A/N: Here's another chapter. I just wanted to push it back up to the top of the list to see if there was any interest. Thanks to my reviewer, I hope you keep reading.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter.
"Let's call it a day, boys."
The players in the air all seemed to let loose a collective sigh of relief. It seemed like they had been at it all day. Granted, they had been at it all day. Running what seemed to be the same drill and formation all day. Of course they hadn't. The practice had been rather productive. They had cleaned up a few of the formation errors that the coach saw from the pitch in last week's game, as well as some that the captain had seen while playing. A hole or two in the defense that made scoring easier on the other team.
Six of the seven players started their descent to the pitch, however, one remained.
"Come on, Nott, we've been at it for hours," one of the players said as they stopped their descent and looked upward towards the remaining player.
"Go on, Smith. I'll be in soon," the player in question replied in a clipped tone.
"You have an interview today, don't you? You better shower up."
The player that had not descended snorted audibly and rolled his shoulders back. "Yeah, I suppose that I should." His tone still clipped. However, he continued to hover for a moment longer, his gaze on the three rings at the opposite end of the pitch. Maybe his teammate was right. Maybe he should just come back and practice later when he wasn't exhausted. With a sigh, he tipped the nose of his broomstick downwards towards his teammate.
The practice pitch.
This was where he wanted to have his interview?
Romilda Vane snorted, a very un-lady like behavior that she had picked up over the years. This was the absolute last place that she wanted to be. When she asked Mr. Keegan if there was any way that the interviewee would be willing to change location, he replied negatively saying that he had already asked if there was a way that he could meet somewhere more neutral. The interviewee said no. That it was the most convenient place for him seeing as he would just be finishing practice at that time. And the interviewee always won.
So here she was. Dressed in a light blue button down shirt, tucked into a pair of black dress pants with her black heels digging into the grass. Hanging over her left shoulder was her messenger bag where she was keeping her notepad, quill, and ink. Pinned over her right breast was a small silver pin that Mr. Keegan had handed to her, it was her pass into the practice pitch.
As she approached the entrance to the pitch, some of the players were leaving. They were all dressed casually, carrying their blue and silver duffle bags. When they walked by, they glanced at her briefly, some glanced longer than briefly. Romilda felt a rush of pride. After a moment, she reached out grabbing the forearm of one of the passing players.
"Is Theodore Nott still here?" she questioned as she turned her icy eyes towards the man.
"Uh, yeah. I think he's still on the, erm, pitch," the man replied.
Romilda removed her well-manicured hand from his forearm and nodded. "Thanks."
As she started away from him, she could hear one of his female teammate teasing him about the way that he has stuttered in answering her question. The girl was mocking him in a deep voice, which did sound similar to the one that the man had responded in. That amused her.
Romilda walked gracefully, despite the fact that her heels were digging into the grass beneath her, on to the pitch. She looked around on the ground of the man she was supposed to be interviewing and when she could not spot him she rolled her eyes, turning her attention upwards. There he was, Appleby Arrows jersey on and all, soaring above her with a quaffle in his hand. She shielded her eyes with her hand as she watched him.
He was fast, turning without any hesitation. Dropping and rising without effort. She had to admit that she was impressed. His concentration on the three hoops in front of him was intense. His hazel eyes never leaving the goal. His jaw clenched. He raised his arm and let the ball roll off his fingers with an effortless force and watched as it flew into the hoop.
"Are you Theodore Nott?" she questioned loudly. She could see that she had broken his concentration and that he was less than pleased about it.
"You must be from the Prophet," he shouted back as he watched the quaffle drop to the grass.
"I am. I'm Romilda Vane," she called back as he started to descend towards her. She reached her hand out as he stopped eye level with her. "Thank you for letting me talk to you."
He shook her hand in return, noting the smoothness of her palms against his slightly calloused ones. When he released her hand, he let his feet touch the ground and after a quick and graceful dismount, brought his broom to his right side.
"So where is a good place for us to talk?" she questioned, glad to be using her normal town of voice. The shouting was getting a little annoying. In response he gestured to the benches on the side of the pitch and started walking towards them. Romilda rolled her eyes, but followed.
Theodore settled on to the bench and Romilda sat next to him. Quickly, she pulled her quill, ink, and notepad from her bag. Unlike her idol, she didn't use a magic quill to take her notes. She did it all by hand. As she prepared, Theodore leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and ran his fingers through his hair. Romilda took this time to give him a look over.
His thin fingers were moving through his short dark brown hair. She could see the drops of sweat rolling down his neck from his hairline. From her position, she could only see his profile. His strong jaw seemed to be the feature that her eyes kept getting drawn to. It was just hard to ignore. His shoulders were broad and-
"Ready when you are, Ms. Vane," he said as he looked over at her.
"Yes," she replied. She tucked a strand of her black hair behind her ear and dipped her quill in the ink. "Okay, Mr. Nott, what brought you to the Appleby Arrows? With your stats you could have gone somewhere-"
He cut her off, "Somewhere better? I could have, but I saw some sort of potential here."
