Chapter 7: Chasers and Chases
"C'mon, Rose, try to keep up; we're already running behind," Albus panted, taking choppy, uneven steps down the hill. Rose emerged at the hill's apex a moment later, stifling a yawn and then taking off after Albus at a clipped sort of half-jog. The weather had cooled considerably. Albus could see each of his short, shallow breaths as tiny clouds before him.
Those clouds were the only ones to be found, though. The sky was a clear, forget-me-not blue, and the sun, despite its full lordship, was not giving much heat on this cool November morning.
"We're still not sure if they'll let us in," Rose panted as she caught up to Albus.
"It's… worth a shot, isn't it?" asked Albus.
A few minutes later, they had arrived at the pitch. Albus had only been down on the pitch itself once or twice, and even now, he simply didn't get how anyone could emerge from the safety of those locker rooms to hundreds of screaming fans in a stadium this size. The goal hoops – three to each side – were high enough that Albus could barely see them. After a moment or two to contemplate, Albus started toward the edge of the pitch, where he knew the locker rooms were. Rose whirled around for a moment, taking in every inch of the stadium with her eyes, and followed.
Arriving at the iron-wrought door (sealed shut by magic so no one could force themselves in), Albus gave it a quick couple of raps. The sight of the tall girl that emerged from it intimidated him, so Albus immediately started speaking at a bit of a stammer, "H-hi. I'm…"
"Albus. Of course I know who you are," Greta Stanford interrupted. She seemed a bit more commanding in this capacity than she ever had wearing her Prefect robes. "You're here to see James, right?"
It wasn't just James. Not even mainly James. But if that was going to get them inside, Albus wasn't about to argue.
"Right," he finally said.
"Well, your timing's perfect, we all just got into our robes," Greta Stanford replied, much to Albus's relief. "Come on in. You too, Rose," she added, noticing Rose behind Albus trying to appear as small as possible.
Albus and Rose were met with a few eyes as they stepped into the locker room. Freddy gave them a nod and light wave. Desmond McLaggen glanced at Albus for a second, then returned to practicing his swings with his Beater's bat – at least up until Greta stopped him.
"Cool it, Desmond, you're going to mash someone's face in," Greta said as she walked by.
"Save the face-mashing for the match, mate," Freddy suggested. Desmond glared at both of them for half a second, but lowered his bat.
Scorpius was seated at the end of one of the two short benches, staring at a locker with his broom standing upright in his hands. Albus thought it a better idea not to go near him at the moment. Rose wasn't nearly as cautious.
"Hey, Scorpius," she said, walking over to tap his shoulder. "Hey."
"WHAT!?" Everybody in the locker room jumped – but Scorpius's exclamation was less of anger and more of genuine surprise. "Oh… Rose."
"One of these days," James strode over, looking a bit older than his usual self in his Quidditch gear (Albus could see the black dragon scale bracer gleaming a bit on James's right forearm) and wearing his jersey. Thirteen was the number he had chosen. Thirteen – an infamously unlucky number, if one believed in such things. And yet that had been exactly what James was going for. He was bad luck for any Keeper trying to stop him – at least he believed so. (And by a happy coincidence, thirteen also happened to be the sum of his father's Hogwarts number – seven – and the number six his mother had worn at Hogwarts and with the Harpies.) "Scorpius is going to learn not to be wound so bloody tight before matches. Until he does though, I'd recommend you not do that."
"What, is beating Slytherin at Quidditch not a thing anymore?" asked Scorpius, sounding irritated.
James eyed Scorpius suspiciously. "All respect to Slytherin, mate, but Ravenclaw's still the team to beat. We've known that since last year."
"I, uh…" Albus stuttered, looking furtively around the locker room. "Is Sylvia anywhere around here? She showed up, right?"
"Figured you weren't here to see about me," Scorpius said with a smile.
Albus frowned. "That's not true…"
But Scorpius held up a hand and stopped him talking. "You don't have to… I get it."
Sylvia, as it turned out, was still in the restrooms, presently hovering over a sink, dousing her face with water and staring into the mirror. Even from a distance, Albus could tell in her reflection that her eyes looked even heavier than normal. She hadn't slept well. Then again, Rose had told Albus that. She was actually the first to speak.
"All right there, Sylvia?" Rose asked.
Sylvia's reflection in the mirror contorted into fury as she gripped the edges of the sink in front of her. "Don't make fun of me," she said angrily.
Rose seemed legitimately shocked. "But, Sylvia—"
"C'mon, Rose," Scorpius said curtly.
"But—" Rose whimpered.
"Let's go," Scorpius repeated stubbornly.
Feeling a bit like he had wasted his time. Albus turned and made to follow them. But Scorpius barred him away with an arm, gave a tiny jerk of the head in Sylvia's direction, then followed Rose out of the room, leaving Albus and Sylvia there alone. Albus thought of leaving again, but when Rose started raising her voice a bit at Scorpius, Albus quickly realized that following her could be more hazardous to his health than staying here.
So Albus stood there, staring at the back of Sylvia's head, watching her reflection in the mirror.
"You shouldn't have done that. She was only trying to wish you luck." The words were out of Albus's mouth before he could stop them, and he hated himself for it. It was last October all over again. Sylvia was being a bit mean, and Albus had to defend Rose for what seemed like the hundredth time.
But the inevitable tirade or snarky comment Albus was anticipating from her never came. Her stance slumped a bit, almost like she was holding onto the sink for support, and in a surprisingly weak voice she said, "I know… I'll apologize later."
She paused for a moment. Some of her wavy tresses fell into her eyes. She brushed them back. Albus finally felt safe enough to take a step or two toward her.
"You at least ate, didn't you?" Albus asked.
