~*History Almost Repeats Itself*~
Dove: I co-authored again! And it isn't an epic so you can not be mad at me! Besides, everyone who wanted a fully 100% Harry/Gabrielle story, you will finally get exactly what you've been asking for. Fluff, my friends. Fluff at its best. But also… Quidditch. A lot of Quidditch… and would everyone say hi to my co-author for this piece, my lovely beta-editor, Thalia!
Thalia: Yep! Here's a Quidditch-filled fluff-tacular masterpiece by the talented Dove and yours truly! Harry/Gabrielle goodness, and a whole of other excellent things besides! Enjoy, and leave us many reviews telling us how much you love the story and adore us for writing it!
Disclaimer: Neither of us own Harry Potter. He's a creation of JKR and for the purposes of this fic he belongs to Gabrielle anyway. You should be well aware of which cute Quidditch players we do not own, so don't sue us. Don't even think of suing us. We do own Cara, and you don't want her mad at you ~_^
The night was balmy and warm. They had been talking about it for weeks, this strange heat wave that had hit the area and caused people to spend their days sleeping to forget about it. The town of Niederstotzingen, sleepy at the best of times, was nearly ghostlike in its daytime emptiness. It was more a village than a town, really, small and quaint, where everyone knew everyone's names and the smell of Frau Schmidt baking pies drew the village children to her windows like flies.
At night, the sleepy village came alive, however. Perhaps the local idea of a crazy night out was a great deal more peaceful than anywhere else, but there were people around, insomuch as you saw a pedestrian or two when you turned a corner. The one true pub in town, Gans Ei Wirtshaus, was doing good business with the working men who had found the energy to drag themselves out after a stifling day in the sun. The people of the village left a space around outsiders, so the young man with shaggy black hair and round glasses was left to drink himself into oblivion in peace. He didn't speak much German; except for the heavily accented requests for beer, he spoke not at all.
Harry Potter, meanwhile, was having a rough night, and was more than content to be ignored. He had a game in the morning-a rather important game actually. The European Cup was nothing to sneeze at, especially when they were playing France, who had won the last World Cup spectacularly. Their star Seeker had retired, however, so there was always a chance. Harry, used to being "Captain Potter" and the motivation of Puddlemere United, had found himself the captain of the British star team, and before he knew it, they were in Germany on the eve of the most important game of his career so far. The small irony of the game between England and France being hosted on German soil was not lost on him. At this point, however, he was a bit beyond caring.
He had received a wedding invitation in the mail today. It shouldn't have come as such a complete shock, perhaps, but Harry had always had the distinct impression that Virginia Weasley would never love anyone but him. Therefore, the piece of white paper, decorated with silver, and proclaiming the union of his childhood fanclub to his arch-nemesis, Draco Malfoy, had hit hard. Of all men, Ginny had had to choose that one and that made it past bearing, especially in her happy letter, overflowing with exuberance, which had come in the envelope, telling Harry he should be ecstatic, for Malfoy had apparently changed. It was more than worry for his friend-it was a blow to his ego. Therefore, Harry Potter, the star of the British Quidditch world and the Boy Who Lived, was sitting in a pub three kilometers away from the conjured stadium and getting drunk out of his mind.
He was finishing his eighth beer when the door to the pub opened to reveal another stranger, this one a lovely young woman with a coronet of golden hair. She was obviously not a creature of pubs and provincialities, yet somehow, her coming here fit, in a strange way. A seraph from the heavens descended to Earth, bringing with her peace and hope and mercy. She looked around the pub with striking sapphire eyes, and her gaze landed upon the lone man in the corner. Her eyes widened slightly, and she gracefully but quickly made her way over towards him.
The people of the village watched in interest for a few moments, then, realizing that neither the man nor the angel spoke in their native tongue, shrugged and went back to their business.
When one was inebriated, one didn't always have the best of motor control, so Harry nearly sloshed what remained of the beer he was nursing in his hands all over the clean white shirt of the young woman who had startled him by calling out his name. But evidently, she had quick enough reflexes to grasp his cup firmly and set it upright, slightly away from him.
"'Ello zere, 'Arry. What a coincidence zat ze two of us would meet 'ere, both strangers in a strange town, don't you sink?" The young woman said casually, sitting down across from him and slowly but firmly moving his beer away from him. In his drunken state, or perhaps because of the fairness of his companion, he did not even notice.
Bleary green eyes fixed upon her, and a drunken leer appeared on his face. In a slurred, half-awed, half-suggestive voice, he addressed her, "Were your parents Greek Gods, because you're one gorgeous Goddess." Gabrielle rolled her eyes and smirked, mentally picturing a Lockhart-esque Boy Who Lived marketing books on horrible pick-up lines.
"Good evening to you too," she responded. It was rather hilariously ironic to see him again now. It had been over ten years… she wouldn't have recognized him, but he hadn't bothered to take his practice jersey off, and the shirt usually worn under his Quidditch robes said "Potter" in blue letters, though it was entirely harmless otherwise. Time had wrought changes, she saw. He was tall now, though he had never grown out of being lanky. His hair was a bit longer and, she suspected, usually more controlled. She supposed she could have called him good-looking, though the smell of alcohol and the muddied look in his bright green eyes were definitely counts against him. "So, 'oo 'as died and left you to mourn zem 'ere alone?"
