A/N: I know. I haven't updated 'Take Two' or 'Four' in a month. I know, and I'm sorry. I can only liken it to Superman being affected by Kryptonite. I can't explain how suddenly, I couldn't string words together so it came out as something readable and enjoyable. Frustrated beyond belief, I sulked about it and asked for help and complained, and one day, managed to get this oneshot out. Trust me, it's not spectacular, but I hope it's decent. I plan to update 'Four' within a few days, so if you do read that, please be patient with me. Thank you.
This is just over 8,000 words, so I hope it satisfies both a casual reader to someone who reads my other fics upon an update. I've only read one Harry Potter/Glee fic, by the way, and that was FerryBerry's, so if this resembles another one, it was completely unintentional.
Think this is bad? Tell me. I like constructive criticism, but no flames. I already feel like this is lame. So…enjoy! (I hope.)
Within the walls of an upscale, Devon estate, a lone witch crept quietly from her room to the guest wing, eyes alight with excitement.
"Come on, 'Chel," Santana Lopez insisted, reaching her destination and plopping down on the bed. "You've gotta wake up now."
"Why?" Rachel Berry grumbled in reply, attempting to burrow further beneath her covers.
Santana poked incessantly at the blankets, her consistently diminished patience wearing thinner by the second.
"Why? Why? Because the World Cup is today! Remember?"
That earned Santana a sleepy, piqued gaze, cocoa eyes peering at her in slight befuddlement.
"Today?" Rachel repeated slowly, dumbly, and Santana rolled her eyes in exasperation.
"Yes. You know, the reason you're staying with me for the holidays?"
"Right, right," Rachel yawned, nodding before rolling sideways out of her cot and ambling to the bathroom, a change of clothes held loosely in her hands. Resisting the tempting urge to cast a Cheering Charm on her drowsy best friend when the other girl's back was turned, Santana packed her rucksack and Rachel's, sitting on the bed until Rachel reappeared, looking more lively and ready to leave. Stowing her wand in her jacket, Rachel accepted her gear and the pair crept downstairs, careful to not wake up Santana's family, all still asleep. Her father, a Healer-in-Charge, won two tickets in an employee lottery at St. Mungo's, and gave them to Santana as a gift for her seventeenth birthday, leaving stern instructions to travel by Portkey to the match. Santana remembered pouting about the order. She and Rachel could Apparate legally, but ultimately decided to listen to her father's advice and take a walk to the nearest Portkey location to depart instead.
Fortunately, Britain would be hosting it again for the second time in less than three decades, and as always, being in attendance to the event was a hot commodity and a very precious gift. The Ballycastle Bats, representing the European League, would be against the Fitchburg Finches, representing the United States League, and the majority of bets leaned—understandably—to Ireland's many victories.
Rachel shivered a bit at the brisk, morning breeze as it chased away any remnants of sleep from her brain, but followed Santana, the duo wandering away from the ornate, large manor—bewitched to Muggles to look like a simple cottage—and treading down the cliff path located nearby. Luckily, the Portkey was not a long walk and it took no more than fifteen minutes to reach the small, designated jetty.
"Who are we meeting here, again?"
"Hummel," Santana answered distractedly, examining a crushed soda can with narrowed eyes, and once deemed worthless, was tossed.
"Oh, Kurt…that's right," Rachel brightened, pausing for a second in her search. "I completely forgot..."
Kurt Hummel, a Gryffindor, was Rachel's other best friend at Hogwarts. Their friendship was regarded as impossible, and surely absurd, due to the constant friction between Gryffindors and Slytherins, still unyielding and prominent to this day. However, Rachel and Kurt had formed a bond during their first year, when Rachel pushed Hank Saunders after he'd sent a Bat-Bogey Hex at an unsuspecting Kurt on the stairs. When Kurt asked of it, Rachel just replied that he 'looked clever' and appraised him as an ally instead of an enemy, and that was that, oddly enough. Santana found the entire thing ridiculous but refrained from commenting and often ignored Kurt on principle.
Rachel was considering an old piece of driftwood when she heard a jubilant shout.
"Rachel!"
She turned and grinned, opening her arms just in time to accept Kurt himself in a tight embrace.
"How are you?" They asked delightedly in unison before chuckling at each other, making Burt Hummel laugh quietly, smiling at Rachel and acknowledging Santana with a polite, cursory nod, receiving a brief, curt one in return.
"Find it yet?" Burt questioned, squinting suspiciously at a muddy newspaper, and Rachel shook her head.
The search continued, making the group separate, heads bent to look at pieces of litter spread across the beach until a triumphant "aha!" from Kurt revealed a miniature, dilapidated doll, half-buried in the sand. He held it up for the others to see, pointing surreptitiously at the almost invisible glimmer of bluish light on the surface of the toy, unearthing its magical properties. Burt nodded, checking his watch.
"Right on time...we've got a minute," Burt remarked, businesslike, and they mosied into a huddle, each holding a part of the doll, listening to the ticks of Burt's watch, the rush of the waves, and the wind ruffling the leaves on the trees, as time ticked lower and lower.
"Three, two...one—"
Rachel felt the familiar, unpleasant coiling in her chest as she closed her eyes, pressure pushing down on all sides, breath immediately escaping her lungs. Still unused to Apparition and only able to feel the uncomfortable strain pressing hard on her body, Santana and Kurt's arms against her own, and the abrasive texture of the doll on her fingertips, she waited until nearing voices reached her ears, before releasing her hold on the Portkey and landing hard on her feet, the impact sending a flash of pain to her knees. She managed to smirk at Santana, who'd landed flat on her back rather than floating slowly to the ground, scowling irritably as she brushed herself off.
