It's Quidditch day.
Guinevere jumps out of bed in the morning with a smile already stretching her cheeks to the point of pain. She thinks she must have been smiling in her sleep. It had been a long, restless night of her waking up every hour or so and forcing herself to go back to sleep. Just the knowledge that she'd be on the Quidditch pitch come that morning made her feel like a kid on Christmas Eve. Her body refused to relax.
The sun is just barely peeking through the windows when she starts pulling on her Gryffindor jumper and slacks. She's vibrating with excitement at the prospect of packing on all her gear and chasing after the Quaffle. She hasn't been on a broom since the end of the last school year and she's going through withdrawal.
She glides across the dorm room, humming Dancing Queen as she tries to avoid waking her bunk mates. Lily, Dorcas, Marlene, and Alice are all sprawled out on their beds, dead to the world. The four of them probably won't wake up for several more hours, and Guinevere doesn't plan on risking the wrath of Marlene when she is woken up early on the weekend.
After a futile search through her chest of clothes, Guinevere spots her boots peeking out from underneath Alice's bed. She has no idea how they got there, but she does know that she needs to grab those boots without waking Alice. If she wakes Alice, she'll risk waking up the rest of her mates.
Getting down onto her knees, she slowly begins slipping the brown boots out from under Alice's bed. They make a faint scrapping sound as the drag along the wooden floor. She has them half way out when a strangled snore makes her head snap up in alarm.
Alice's eyes are half open and red from exhaustion. Her slow gaze eventually settles on Guinevere. She blinks a few times, as if she doesn't know what she's seeing.
"Guin…?" she whispers, her voice heavy with sleep. Guinevere freezes in her place.
"Um…" she begins, stalling to come up with a plan. "You… You're dreaming, Alice. Just dreaming."
Alice blinks at her blearily, her brow furrowing in confusion.
"I'm… dreaming?"
Guinevere nods as she slips on her boots.
"Just a dream," she confirms. "Now go back to sleep."
Alice nods in an absent minded manner that makes Guinevere believe she doesn't realize what she's doing.
"Yeah… Yeah, sleep…"
She closes her eyes and within seconds, she begins snoring lightly. Guinevere lets out a relieved sigh and gets back on her feet. The smile that had previously left her face suddenly returns, bigger and brighter than ever.
It's a ridiculous hour and she's exhausted beyond belief, but she's happier than she has been in weeks.
James Potter claps his hands together. The sound resonates throughout the entire pitch, creating an echo. No one speaks. James has their complete attention. Even Guinevere and several other repeated players who know the drill already are completely rapt, waiting for their captain's next words.
"I see some old mates in the crowd today," James announces. "As you know, your previous position is not guaranteed. Every year we have a new batch of talented Quidditch players who deserve a go at this as much as you do. So, if you want to keep your spot, you'll have to work for it."
Guinevere hears a newcomer next to her gulp loudly. Poor kid must be a 3rd year. No 1st or 2nd years dare to even try and join the team.
She glances up at the goal hoop in front of her to see it's already being guarded by Alfie, a 5th year boy who made the team last year. She narrows her eyes in suspicion. Why is there already a Keeper posted at the goal? Surely James didn't select them already.
"First up, Chasers!" James calls out, throwing a Quaffle up into the air. Guinevere doesn't think twice about hopping on her broom and flying into the air. It's just like James to expect them to be ready at a moment's notice. Be as observant as a Centaur when Mercury is in retrograde, he always says.
She flies straight for the Quaffle and snatches it out of the air, holding it to her chest greedily. On the pitch, all her manners fly away faster than the Bludger coming for a Beater's jaw. She leans forward on her broom as she clings tighter to the Quaffle.
A blond-haired boy rams into her side in an attempt to make her give up her prize, but her arms will not give. She leans to the right and knocks the front of his broom off to the side, loosening his grip and causing him to lose his bearings. She doesn't bother to check if he has fallen off his broom as she zooms right past him.