Harry was entirely too drunk to wonder how the angelic female knew his name. Lots of people knew his name, though the fact that she could be a witch hadn't occurred to him. "'S nothing. Just killing time. What's your name?"
She raised a brow at him, wondering if the name would ring a bell. "Gabrielle."
Harry looked thoughtful for a moment. "That's a pretty name. I think I knew someone named Gabrielle once."
"It's common enough." She shot a smile at the bartender who came around and asked, slowly, in broken German, for a vodka with orange juice. She preferred these, as she didn't feel the alcohol at all. Harry began to ask for another beer but she sent the bartender a warning glance and he, knowing that the wrath of a sober woman was far more dangerous than that of a drunk man, did not bring another.
"So 'Arry, tell me, why are you sitting 'ere being a sponge when you 'ave a game tomorrow and playing wis an 'angover is not somesing zat you will enjoy?" Gabrielle asked him, drawing her wand under the table and casting a mild Sobering Charm upon him. It quickly took effect and his eyes lost a bit of their glassy blankness.
"Read it, just read it." He muttered, roughly sliding a white-and-silver card across the table towards her. Discreetly, she muttered a spell under her breath to clean up the splash of beer that had landed upon the delicate piece of paper, then picked it up, quietly reading.
"You are cordially invited to ze wedding of Miss Virginia Weasley and Mr. Draco Malfoy, at 3:00 in the afternoon on the 18th of September, at Siren's Shore, overlooking the sea." Then following the embossed script were hurriedly scribbled words in a feminine handwriting that Gabrielle assumed was the bride-to-be's. "Dear 'Arry, I'm so very excited! At long last, I'm going to be married. Please, do come, I'd love to see you again. You're one of my oldest friends, and it would mean so much if you could be 'ere on ze most important day of my life. Oh, Draco is so wonderful, you would 'ardly recognize 'im now; 'e 'as changed so much since our schooldays... but I digress. Please tell me zat you'll be there. My family and I would all love to see you again. Love from Ginny."
Gabrielle gave Harry a long, appraising look. "So, zis is why you are upset. Are you in love wis zis Ginny?"
"No, not exactly..." Harry muttered.
"Zen, pray tell, what is ze problem?"
"I suppose if you look at it that way, there is no problem. Except there is." Now sobered a bit, Harry looked at her curiously. "Is there a particular reason that you know I have a game tomorrow?"
"I am a big fan of Quidditch," Gabrielle said, poker face on. She didn't find it necessary to mention that Maurice Leblanc, the hated Beater that captained the French national team, had just screamed at her once she had coolly refused to sleep with him, despite him having furthered her career. Right at this particular moment, she didn't very much like Quidditch. She had enough confidence in her own abilities to know that Leblanc's words about her getting on the team by virtue of looks were only meant to sting, and did not ring true. Nonetheless, she didn't much feel like getting on a broomstick again. "In any case, if zere is no problem, why are you 'ere feeling sorry for yourself?"
Harry grinned at the blonde and wondered why she looked so incredibly familiar. "If I weren't so nice and you weren't so pretty, I'd tell you to go away."
She smiled and slipped the invitation back in the envelope. "I know," she acknowledged, "but you did not answer my question."
"Well, Ginny, we went to school together, her brother Ron was my best friend. She used to have a huge crush on me, even though I never really noticed. And Malfoy, the man she's marrying, he was just about the most snooty, supercilious little git you could imagine. We were also rivals in Quidditch, he was the Seeker for his house like I was for mine. Suffice it to say that we detested each other, and now, this girl who used to worship me, is marrying him, and from the looks of it, adores him. I guess it's just a shock, and a blow to a fellow's ego, is all." Harry, now slightly more sober, replied.
"Ah yes. A bruised ego is far worse zan a bruised eye, n'est-ce pas?" Gabrielle asked amusedly. "Ze most fragile part of ze 'uman male anatomy. And so very, very easy to destroy." She smiled charmingly. "It makes me feel grateful to be a woman."
"Were you trying to cheer me up?" he glared. "It isn't working."
"No, I was trying to get your mind off of it," she replied smoothly.
"Oh," said Harry, feeling slightly obtuse.
"Is it working?"
He smiled slowly at her. "Yeah."
"Zat's good. Now, will you be a smart et reasonable person and not make yourself sick?" Gabrielle asked in a cajoling voice, signaling for the waiter.
"I'm not making myself sick." What would have been an angelic smile came out slightly hazy and lopsided. Gabrielle rolled her eyes.
"Zat is what zey all say. And I suppose zat you were pairfectly sober when you said zat 'orrible pick-up line, correct?" She turned to the waiter, and ordered a cup of strong coffee and some rolls, then focused her attention back on Harry. "Really, it would be best if you did not vomit all over ze Quidditch pitch tomorrow while flying around wis an 'angover. Ze waiter will give you some coffee and bread; it will 'elp."
As if on cue, the waiter did arrive with said foodstuffs, and set them in front of Harry. He took a bite of the bread, and gave Gabrielle another lopsided smile, "Thanks for taking care of me, my angel."
Looking amused, she sipped her drink and cocked a brow at him. "Ah, I wonder if you will sank me tomorrow, cheri," she said blandly. "After all, I am not an angel. I am only 'uman. And any self-respecting 'uman female would do as much." She wrinkled her nose. "Men wis beer breas frustrate me." Leblanc had probably been drunk, come to think of it. Disturbed at the thought, she swallowed the rest of her drink down.