"Ten past six at Ilfracombe Shore," a sleepy Ministry wizard mumbled, scribbling a check and tossing the doll Burt passed him into a box.
"Dumb...fucking thing," the taller brunette mumbled, shooting a furtive glare at the discarded figurine, a frown forming on her lips.
They bid a cheerful—well, Santana tried to look more cordial than usual, with a pointed elbow in the ribs—fairwell to Kurt and Burt, and traipsed after the line of people treking to the Muggle campgrounds not too far away, where tents and cabins had been reserved in months prior. Rachel and Santana both agreed that staying overnight would be much easier than attempting to find an uncrowded Portkey. The man helping them, aged and gray-haired, introduced himself as Roberts and told the two girls about a fantastic, recurring dream he had, where he was floating upside down into the air with his family. Hastily, Santana paid him in Muggle bills and they hurried away, just as a sour Ministry official, muttering about being stuck with this bloody job again, sent a quick Memory Charm on Mr. Roberts.
"They spelled my last name wrong," Santana grumbled. "Muggles. No common sense at all."
Rachel nodded in agreement as she lifted the tent flap, allowing them inside, flicking her wand, an Undetectable Expansion Charm widening the internal perimeter of the tent, until it resembled a small, cosy apartment, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a sitting room, and a restroom. Satisfied, she deposited her rucksack on a chair, turning to see Santana peeking out of the tent flap, mouth hanging open.
"What's with you?" Rachel asked, raising an eyebrow. "You haven't looked this freaked out since those Snargaluffs in Herbology…"
When Santana didn't answer, only stared, Rachel ambled over and peered outside where Santana was looking, and promptly snickered.
Santana's fixation was on a tall, pretty blonde surrounded by a group of boys, a few tents over. The blonde, blue-eyed and fair-skinned, looking slightly bored amongst her insistent admirers, the cluster of fans squabbling and bickering about who got to stand where and who got to address the girl next. Unimpressed, the only boy who managed to capture her attention, just barely, was a Bulgarian—from Durmstrang, no doubt—with a mohawk, and she toyed with his hair, vaguely amused, as all others vied in vain for her to listen to them.
"Scoping for someone new already?"
"Shut up," Santana scowled defensively.
Rachel laughed. "You've got a lot of competition…"
"Again, shut up."
"I can go talk to her for you, if you like," Rachel teased. Santana glowered.
"Do that and I'll send a letter to your precious Quinn."
Rachel blanched and Santana looked victorious, before she returned her dreamy, unblinking gaze to the blonde girl.
Following the Second Wizarding War, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall (now deceased), with the assistance of newly elected Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, organized a school unity project in the effort to further quell obvious distrust brewing within the walls of Hogwarts, particularly toward the Slytherins. Faced with even more unpopularity and nearly irredeemable reputations as evil purebloods, completely innocent or not, Slytherins were offered a option of what Muggles referred to as a 'pen pal'. They could form a correspondence with a student from another wizarding school to make a friend that wasn't of their own, miniscule clan, because not all Slytherins could or would be friends, and in any circumstances, wouldn't be able to form a real friendship with a Gryffindor, a Ravenclaw, or a Hufflepuff.
Excluding Kurt and Rachel, of course. They were an unusual situation.
Rachel had written a twenty-four inch essay in the winter of her sixth year, explaining her dreams—either beating Celestina Warbeck's records and taking her place as Britain's most beloved singer or becoming an important member of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad—and left a sincere promise of a courteous, genuine acquaintance.
(She argued against the stereotype of Slytherins. They weren't vindictive or spiteful, just ambitious, careful, and smart. Was that a crime?)
A student from the Salem Witches Institute in the States, Quinn Fabray, had written back immediately, first as an extra credit assignment from her professor that somehow developed further, quite unexpectedly, into a close, intimate accord. Rachel must've exchanged three letters a week with Quinn right up to the summer holidays, when Quinn found out she would be attending the Quidditch World Cup with her parents, allowing both witches the opportunity to finally meet in person after months of continuous mail.
Rachel's owl, Lysander, was quite irritated with the friendship, but ceased his stubbornness when Rachel threatened his Owl Treats.
Rachel, meanwhile, still couldn't decide what her feelings were in regards to Quinn.
Quinn, somehow, didn't fit into the category of just friends, like Kurt or Santana would. She was entirely different.
Quinn's letters were able to make her feel happy, excited, adoring, and wistful all at once, and it was terribly confusing to think and worry about when she should've been concentrating on practicing nonverbal spells and Apparition lessons. Kurt's timely intervention near final exams helped her earn respectable grades, but could not alleviate the uncertainty in her heart. She would admit that she adored Quinn, though the horrible fear of accidentally blurting it out and ruining her friendship with the girl kept her in confusion and anxiety for days on end. Maybe Quinn possessed an innate ability to be remarkably kind to anyone she wrote with. Maybe she didn't want Rachel at all.
Maintaining a calm facade around the currently faceless girl would be really, really hard.
Perhaps she could whip up a Calming Draught. That would take the edge off.
"Rachel," Santana squeaked suddenly from her perch beside the mouth of the tent, expression panicky. "I need you to go talk to her."
"I thought you could do it," Rachel replied, raising an eyebrow. Santana was always confident and sure of herself—this reaction was odd.
"I can't."
"Fine," Rachel muttered. "You owe me ten Galleons."
"No!" Santana yelped. "Ten? Are you kidding me?"