"Sure, I ate," Sylvia answered, her voice getting just a bit of its bite back. "Most of it came back later…"
She grimaced.
"You came to see me," she said.
"Well… sure," Albus uttered. Sylvia breathed out a laugh and shook her head. Or it might have been a sob, or somewhere in between. "You'll be fine."
Sylvia nodded weakly. Then a lot of strange things happened. First, Sylvia threw her arms around his neck. Albus grabbed the air in mute shock. Then it occurred to him that maybe he should hug back, so he did, and that was even more abnormal. Her cheek was touching his. Not pressing, but just sort of… there.
This was so out of character for Sylvia – to be nervous, vulnerable, emotional, even affectionate. That was not the Sylvia he had spent over a year getting to know… or was it? The girl Albus had played with on the meadow in July had been slightly different, too. Albus wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he realized that his heart was pounding in his chest. He felt slightly nervous, too – afraid, even. He'd never been this close to a girl not part of his family. But this was a friend, someone he had known for a while. So why was he so uncomfortable around her? And why was it getting worse as the weeks and months passed?
What was happening to Sylvia? And, more importantly, what was happening to him?
A chime sounded.
"That's the thirty-minute bell!" A loud voice drifted into Albus's consciousness from somewhere distant. "Guests have to clear out!"
Sylvia withdrew herself from him. His face was burning and he didn't move a muscle. But he watched Sylvia tie back her wavy, black hair with a gold sort of bracelet he'd glimpsed on her wrist. Her dark brown eyes (…She really had nice eyes, didn't she? Albus had never really stood close enough to notice before…) fixed on him in a hard, blazing expression.
"It's time," she said simply.
"So… did Sylvia say anything to you?" Rose asked about half an hour later. Albus was busy staring down at where the two teams were coming together on the pitch.
"Huh? Uh… well, we… didn't talk much, actually," Albus answered at something of a mutter. Rose frowned.
"You sure you're feeling alright, Al?" Rose asked.
"Yeah," Albus answered automatically. "I mean…" Truth was, he was somewhat out of sorts now…but that was more confusion than anything. "Yeah." So he lied again. "I'm fine."
Rose raised her eyebrows skeptically; she didn't believe him.
"Kind of weird, now that there are only two of us," Rose commented.
"What are we, next door neighbors?" a girl's voice came from the row above them. Albus jumped. He'd almost forgotten Roxanne was there, with Tommy Jordan (where had he gotten that hoop earring? Were those even allowed?) standing to her left. On her right though, was someone Albus wasn't used to seeing at these games. And the fact that she was standing in a lineup with caramel-skinned Roxanne and chocolate-skinned Tommy made Dominique's pale complexion and very light blonde hair stand out all the more.
"Well, if you're being technical…" Tommy quipped.
"Sod off," Roxanne interrupted, slapping Tommy's shoulder. Dominique giggled. Tommy (who was a full head taller than Roxanne) looked over Roxanne's head and caught Dominique's eye. She looked away from him, becoming very interested suddenly in what was going on down on the pitch.
"Hello Britain!" an unfamiliar voice exclaimed over the crowd, which immediately started to whip into a frenzy "This is Demas Oakley, coming to you live from 'The Bowl' at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We've got a brilliant matchup for you all for the opening match for this, the 2018 Hogwarts Inter-House Quidditch Cup, as Greta Stanford leads a new-look Gryffindor squad against Wil Gettis and House Slytherin!"
The Gryffindor and Slytherin sections all exploded – but Gryffindor, as always, was louder. The chants of "GO! GO! GRYFFINDOR!" were deafening. Down on the pitch, Albus watched as four students from each team – Sylvia included – separated themselves from the other fourteen players.
"Gryffindor's had some turnover since last year, where a thorough beating from House Ravenclaw in the final ended their season on a sour note. Sixth year Chaser, Greta Stanford, takes over at Captain this year and has been forced to retool the roster after several graduations and departures. The result is a much younger team that nonetheless has some talent. Stanford is joined by two reserves from last year – fourth year Asher Rodney and third year James Potter. Potter in particular showed well in the two matches he played last year. The Beaters are holdovers from last season – fifth year Freddy Weasley and second year Desmond McLaggen. We'll also get to see how the newcomer at Keeper, third year Gemma Bridge, handles the hoops in her first match. Finally, at Seeker, last year's Potter Award winner, second year Scorpius Malfoy."
The Potter Award, named for Albus's father, was given to the best first-time player each year, voted on by several professors and a secret panel of outsiders (which Albus was reasonably sure included his mother) and was somewhat a new tradition at Hogwarts. Scorpius, being somewhat dismissive of his own accolades, never brought it up, and it took a couple of teammates congratulating Scorpius in front of Albus to realize what had happened.
"Slytherin is captained by seventh year Seeker Wilmerlin Gettis, who many believe is the best professional prospect Hogwarts has seen in several years," Oakley went on. "Half the British and Irish League is represented by scouts here this morning. Sixth year Chaser Oberon Kent is joined by fourth year Aaron Miller and second year Phillip Bletchley, who led all new players in goals last year. Sixth year Shelby Fletcher-Hawes and fifth year and new prefect James Bellamy return at Beater for House Slytherin, and last, guarding the hoops and replacing Seth Stone, new Keeper Sean Gallette!"
Oakley had just begun to explain about the Seeker matchup and how Scorpius had come off better last year in something of an upset, when Albus began to tune into the conversation behind him.
"So where's Louis?" Roxanne asked curiously.
"Probably over in the Ravenclaw section with half a dozen others," Dominique said. "He's become very popular."
Tommy chuckled. "Speaking of popular, Dominique… and if anyone asks, I didn't spread this rumor, but… I heard Kenneth Bourne has his eye on you and wants to ask you to the social in February."