"You look upset," he noted, slowly drinking his coffee. "What's wrong, angel?"
To his surprise, she glared at him. "Why do you call me an angel? Is it because I am beautiful? If it is, zen you might as well stop wasting your breas. I'm sick of being ogled." Looking down at the table, she traced knots in the wood, refusing to look up.
"I won't deny that you're breathtaking," Harry said slowly. She shivered a second, but her gaze remained focused downward. "But actually, I was thinking more along the lines of my angel of mercy. Who knows how bad I would have gotten without you here? I'd have had to hope the Snitch flew into my mouth."
"Like your first year," she said softly. "Lucky accidents like zat only 'appen once."
Harry was surprised. "I see you've been following my career?"
"Maybe," she said, looking down at the table. Then, she mildly added "Merde. I can't stay mad at you."
"So, what brings you here tonight? Surely not a reason like mine?" he asked her softly. "I doubt that anyone would ever choose another girl over you..."
"No, nothing like zat. I just wanted to take a break from my... boss." Gabrielle replied tentatively.
"Oh, he working you too hard?" Despite his inebriation, Harry sounded rather concerned.
"No... 'e sinks zat, to prove my... dedication to my job, I should provide 'im wis some... oblique benefits." She spat bitterly. "Ze man is a disgusting lecher."
To her great surprise, Harry's eyes darkened with righteous anger. "That's despicable! I should go and give him a piece of my mind! How dare he treat you like that? Why, we should go and confront him right now! Gabrielle, tell me where he is!"
"No, no, zat is all right, some ozer time, per'aps. You are really in no condition to confront anybody right now."
"I'm better," he said mulishly.
"Sanks to me," she said amusedly. "Ozerwise, you would be plastered across ze floor, and all of zese lovely German Muggles would 'ave no choice but to srow you outside. Zen you would oversleep in a puddle of mud and lose ze game… come to sink of it, why didn't I leave you here?" She grinned. "Vive la France."
"That's unkind, Gabrielle," Harry said. "The game would be no fun to watch without me there."
"My, aren't we a little full of ourselves?"
"Perhaps just a little," he agreed.
She shrugged. "Ah, but ze French all-star team will win tomorrow's match, naturally. It should be a pleasure."
"We'll cream 'em," Harry said with the easy confidence of the heavily drunk.
"Ah, I don't sink so," she countered. "In fact, I'd be willing to bet on it. Anysing you want, 'Arry Potter, if ze British win." She smiled charmingly. "An offer you cannot refuse, non?"
"You're on, angel." He gazed back at her, challenge in his eyes and pride in his countenance. "If the French win, I will do anything you want for a day. And if the British win, you will do anything I want for a day. Would that be fair?"
"Oui." She proffered a slender hand. He shook it firmly, then laid a kiss on the palm.
"Good luck, angel, you'll need it." he smiled sunnily.
She smirked. "You'll need it more zan me, 'Arry Potter. Aurevoir." and with that, she got up to her feet, laying a few coins on the table, and calmly walked out of the pub.
Harry looked after her in a daze, then shook his head to clear it. Pulling enough money out of his wallet that he was sure he had left a decent tip, Harry wandered out of the Gans Ei Wirtshaus and down the small, cobbled street it stood on. He realized he was still too drunk to even attempt Apparating, and so decided that a long walk would refresh him. Wandering along, he didn't even realize that Ginny and Malfoy were completely out of his mind, which was filled with much more interesting thoughts.
He got back to the encampment around three in the morning. By his tent, he found a very concerned Oliver Wood, who looked as though he wouldn't even think of getting to sleep until his purpose was achieved. It was funny how Harry had risen to become Oliver's captain in the professional leagues, but it was an honor that two from the same team had been chosen from all the players in the league to represent England here. "Hey, Oliver," he said exhaustedly.
"Harry! Are you all right? What happened? We were worried sick! Beatrice and Cara nearly had conniptions!" He was referring to a Chaser and Beater, both of whom had the penchant to be overly emotional. Or rather, Cara did. Beatrice just sort of followed along until she, too, was hysterical.
"Oliver… we play in three hours," Harry said exhaustedly. "Please… just let me sleep. I suggest you do the same."
He lifted the flap to his tent only to stop at Oliver's incredulous question: "Harry… are you drunk?"
"No, I act half-pissed for my own pleasure. Good night, Oliver." He collapsed into bed and slept like a dead man for two hours.
The next morning when the clanging bell that signaled everyone to wake up rang, he most certainly would have heaved up the remnants of his last meal had a strong, slightly calloused hand not tipped a cupful of some icy fluid down his throat at his first groan. Immediately feeling better now that everything around him had stopped spinning, he looked up to see the concerned but slightly amused eyes of Robert Entwhistle, likely the brainiest Beater ever to play Professional Quidditch, looking down at him, an empty goblet in one hand.
"Oliver came to my tent at an ungodly hour this morning, running around having a fit, and told me that you were drunk as a lord when you came back last night. That's really not like you, Harry; I hope nothing's wrong. Well, anyway, I brewed you some Hangover Potion. Figured you wouldn't want to vomit all over the pitch when we get up into the air." Robert shrugged, then started walking out. "I'm going to breakfast."
Harry swallowed hard. Robert's hangover potion was quite effective, for which he was thankful, but the potion was so cold it burned... and why did Robert's little witticism about him throwing up all over the pitch sound familiar, and why did he have a feeling that, wherever he'd heard it before, it had been spoken to him in much lovelier tones?