Time seems to slow down as she faces Alfie, who guards his hoop as fiercely as he does during actual games. But while he has tenacity, Guinevere beats him in experience. Her strategy has remained consistent throughout the three years she has been playing, and it has yet to fail her.
She tosses the Quaffle up into the air and turns around, bringing her broom in contact with the ball. Alfie dives to the right, but it's all in vain. His hands only brush the Quaffle before it falls through the hoop. A satisfied smile spreads across Guinevere's face as she dives to catch the Quaffle once more.
Loud clapping resounds from the stands, making her whip her head around.
For a split second, she thinks maybe one of her friends decided to get up early and support her, but when the early morning sun illuminates the figure on the sidelines, she realizes just how early it is. She doubts her friends are awake, much less taking time out of their day to see her fly around on a broom.
The wind is knocked out of her when the tail end of somebody's broom rams into her side. She has to cling onto her broom to keep from falling over. The pain is enough to make her grimace, but she's had worse. It's nothing she can't deal with.
One of her competitors zooming by her while holding onto the Quaffle, however, isn't something she can deal with.
By the end of the tryouts, Guinevere is covered from head to toe in sweat. Her jumper sticks to her skin in the most uncomfortable places, only made worse by the heavy gear still strapped to her body. Her legs burn from keeping them bent at the knees for such a long period of time. Her arms are stiff from clinging to her broom for dear life.
She needs a long dip in a hot bath. Maybe she'll be able to convince Alice to massage the knots out of her shoulders. She's always been her most sympathetic friend.
She stumbles across the pitch, gripping her broom tightly in her fist. The few 3rd years talk amongst themselves in hushed whispers, no doubt debating whether or not their tryout was good enough to qualify them for the team. The 4th years looked slightly more relaxed, but only just slightly. It is only the former team members who seem relaxed enough to make small talk.
The tryout went horribly, in her opinion. After the ease with which she made the first goal, she expected a flawless performance out of herself. It's her own fault for becoming distracted. She's usually able to block out the anxiety provoking noises of a boisterous crowd. Maybe it was because it was only one clap, or maybe it was because tryouts are an especially nerve wracking event. Whatever it was, it caused her to lose her focus.
In a matter of seconds, she went from tossing the Quaffle through the hoop to fighting tooth and nail for possession of the ball. After losing it once, it was a struggle to get it back. Her performance wasn't bad, but it wasn't flawless. And that is all that matters. She accepts nothing less than perfection.
"Oi! Prongs! Did it really have to drag on so long?"
Guinevere barely spares a glance in James's direction as the voice that she recognizes as belonging to Sirius Black draws near. She should have guessed he'd be here. Wherever James is, his curly haired friend shadows him.
She stops dead in her tracks.
The clap from the stands. It wasn't one of her friends. It was one of James's friends. It was Sirius. He was the dark haired figure she only caught a small glimpse of due to the glare of the sun.
The stiffness in her bones disappears as she marches over to Sirius Black. He and James seem to be so absorbed in conversation, they don't notice the red faced girl glaring up at them.
"Black!" she squawks. She intended for her voice to come out strong and confident, not small and mousy. Her face heats up even more as she realizes how pathetic she must sound.
Sirius turns his head away from his previous conversation, looking down at Guinevere with a raised eyebrow. Despite her being 165 centimeters tall, he makes her feel so incredibly small.
"What?" he asks simply in a clipped tone. His irritation is almost enough to make her go running to the Gryffindor common room with her broom between her legs, but she forces herself to raise her chin up higher. Anger propels her on.
"You clapped," she states simply.
Sirius squints and tilts his head, looking remarkably like a dog trying to hear something better.
"What?"
"You. Clapped."
The irritation on his face melts into amusement, which just serves to anger Guinevere further. He never takes her seriously, no matter how angry she is. He treats all their interactions like a game of cat and mouse in which she is the helpless, unwilling little mouse and he is the cat, toying with her as he pleases.