"You're right—that's too little a price. Fifteen Galleons," Rachel countered, smiling sweetly. Santana glared, hand twitching to her wand.
Rachel waited patiently, until Santana ground her teeth and mumbled an acquiescement, choosing not to throw a jinx at her best friend.
"Great! What would you like me to say?"
"I don't know," Santana fumbled. "Tell her…tell her that I want to take her out for a Firewhiskey—no! That's too forward…erm, a butterbeer, then."
Suppressing laughter, Rachel nodded agreeably and exited their little abode, almost able to sense Santana's fear trailing after her. Biting her lip, the witch wandered through the small parade of people retrieving water and finding their tent spaces, until she reached the object of Santana's affection, still surrounded by her dozen suitors, and listened to one proclaim that he slaughtered a few chimeras on a vacation in Greece, before being loudly shot down by the others and jeered at as nothing but an assistant at Eeylops Owl Emporium.
With a few shoves, Rachel managed to stand in front of the blonde, and was greeted with a dazzling smile and exquisite, twinkling eyes.
"H-hi," Rachel stuttered, scrambling to concentrate through a sudden fog around her brain, almost as if the girl herself was a hypnotist...
"Allo," the girl beamed, making Rachel's head spin in the rush of dizziness, due to the odd, transfixing beauty that Santana admired.
"My name is Brittany," she added, flirtatious, momentarily stealing Rachel's ability to verbalize a single, concise word of English.
"I'm Rachel," Rachel eventually proposed, feeling dumber by the minute.
"Rachel," Brittany purred, somehow pronouncing the words so they seemed as if they were a dangerous, sinful secret.
Oi.
Concentrate! Think of Santana's Tarantallegra jinxes! You don't want that placed on you!
You like Quinn, remember?
The boys murmured something insulting about Rachel, but a few looked mildly empathetic to her inarticulate, bewildered state.
"Umm…m-my friend, over there," the brunette mumbled, helplessly befuddled, gesturing in Santana's direction, "wants to take you out."
"Out?" Brittany repeated quizzically, tilting her head to the side. Rachel's eyes irresistibly studied the movement of blonde hair.
Rachel wondered how soft it was…maybe she could just run her fingers through it?
Brittany looked cheerfully at her current inquirer, simply waiting for a coherent response, hidden knowledge behind her smile.
Focus!
The boy with the mohawk whispered something crude about this half-Veela's charms, and Rachel blinked in awareness, realizing her problem.
"She likes you," Rachel elaborated loudly, looking firmly at the girl's lapel instead of into her gaze, shaking off the seductive haze around her head. "She'd really like to meet you."
The girl peered past Rachel (her courters parted, eager to comply with her silent request) and her smile, somehow, became even lovelier.
"She is beautiful," Brittany gasped, stunned, and to Rachel's relief, looked far more interested in Santana than in her. "What is her name?"
"Santana," Rachel answered with a grin, glad to be free of the tempting thrall at last. "Why don't you go talk to her?"
"I cannot," Brittany exclaimed dramatically, cool composure dropping to a fidgety, discouraged expression, charisma rendered temporarily faulty.
"You can," Rachel insisted, amused. "Go on. Trust me, okay? She really likes you."
Brittany nodded anxiously, squaring her shoulders—her enticing demeanor reappearing at once—as she stood up and straightened her dress. Her group of admirers looked extremely crestfallen with her selection, but said nothing aloud. The witch and the worshipful crowd watched the blonde flit over to Santana, speaking too low for others to hear. Immediately, Santana's reddened face changed into a broad, indulgent smile, and the pair vanished into the tent without further ado. Rachel wished her friend the best of luck against Veela quirks.
Rachel pivoted on her heel when the mohawked boy muttered a few choice words under his breath in plain disappointment.
"Maybe you weren't her type," Rachel told him, eyes dancing with laughter. "I'm sure it's nothing personal."
He glared at her.
Deciding that Santana needed (well, would inevitably demand, with a punch or a well-aimed hex) privacy, Rachel opted to wander and people watch, listening to the medley of languages fill the campground with noise. Her lips twitched at the sight of redheaded triplets, waving Ireland flags and batting each other in the sides with them. Nearby, a bumbling wizard tried to brighten the color of his Ballycastle Bats banner, only to turn it purple and blare the Fitchburg Finches' slogan, to his upmost indignation. Some wizards were placing wagers.
"…do I hear twenty Sickles on a Finches' Snitch grab but a Bats victory? Thirty Sickles…do I hear forty Sickles…?"
"Two Knuts on a Finches win by twenty points!"
"That's just rubbish."
"Fitchburg has an excellent Chaser offensive," a witch argued.
"They've only won their League seven times," her companion shot back with a contemptuous shrug. "The Bats will own title again!"
"The Gargoyles shouldn't 've won against 'em Magpies…" an old wizard grunted. "Scotland plays like a damn pile of dragon dung…"
Rachel observed a fistfight growing out of hand and the convergence of Ministry workers upon the scene, wands poised to strike.
"Sports make everyone crazy, don't they?"
"Agreed," Rachel commented, turning to smile at the American wizard watching the heightening fray with an amused, blue eyed gaze. His hair was a sandy blonde, flecked with gray at his temples. His face was kind and genial, enjoying the frantic atmosphere of the match.
"Supporting the Bats?" The man asked, noting the shiny, fastened pendants on her shirt and green headband with a speculative look.
"Always," Rachel grinned, earning a wry chuckle.
"You ought to meet my daughter. She'd push the Finches on you until you surrender. Didn't hear the end of it until I bought our tickets."