Dominique looked upwards, and a hint of the French haughtiness she had inherited from her mother showed in her face. "I'm not interested in Kenneth Bourne."
"Really?" asked Tommy Jordan, sounding curious. "Why not? He seems like a nice bloke."
Roxanne was staring down Dominique. She raised her eyebrows at her younger cousin meaningfully – an expression Tommy wouldn't have been able to see from his point of view. Dominique, though, looked out toward the pitch, her face a bit pink, and said, "…Just not, that's all."
Roxanne turned back to Tommy and smiled, but not before Albus saw her knead her forehead in discreet but clear irritation.
James
This was a different type of nervousness, James found, than the type he felt for his first first match. He knew now, a year later, that he could perform well. But he was first line now and things would be expected of him. Greta paced back and forth between the other ten players, who stood shoulder to shoulder, exchanging glances.
"Well…" she said, for about the fourth time. It was clear that she was feeling nerves, too. James, who had gotten to know Greta a bit better over the past several weeks, had come to find out that she was borderline obsessed with excellence and achievement. Thankfully, she was also very compassionate (or else she would have literally been another Laurel Cross, and James wouldn't have been able to stand her).
"You're pants at speeches, aren't you?" Freddy piped in.
"Don't be a smartass, Weasley," Desmond of all people snapped.
"No…" Greta said with a chuckle. Maybe the light was playing tricks on him, but James thought she looked the faintest shade of green. "He's right. I don't have any rousing battle cries for you. It's never been my style, really."
And it was true – Greta wasn't overly boisterous like a lot of Gryffindors. She knew the value of words – knew that they could lose their value if there was an excess of them. In James's opinion, it made her a much better leader than Cole, who was much too emotional for his (and the team's) own good. Even if Greta showed frustration, one seldom ever saw her melt down or fly off the handle in practice.
Then Freddy stepped out from the line. A couple of people gave him glances. "C'mon, you're acting like we didn't beat this same lot last year. Gemma, I know you weren't on the team, but you watched that game, right? You all remember it. Aren't we all another year older? Another year better? Well?"
Nobody spoke. Freddy grit his teeth.
"I hear what they've been saying in the halls the last couple of weeks. Even some of our own. Our Captain's too new. Our Beaters are too small. Our Keeper's too green. Our Seeker got lucky last year. Our Chasers can't go toe-to-toe with theirs. And after the way things went last year in the finals, we're fragile."
He paused for a moment to let that statement sink into everyone. Then his rage exploded.
"Fragile? Fragile?! IS THIS SOME SORT OF JOKE?!" he snarled. "I see a lot of things when I look at you lot. 'Fragile' isn't one of them. I've flown with every single one of you. I know what you can do. So what if no one wants to give us that respect from the off? We're Lions. We roar, we hunt, we take our prey, and we don't ask anybody's permission."
By now every head in the first line was up, every player hanging on Freddy's every word.
"That Quidditch Cup is coming back to Gryffindor this year. And if the other three Houses don't like it…" Some of Freddy's familiar smile shone through. "…well, that's just too bad."
Nobody spoke, but James glanced down the line and there was a different look in the eyes of the team.
Almost sheepishly, Freddy turned his head to Greta and grimaced. "Sorry. I tend to ramble if I don't write it down before. Was that good enough?"
Greta had a coy half-smile on her face as she shook her head. She glanced at Freddy in a mix of amusement, astonishment, and something else somewhat familiar that James couldn't quite place. It was almost as if she was seeing Freddy in an entirely new light. "It'll do." She raised a hand into the air as everyone gathered around her. "'Gryffindor' on three."
The wind in this short lull before the chaos was calm, almost pleasant. He glanced to his right, where Greta sat stiffly upright on her broom, then glanced across the air space at her opposite number. Slytherin had chosen their oldest and biggest Chaser, Kent, for the opening toss. James's own counterpart, as he'd predicted, was Phillip Bletchley.
"Hey, Bletch!" James exclaimed across the wind. "You plan on keeping it clean this time?"
Phillip Bletchley squinted his eyes in a glare at James. His auburn hair had lengthened just enough to frame his head, and it was now blowing across his eyes in this crosswind. "You're assuming I need tricks to win against you. That's a mistake."
He gripped his handle, and it was that motion that made James notice that Bletchley had upgraded his broom over the summer.
James cocked his head just a bit. "Well…" he muttered to himself, angling his body downward toward the shaft of his own broomstick. "If you say so."
Out of the corner of his eye, an ascending streak of red. The shapes around James blurred and the roar of the crowd dueled the whistling wind for control of his ears. A brief moment later, James turned his head – and good thing, too. The Quaffle was coming straight at him. Sure of his safety in front, he reached back with one hand, using the other to keep his flight steady. That's when he saw a green blur screaming toward and past him, cutting him off. He had to angle his flight out of the way. James, Quaffle safely under his right arm, cursed to himself. He hadn't been sure before, but now he knew. Only Firebolts could accelerate like that.
A yell pierced his singleminded flight toward the hoops. He sensed it before he saw it – a Bludger, black as midnight, tried to unseat him from his right. To top it off, Bletchley was closing on him again, threatening to cut off his path to the hoops. Another red shape came into view. A boy. One arm was extended, the hand spread so wide James could differentiate each finger even at this speed...
"Pass it, Potter – here, here!" Asher Rodney called for the red ball. James, somewhat reluctantly, pushed the ball from his care and into the emptiness. It seemed to hang there for much too long before it hit the outstretched arm of his fellow Chaser.