Half an hour later, having eaten and changed into his blue uniform robes, Harry went over strategy with his team. "And remember, for God's sake, watch out for Poulain. He's brutal with those bludgers."
"Do you know who's replacing Touluse as Seeker, Captain?" Irwin Harper, the youngest team member and eager to please, asked. He played Chaser, and Harry was rather taken aback by his constant enthusiasm.
"They've changed their intended Seeker every week," Harry said moodily. "They want to confuse us, so we don't know what to expect. His name is in the programs in the stadium, I'd wager, but we don't find out until they announce his name and he flies onto the pitch." Harry assumed it was a male, at least. Leblanc, the captain of the French team, seemed just chauvinistic enough to have only men on his team. The other six players were male, why not the Seeker too?
"All right, gentlemen-"
"And ladies!" Cara Davies said indignantly.
"-and ladies," Harry finished. "Get out there and win us this thing. Let's have a spectacular victory." And then thy stood by the doors, ready to fly out as their names were called.
A familiar, albeit deeper voice boomed over the stadium. "Welcome to the European Quidditch Cup, ladies and gentlemen! Lee Jordan here, as your faithful and brilliant commentator. Today's game should be a spectacular one, with the finest team England has had for many seasons, versus the French team, winners of the last World Cup. Now, let's give a cheer for the English team! We have... Davies! Entwhistle! Gray! Harper! Johnson! Wood! Aaaand, of course, the brilliant and famous Captain and Seeker, POTTER!"
A rousing cheer from the English supporters in the stands sounded within the stadium, as Harry and his team zoomed out onto the field. Oliver Wood took position by the goalposts, and the rest of the team took to various positions in the air. Harry flew one lap around the pitch before landing on the ground to stand by the referee.
Lee Jordan continued, exuberant voice reverberating throughout the field, "And now, the French team! We have... Callais! duLac! Leblanc! Poulain! Tatou! Vockrodt! Aaaand, the lady commonly acknowledged by all Quidditch Periodicals to be the most attractive Seeker seen in 50 years, and the real reason you gentlemen came to watch this game... DELACOUR!!"
The French team zoomed out one by one, but Harry, standing on the pitch, was gaping into the air with a most peculiar look on his face. He knew that last name. He remembered Fleur Delacour. But Fleur had never expressed interest in Quidditch…
And suddenly, it hit him. A little girl he had pulled out of the lake… Fleur's frantic screams of "Gabrielle!", and the little girl's huge, scared eyes…
The French Seeker hovered just to his right, and he looked up, dreading, and at the same time hoping. The young woman from last night… who had told him not to throw up over the pitch… grinned at him like a Cheshire cat. He though he made out her mouthing something. It looked like "ready to lose?"
Maurice Leblanc landed across from him, and Harry looked at him. Something just didn't add up… Gabrielle… she had said last night that her boss had tried to proposition her… but if she played Quidditch, then her boss had to be-
"Captain Leblanc, Captain Potter. Please shake hands."
Harry looked at the middle-aged man with venom in his stare. Leblanc seemed frankly puzzled by the animosity. When he offered his hand, Harry squeezed far harder than he had to, sadistically pleased at the look of pain in the French Beater's eyes.
"Gentlemen, you may mount up," instructed the portly referee.
Once Harry was in the air, he looked again at the young woman, almost a girl, really, in the white French uniform robes. "You…" he managed in Gabrielle's direction before the whistle was blown. Then it sounded and the Chasers begun a mad dash. Harry and Gabrielle, however, simply hovered, facing each other.
"Ze terms still stand," she said lightly, then winked and blew him a kiss before zooming up into the air and leaving him baffled.
Sometimes, Harry swore that Lee Jordan had a built-in omnicular system in his vision for detecting shenanigans on the Quidditch pitch, and this time was no different. A magically magnified wolf-whistle resounded in the stadium, followed by the words, "And already, Delacour has shown the use of a new and effective diversionary tactic, although I'm sure that Potter doesn't mind at all! You're a lucky man, Harry, most of us blokes here would give an eye-tooth to be the recipient of a kiss blown from the lovely Mademoiselle Delacour..." Harry blushed crimson, but the crowd's laughter was diverted a moment later when a blue blur shot like an arrow towards the goalpost, and then, Lee's triumphant roar of, "And Johnson scores! Ten points for the English team!
Harry cheered with the rest of the English supporters, and high-fived Paul Johnson as he zoomed past. Paul had been a Gryffindor chaser, who had replaced his older sister Angelina when she had left Hogwarts. Two years younger than Harry, he was as fast and skilled as his sister. It seemed as though Quidditch skills truly did run in families.
All of the sudden, a bludger whizzed through the air, flying towards him. Harry ducked, and glared at the offending Leblanc. At that very moment, Cara Davies flew towards him, Beater club raised, in hot pursuit of the bludger, and Harry managed to say to her with a malevolent smile before she passed, "When you get the opportunity, smite Leblanc, as long as you stay within the rules."
Cara nodded, eyes dancing, and a moment later, the crowd gasped as a bludger hit Leblanc in the midsection, and the other bludger, which he had been aiming towards Gray, who currently had the Quaffle, zoomed off course and hit Vockrodt instead. Cara did a little loop-the-loop in the air, gave an airy wave to a grinning Harry, and continued on her merry way.
