ginny was notorious for not being the touchy-feely type. She never had been.)
He still hugged her tighter than a Venomous Tentacula, and swore never to offend her for the rest of his days - a promise neither of them really thought he would keep. (It was also common knowledge that George would never be able to resist a good prank. Especially not ones directed at his family.)
"Whoa there," she gasped, patting his arm awkwardly. "It's just a ticket to see the friendly between the Meteorites and the Quafflepunchers, not a new way to charm Percy's Ministry robes to change colour every fifteen minutes."
"You know, I just might consider doing that," he mumbled, his words muffled as he spoke into her sweater.
"Oh, joy," she groaned, but beneath the bewilderment and exasperation, he could still detect the undercurrent of fondness in her voice. "Now scoot over, I've got to get this article in before the match on Sunday."
George released her and she meandered over to the sofa, grabbing her messenger bag off the coat rack and rifling through it for her papers.
"You're not gonna ask me if I want one for Angelina?"
Years and years of being married, and he still couldn't break the habit of calling her by her full name. Only one person in the history of the world had ever had the audacity to call her "Angie".
Only one.
Ginny glanced up from her work and fixed him with a pensive look. "Something tells me that this is very personal for you. Even though I can't imagine why."
Sometimes, it was alarming how intuitive Ginny could be. "How did you know?"
She just grinned in response, scribbling with her quill in the notebook Harry had bought her in Diagon Alley, and George decided that from then on, Ginny had earned a permanent reprieve from his list of prank victims.
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He adjusted the beanie that Mum had knitted for him two Christmases ago, and reached for the broken Sneakoscope that lay nestled in a bed of dead leaves. A rush of wind engulfed him, and he landed on his feet in a soft patch of grass near a city of tents.
He handed over the exhausted Portkey and made his way over to the stadium, a magnificent open-air oval draped in alternating banners of black, orange and stark hot pink (not Umbridge pink, thank Merlin). The clamour of Quidditch talk felt like flies swirling in his head as he excused and apologised his way over to the stadium.
"Are you here for the match between the Moose Jaw Meteorites and the Quiberon Quafflepunchers-" droned the ticket master when the queue had finally inched its way up to the ticket booth.
He handed over his ticket, which by some miracle had survived the rough jostling and shoving that he'd engaged in on his way here, and the ticket master squinted at it through his gold-rimmed glasses before stamping it with a purple chop that proclaimed "ADMITTED" in block letters.
George re-pocketed the ticket and followed the flow of the crowd to the nearest stairwell. As he tried not to stomp on the rickety metal steps (though they were supposed to be magically reinforced, they still felt much too flimsy for his comfort), he looked out over the familiar outline of the Quidditch pitch. Pink and black figures were darting through the cold Welsh air like irate wasps, occasionally pausing to do a loop-the-loop or putting on a burst of speed, swooping towards the hoops with the Quaffle in hand.
He caught sight of a head of red hair similar to his in the Correspondent's Box, sticking out amid the bowler hats and other headgear. Ginny winked at him before wincing at the older blonde woman, who was no doubt gossiping and pelting her with embarrassing questions about her sex life or something with equal potential to be used as a juicy, scandalous headline. Darn that Rita Skeeter.
George shuffled along the aisle to his seat, settling on the wooden bench with a burst of excitement slowly expanding in his chest.
"Welcome, everyone," blared the commentator's magically amplified voice, "welcome to the Boat, one of the only permanent Quidditch stadiums in the world! How are you wonderful people doing this beautiful April morning?"
A cheer went up from the crowd, and she giggled from her commentator's stand. "All raring to go, I see. Well then, we'd better not keep you waiting! Ladies and gentlemen, presenting, from the lovely town of Quiberon, France-" the commentator swept her hand towards the left side of the pitch, "the Quiberon Quafflepunchers!"
A fleet of fuchsia streaks circled the stadium, flying in complicated formations that would stand out even at the wildest circus. George clapped politely as the Quafflepunchers landed back on their side of the pitch.
"And now, you know who they are, coming straight out of Saskatchewan, Canada," continued the commentator, glee invading her voice, sending tingly shivers snaking over George's skin. "Ladies and gentlemen, we bring you-"
Suddenly, the entire spectators' stand burst into cheers and catcalls. George leaned forward desperately, not wanting to miss out on anything, and his eyes fell upon a enormous bloom of flames, soaring and spiraling into the air like a giant fiery beanstalk, like the upended tail of a speeding comet.
This was it - the Meteorites' famous rallying call.
His breath paused in his throat as he drank in the sight of the figures standing in a circle, black robes accented with orange whipping around them, a dozen wands cutting the air as precisely as conductors' batons as they worked in perfect synchronicity, bringing the fire back down slowly, until it fizzled out with a hiss and a sigh.
The audience was beside themselves - some were screaming and shaking each other in disbelief and amazement, others staring at the band of Meteorites with their faces frozen in identical looks of pure wonder. George snuck a glance at the Quafflepunchers, who were now muttering among themselves disdainfully.
It was settled. He was officially a Meteorites fan.
The match whizzed past, black-clad Chasers zigzagging close to the grass while the Quafflepunchers pursued with valour, Bludgers sent hurtling through the sky with the swing of a pink Beater's bat. George could see the effortless exuberance that the Quafflepunchers had in the way they held themselves, the way they swarmed to congratulate each other upon a goal - they knew they were a formidable match.
But if the Quafflepunchers were talented, it was safe to say the Moose Jaw Meteorites were an absolute terror. Throughout the game, the pink-robed Chasers could barely maintain possession for more than fifteen seconds before a Meteorite snatched it out of the air mid-pass.
At the end of the match - concluding with a Snitch caught by the Quafflepunchers, but unfortunately insufficient to top the Meteorites' sky-high goal-scoring - George felt as if he was dreaming as the seven players tapped their wands on the ends of their brooms in one single, fluid movement.
As one, they shot into the air, speeding around the circumference of the stadium, blazing sparks trailing spectacularly from their brooms.
Meteorites.
George looked up at the dimming sky, stained a shade of dusky blue. He hoped - no, he knew Fred had seen it all.
"Hey, Freddie," he whispered, feeling his lips tug into a grin. "Hope you liked it as much as I did."
Because he had. He had enjoyed every minute of it.
And he hoped that wherever he might be, Fred felt the same.
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House: Ravenclaw
Year: 3
Category: Standard
Prompt: [Quidditch Team] Moose Jaw Meteorites (Canada)
Word Count: 1524