"She sounds like as big of a Quidditch junkie as I am," Rachel replied warmly.
"That she is," was the answer, and the man held out his hand. "Russell Fabray."
Rachel paused.
Russell Fabray? Was he—?
"Rachel Berry," she blurted out from her stupor, shaking his hand, eyes wide with shock, until Russell's expression looked swiftly gleeful.
"The Rachel Berry? The witty and charming Slytherin that my dear Quinn was so worked up about? Oh, it is a small world…"
So they were related.
Rachel considered his words.
Worked up about? What did that mean? Why in the name of Merlin would Quinn be 'worked up' about Rachel?
She blushed red when Russell emitted a booming, entertained laugh. Behind him, a voice drifted out of the tent, sounding annoyed.
"Dad, would you stop socializing and buy me some Omnioculars already?"
Rachel's breath caught uncomfortably in her chest when Russell's daughter stormed outside, finally revealing the Quinn Fabray she'd been writing to all this time. Almost a full year of corrospondence and learning everything about Quinn didn't prepare her for the image of sheer loveliness presented in the unassuming form of a teenage girl. They hadn't exchanged pictures, so it was certainly a shock. Quinn didn't possess the same beauty as Brittany did, but it was simpler…gentler, more subdued, and not as intimidating. Rachel liked her better.
Much better.
"This is your Rachel," Russell remarked, smiling, as he watched Quinn's eyes widen in comprehension. "I'll go buy those for you, Quinn."
Shaking his head, he turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction, still chuckling under his breath.
Rachel hadn't even noticed the nearly inaudible exhalation of surprise that escaped Quinn's red lips when Russell's distant voice introduced her—she was busy drinking in the blonde's alabaster features, memorizing each characteristic as if Quinn would Disapparate at any moment. The other witch's eyes gleamed a vibrant shade of hazel, reminding Rachel of a bubbling cauldron of Felix Felicis, and her face was unblemished aside from a row of light freckles littered along her cheekbones. The slender blonde seemed a bit frozen in place as she stared back at Rachel, gaze darting up and down, as if doing the same examination that Rachel was. Rachel squirmed at the scrutiny.
There was no way she could act even remotely normal now. Not around someone this pretty.
She wouldn't need a drop of Veritaserum to spill her guts, only patience.
"Hi," Rachel blurted out when she could think properly again, wincing at the volume and avidity of her tone.
"Hi," Quinn squeaked, cheeks burning. The easy camaraderie of their correspondence was just out of reach, stalled by nervousness.
There was an awkward silence until a boy ran past Rachel, doused in green paint and bellowing for Ireland's victory, making her grin.
"I don't think your Finches will win tonight," she suggested, tentative, and the tension between them immediately dissipated with the sight of Quinn's indignant look.
"I'll have you know that my team have excellent techniques and a killer set of Chasers. Don't be surprised when the Bats lose."
"Do you want to bet?" Rachel challenged, crossing her arms. Quinn's eyes narrowed slightly, her lips quirking into a taunting smirk.
Rachel ignored the leaping in her stomach. Merlin's beard, Quinn never seemed this…daring when they were writing to each other.
She'd be a liar if she said she didn't like it. Well, she liked just about anything having to do with Quinn.
"Fine."
"Fine."
"What are the terms?"
"Guest's choice."
"Winner gets a reward," the blonde countered, smiling mischievously. Rachel clucked her tongue to stop herself from gaping like a fish.
"What kind of reward?"
Quinn did nothing but smirk and shrug, and Rachel gasped.
"Quinn!"
"What? I didn't say anything. You inferred."
"You implied!"
"Whatever you say, Berry," Quinn teased. "How about some brunch?"
Rachel spent her morning with Quinn and her parents, meeting an ecstatic Judy Fabray and blushing maroon at the older blonde's unsubtle hints about Quinn's eagerness to get to the match as quickly as possible. Taking note of Quinn stabbing her eggs with her fork, pouting adorably, Rachel changed the subject and internally lamented that she should've brewed a Calming Draught when she had the chance. Russell kept her laughing, though, with his impersonations of anxious wizards on his trek to purchase a set of Omnioculars.
"I've only seen hysteria like that during the Superbowl," Russell commented. "Or the Stanley Cup…"
"What's a Superbowl?" Rachel queried, confused. "And a Stanley Cup?"
Quinn had to excuse herself because she was laughing so hard, and Judy kindly explained the events while Russell joined Quinn outside.
The afternoon was also very entertaining; Rachel and Quinn played a few competitive rounds of Exploding Snap on the grass until it nearly set the Fabray tent and surrounding ones on fire—Judy was furious—and then switched to Reusable Hangman until an argument over differing slang words. Talking endlessly was another activity, just reacquainting themselves with each other's lives in the wake of their get-together. The teasing tone of their letters returned, but the admiring, romantic thoughts of the blonde did as well.
Great.
Rachel wondered where Santana was, when she was lining up with Quinn to enter the stadium around five o' clock, ticket clutched in her right hand, as her free hand was held tightly by Quinn's left ("so we don't get separated!") while Russell and Judy stood in front of them, talking quietly. Feeling the warmth radiating from Quinn's skin made it much harder to keep her mouth shut, but Rachel managed it.
Rachel joined the legion of blondes into their seating section, smiling eagerly at the cheers of anticipation echoing within the coliseum.
"I can't wait for the mascots," Quinn murmured. "I've heard it's awesome."
"The lousy birds, you mean," Rachel chuckled. Quinn glared.
"And leprechauns are so much cooler?"
"Yes. They're interesting. They have character."