An instant later, Bletchley was on his right shoulder. James barely had time to react. He caught sight of a grin on the Slytherin boy's face before feeling Bletchley's body and broom against his own. It had been the tiniest of bumps – a clean play – but it had been effective. James's flight path was forced outside, far away and around the hoops, so that James was behind the goals to see the Slytherin Keeper, Gallette, blocking Rodney's shot. Worse still, Bletchley was already wheeling back to join his teammates, leaving James behind.
"Nonononono—" James snarled through his teeth as he tried to coax his Cleansweep to its top speed as quickly as it would go. Thankfully, Greta was back already and harassing Oberon Kent, flying deftly between him and the other two Slytherin Chasers to cut off any passes. All James had to do was get there before one of the open Chasers got the Quaffle.
A large body appeared in front of him, almost as if by Apparition. James yanked his broom sideways and just barely dodged the hulking, muscular mass that was Shelby Fletcher-Hawes. He glanced back at the Slytherin Beater for a moment, which cost him the time he needed to see a Bludger coming at him from another direction.
James had just enough time to protect his nose from taking the impact. Completely by instinct, he raised his right arm, and a moment later, thousands of tiny needles were stabbing it and all the feeling was gone. Then, a horrible burn spread from elbow to knuckles. He flailed his arm, but it felt less like an arm and more like a foreign object attached to his shoulder. He remembered well what a broken arm felt like, though, and this was not that feeling. His – or rather, Uncle Charlie's – dragon scale bracer had saved his forearm bones from being crushed to powder.
Dad was right, James thought. Dragon scale is near indestructible…
A cheer snapped James back to his senses. He looked up and saw Oberon Kent high-fiving Phillip Bletchley in the area of the goalposts. Gemma Bridge was floating in the vicinity, looking dejected.
"It's no big deal," Greta called. "It's just one goal – we can get it back!"
James turned his broom in the other direction, determined to do just that.
But James found the feeling in his arm was slow in coming back. The next time Greta found him for a pass, his right hand failed him completely and the Quaffle slipped from his grip. As if he had seen it coming, Phillip Bletchley came up with the Quaffle riding full speed in the opposite direction. He put another goal past Gemma Bridge to widen Slytherin's lead to twenty – irritating, yes, but still not nearly enough to start panicking…
…Which was why, when Greta called for timeout, James couldn't help looking at her a bit strangely.
"We're all over the place," she said to the first line and the four reserve players that came sprinting up the pitch once everyone landed.
Freddy was panting a bit. He raised his head and stood straight, smoothing his brownish fingers of hair out of his eyes.
"Sorry, James," he apologized. "I couldn't get there in time for that last one. Is your arm alright?"
"I'm not sure," James murmured, shaking his arm again. He stretched it and moved it around. "It's not broken."
"Yeah, I don't think Bludgers are getting through dragon scale," Freddy commented, displaying his own bracer. "Bellamy's strong, but he's not that strong."
James turned his arm again. The feeling in his hand was starting to come back.
"OI!" a voice shouted, following his exclamation with a short whistle blast. Sylvia flinched especially badly. James looked over his shoulder. He was used to the curt voice of Madam Hooch and had almost forgotten that Sylvia's father was the referee now. "That's been a full minute. Time to break it up, or Slytherin gets a penalty shot!"
"Damn it," Greta groaned. "He really upholds the letter, doesn't he? Hooch gave us a minute and a half sometimes. Let's go…"
Kenneth Bourne's face fell. He had been hoping to get into the game. James couldn't dwell on it, though. They had to get their lead back. With no sign of the Snitch by either Seeker, there was no telling how long they would be playing.
When Bletchley scored the third goal on Gemma several moments later, James honestly started to wonder whether Bletchley was that good or if Gemma was suffering from first-match nerves. Maybe a bit of both, James told himself as he turned his broom to join his teammates on offense. Hilariously, Greta and Asher Rodney were passing the ball back and forth between them with only Aaron Miller guarding. He flew wildly in between them, flailing his arms fruitlessly as he tried to get a hand on the Quaffle. Just as James started to wonder where the other two Slytherin Chasers went, he felt them – one on each shoulder, trying to ride him out of the play. Maybe it wasn't according to plan, though, because Oberon Kent didn't look happy to see his Slytherin teammate.
"Dammit, Bletchley, no!" Kent cursed. "Stanford's wide open! Get the hell outta here!"
Bletchley reluctantly peeled off, leaving Kent on James's left. Kent was older and much bigger than Bletchley, so when he leaned against him, James truly felt it. Kent was blocking his path and his line of sight to the other two Gryffindor Chasers. So James decided to try something crazy. He locked his legs around his broom, bent as low as possible, and rotated.
The grass became sky, flying past him at sickening speed. He felt his own stomach roil uncomfortably. Then he caught sight of the Chaser skirmish. This would only work once… He willed his broom in that direction and careened away from Kent, spiraling through the air as if shot out of a cannon. His flight path took him high. He righted himself, waited a moment for the world to stop spinning, and angled himself toward Gallette and the hoops from above. He came down in front of Rodney, who saw him and fed him the Quaffle just as a Bludger bounced painfully off Rodney's back. As soon as James turned to throw, he saw Gallette coming down right in front of him. The corner of his right eye registered a streak of red. James desperately shoved the ball in that direction, and a moment later, the crowd erupted.
"Stanford puts it through! Gryffindors on the board, it's twenty-ten!"
Greta flew by to slap his hand. At speed, it stung horribly – a good sign that the feeling in his palm was back.
"Ace pass, Potter!" shouted Rodney jubilantly.
"Don't get too ahead of yourselves," Greta said, steadying her broom in front of them. "Rodney, don't forget Miller. I know he hasn't done much so far, but he's got to be first line for a reason."