"Potential?" she questioned letting her voice trail off as she wrote.
"The team hasn't been that good," he said.
"Awful," she supplied. "No one was really concerned with this team, save the Wimbourne Wasps, who are, let's face it, equally as bad."
His hazel eyes turned to look at her briefly as a smirk crossed his lips, just as briefly. "Yes, they were awful. However, they are better."
"Were you looking for a way to rise to stardom? Save a hopelessly awful team? Bring them to the top."
Theodore shrugged. "Something like that," he answered.
"So this choice was a selfish one?"
That smirk crossed his lips again. "Something like that," he echoed. "You can't put that in the paper though, it would ruin your story." He reached over and plucked the quill from her small hands. "Besides, that's not what you came to talk about." For a split second, Romilda's hand continued the action of writing before she realized what happened. He'd taken her quill from her. No one had ever don anything like that before. In response to his action, her icy blue eyes to quickly snap up to his.
Blue meeting hazel.
"I could weave a story from this," she told him. "I could make you look like a good teammate choosing a team that you saw potential in. You came to the Appleby Arrows to help them improve on their teamwork and develop new plays." she reached over and took the quill from his hand.
Smooth skin brushing against calloused skin.
Theodore had to admit that he was impressed with the raven-haired girl sitting next to him. He hadn't expected much when he received an owl saying that the Prophet wanted an interview with him. He had expected them to send a tomboy-ish girl that knew everything about sports and stats. However, the way that she was speaking made it seem like she only had the knowledge that was presented to her. He hadn't expected them to send this raven-haired girl with icy blue eyes, bow-shaped lips, and a prominent chin. The way that she held herself was a little intimidating. She just oozed confidence. The way that she moved was too graceful. She was too poised. And yet-
"Mr. Nott," she said, pulling him from his thoughts. "What is it that you think that I want to talk about?"
"Don't play coy, Ms. Vane, it's not a good look for you," he told her. "You want to talk about Mandy and I calling our engagement off. I've read your work, it's not sports oriented at all."
"Flattered that you would take the time to read my column," she told him. Romilda the reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a folder. After a moment, she pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. "Actually, I'm not here to talk about the engagement. That paper has all the objective of the interview. Nowhere does it say to ask about your engagement."
He took the paper from her and gazed at it. Her words were true. He handed the paper back. The wind picked up, blowing from behind her.
Her scent greeted his nose. A scent that he was unable to place, but one that he found pleasing.
"However, if that's what you would like to talk about," she continued.
Everything about him hardened. "No. I don't."
"Of course. So the team," she started, brushing off his discomfort. "How is the atmosphere?"
He turned to face her fully, his thick eyebrow arched. She amused him. It had been awhile since someone had amused him the way that she did. "What house were you in at school?"
"I beg your pardon?" she responded as she looked away from the notepad on her lap and up towards him. She noticed the cleft in his chin. She was never the one on the other side of the questioning.
"Your house at school?' he repeated slowly as if she were a bit slow on picking things up.
"Gryffindor," she replied. "The atmosphere of the team. How is the teamwork part going? Anyone in particular that's just stubborn?"
"You're how old?" he asked looking away from her and towards the sky.
Romilda sighed as she dipped her quill in the ink next to her. "Twenty-two," she answered. "Now, please, Mr. Nott, the interview."
He was quiet for a long moment. "No one is fighting the changes, if that is what you mean. The see that it's for the best. The team dynamic, the phrase I think that you were looking for," he looked down out of the corner of his eye to see if she picked up on him teasing her. If she did she didn't bother to show it, and for some reason that disappointed him, "is good. The beaters seem to be on the same wavelength as us chasers. They know where to put the bludger at the right time to give the most protection to the chaser with the quaffle."
"And are you living in Appleby?" she questioned. Again, everything about him tensed. Romilda looked upward from under her eyelashes. "Still in London, I presume," she said, not waiting for his answer. She scribbled something down in the margins of her paper and the sighed. "Well, Mr. Nott, I think I have enough to put out something in my column. Anything else that you would like to add?"
He did not respond to her verbally, he only shook his head.
"Well, it should be out in the paper tomorrow, if you wanted to read it," Romilda told him as she capped her ink and dropped it into her bag along with her quill and notepad. After shouldering her bag, she reached her hand out to him again. "Thank you for your time."
He turned to her and shook her hand. Calloused clasping smooth. His larger hand seemed to engulf her smaller one.
She pulled her hand from his and started away from him casting a small wave over her shoulder as she did. Behind her, he mounted his broom and took off upwards. As she walked away, she began to mentally prepare herself for the work ahead. If she wanted to get this in tomorrow's paper, as she was supposed to, she would have to head straight back to the office and write it up. It wouldn't take long, seeing as the interview was not extensive, however she just hated being in the officer late at night. It was full of people doing what she was about to do, cramming to write their articles and editing them.
Romilda let loose another hefty sigh and pulled her wand from a pocket on the front of her messenger bag. With a quick flick of her wand, she apparated from the pitch and into her office at the Prophet.