"You know what else is interesting?" Quinn asked rhetorically. "Pecked-to-death leprechauns."
Rachel glowered. "You're lucky I like you, Quinn. Insulting my Quidditch team is something worth a curse."
"I could take you down."
"Girls, let's schedule the duels for another time," Judy chided sternly, ending the squabble. "The match is about to start."
Rachel watched the many advertisement boards begin to erase their announcements until a scoreboard was displayed instead—AMERICA: 0, IRELAND: 0—and the lights above the stadium brighten, and in the distance, in the Minister's Box, a man in a blue pinstriped suit was stepping forward, smiling benignly to himself. Pointing his wand near his throat, his spell was lost over the crowd's roar, but his voice was heard a second later in a reverberating boom. Quinn squeezed Rachel's hand tighter, beaming, and Rachel could feel the equal thrumming of excitement from Quinn's pulse. There was absolutely nothing in the world like the anticipation of a good Quidditch game.
"Good evening, ladies and gents. My name is Roger Davies and I shall be your commentator tonight," the man declared enthusiastically, waving brightly to each side of the stands, "and welcome, one and all, to the four hundred and twenty-eighth Quidditch World Cup!"
Screams of delight rose and fervid cheers succeeded his introduction, making his eyes twinkle with mild amusement.
"Before we begin, I want to recognize our guest of honor, returning at last to a Quidditch pitch since her retirement…Ginny Potter!"
Rachel and Quinn unclasped their hands to applaud approvingly at the redheaded witch, smiling bashfully from her seat in the Minister's Box, while yells of admiration and adoration followed the admission from fans of Ginny's outstanding tenure on the Holyhead Harpies.
Davies restored his attention to the crowd, now looking businesslike and neutral, assuming his unbiased expression for the match.
"Now…let me introduce the Fitchburg Team Mascots!"
Thousands of eyes peered curiously skyward as an enormous flock of finches—coats normally varying in color, but for decoration, were a collective mass of intense violet—sank lazily from the heavens, cooing quietly. Wings flapping idly, the birds drifted into three hovering circles, the gentle chirping becoming an enchanting, lulling hum. Rachel was sure she would fall asleep, the tune was so soothing. A yawn escaped her throat, but before she could relax further into her seat, spine feeling like jelly (Quinn's shoulder looked like a tempting pillow), the finches ceased their hypnotizing, revolving moments and emitted sharp, screeching cries, breaking formation to tear across the stadium, aiming straight for the stands, talons extended to the suddenly alarmed assembly of Quidditch fans. Seeing a few purple birds zooming in her direction, Rachel covered her face with her hands, but Quinn's laughter made her lower them in plain confusion.
The finches weren't furiously divebombing the masses—eggs were dropping and breaking, revealing a few Galleons within the fragments.
"Yes!" Quinn exclaimed, scrabbling to grab the coins from the ground, thousands of other wizards and witches doing the same.
"This isn't leprechaun gold!" Someone yelled. "It's real!"
The hassle to collect the dropping currency became more vehement and crazed until the gifts ended and no more eggs fell from the sky.
Rachel shook her head, nonplussed, and smiled unwillingly at the flock of mauve birds soaring to rest on a tall spire, clucking daintily.
"Eggs. How strange," Rachel remarked in disbelief.
"It was creative," Quinn argued stubbornly.
"Who uses eggs for a show?"
"Lady Gaga."
"Who?"
"Nevermind."
Davies chuckled appreciatively as the birds stilled respectably, before composing himself into practiced impartiality.
"And now…" he shouted, "let's welcome the Ballycastle Team Mascots!"
Rachel joined in the ovation, looking quickly at the sky, and raising an eyebrow when nothing happened, sharing everyone's puzzlement.
"No show?" Quinn mumbled incredulously. "Lame."
"Shh," Rachel hissed, scandalized.
It was several beats of unnatural quiet, the stadium hushed in quizzical anticipation, until a loud "OW!" shattered the silence.
A Finches fan not too far away clutched his head with both hands, feeling a lump rising on his skull due to a hard whack with a shillelagh.
Out of nowhere, similar expressions of pain squeaked out from the mouths of Finches fans, batting away swinging shillelaghs, appearing from nonexistence. Ireland patrons roared with laughter at the anger of their opponents being sieged with invisible, miniature attackers.
"Fuck!" Quinn yelped, struggling frantically to deflect another blow from the club floating beside her. "Hey! Stop!"
"Quinnie!" Judy exclaimed. "Language!"
"Nice," Rachel snickered, seeing a chortling leprechaun materialize and drift away with a cheery wave, ceasing his assailments on Quinn.
"That's enough," Davies reproached, disapprovingly, and the leprechauns reluctantly corporealized into view, assembling into an emerald shamrock and flying to an opposite spire from the finches as one entity, eyeing the collection of fowl with suspicious leers.
"Some show," Quinn grumbled irritably. "That bump will be there for days."
"Maybe it'll distract you from being upset about an Ireland victory," Rachel replied swiftly, smirking, and Quinn huffed.
"Yeah, right."
"Girls," Russell admonished.
The stadium perked up anew when Davies began to speak again, voice carrying loudly in his blatant enthusiasm.
"Now…it is my greatest pleasure to introduce the Fitchburg players…I give you—Ramirez!"
Rachel heard the fast click of Quinn's Omnioculars zooming eagerly on the first player, dressed in violet robes and appearing on the pitch.
"Reese!"
"Yates!"
Two more players rushed onto the scene, circling the stadium before joining their comrade on the left side of the pitch, floating in place.
"O'Neil! Perry! Harris! And Fitchburg's excellent Seeker—Adams!"