Rodney, to his credit, did just as Greta asked. But the Gryffindor Chasers had two problems; one, Bletchley and his new broom were giving James fits – when he wasn't riding James out of plays completely, he was blocking him, forcing him to change direction, taking away direct flights to any goals.
Second was Kent himself. Greta was a shade more skilled a flyer, but Oberon Kent was the type of player one had to try to block covertly; he wasn't Fletcher-Hawes or Bellamy, but he was a tall, strapping fellow with more than enough bulk to him to give defenders pause.
Before too long, Slytherin had opened up a seventy-thirty lead, with nary a whimper (perhaps fortunately for Gryffindor) from either Seeker.
Slytherin called timeout, which allowed the Gryffindors a quick break on the ground.
Desmond had his hands on his knees, panting, as the eleven players huddled around each other.
"God…" he panted. "Fletcher's darks are bloody awful. Every time I hit one, it's like I'm the one being hit."
"He swings a heavy bat, that's for sure," Freddy remarked.
"Snitch flew into the sun right as the match started," Scorpius groused, his arms folded. "Haven't seen it since."
"Gettis did," Freddy said. Then, with a smirk, he added, "But I bet he won't reach again. Last time, he almost got his arm broken."
James had seen where Freddy had sent a Bludger at Wilmerlin Gettis, who was too focused on the Snitch to see it and came within a whisker of taking the Bludger right off the elbow.
"Are they ever gonna use their bench?" asked Desmond, more by way of a comment.
"It's Slytherin. They never use their bench," Freddy replied, somewhat sourly. Indeed, Slytherin had gained a reputation in the last few years for never subbing out players. To be fair, though, many games in those few years, Gettis had caught the Snitch so quickly that they had never gotten the chance.
In the other huddle, Gettis was making meaningful gestures toward his players. James wondered if he was talking some sort of strategy. When he was done, though, two of the rather larger boys on his side of the huddle traded places with a couple of players that couldn't have been much older than second year.
"I don't believe it…" Freddy said only semi-sarcastically.
Greta had her chin in her hand. "We're going to change things up a bit." She looked at Rodney. "Rodney, McLaggen, take a rest."
Rodney tried really hard not to look too relieved. Greta took a second to think.
"Bourne, you're in at Beater. Thomas, you're up as well."
Sylvia froze for a moment. "…Really?"
"You fly like a hummingbird," Greta said simply. When Sylvia made a confused face (a couple of the other players joined her), Greta explained, "Short bursts. Change of direction. Kent and Miller don't handle it well if they don't know where you're going. Might give us an edge."
"Wait – Greta, wait a second," Desmond sounded almost pleading, which was unusual for him. "Don't take me out."
Greta tilted her head.
"Two first-timers out there is pushing it, but three?" Desmond queried. "I don't know if that's the best—"
Sylvia rounded on him. "I was raised around Quidditch, thank you very much. Don't treat me like I just got on a broom yesterday."
James and Scorpius both made identical grimaces. Greta gave a loud, audible groan. "This isn't the time for—"
"Fine, fine…" groaned Desmond, turning away and muttering to himself as he walked by James. "…come crying to me if you get your pretty little skull split open… I'm just trying to make sure… shouldn't be so bloody proud…"
James wasn't sure, either, but he didn't feel nearly as strongly about the changes as Desmond did.
"Hey, Sylvia," Scorpius spoke up. Sylvia was tapping her foot on the ground. James couldn't figure out whether she was really that angry or just trying to hide her nerves behind a tough face like she'd been doing most of the last week. She did humor Scorpius with a glance, though. "I think I see them."
And he pointed at one of the red-and-gold towers surrounding the pitch.
Albus
"I think they're about to put her in," Rowan Lester said a few seats down, emerging from his borrowed pair of Omnioculars.
"Yes," Melinda Barrett, at his side as nearly always when one of them wasn't in class, remarked, taking the Omnioculars back. "Slytherin's also wearing green. Anything else obvious you'd like to point out?"
Rowan gave Melinda a dirty look.
"I'm only teasing," Melinda said, nudging him with her elbow. Rowan semi-smiled and shook his head.
"Looks like loverboy's still on the bench, Dominique," Tommy commented from behind Albus.
"Merlin's pants, can you stop it?" was Roxanne Weasley's irritated reply.
Albus's ears turned in to all of these conversations without looking. His eyes were transfixed on the pitch, looking on as Scorpius, visible even from this distance, got Sylvia's attention, turned, and pointed – directly at them.
"He sees us," remarked Rose, sounding surprised. "Is his eyesight really that good?"
"Maybe," Albus answered, still not feeling all there. "But… he may have found us by your hair. It sticks out a bit."
"Well, that's mean," groused Rose. "I forgot to comb it this morning. Sorry. If you hadn't been rushing me to get down to the locker room…"
"Not what I meant, Rose," Albus groaned. "I meant, it's… well, red. It's easy to pick red hair out of a crowd."
"…Oh," Rose uttered, obviously feeling foolish. "But my hair is all over the place today, and this wind isn't helping."
She kept talking, but Albus forgot to listen. He just stood there, staring down at the pitch. Then, by some unknown compulsion, not even sure if she would see from this far away, he raised his hand.
"Oh…" Roxanne cringed. "I hope they don't get hit by any Bludgers. I saw that one Slytherin Beater in the library the other day. I'm convinced he's got some giant in him. Sixteen-year olds don't get that big. He had to be fifteen stone, at the very least…."
Albus's heart jumped somewhere into his throat. Desmond, who was already quite larger than Albus, would probably be about that size in four years at the rate he was going, but he wasn't there yet. Freddy wasn't nearly fifteen stone and all the Hogwarts feasts in the world (he, like a lot of the Weasley boys, could put down his share of food) would never make him so.
