A/N: I love quidditch, so from now there will be a load of quidditch related fics. Because Cait and I were playing it on the playstation, and I was all – sigh. I wish *I* could fly on a broom and do all those mad-arse-fully-sick tricks.
If only.
Do you know how racist that game is? (Probably not so I will just explain for the benefit of you all) The Australian team all have big feet, the English team all have crazy hair dos, the French team are all like fairies, the Bulgarians are all buff dudes, and the Japanese karate chop all over the place!
ANYWAY, dedicated to the left hemisphere of Mia's brain.
In Toulouse was France's national quidditch stadium. Breath taking, gorgeous, home to France's amazing gardens, and the venue for the France v. England match of round eight of the World Cup.
Eight high stone towers built in the style of a 16th century castle, surrounding a spiraling design of gardens ,green, purple, blue, and in the centre, a wide shallow pool, reflecting the midday sun like a mirror. And that's exactly what the garden was: The Mirror Gardens. Les Jardins du Miroir. For most of the year it was a peaceful place, situated a pleasant walk away from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.
But from Vittoria Mallarde's point of view, it was chaos.
The stone towers were a full writhing mass of quidditch fans, as were the lower stands. Full of colour from waving banners or team scarves. And noise, the cheers, the screams of encouragement. The Gardens had been changed special for today, half of the flowers patterned to resemble the English Emblem, and the other the French. The air above the Gardens was a blur as players from both teams darted around on their brooms, attempting to confuse each other, but in an organized pattern. It was an organized, practiced chaos.
She'd been playing quidditch her whole life, for as long as she could remember, but the actual scale of it all was new to Vittoria. This wasn't tossing an old quaffle around with your friends back at Hogwarts, this was worldwide, and this was famous. Even though this was her fifth match with the French national team, she had still gotten edgy and nervous beforehand.
Not even two years out of Hogwarts, Vittoria was like a quidditch protégé, youngest on the team, the first one to be zoned in on by the press. She'd liked it at first, all that attention, but it was hard to keep up with the others. Every day she told herself, at any moment, they could decide she wasn't good enough and drop her. Quidditch was her life, without this, she was nothing. Desperate to please, every match Vittoria played her best.
She'd been born in France, but grew up in Scotland, so it was unnerving today to be playing against the champions she had looked up to and called her heroes all through her Hogwarts years. The move back to France had brought back unpleasant memories, and Vittoria found that those distractions were causing her to loose her edge. She couldn't afford that, not when this was her life.
She was the smallest of her team, ideal size for a seeker, except her ruthless tackles and knack for strategy placed her as a chaser. Her build was at once a curse and a blessing. Oppositions saw her tiny frame and delicate looking hands, and underestimated her, but at the same time, she caught a lot of bruises as the beaters mistook her for a seeker. Her teammates had nicknamed her Guêpe, which meant 'wasp'.
Round eight then. Both teams were quite evenly matched, they had similar aged players and similar gear. The French beaters had chosen to wear a spiked pad on their right knees, and the English beaters were wearing helmets. The English were riding the original Firebolt model, but the French had adapted theirs, a flowery metal pattern encasing the brusels at the back, seemily to match their silver and blue clothes, but it actually added the weight needed to pull off their Team Move.
The English weren't as fast as the Bulgarians, but their keeper was a lot better. It was a battle to even get it down to the rings, then another one entirely to find a hole in his defense. The French were using a quick-pass tactic. Keep the ball moving, and they won't have a chance to stop it. It was risky, they had less control over where it went once it was in the air, and no way to pull it back if the English intercepted. Well, that had been the plan, but the English didn't try to dart in close to snatch the quaffle, as the French beaters were watching for. They just swept down the pitch in a line, pushing the French out of the way, and getting in the way of the quick passing. They didn't try to intercept, they just knew that if they were THERE in the middle of the pass, then the French weren't going to take the chance that they might get possession.
Vittoria's own part in the plan was to be the one to retrieve the quaffle, get it in French possession, so that the two other chasers, intimidating Ackhart and wild Jeanne, could score.
Acrobatics was very much a part of quidditch, and Vittoria was having to put her training to use more than usual, because the English chasers just hunched over the quaffle, so she had to twist around them and snatch it, without letting her broom get too close to theirs, and without letting them get a hold of her, while also being on the look out for a bludger attack, and keeping track of the other chasers. Simple, not so much.
And England was slowly gaining a larger and larger lead.
Vittoria could win this game, and have a set future, or she could ruin it by accident, and start a long line of failures. She needed this win.
Louise Aleine; seeker for the French for the last five years. She'd played so many matches, she couldn't count which one this was. But it didn't matter, because she was going to win, and be the best, just like always.
She'd sighted the snitch first, of course, and was racing the English seeker, straining for the snitch, dodging other players.
She willed her broom to push faster, reached further despite the screaming pain in her arm. The crows cheering slowed to a dull roar, and the world around her blurred, twisting out of shape.
But shining before her in the sunlight, its wings desperately trying to escape her clutches, the snitch was clear and strong in her vision. The gardens were close below her, but she was hardly aware of the colour flying under her, she was too intent on her prize.
She could hear its wings buzzing, even with the wind whipping across her face, could feel its hum inside her. This was her moment. Nothing would break it this time. No stupid little girl to accidentally switch brooms, no missing gloves, none of it.
All of a sudden, colour fell across her vision, and her outstretched hand faltered in surprise, just before she could have closed her fist around the snitch. A few seconds after the colour, she was nearly thrown off her broom, as a body crashed into her.
The world and noise assaulted her as she came out of that moment, and her concentration was lost. Everything was bright and moving and loud….and painful.
"Oof!" She gasped as the air was crushed out of her lungs, her shoulder pads had stopped the pain for the most part, but her ribs were on fire, which was not good. Not now.
Whatever it was that crashed, it had slowed her down heaps, and she had been going fast. It was amazing that her broom hadn't snapped on impact.
Louise shook her head and blinked away the spots of colour, trying to get in control of her broom, which had gone haywire. Below her, the English chaser was rolling on the grass, holding his knee and groaning in agony.
What on earth were the odds of him falling just as she was under him ABOUT TO CATCH THE SNITCH?
Louise' head snapped up, as her gaze darted across the pitch, searching…
There. The English seeker as gaining on the snitch, his little greasy face stuffed with excitement, he thought she was a goner. She had lost a lot of distance but the snitch was swerving back in her direction.
Damn that chaser. She would not lose this. With a final glance of disgust at the fallen player, she sped off once more.
She needed this, she needed this win. Everyone had been forgetting she existed lately, just forgetting who had won the cup for them in that final. They were all gaga over that young new player, not remembering who had been their favourite seeker a few weeks ago. But that would change; she would show HER how to play quidditch. Compared to Louise's knowledge and skill, that girl wasn't even out of the cradle!
Infuriated, with who she didn't even know anymore, Louise came alongside the opposition seeker, and lashed out at him. Her foot caught him in the un-padded kidney, and he choked off and slowed down, giving Louise the opening she needed. With one final lunge, she threw herself forward….
And caught it.
She'd done it! THAT'D teach little I'm-such-a-quidditch-genius. But the cheering of the crowd sounded wrong. Something was wrong. Looking at the score board, her mouth gaped open. It was supposed to be her MOMENT!
FRANCE: 210
ENGLAND: 210
A/N: well, if that made no sense to you, puck you miss! I had those characters stuck in my brain, and now they're let free. Vittoria was supposed to come across as a girl desperate for achieving and acceptance, and Louise as a power-hungry attention whore.
I LOVE QUIDDITCH!