Quinn clapped pointedly, nudging Rachel's shoulder. Rachel poked back. Quinn stuck out her tongue.
The Finches drifted together, waving a little. Davies cleared his throat, absently checking his roster. Rachel started to smile.
"Now, I present the fantastic players of Ballycastle—Doherty!"
Rachel eyed the reliable Chaser approvingly as the woman emerged, beaming at the swell of appreciative noise for her.
"Lupin!"
"MacDonald!"
"Moore!"
Four Irish players convened on their zone, whispering and laughing. Rachel heard Quinn grumble something rude, but ignored it.
"Boyle! Brady! And aiming for Seeker prestige among his numerous rivals and to give the Bats another numerous title—Kelly!"
This time, Rachel clapped incessantly, delighting at the sight of Ireland's Seeker flying into view, nodding to his fans, expression resolute.
Davies waited a moment.
"And presenting our esteemed referee—Sebastian Fenwick!"
Carrying a crate onto the field, Fenwick smiled politely at crowd, and tapped the box with his wand. It sprung open with a jolt, letting the Bludgers escape and dart around madly, teetering toward players and rolling through the air, as if itching and impatient to bash themselves against unsuspecting heads. Quinn allowed Rachel to use the Omnioculars, and the brunette witch spotted the Golden Snitch, bright and fluttering, before it flashed away from sight. Kelly and Adams craned their necks, scanning for the elusive sphere early.
Feeling the impatience surging in her stomach—mutually felt by the whole stadium—Rachel didn't immediately sense Quinn leaning over.
"Remember our bet," the blonde told her in nothing more than a whisper, making Rachel squirm in her seat but ignore it.
What would Quinn want as a 'reward'? What could she possibly be suggesting? Rachel's confusion lingered.
Her attention drifted back to the field just in time—Fenwick was climbing onto his broomstick. The referee ascended slowly, and with a crack of his wand and a boisterous screech of his whistle, sent the Quaffle spiraling high into the air, commencing the organized chaos.
Faster than Rachel's eyes could see, the Quaffle was snatched.
"Yates!" Davies yelled. "Yates to Ramirez! Yates! Reese—REESE SCORES! TEN ZERO TO AMERICA FOR OUR FIRST GOAL!"
Reese looked extremely pleased as he did his obligatory lap of honor, before flying back into the fray of players.
The scoreboard switched at once, indicating Fitchburg's lead. Boos and cheers mingled as one, filling the area with noise.
Blurs of purple and green streaked swiftly across the pitch, zinging left and right in haste to steal the Quaffle, looking more like hazy light trails than actual athletes. Quinn's eyes were glued to her Omnioculars, as she narrated the moves each team was performing for Rachel.
"Perry's doing a Double Eight Loop," Quinn murmured. "Moore, too. They're alternating, though…you know, keeping an eye out."
"Lupin to Brady! Brady to Boyle, Boyle passes it back to Lupin—Reese intercepts the Quaffle after an exposed toss…ouch, Boyle nicks the dropped Quaffle after a spectacularly aimed Dopplebeater Defense from Ireland! Reese was very lucky to evade that one!"
Quinn swore under her breath. Rachel grinned. The leprechauns chuckled, earning sharp chirps from distant, disapproving finches.
"Boyle to Brady! Brady dodges a Bludger, passes to Lupin…Lupin shoots—HE SCORES! TEN TO IRELAND!"
Perry looked furious as the scoreboard adjusted, revealing the tie, and Irish patrons roared their praises, waving flags into the air.
Lupin smiled brightly as his image materialized on the board, hair briefly flashing bubblegum pink before returning to his usual bluish teal.
"The Quaffle's to Yates, Yates…Reese catches the throw…ah, things are getting a little drastic now!"
Fenwick's gaze was unblinking as he studied the game, whistle poised near his lips in case of an error or foul.
Rachel's eyes followed Reese's purposeful weaving into an intimidating Hawkshead Attacking Formation, with Yates on his left and Ramirez on his right. Quicker than Moore could block, the Quaffle soared through the middle hoop, instigating cheers from Finches fans.
"TWENTY-TEN TO AMERICA!" Davies bellowed.
The match continued in earnest, making the stadium swell with noise. Ireland pulled ahead by two goals, and America's responses were becoming rougher and hastier. Rachel internally believed that the Finches were incredibly lucky to be avoiding the fouls they deserved.
The leprechauns were cheeky again, and the flock of purple finches chirped a loud, warning note, beady eyes staring back malevolently.
"Foul!" Davies cried suddenly, forcing Rachel's eyes to dart sideways, peering in surprise at the scene, a frown rising on her lips.
Fenwick's whistle was shrill and insistent as he got to Lupin and Reese, both shouting at each other from their broomsticks and gesturing angrily. Lupin's hair was a violent red, as well as his face, as he argued with the referee. Davies spoke again, explaining Lupin's mistake.
"Lupin interrupted an ill-timed Porskoff Ploy…will Fenwick label this as blatching, the error known as flying with the intent to collide?"
Davies paused.
"Ah, yes, there's the penalty…the Quaffle now goes to Reese…"
Ireland supporters were outraged and jeering as a collective mass, while American devotees were applauding, content with the results.
"Some team," Quinn hissed tauntingly in Rachel's ear, smirking. "Flying with the intent to collide…that's bad sportsmanship, isn't it?"
"Shut up!" Rachel barked, swatting blindly in Quinn's direction. "Like yours is any better!"
"Yeah?" Quinn sneered when Rachel finally turned to glare at her. "Fitchburg has seven titles in their own League!"