"Did McLaggen want to stay in?" asked Tommy. "He sure didn't look happy just now. Don't tell me the team's already having issues one match into the year. Not after last year's debacle…"
"I doubt it's that serious," Roxanne reassured them.
"Scorpius says Greta would have to go out of her way to be as bad a Captain as Cole Murphy was," Rose remarked. Scorpius had never elaborated on what, exactly, made him hate Cole Murphy so much. Albus just knew that bringing Cole up in conversation was a certain way to ruin the other boy's mood.
"Scorpius and Cole didn't get along?" Roxanne asked. This was news to her. Rose actually scoffed.
"Are you kidding?" she asked. "What was it Scorpius called him? A 'loudmouth, tyrannical bully'? Among other descriptions, most of which wouldn't be used in polite conversation—"
For a second it felt like the entire tower shifted. Dominique Weasley, who had been mostly silent, let out a shriek as someone or something nearly knocked her over. A hand came flailing through the small space, catching Rose across the face. She went down in a whirl of auburn hair.
"OI! What the hell?!" Tommy shouted. Immediately after, an older boy grunted.
"God!" he snarled. "Anna, stop it! Come on!"
"GET OFF!" a girl's voice screamed in a tone so enraged it sounded monstrous. Meanwhile, Rose got to her feet, eyes watery. A blossom of red was blooming at the corner of her lip. She seemed more surprised than anything. "Get off, Ricky!"
"Calm down," the boy's voice – it sounded so familiar to Albus, especially the accent, but he couldn't place it. "You can't just go –"
"Just go what?" the girl, who had a similar accent, snapped. Albus still couldn't see them. "That's our brother she's talking about!" She raised her voice. "Say another word about Cole and I'll hex your mouth shut for you, bitch!"
That comment snapped Rose out of her initial shock at being hit, and she would have jumped up into the crowd to find her assailant if Albus's quick reaction hadn't stopped her.
"Stop it, stop it, Rose," Albus grunted. It had been a long while since he'd seen Rose this angry.
"Move over, Roxanne – let me see her!" Rose exclaimed, trying to wrest herself free of Albus's grip. Somewhat reluctantly and obviously as surprised at the situation as everyone else was, Roxanne crowded Tommy ("Roxie, hold on, I need some space—") and what Albus finally saw was….
Somewhat a mirror image.
The boy two rows up was holding a girl back just like Albus was holding Rose. And he had been exactly who Albus guessed he would be. He was older, with his light brown hair matted against his neck with a red-and-gold bobbie cap. The girl he had by the crooks inside her elbows – she would have literally leapt and pounced otherwise, and only Merlin knew what would happen then. Her hair was a lustrous dark brown, but her recent violence had rendered it somewhat unkempt.
Richard Murphy's eyes widened.
"Merlin's cobblers," he groaned weakly. "Annie, that's my best mate's cousin – what are you doing?"
"I don't – care – who she is," the girl said through grit teeth. "Nobody talks about Cole like that – nobody!"
"What are you doing here?" Tommy asked once he found his voice. "You're lucky Prefects can't dock points from other houses, or else—"
"Is it against the rules to have your sister watch the match with you?" Richard Murphy asked, still keeping a firm grip on his youngest sibling. "What, are students from other Houses not allowed?"
"Students from other Houses are allowed – you know that," remarked Tommy. "Students from other Houses hitting Gryffindors in the face? Not so much."
"C'mon, Anna, apologize," Murphy said, handling his sister a bit more gently now that her rage had broken. But she shook her head vehemently.
"No," she said, as if no one had figured out her answer already.
"Apologize," Murphy repeated. "Do you have any idea what would happen if a Professor found out—"
"Professor Malcolm wouldn't do anything," Anna answered. "He's nice. Besides, he says most Gryffindors talk too much anyways."
Murphy seemed poleaxed by that comment; he stared blankly ahead for a moment. Albus didn't know what shocked him so – he had heard Professor Malcolm imply as much throughout lessons the entire year. Murphy's entire demeanor became serious.
"I have to go," he said.
"But, Ricky, the match just started!" cried Anna, suddenly sounding much younger than eleven. "This is my first one. I'm sorry, okay? I won't cause anymore trouble, please don't go…"
"Sorry," sighed Murphy. "I promised someone I'd do something. And a Murphy—"
"—Never breaks a promise. I know," Anna said, deflating at her brother's last statement. She shook her head sadly. "Forget it. I'm going to the wall. And I hope Slytherin flattens you lot."
The 'wall' was, well, exactly what it sounded like. Built in a large ring around the stadium, it served as standing room space for the majority of the Hogwarts students. After all, the majority of the Hogwarts students weren't here nearly early enough to get into the towers.
Murphy watched his sister leave, then, with a hopeless, apologetic expression directed at everyone involved, departed himself.
"Well, she's a real sweetheart, isn't she?" Tommy uttered.
"She's just protective of her family, that's all," Roxanne said understandingly.
Albus turned to Rose, and it occurred to him only then that she was still bleeding. "Hey, Rose, your lip…"
"I'm fine," she said unconvincingly, wiping it on her sleeve, turning back toward the match, and letting no tears fall. As many things as there were that could make her weep (far less than a year or two ago), physical pain was somehow not one of them. But she did not resist when Albus put a comforting arm around her shoulders.
Brynne
It was lunchtime, but the Great Hall was all but silent. Brynne Walter was alone, feeling tiny as she polished off the last of her sandwich at one of the four great tables, which were now almost completely empty. Everyone was at the match, save for a handful – disinterested girls (mostly Ravenclaws, Brynne noticed) who couldn't care less about Quidditch, and seventh year N.E.W.T. students (also mostly Ravenclaws) that were so busy that they didn't have the time for such frivolity.