From that moment on, Leblanc seemed to encounter bludgers wherever he went. He was quite a superb Beater as far as Beaters went, but when the English brunette seemed to be pelting at him as though he were an ex-boyfriend who had done something particularly nasty, like cheated with his secretary, it was difficult to do his job properly.
Callais, the Keeper, looked flustered as Gray made the second goal of the game.
"And Leblanc gets pummeled again… boy, Davies sure seems to hold a grudge; wonder if Roger's sleeping on the couch nowadays… just kidding Davies, just kidding, don't aim that at me, just keep doing what you've been doing… and Leblanc gets hit again! I have to say, the man's made out of steel…"
Gabrielle, soaring above the game, was listening to this with interest. Maurice seemed to be moving slower… but Davies' bludger tactics certainly left her open. She wouldn't let herself think that Harry might be responsible for that. He certainly wasn't astounded enough by her to purposefully give her team a win.
She winced as the commentator called out "And another spectacular goal, this time by Harper! This Montrose Magpies Chaser proves youth doesn't impede talent any… and there he goes again… Harper to Gray! Gray to Jhonson! Jhonson to-oh no, the bludger gets him in the stomach and-it's Tatou, to duLac, to-has Potter seen the Snitch?"
Gabrielle pulled herself out of her daydream and took a sharp dive downward, pressed to her broom, her only thought that she wasn't losing to Harry this easily. At the last moment, seeing the golden blur, she put on a spurt of speed but, instead of catching it, cut in front of Harry, barely avoiding a collision and effectively letting the Snitch get away. "Not so easy, 'Arry," she admonished him, then soared back up.
"And… I'm not sure, but it looks like… Delacour avoided catching the Snitch… Potter looks flabbergasted… Oh, look at that! Goal by Vockrodt! 10-30 in favor of England…"
And so, the game continued. Gray caught the Quaffle a moment after Vockrodt's scoring shot and tore down the field towards the opposite goal posts. Poulain, the French beater who was not being targeted by the tenacious Cara Davies, pelted the other bludger towards the brown-haired chaser. Gray, in a calculated, strategic move, somersaulted through the air, dodging the speeding bludger and passing the Quaffle to Johnson at the same time. Entwhistle, right behind her, hit the bludger right back at Poulain, and Gray stuck her tongue out at the French Beater as Johnson scored yet another goal.
The English Chasers were doing fabulously, as was the still-enthusiastic, still-alert Oliver Wood, teeth clenched and eyes riveted upon Tatou, who was heading towards him with the Quaffle under his arm. Just as Tatou was about to approach the scoring area, Leblanc, who had finally managed to free himself from Cara Davies' persistent bludger storm, smashed a bludger towards Wood, hitting him in the shoulder. Wood staggered, but managed to keep on his broomstick, although the momentary wobble was enough for Tatou to score. The French team's triumph was cut short a moment later by the referee's whistle.
"No attacking the Keeper unless the Quaffle is within the scoring area; penalty shot to England!"
A grinning Harper took the shot, and scored, making the score 50-20 in England's favor. Gray, a streak of blue robes, grabbed the Quaffle as Lee finished calling out this score to the crowd, and threw it again. Callais, in his furor, dove straight through the hoop in an effort to stop her from scoring, and the whistle blew again.
"Flacking! Penalty shot to the English!" The referee called out. Leblanc flew towards Callais, bellowing something very unpleasant-sounding in French, as Gray, smiling beatifically, scored again.
While the Chasers, Beaters and Keepers were fighting it out below, Harry floated high above the pitch, looking for the Snitch. Well, he was sort-of looking for the Snitch. He'd look for a spark of gold, and could he really help that Gabrielle's hair was that color? Then he would realize what he was doing and stubbornly look for the Snitch again.
He couldn't quite believe that stunt she had pulled earlier. She could have had the Snitch; with speed like that, Harry wasn't competition. She moved like Beatrice did-so quickly there was nothing but a blur of white and gold. Right now, for instance, she was circling the pitch at a great speed, obviously very aware that the Snitch wouldn't show again so soon after the first brush with it. He sighed and made himself look for it anyway. What kind of game was she playing?
Gabrielle, for her part, was doing the thing she liked second-best in the world. Zooming around the pitch with the wind in her hair, she felt as free as a bird, and refused to let the gaze she felt relentlessly return to her again and again affect her.
She was getting hungry. It had been hours since they had been in the air. She checked her gold wristwatch and found that it was already noon-six hours since they had started. They were technically allowed short breaks for refreshment in the middle of the game, but Gabrielle knew Leblanc, and knew they would not stop until twelve hours had passed and it was time to call in the alternates. So, she waited, scanning the pitch below her, hoping for a chance at the Snitch. The thing she loved doing best was diving, when her heart would skip a beat and the ground would approach at a breakneck pace. It wasn't catching the Snitch right now that worried her. She could put that off all day, as long as she was careful and watched for Harry, who would catch it at first opportunity. She was rather enjoying stretching this game out. Leblanc would probably be furious if he figured out what she was doing. Hopefully, he hadn't guessed.
She made another loop and shook her head as Vockrodt and duLac earned a penalty for Stooging, which Harper took gleefully. The score was now 100-30, and she was getting worried. If the French Chasers didn't shape up soon, she would have to catch the Snitch whether she wanted to or not.
Tatou got through somehow when Poulain slammed a bludger at Wood, and the score was 40-100. She relaxed a bit and set about circling again, ignoring Harry's eyes on her back.