"Ballycastle has twenty seven victories," Rachel snapped back, jabbing a finger into Quinn's shoulder, punctuating each word. "That's a little more significant!"
"Whatever," Quinn snarled, eyes flashing a darker hazel hue than before as she returned her gaze to the field, fuming. Rachel bit her tongue, quelling the sudden urge to make Quinn even angrier, just so Rachel could have the excuse to stare at her in plain fascination.
"…Yates possesses the Quaffle, tosses to Ramirez, Ramirez sends the Quaffle to Reese—oh, Doherty steals the Quaffle again…"
The scoreboard switched frequently, and after short ten minutes, the teams were neck in neck and becoming clumsier in their eagerness.
"DOHERTY SCORES!"
"REESE SCORES!"
"RAMIREZ SCORES!"
Rachel had never witnessed such excellent precision. She, Kurt, and Santana had attended Quidditch matches at school, like everyone else did—well, Kurt's motive was an ulterior one, pertaining more to the cute Hufflepuff Keeper, Sam Evans—but this, the professionals, was practically an art form. Sure, they made catty mistakes that earned heckles and threatened hexes and would bludgeon each other with Beater bats if they could, but these Chasers moved like they were weightless or birds themselves, born to soar across the heavens.
Fitchburg stole three goals in a matter of minutes; Ireland retaliated with a Bludger injury for Reese and two quick goals for the Irish.
Rachel sensed Quinn's anxiety—Reese looked quite bloody and battered, but ignored mediwizards and shot back into the air, disgruntled.
"Good," Quinn mumbled in a relieved sigh. "Good."
"He looks awful," Rachel proposed helpfully. Quinn scowled, not bothering to look at her.
"Yeah, well, that little bitch—MacDonald, was it?—did it when Reese wasn't even looking…way to be a good player."
"That's Quidditch for you, Quinn," Russell remarked, on Judy's other side, but both girls ignored him and refocused on the game.
Adams and Kelly, meanwhile, remained mostly still, occasionally flying from one side of the stadium to the other, looking for the Snitch.
"Ireland takes the lead!" Davies yelled, voice reverberating in a loud, echoing rumble, provoking wild cheers. "Well done!"
The leprechauns chortled and formed a small rainbow, shining so brightly that the finches squawked in alarm. Their fans muttered mutinously.
"Now, now," Davies warned, amused, a laugh in his tone. "You'll distract the players, sirs. Put that light out or someone will for you…"
Obediently, the rainbow dimmed and disappeared, and the leprechauns separated slightly and resumed their seats on the spire.
Fitchburg scraped two goals, restoring the tie and making the swarm of green clad supporters bellow obscenities and shake their fists.
"That's immature," Quinn commented snidely.
"Like you were any better," Rachel shot back at once. "Who was laughing when Brady accidentally hit his head off the goalpost?"
Quinn waved her hand dismissively, disregarding the jibe. Rachel rolled her eyes.
The competition wore on, becoming more furious and messy, making Fenwick hand out fouls like they were large, ticking bombs. More mediwizards were called upon the field, patching up players as fast as they could and looking harried with the number of injuries being doled out. Rachel was close to either hitting Quinn (as the blonde smirked at Fitchburg points) or kissing her (when Ireland scored).
(She'd restrain the latter desire a lot more.)
Thirty minutes of the match had elapsed when suddenly, a shriek was heard, pointing at Adams and Kelly in pursuit of the Golden Snitch.
"Oh, shit," Quinn breathed.
"Adams and Kelly have spotted the Snitch," Davies shouted, a tad too late. "Currently, the score is deadlocked…"
Fitchburg and Ireland leaped into action from their trances in observing the race for the coveted, winged sphere.
All eyes in the stands stared at the race for the Snitch and the two athletes chasing after it, watching closely with bated, uneasy breath.
"Come on, come on," Rachel murmured, anticipation brewing uncomfortably in her belly. "Come on, Kelly…come on…"
Quinn grabbed Rachel's hand and squeezed it tightly, painfully, each witch waiting impatiently, along with the entire assembly.
Kelly and Adams were arching higher into the night sky, eyes on the Snitch, their Firebolts carrying them at impossible speeds, before plummeting to the field, bumping shoulders in the effort. Rachel's heart climbed in her throat, terrified, as the Seekers plunged closer and closer to the ground, arms extended and flailing frantically and reaching ahead of themselves, and with an almighty crash, bounced headfirst to the grass, brooms snapping to pieces as both Seekers landed hard on their backs, spread eagle and temporarily paralyzed.
"Oh, dear!" Davies yelled over the screaming bedlam of concern and fear from all sides. "I'll say! That was quite a landing!"
"Who got the Snitch?" Rachel wondered, still in shock, as mediwizards swarmed in a scramble to assist the wounded players, panicking.
The scoreboard's image flashed, briefly erasing the current score, slowing down the witnessed descent so Kelly and Adams were crawling at a flobberworm's pace across the screen. Even Davies was completely silent as the rerun continued, and just as Adams' broomstick snapped to bits on the screen, his hand closed tight around the Snitch. The replay rewinded and presented itself again to the stadium, and its validity was confirmed as a dazed Adams raised himself a bit from his stretcher, holding out the golden orb in his wobbling palm.
It was only several moments of hushed noiselessness, and then, pandaemonium.
"AMERICA WINS!" Davies hollered in a thunderous blast, barely audible over the shrieking Finches fans, sounding disbelieving himself as he dragged a hand through his windswept hair. "THE FINAL TALLY IS FOUR HUNDRED AND FORTY TO TWO HUNDRED AND NINETY!"