Also, notably present here and absent from the stadium, was Professor Ithamar Ambrose, who was dividing his time at the staff table between his lunch and what appeared to be a very engrossing book. After a few glances in that direction, Brynne's curiosity, as it often did, got the better of her. So she took the long walk up to the staff table, wondering if doing so would be more or less brazen with the Great Hall full. Most students avoided going up to the staff table during meals if they could help it. It was a bit too visible, and frankly it was the one time in the day that most Professors wanted to oversee the students but not be bothered too much with them.
Ambrose, far from telling Brynne to go away, didn't even seem to notice even when Brynne was nearly close enough to reach out and touch his book. But then, Brynne was good at moving silently. She was petite and (once again) shoeless, and the white stockings under her favorite green dress made practically no noise against the floor.
Ambrose looked from his book, to her, and then hilariously down to his meal again. Then he did a double take.
"Oh – Miss Walter," he uttered. "Quidditch doesn't appeal to you, either?"
"I wouldn't say that," Brynne replied. "It's just… awkward. I have two good friends in the match today, but they're playing against each other, and I don't want to root for one or the other." She smiled. "I guess I'm just not that good at taking sides."
"Two good friends, hm?" Ambrose asked. His hair matched the color of his eyes – both were dark brown. His hair was somewhat long. And with a clean-shaven face, he easily could have passed for a late teenager if he so chose. "That's a Slytherin and a Gryffindor?"
Brynne nodded.
"Interesting," Ambrose remarked. "You know, those two houses didn't associate when I was a student here. Still don't much, come to think of it. But then…" The shadow of a smile crept to his face. "You've always had a bit of an issue following rules, haven't you?"
"…Only rules I think are stupid," Brynne said, and Ambrose looked like he could have laughed for a moment.
"It's a trait rather common to Slytherins, and while it tends to make us innovators, it also tends to get us in a fair bit of trouble from time to time," he said. "Everyone always said I was too straight-laced to be a Slytherin. But the reason I tried so hard to stay in line was I wanted to be Head Boy one day. Made it, too, my last year – first Slytherin to do it since the War ended. I suppose that counts as 'ambitious', right? That's what everyone says about us. So you sought out a pair of Gryffindor boys for friends. Yes, I've seen you all around. We Professors notice more small things than students care to admit."
"Not exactly… it just happened that way," Brynne explained.
"A lot of Slytherins – still even today – would turn their nose up at the idea of friendship with House Gryffindor," Ambrose commented. "It's been sort of ingrained into Slytherin culture for as long as anyone can remember, and even before that. It's said the Houses have been rivals for nearly a millennium."
"It's tradition. Don't you think there's something wrong with that?" Brynne said.
Ambrose, who had been looking at his book, put it down very deliberately. "Come around here. Take a seat."
Brynne froze.
"It's all right. There's nobody here, in case you haven't noticed," Ambrose said. Brynne took one of the chairs next to Professor Ambrose, looked up, and saw the Great Hall. Really saw it, in a way that was simply impossible to do looking from anywhere else but here. From the staff table, the hall seemed to stretch on for miles away and for miles upward. Normally, hundreds of young wizards, some barely eleven years old, sat at these chairs and tables. They were here for most of the year, for seven of their most crucial years.
And then, they would go out into Britain, to find jobs, start families. Many would take places in government, working for the Ministry of Magic. Some would return here, to move from those tables to this one. A future Minister, or the next Head Auror, perhaps the next Headmaster, could very well occupy one of these many chairs when the Hall was full. He or she could have entered this September, an impressionable first year whose beliefs on the wizard world in general would be formed here in this very castle.
"You see it, don't you?" Ambrose questioned. "You're in your second year now, right, Miss Walter? How old are you?"
"Thirteen," Brynne answered. "A week or two ago."
"Thirteen, and you think you can change the world," Ambrose said appraisingly. "…Most people, if they were being completely honest, would call you a fool."
Ambrose let that statement hang in the air for a moment.
"The world was built on people that were called fools," Ambrose said. "Have you ever read Hogwarts, A History? Originally, the Founders wanted to be seven instead of four. Seven, as you know, is the most magically powerful number. Call it superstition, maybe – maybe they just wanted all the help they could get. But even other wizards and witches laughed at them – called them 'fools.' 'Where in Britain are you going to find a place big enough, but also safe enough, to house and educate every wizard child in the land?' 'What do you expect to accomplish with only four of you?' The people that built this castle a thousand years ago – without whom our wizarding society would not exist today – were called 'fools'."
Brynne squirmed, sitting forward. She felt too small for these chairs. Her feet barely touched the ground.
"Some people – well-meaning people that only want to shield you from potential harm and disappointment – will tell you that you should dream smaller," Ambrose said. "Do not listen to those voices."
Brynne stared blankly ahead, allowing her mind to wander a bit. She thought of the chair she now occupied, and the one several spaces to her right, at the very center. It was there, between the middle two tables, that the Headmaster of Hogwarts sat. From there, her eyes would be able to see every student in the Great Hall, even to outside the doors, where someone was currently walking, eyes buried in a bit of parchment. The stranger lowered the parchment and looked straight into the hall.
Yet the stranger was not a stranger…
What's he doing here?
"Something's just come up," Brynne said quickly, leaving the table. "Sorry."
But Professor Ambrose had gone back to The Boy Who Lived, Volume I of VII, and was paying no attention.
The castle was hauntingly quiet. As a matter of fact, Brynne trod furtively, a bit concerned about a ghost flying through one of the walls. The ghosts weren't remotely frightening to her, and even somewhat fascinating… except for the Bloody Baron, whom Brynne always avoided if she could help it. All that said, there were few sensations worse than passing through one of Hogwarts' many spectral denizens. It was much like diving stark naked into a lake full of cold water. (Brynne swore never to tell a soul at Hogwarts about her mistake at the Orchard as an innocent five-year-old. Suffice it to say, she knew the sensation all too well.)