Despite Tatou's goal, which made the score discrepancy slightly smaller, the English players were relentless. Johnson, Gray and Harper went into Hawkshead attacking formation, shooting like arrows towards duLac from one direction, as Entwhistle hit a bludger at him from another. Leblanc, who was trying to duck yet another bludger from the merrily humming Davies, could do nothing but watch as duLac dropped the Quaffle right into Johnson's waiting hands, and Johnson put another lightning-fast shot past Callais. 110-40. Leblanc swore. What was Gabrielle doing?! If this went on, all would be lost, and what was she doing zipping around instead of searching for the thrice-damned Snitch?!
Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Leblanc took his concentration away from the chasers and keepers to focus on Gabrielle. Those eyes took in the way she lazily swung around in the air, gazing skyward, her beautiful face blank. Potter was within twenty feet from her, and, much to Leblanc's fury, had his eyes glued on her, a strange expression on his face. Then, all of the sudden, a flash of gold appeared right in front of his face, disappearing a moment later. The snitch! Leblanc knew that he, himself, could not do anything about it. Their team really could not afford another foul, and he looked desperately towards Gabrielle. The chit was still lazily circling the pitch, and Potter was still staring at her. She hadn't even noticed!
With a growl of rage and frustration, he hit the bludger that that abominable English Beater woman kept on pelting at him towards his Seeker. A moment later, it made a sickening crack as it made impact with Gabrielle's golden head. As the whistle blew shrilly, the crowds gasped and murmured as a blur of blue shot towards the French seeker, and pulled her onto his broom.
"Time out! Five minutes time out!" the referee was yelling, but no one paid any heed, as all eyes were riveted upon the English Seeker, who was cradling his counterpart carefully as he lowered his broom to the ground. Once his feet had landed on solid earth, Harry gently set Gabrielle down, as a mediwizard, wand drawn, rushed forward. By the time that both the French and English teams had landed, the mediwizard was finishing up a spell to heal Gabrielle's head and was handing her a pain potion. Harry was squatting down on the ground next to her, asking her if she was all right. She nodded and gave him a smile, she turned towards the scowling Leblanc.
Eyes hard and narrowed, she faced him, and as the other team members, the referee, and the mediwizard all watched in fascination, she hissed, "You… you… Even wis a concussion, I am a better Quidditch player zan you will evair 'ope to be!" That said, she drained her pain potion in one gulp, stood up, and grabbed her broom, steely expression still on her face. "Let us resume ze game!"
The referee shrugged, and blew the whistle once more, signaling the game's continuation. Harry gave a significant glance and nod towards a righteously indignant Cara Davies, who nodded back, and smiled maliciously. A few moments later, Leblanc caught a bludger in his gut at the same time Gray scored yet another shot, and with his wind knocked entirely out of him, he didn't even have the breath to swear.
As Gabrielle soared around the pitch, she circled Leblanc once. "I'll prove it to you," she hissed in French. "I will win this game… and after that, I will never play for you. Ever. Again. I know you did that on purpose. Charogne." Then she took off before he could reply.
By the time the twelve hour limit was reached, the sun was setting in the sky, and the score was 160-60 in England's favor. Both teams sank to the ground, exhausted, as the reserves walked out onto the pitch, most looking awed to be playing in the European Cup. The actual teams trudged away, dreaming of food and hot tea and a nap before getting back up in the air.
Harry stayed back a few moments, watching his reserves. They were lacking, at a level with the French reserve team, he noted. The French would keep up for now.
He had given strict instructions to Regan Lindley, his reserve Seeker, to not catch the Snitch, and not to let the surly French reserve get near it either. Regan smiled as though she understood, and, come to think of it, she probably did. She certainly followed Harry's departure with a knowing look.
Behind the stands, there was quiet, for once. It was easy to see the players badly needed rest. He caught Beatrice and Cara sleeping in a tent left open to let in the breeze. He himself had one thing to do before he took his rest. He wandered off in the direction that the French players made their camp.
Eventually, he just followed the screaming.
Leblanc stood in the middle of a circle of emotionless-looking French players. Gabrielle also stood in the center, her face raised in heated defiance.
Harry had no idea what Leblanc was saying. He had never learned French, though Sirius had offered to teach him, saying it came in mighty handy. He knew it was true now, as he watched the proud girl standing up to her captain, her arms crossed in front of her in insolence, silent as the sphinx and twice as serious. He felt his heart give a painful little jerk at her mussed hair, tired eyes, and the bruise developing on the side of her head.
Gabrielle, for her part, was having none of it. She thought that Callais, at least, might have stood up for her, but no. All of them were silent, listening as Leblanc went through his list of names, starting with "whore" and only sinking lower.
Finally, she found her voice amidst her anger. "I told you, Leblanc. I'm ten times the Quidditch player you are. Oh, I'll give you your victory. They'll rave about it, I swear it. But once it's over, I don't play for you, ever again."
Leblanc pressed his lips together, then roared something indefinite and slapped Gabrielle hard. She didn't fall, though she swayed. And looked up at him, defiance in every muscle. He spat at her feet, and he and the rest of her team walked away.
Harry cautiously walked towards Gabrielle, tentatively reaching out a hand towards the young woman, noticing with anger and pain that already, a wide red handprint was developing on her pale cheek. "Gabrielle, are you all right? That-that sodding bastard... we'll make him pay, I promise!" Already, his head was filling with vengeful visions on beating Leblanc to a bloody pulp.
