Disclaimer: Well these things don't really mean anything, but if there is anyone out there who is not aware of this, I do not own anything that already belongs to other people; such as J.K.Rowling, Werner Bro's and Bloomsbury and so on. Enjoy your reading.
Quidditch
Chapter One – The New Season
All across the country there was a stir; a low buzz of anticipation and excitement that swept this way and that until no one was left untouched. The unrelenting rain of the past few weeks was beginning to give way to frost covered, mud filled fields, a sure sign that what many had been anticipating throughout the long summer was almost upon them. Quidditch season was here at last; a chance for the people and the press to cheer on their favorite players, welcome new faces; and even jeer and hound other less able players into an early retirement; or grave, whichever, they were not fussy.
Oh the sweet joy, for many, many, many, wizards and witches this was a glorious time, for every single team was filled to the brim with optimism. Every team was still a chance to take out the ultimate glory, that of the League Championship. However, on the East Coast of Scotland, just in between the cities of Aberdeen and Dundee it was a different story, for 16 rather damp figures were huddled, shivering in the center of a large, rather dirty, stale sweat smelling room. A low bench ran around the outer wall, it was strewn with overflowing bags, damp robes, protective padding, stale looking socks and a number of well worn broomsticks, which either lay carefully on top of the partially folded robes or were leant gingerly against the bench.
'Trunks, Dodger, you lads are really going to have to lead the way this week,' a short balding man spoke from the center of the huddled figures. 'We know that Tutshill's been impressive the last couple of seasons, they walloped us both times we played last year, but we don't need to think of that now; this is a fresh season and they're going to be missing old Finwick, I can tell you that. He's been great in goals for them for a few years now, but he's gone, and I think we can really make a big score. Remember lads, no Finwick, no Tornado's!'
A chorus of "yes sir's" and "too right you are's" filled the room. They were not as confident, however as the balding man would have liked. 'Lads, get your 'eads up, this year's our year. I can feel it. If we stick to our plan, if we can get out there and fly like we've been doing in training we can really stick it to the Tornado's, now let me here it again!'
This time the "yes sir's" and "too right you are's" were much louder, and seemed to satisfy the man whose polished leather shoes were almost as shinny as the top of his head.
'Good, that's more like it. You lads can get off home now, scrub up and for heavens sake, don't follow Meghan McCormack's example; use the Floo, I'm not going to let any of my players miss this game. Stupid woman, fancy Splinching yourself this time of year… I wonder if they've found her arms yet?'
The people around him trotted off towards their belongings, muttering amongst themselves. 'Oi, you lot, one more thing; I'll be making the formal team selection on Friday night, so keep an eye out for yeah owls or an ear on the wireless,' he finished as the people around him scattered, packed their belongings and hurried out of the change rooms. Many of them were looking happy to be on their way no doubt to a nice hot shower.
The balding man, however didn't head for the door, instead he walked into a small office that was just off the change rooms. He sat down in a fine looking swivel chair that sat before his desk and picked up a piece of old parchment. This mans name was Marvin Prattle, and he had a very important job. He was the Manager of the United Kingdoms most successful professional Quidditch side, The Montrose Magpies.
'Ah, dear me,' he murmured to himself as he read the statistics of last years Snitch captures for the umpteenth time. He began to unconsciously rub at the top of his head. This time last year Mr. Marvin Prattle had had a full head of dark brown hair, but not anymore, not since he had failed to bring "home" the League Championship for the third consecutive year. This was now the Magpies most desolate run for 100 years, the void of the last 5 seasons would only be filled if he, and his team could get it right this time around. He knew his job depended on it.
'Snitch captures were up last year, but we were still sixth in match winning captures…' the pressure had built so much upon Mr. Marvin Prattle, that the former Wigtown Wanderers Chaser, had began to talk to himself.
Mr. Prattle was a short dumpy man, who to look at, didn't seem the type of person that could have spent the better part of 20 years playing professional Quidditch and representing his country, England. His appearance was much the same as that of a monk; with the large bald patch on the top of his head that was surrounded by a crop of thinning brown hair and his chubby cleanly shaven face. He was a fatherly figure to most of the players who played under him, unfortunately for them though he had a very short fuse, and a thundering voice, which they had had to endure more times than most of them would have liked.
Putting down the Snitch Captures statistics he leant over his desk and picked up a worn quill, which he dipped in ink and then scribbled very untidily upon an official looking piece of parchment.
Team Selection for Round 1 Match Against Tutshill Tornado's at Tutshill
-Keeper- Keppler Oblong
-Seeker- Harry Twiss
-Beaters- Rodger Reynolds
Dillon Madman
-Chasers- Leon Wiggle - Captain
Wally Winter
Aladair Maddok
After completing his task, he sat for a moment taking in what he had written. 'No, no, no!' he said to himself as he crunched the parchment up and threw it over his shoulder. 'Maddock's been terrible in training, come to think of it, he's never played well against Tutshill.'
Mr. Marvin Prattle was saved from further worry on Maddock's poor recent form when a "tap, tap" at the window above his desk heralded the arrival of a neat barn owl.
'Ah,' he muttered to himself hopefully, for this was what he was waiting for. Earlier this morning he had sent a team owl to his sides major sponsor, The Nimbus Corporation, to pose the question of purchasing a couple of Firebolt broomsticks.
Hoping up, opening the window and untying the letter from the owls offered leg, Mr. Prattle eagerly unfolded it. If he could just get the okay from Nimbus for the side to use the worlds best broomstick he would feel much better about their odds in taking out the season. Already there were 11 Firebolts currently in action in the League and over the last season they had proven to be a real thorn for him and indeed, any side that did not have a Firebolt themselves.
Mr. Prattle had been dreaming of procuring 3 of the international standard broomstick, and since the price had dropped by 20 over the last 3 years it was well within the clubs yearly budget to do so, all he needed was permission from Nimbus.
Alas, this letter read much the same as the last one he had received from The Nimbus Corporation; his request had been denied for the third time on the grounds that this would compromise the Nimbus brand. At the end of the letter there was an offer for the side to begin using a prototype of the updated Nimbus 2001 broom, affectionately named the Nimbus 2002, however these brooms would not be available until after some initial testing that was planned for December the 1st.
'Fat lot of good that'll do me,' Mr. Prattle grumbled. 'I'll be out of a job by then if we're not winning.'
Disgusted by the bureaucracy of The Nimbus Corporation Mr. Prattle crumbled the letter into a tight ball and threw it into the metal bin that sat in the corner of his office. Taking up his wand from where it was laying, he aimed it at the bin turning the content into a blaze of orange flames. When he was satisfied that letter was burnt significantly beyond recognition he used an extinguishing charm to put out the small inferno.
Feeling rather pleased with himself, Mr. Prattle picked up his cloak from the coat rack on his office wall, and walked out, humming merrily to himself.
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A/N: Next chapter is "Climbing Tut's Hill" and it should be up very soon. If you would like to get into contact with me you can do that by either sending me an e-mail to – or you could leave a review with your address so that I can get back to you. Everyone is welcome to add me to their MSN Messenger, as I would very much like to chat with anyone who would also like that.
One last thing, I'm looking for a beta reader who has a strong ability with grammar. I'm absolutely horrible with it and I would love to get into contact with someone who can point out what I'm doing wrong and give me some ideas on how to correct it.
Thanks for your time; I hope to see you back
Oscar Marvellous