Author's Note:

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters that are a part of the Harry Potter or Tortall universes, nor do I own the places or concepts borrowed from J.K. Rowling's outstanding books. This story is a transformative fair use of the works of J.K. Rowling and Tamora Pierce.

Any original characterizations, settings, or plot-lines (particularly the descriptions of Superior Village and the Superior School of Sorcery) are my own, and anyone is welcome to borrow them, though I would appreciate being credited.

"No, you shut your stupid face!" Wilda bellowed at her captain. She was sick and tired of Jones and her pompous manner. Last time, she'd complained about Wilda's outfits, saying they were too "ahem… American" in that smarmy tone of voice she had. What she'd really meant were that they were too casual. The Holyhead Harpies had a reputation to maintain; players didn't just go around dressed in t-shirts and jeans, especially not to important social functions, like the All-Welsh Quidditch Convention they'd graced with their presence last month. Wilda would have paid good Galleons to see Jones try to sit on a broomstick in that trashy leather mini-skirt she'd worn to the convention. This time the argument wasn't about clothes, it was about Wilda's Quidditch playing: something that she took much more personally.

"Griffiths, sweetie, I'm sorry, but you've bloody well got to see that I'm right about this," Jones continued in a condescending tone. "There's no need to get upset about it. You're just not that good of a Chaser. Honestly, the team could do better. You should be grateful that we've kept you on and trained you up all these years."

Wilda fumed. She could hardly believe the words coming out of her captain's mouth. She wouldn't have believed them, but this was Gwenog Jones, the uber-bitch, and no depth of evil from Jones was unbelievable to her at this point.

"I'm not saying you can't play in the next match," Jones went on in a syrupy sweet voice that made Wilda want to gag. "I'm just saying that maybe, instead of spending so much time reading make-believe stories, you should take a little more time to practice your flying this week."

"Anne McCaffrey novels are not 'make-believe,' they're science fiction!"

"They're American muggle-rubbish about dragons in space," Jones snapped. "I'm not going to discuss this further, Griffiths." There was nothing syrupy about her voice now. "Either you stop reading that crap in public, or I'm gonna burn the whole sodding lot of them while you sleep."

Now they got to it, Wilda thought. That was the real point of Jones' tirade. She hated anything that reminded the public that her star Chaser (and Wilda was a star, regardless of what Jones might say about her needing practice, and being "trained up") was a common Muggle-born American import. She stared back at Jones defiantly, not trusting herself to actually speak at the moment.

"Now," Jones continued after a long pause, switching back to her sweet voice. "I think you should go back to the dorm for the night, and we can discuss this further in the morning. I'm sure with a little reflection you'll see reason."

Wilda's shoulders sagged and she sighed. The fight had gone out of her as suddenly as it had come on, and she felt like she just didn't have the energy to continue arguing with her Quidditch captain tonight, or maybe ever again. Things were never going to be right between them. Maybe it was time to consider other options. "Fine," she said at last, head down. Then she looked up for a moment, met Gwenog Jones' hard brown eyes one last time. There was no give there, no flicker of kindness, of understanding. Not for Wilda. And now she finally accepted that there never would be.

When Wilda had first been recruited by the Holyhead Harpies from the Superior School of Sorcery's varsity Quidditch team in her final year of school there, she had been ecstatic. She knew that the Quidditch leagues in the UK were much more competitive than those in the United States. Being the captain and best Chaser of a school team where most athletes would rather play the muggle sport: Hockey, or its wizarding variation: Extreme Broomball, was one thing. Playing a starting position on a real major league Quidditch team in Wales was quite another thing entirely.

And she'd loved playing for the Harpies. She had a blast at their matches, and got along well with most of the girls on the team. The only problem was Gwenog Jones. Wilda guessed that Jones had assumed she would be so grateful at being plucked out of obscurity and chosen for the Harpies that she would never dare question her captain. If so, Jones was sorely mistaken, for Wilda questioned just about everything and did things her own way, even when it infuriated Jones. If she was honest, lately she'd been doing some things for the express purpose of infuriating Jones, like wearing a t-shirt to that conference. She'd known that Jones would throw a hissy fit over that, but it was the little rebellions that kept Wilda feeling like herself. If she stopped going her own way and conformed into the stylish, mysterious, flirty (but not promiscuous), perfect little Welsh witch that Jones wanted her to be, then what would Wilda have left of herself and her past?

These were the troubled thoughts running through Wilda's head on her trudge back to the team dormitory. The Holyhead Harpies were all women, so they shared a large dorm building with large, plushy bunk beds and soft carpeted floors. The rest of the team was out at a party tonight, so the dorm room was empty when Wilda walked in and plunked down in front of her own vanity (which she had converted into a desk). She sat for a moment, staring at her reflection in the mirror in front of her. Wilda saw what she always saw: a girlish face, pale with a few freckles around her nose and more sunburn on her cheeks and forehead; light brown eyes, not green enough to be called hazel, except in certain lights, and not dark enough to be described as chocolatey; and windswept shoulder-length nut brown hair. Nothing remarkable, nothing desirable. She knew from others that she had an attractive smile, warm, genuine, hinting at laughter. But Wilda wasn't smiling now.

After a few minutes contemplation, she slowly opened the vanity's top drawer and pulled out a large official-looking envelope. It had a seal of two crossed golden bulrushes over the opening, but the seal was broken. This envelope had already been opened and had its contents taken out and replaced many times since it had arrived two weeks ago. Wilda opened it up again now, and pulled out the letter to read again:

Miss Wilda Griffiths,

It is a pleasure to write to such a distinguished player as yourself. My name is Mr. Arnold Rathbone, recruiter for the Puddlemere United Squad of the British and Irish Quidditch League. We have met before, though only briefly, after a match between my own Puddlemere United and your Holyhead Harpies last year. I, as well as the rest of the administration of this team, was most favorably impressed with your performance in that match, which I do not hesitate to admit led to your team's victory on that day, and I have kept my eye on you ever since. It is clear that you are a rising star.

I would like to offer you a starting position as Chaser on the Puddlemere United Squad beginning this August. We are willing to pay you an advance sum of 1000 Galleons for the inconvenience of leaving the Holyhead Harpies at such short notice, in addition to relocation costs to get you settled here in England. You would be agreeing to a contract of two [2] years with Puddlemere United, at a yearly salary of 73000 Galleons.

Please think it over, and respond by owl at your earliest convenience. We are very excited by the possibility of having you join our Quidditch programme. I believe that Wilda Griffiths and Puddlemere United will be a great fit.

Mr. Arnold Ignatius Rathbone, Recruiter

Puddlemere United Quidditch Programme

Poole, Dorset County, England, United Kingdom of Britain and Ireland

Wilda hadn't thought that she would ever respond to this particular letter. She didn't want to abandon her team, and leaving them for another Quidditch team in the same league felt like a betrayal. But now… 'It's time I did what's best for me,' Wilda thought at herself sternly. She hesitated for another minute, then picked up her quill and a new piece of parchment, wetted her point in the inkwell, and began to write.