The boy reading the parchment was moving much too quickly for someone whose nose was buried in parchment. Brynne nearly had to run to keep up, which made sneaking and staying out of sight much more difficult than it should have been. She cast wary eyes on the many suits of armor. She'd heard stories about them, and even if those stories weren't completely true, the dancing firelight of the many torches that lit the castle made the armors seem if they could move at times.
The boy turned a corner. Brynne steadied her breathing. It would not do for her target to hear her sucking all the air out of the halls. Squinting to see his feet, she tried her best to match her steps with his – all the better to remain silent. She quickened her pace as the boy stopped.
And that was when a rogue peak on the carpet caught Brynne's foot. She stumbled, and then her vision went white.
"Merlin's cobblers!" swore a Belfastite voice Brynne knew well. She staggered backward. "Bloody hell, Brynne, what are you doing?!"
As soon as the spots stopped dancing in front of her eyes, Brynne angled her head around the boy's outstretched, lit wand. He had long, light brown hair that looked almost golden in the light, hidden under a woolen hat that he hadn't removed.
"I could ask you the same question," she said, placing her hand atop the boy's wand and guiding it downward and away from her face. "Isn't the match still going on? I thought you were going to be with your sister."
"I was," he answered. "Only… well, she's moody. It's complicated. I've got to go."
He started to back away. Brynne noticed that he hadn't moved his left hand from behind his back for their entire conversation.
"Murphy," she called sharply. Murphy stopped. "What's that you're holding?"
"Ah –" Murphy stammered. He displayed the yellowing parchment. "Nothing. Spare bit of parchment, is all. Wait – why aren't you at the match yourself?"
"I'd rather not watch James and Phillip try to take each other's heads off, if it's all the same to you," Brynne answered. Then, eyeing one of the iron statues on the nearby wall, she added, "Don't you think these suits of armor are a bit creepy?"
But Murphy raised his wand again. "I'm not going to fall for that, Brynne."
"Fall for what?" asked Brynne innocently, drawing her hands behind her petite body to look as childish as possible. "And why are you pointing your wand at me? You wouldn't hex me, would you? …Would you, Murphy? Hmm?"
"Er… you don't know that," Murphy said, redoubling his grip.
A brief smile crossed Brynne's face. It must have unnerved Murphy a bit; he took a step back.
"I just want to take a look," she said.
"You can't," Murphy said immediately. "It's… it's…"
He dropped his head.
"It's this… scavenger hunt… thing," he muttered. "I've got a secret admirer, actually. I think she's a Ravenclaw. They tend to draw well and speak in riddles."
Brynne giggled. "Oh. Is that all? Well, if you're going off to meet a girl, you should at least try for some manners."
"Manners?" asked Murphy. "What do you mean?"
"Hats off inside," Brynne said. "Accio!"
As if pulled by a magnet, Richard Murphy's hat came flying off his head and toward Brynne. An instant later, he cried "Hey!", and reached for it one arm, exposing the parchment. Brynne darted underneath his wand arm and grabbed at the leaf, yanking it right out of his hand. Murphy grimaced, knowing he was beaten.
"Clever," he said.
"What is this thing anyway?" uttered Brynne, unfurling the parchment. She didn't understand much of any of it, although her eyes zoomed in on two pairs of footprints among all the letters and markings. Over one was a banner that read, very clearly (and to her great chagrin) "Frieda Walter."
Directly next to it was a second pair of footprints, facing hers, bearing a banner with the name "Richard Murphy."
"Some sort of map…" muttered Brynne. Looking at the parchment, she noticed the words "The Great Hall" not terribly far from her and Murphy's footprints. A moment later, the map was gone, snatched from her hands by Richard Murphy. She looked up at him reproachfully. "That was rude."
"Sorry," Murphy muttered. Brynne wasn't sure how sincere he was being. "But I'm in a hurry."
"So you're trying to find something with this map of yours?" asked Brynne.
"Keep out of my way," Murphy said.
"Why?" asked Brynne, taking a step back as Murphy took one forward, still blocking his path. "I'm going with you."
"No, you're not," Murphy answered flatly. He took another step forward. Brynne backpedaled again. "You're going to go meet James. The match should be over soon."
"…It's almost one," Brynne commented. Then it hit her. She tilted her head. "Byd Newydd – Malcolm's group – they're meeting today around one, aren't they? You wouldn't happen to be… trying to find them, would you?"
Murphy hesitated.
"All on your own? That's not like you," Brynne reasoned.
"I'm capable of thinking on my own, thanks," Murphy bristled. Brynne had clearly touched a nerve.
"Just because you can do it doesn't mean it's a good idea," she answered. "You should have at least let me know. I thought we were friends."
"We are friends," Murphy answered. "That's exactly why I didn't do it."
Brynne took a step back again… and then raised her wand. "You pig."
"Wh—" Murphy was completely gobsmacked.
"It's because I'm a girl, isn't it?" she asked. "You don't think I'd be able to handle it."
"It's not because you're a girl," Murphy said stubbornly. "It's because you're…"
Briefly, his face assumed the expression of someone who realized he had said too much. He swallowed the last few words and shook his head.
"Look, I don't have time for this. If you're going to go with me, you have to swear to me not to do anything stupid," Murphy pleaded. "And if James asks, we never saw each other."
James. I should have known…
Brynne smiled. "Nothing as stupid as going after Byd Newydd alone? I think I can manage that."
But then… I suppose that's why I like him so much.