Spectators adorned in purple were jumping up and down in excitement, clapping madly and cheering almost incoherently, exchanging hugs. The enormous flock of finches flew from their perch on the spire, chirping delightedly and crowding the sky in their enthusiasm.
"Yes!" Quinn yelled loudly, abandoning all pretense of calmness and applauding furiously, a triumphant smile on her lips.
Amusedly regarding Quinn's pleased expression, Rachel amicably joined in the standing ovation, civilly accepting Ireland's surprise defeat.
Maroon fireworks shot across the heavens as confetti rained down, covering the stadium in flecks of purple paper and magenta glitter.
Rachel was turning to peer skyward in astonishment when she saw Quinn pivot in a flash, hands reaching out, and just kissed her.
Maybe it was the leftover excitement or celebrating the unexpected win, or perhaps Quinn was just exceedingly happy for Fitchburg and had to express it or possibly was only thinking about Quidditch, but Rachel didn't care. She kissed back, hastily tangling her hands in Quinn's hair, keeping her close. All the wondering and uncertainty and confusion evaporated from Rachel's mind—she was more concerned about kissing Quinn, the girl she admired from their letters, the one who knew her insecurities, likes, and dislikes and dreams, as if her life absolutely depended on it and something terrible was about to occur. Adrenaline and excitement coursed insistently through her veins. She didn't care about the crowd cheering around them. She didn't care that her team had lost. She didn't care that Quinn's team won. Her thought process was simply feel, and feel she did.
Kissing Quinn was so much better than anyone else she'd ever kissed before—Jesse St. James, a graduated Slytherin, and Mike Chang, a Gryffindor in her year, or that stupid Muggle boy, Finn, who kissed her and received a slap in reply—and she never, never wanted to stop.
Consequences of this decision seemed trivial now. Who cares? She certainly didn't.
With her lungs burning, Rachel pressed a last, lingering kiss to the blonde's lips and pulled back a millimeter, breathing heavily.
Quinn's hands were gripping the hem of Rachel's shirt as she flashed Rachel a breathless grin.
"That was my reward," she admitted bashfully in Rachel's ear as the exaltation went on, acknowledging each team's effort. "To kiss you."
"Really?" Rachel asked, still gulping air, but managed a small smile. "I mean, you've—"
"I realized I had a crush on you in February," Quinn interrupted, blushing. "I wanted to send you a Valentine's Day card."
Rachel beamed, heart drumming a melodious beat against her ribcage, swelling with adoration.
"And then I started wondering," Quinn continued, eager to vocalize her thoughts, "that maybe…we could actually work."
"We could," Rachel agreed, still incredulous about Quinn feeling the same about her.
Quinn was silent for a moment, brushing a lock of hair from Rachel's eyes, contemplative. "I wish I could transfer to Hogwarts."
"Me too."
"But we can visit each other on holidays," Quinn added hopefully, and Rachel nodded, planting a perfunctory kiss on Quinn's lips.
"I wouldn't doubt it."
Still in a happy daze, Rachel practically skipped back to her tent, after exiting the stadium, hand in hand with Quinn and regally ignoring Russell and Judy's laughter at Quinn finally kissing Rachel like she'd wanted to do for months. The youngest Fabray snapped empty threats back at her parents, displeased with their amusement. Pointedly, the older couple had walked ahead, still chuckling quietly.
Telling Quinn that she would give her a proper goodbye in the morning did not stop the extra time spent kissing beside the woods.
Needless to say, she was expecting a few choice insults from Santana, probably centering around her uncharacteristically mussed up hair.
(Three guesses who was the cause of that faux pas.)
Lifting the tent flap, her stomach relaxed in relief—and slight guilt, for not thinking of her before—at the sight of Santana at the table.
Dreamy-eyed and practically swooning, Santana had her chin cupped in her hand, gazing off into space with a dopey smile on her face.
Rachel sat down opposite her, raising an eyebrow and rousing Santana from her daydreams.
"Rachel," Santana greeted breathlessly, "where've you been? I haven't seen you all day…"
The shorter brunette gaped at her in disbelief. "The match? You know, the World Cup? You missed the entire thing. We lost, by the way."
"Oh, right."
"Oh? That's it?"
"I don't care," the Latina answered vaguely, eyes becoming strangely distant again. Rachel smacked her own forehead.
"What's gotten into you?"
"Brittany," Santana replied at once with a sunny, fervent smile. "She's amazing. I've never met anyone like her before."
Rachel wrinkled her nose.
"We didn't do anything, really…" Santana explained, almost to herself. "Only kissed and talked. She's so sweet and lovely and sexy…"
"Did you ingest a Love Potion or something?"
"No," Santana proclaimed in a gusty sigh. "This is real love."
"Wow," Rachel answered with a convincing straight face. "One day, and you're all—"
"Totally and completely in love," Santana interjected seriously, leaning her chin on her hand. "She's part-Veela and so awesome and blonde and so hot, and she does this cute thing whenever she says 'that', it turns out as 'zat' and I just want to kiss her all the time…"
Rachel listened patiently to Santana's enraptured babbling as they dressed for bed, smiling to herself at the thought of her own blonde, only a few tents away. They weren't in love yet, but the warm, pleasant feeling her chest hinted a nearing turn in that direction. She couldn't believe that a silly bet and an abrupt Quidditch game had given Quinn the courage to kiss her, but treasured it all the same.
She could still hear the Fitchburg fans celebrating and knew Quinn was on top of the world, and smiling wider, felt the exactly same way.