Gabrielle turned towards him for a moment, eyes still hard, and said coldly, "I won't be needing your 'elp, sank you. Now, I am going to get some food and rest, I suggest you do ze same," she said, turning around. "Oh, and 'Arry, I'm still winning zis." she called over her shoulder. And with that, she swept away, with the air of a queen of vengeance. Harry looked at her retreating form for a moment longer, then sighed and slowly walked back towards his camp.
Oliver Wood was sitting at the edge of the pitch, a roast beef sandwich in one hand, a pair of omniculars in the other. Harry smiled to himself as he watched Wood munch his sandwich as he still kept track of the game's progress. 'Still the same fanatic as he ever was.' he thought to himself. Well, that was very well. He, Harry, would get some food and rest, and then, he would gather his team together, and they would be informed of certain new plans.
An hour later he had gathered the team and was pacing savagely. "That bloody, damned bastard hit his own Seeker," he got out through clenched teeth. "Once with a bludger, and once, he actually dared raise a hand to her." He stopped, eyes flashing from behind his glasses. "This is no longer a game. This. Is. War."
Oliver looked concerned. "You know, Harry, she's a damned fine Seeker… her being in no condition to play could only serve to benefit-"
Harry, for the first time in his life, glowered down at Oliver Wood. "Do you like your place on this team, Oliver? Yes? Then shut up."
Seeing something in Harry's eyes he hadn't seen before, Oliver quickly raised his hands in surrender. "Right, right. Him hitting his own Seeker is bad. What are we going to do?"
"We," Harry said pleasantly, "are going to slaughter him. If he comes off that pitch without at least one serious injury, I will be very, very upset with you. Cara."
"Yes, Captain?" she asked immediately.
"You are performing admirably. Turn it up a notch."
Cara looked highly satisfied. "Aye aye, Captain," she deadpanned. "The French bastard will not walk off of the pitch unmaimed. Sir."
Harry crossed his arms and surveyed his team. "We are going to do something we haven't done before," he stated. "We are going to play like Slytherin." Everyone except an angelically smiling Cara gaped, for Harry saying this was something akin to Harry announcing his undying devotion to the un-dearly departed Dark Lord. "You have fifteen minutes to be on the pitch. Dismissed."
Fifteen minutes later, the whistle blew, signaling the end of the reserves' time on the field. Lee Jordan's voice rang out through the pitch, "And they're back! The French seeker Delacour is still going strong, despite that rather deplorable bludger to the head. Some Beaters need to learn how to control their swings and their tempers. Anyway, the score is now 200-70, in England's favor. And they're off! Johnson takes possession of the Quaffle, dodges bludger from Poulain, dodges Vockrodt and Tatou, and beats Keeper Callais! 210-70 England!"
Harry's cheers for Paul Johnson increased when he saw Entwhistle pelt a bludger at duLac, who ducked and dropped the Quaffle, and at the same moment that Harper scored another goal, the bludger sped onward, making a beeline for Leblanc's head. At that moment, Cara, with a positively poisonous smile on her face, aimed very carefully before hitting the second bludger towards Leblanc as well.
Leblanc saw Entwhistle's bludger, and hurriedly raised his bat to swat it away. However, Cara's bludger was much lower, and he did not even notice it coming, until with a resounding thwack, it hit the bottom of the handle of the broomstick tightly gripped by his thighs.
And at that moment, several extraordinary things happened. The broomstick shot straight upward, and Leblanc would lightly have tumbled off had he not been gripping it so firmly. Perhaps that would have been for the better, for as it is, the violent upward motion caused the diamond-hard handle of the broom to hit him hard in the groin, and the Quidditch pitch was suddenly filled with an earsplitting scream of intense pain. A satisfied Cara made one last rude gesture towards Leblanc as Lee Jordan's chortling voice drowned out Leblanc's shrieks of agony, "Well, I guess Leblanc should just be glad that he is not married, no wife to eternally disappoint! Oh, and Potter and Delacour have seen the Snitch!" The crowd's laughter changed to excited gasps as the two Seekers, a small white flash and a bigger blur of blue, dove side by side down the field. They did not even notice Beatrice Gray's final Quaffle, soaring in a gentle arc towards the center of the goal hoop.
Harry and Gabrielle were certainly too concentrated on their task to pay attention to the screams of warning from the French supporters. The again, perhaps Harry heard, but Gabrielle certainly didn't. She put on an incredible burst of speed, and, and the last moment, reached out a slim hand and determinedly grabbed the Snitch, secure in the thought that, despite her concussion and despite the nightmarish quality of this game, she had won.
That's when she started listening to Jordan again, for he seemed to be having a fit of gargantuan proportions. "I can't believe it! I just can't believe it! The English Chasers prove brilliant to the end, and Gray makes a goal that will drastically change the outcome of this game… yes, folks, it's been over a century since a European Cup ended this way, but there you have it, a tie at 220-220! Spectacular save by Gray, she's being carried around by Entwhistle and Harper, looking good, Beatrice, looking lovely! Davies, remind me not to get on your bad side, and give my deepest condolences to Roger… only kidding!"
Gabrielle looked up dazedly towards the commentator's box, now hovering less than a foot above the pitch itself, holding the struggling Snitch and trying to clear her mind. "And Delacour seems to be waking up from that daze… she was so sure she had had the victory… brilliant capture by Delacour in any case, never thought I'd see a Seeker better than Harry Potter, but there you have it… wouldn't be surprised if you're looking at the top Seeker in the world right now, folks…"
And Gabrielle finally managed to absorb everything that had happened. Even while being cheered loudly at Jordan's prompting, she made a face and said, "Damn. I should not 'ave caught it."
A moment later, her feet hit the turf of the pitch, and she dismounted, Snitch still in hand. A moment later, Harry dismounted as well, and stood in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cara Davies being swung into the air by her husband, who, despite Lee Jordan's dire predictions, was laughing and seemed in no immediate danger. On the other hand, Leblanc, his face still screwed and drawn in pain, was moaning as Poulain and Tatou carted him off the field. But surprisingly, she could not focus her attention on any of them at this moment. Harry was looking down into her face, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"I won." She said in a defiant voice, meeting his gaze unquailingly as she raised her chin.
"No, I won." He replied, smile growing wider. She gave him a mock-glare, before smiling as well.
"Fine, we bos won. Would zat satisfy you?" she conceded. He smiled tenderly at her, and shifted slightly so that he stood right in front of her in the middle of the pitch.
"Well, I still have to claim my bet, don't I?" he said softly, reaching out one hand to gently touch her cheek, the one that had been so brutally slapped by Leblanc. Her eyes widened, and his looked at her seekingly, as if to ask, 'Is this all right? May I do this?'
Imperceptible to anyone but him, she gave a tiny nod, and then, felt herself being lifted slightly into the air by a pair of strong, blue-clad arms. And right there, in front of his grinning team and her sulky one, in front of the screaming crowds, in front of that smart-mouthed Lee Jordan and in front of the recently emasculated Maurice Leblanc, Harry Potter, the Captain and Seeker of the English All-star team, kissed Gabrielle Delacour, Seeker of the French All-star team.
Dimly, Gabrielle heard a magically magnified, mocking call of, "Aww, and what a sweet, Wuvey-Dovey end to the game! Is Ickle Harrykins in wuve?!"
She made a mental note to kill Lee Jordan as soon as... well... sometime later.
Harry, meanwhile, was having a very difficult time telling the sky from the ground. It felt rather like that gold mist in the third task a long, long time ago. Suddenly he was clinging, not entirely sure what it was that he was clinging to, perfectly terrified, and at the same time, perfectly happy. When he finally let her go, they stood, forehead to forehead, hearts beating loudly, completely ignoring the crowd all around them.
He had known her a little over twenty-four hours. It felt like he had known her forever. Perhaps in a way, he had, as she was the same little girl who had looked at him adoringly from wide blue eyes when he had pulled her out of a lake looked at him now, exhilaration and fear mixing in her gaze.
And Harry thought about how she had taken away his beer, how she had made him drink coffee, how she had teased and taunted and cajoled him out of his misery. How she had glared at Leblanc, how her skin had been marked by his hand, how Harry had basically been responsible for the unmanning of another human being, all for her sake. He thought about how she felt, held close, he thought about how she tasted, he thought about how she looked at him, and Harry Potter said something he didn't think he'd ever say to anyone, and something he had definitely not planned on saying to this impetuous girl when she had taken away his drink and made him act his age.
"I love you."
Gabrielle's eyes widened to the
rough shape and size of saucers.
"W-what?"
"I love you," he
repeated. It came easier the second
time. "Hey, wanna go to a wedding?"
She looked flabbergasted. "A… what? You're… you're asking me…"
Harry laughed. "No, I wasn't. I actually meant Draco and Ginny. Though actually, that's not such a bad idea…"
She just blinked those incredibly long lashes at him, looking as though she wanted to pinch herself.
"Heidelberg isn't all that far away from here, either," he said with a grin. "I'd take a leaf out of Rudolf Brand's book, only if you hit me with that Firebolt and we both have concussions, the Quidditch world will go into an uproar."
She bit her lip and looked up at him. "'Arry…"
He seemed surprised she had finally spoken. "Yes?"
"I 'aven't… collected on my 'alf of ze bet yet." With that, she stood up on her toes and the world spun again, only this time, she didn't feel like she was falling with no one to catch her. When she moved to breathe, she looked at him, just looked, and his heart couldn't help but jump.
"So," he said softly, "should I beware the broom?"
Gabrielle swallowed once before she found her voice. "You would 'ave to ask properly before I decided whezer or not to 'it you."
Harry looked into her eyes, trying to read what he saw there. Finally, he nodded softly. "All right then." He released her, and she felt a stab of panic at his distance. Harry looked her over one more time, then, with a hopeful little half-smile, knelt on the grass, ignoring the sounds of shock from the stands. "Gabrielle Delacour, will you marry me?"
Gabrielle watched his face, still not entirely sure this was really happening, wondering if things had the right to move so fast, yet feel so right. Her world was upside down; when he took her hand in his, it righted itself. "Stand up," she said softly. He looked at her inquisitively, and she smiled shakily. "I would razer remember you today proud and on your feet. You didn't, after all, lose to me." He stood and, to his inquiring, deep look, she blushed to the roots of her hair and nodded. "Yes," she whispered, making a show of kicking her broom aside.
Then, before she knew it, he had pulled her into his arms, and everyone around them was cheering and Lee Jordan was shouting something about history repeating itself. And in that moment, it didn't matter in the least.