"You distracted me!" she squeaks, her irritation rising. As soon as he opens his mouth to reply, she knows it's going to push her temper over the edge. Dread sets in.
"That's what you got your wand in a knot about?" he asks. "Did it occur to you that maybe it might be your own fault you lost the Quaffle?"
Guinevere's entire body quivers in rage. Her jaw clenches. Her fingers tingle. It's a kind of emotion she rarely experiences, and something that would usually have her in bitter, angry tears. But she isn't about to cry here, in front of her team captain and her tormentor. Instead, she does the second-best thing.
She wheels back and punches Sirius in the jaw.
As soon as her fist connects with his jawline, she knows she's made a terrible mistake. It's too late to pull away now, so she follows all the way through. Sirius's head whips back, and Guinevere nearly falls flat on her face as soon as her fist loses contact. The sickening sound of flesh connecting with flesh rings in her ears. Otherwise, the entire pitch is silent.
Guinevere's eyes widen as she stares down at the grass, not daring to look up and face Sirius or James. She's breathing heavily and shaking out her sore fist. Little rings of blood are formed around each knuckle. She can just barely see bruises beginning to blossom. She must have punched him harder than she intended.
It's all too much to take in. She can't stand the shame or horror blooming in her chest.
Guinevere promptly turns on her heels and rushes away from the field.
In Hogwarts, broom closets are a popular spot for couples to stop for a quick snog between classes. They're populous and usually remain unchecked by professors.
Guinevere, for one, doesn't understand the appeal. They're uncomfortable for one person to stand in, much less two. They smell like the body odor of an entire Quidditch team condensed into a small space. Maybe that has something to do with the dirt and cobwebs that collect on the floor. The closets look like they haven't been cleaned since Merlin was a student.
Yet Guinevere is much more comfortable crouching down in a broom closet than risking a run in with Sirius Black in the Gryffindor common room.
She has only punched someone two other times in her life. The first time was when she was in primary school, when her accidental bouts of magic began to manifest. A boy in her class taunted her when objects began inexplicably exploding around her after a particularly upsetting day, getting her in trouble with the teacher. He called her bad luck, an eejit. She threw a hard right-hook right between his eyes. Needless to say, she got into even worse trouble with the teacher.
The second time was in her 5th year at Hogwarts, and it was entirely by accident. While she was getting changed after Quidditch practice, a male member of her team thought it would be funny to sneak up behind her and poke her sides to scare her. Adrenaline was already pumping through her veins, so when her mind perceived an attack, her automatic reaction was to turn around and punch her 'attacker' in the face. Poor Jack never saw it coming.
After both those incidents, she cried out of shame and horror at hurting another human being. She hates hurting others, unless it's on the Quidditch pitch, of course.
This time is no different.
Guinevere wipes the dry tear tracts off her cheeks. Despite all Sirius's annoying qualities, she never wanted to hurt him. She couldn't even stand to attend dinner that night. Nothing stays a secret for long at Hogwarts. She decided she would rather go hungry for a night than sit in the Great Hall and pretend like she couldn't hear the whispers coming from her classmates.
Thus, she ended up in her current situation, curled up in a broom closet, praying that no couples will stumble in.
The general hustle and bustle outside the closet has slowly died down, giving Guinevere an idea about how late it is. She begins to formulate a plan; if she rushes to the dorms as quickly and quietly as possible, she'll avoid getting in trouble for being up after curfew and inquiries from her classmates about this morning's 'incident'.
With her goal in mind, Guinevere slips out of the broom closet and quietly shuts the door behind her. Never has she been so grateful for the air in the castle. Anything is better than the thick, stuffy air she was forced to breathe in that closet.
She glides down the long corridor as quickly as possible. Her footfalls are nearly silent, not even worthy of an echo. She thanks Merlin that she can't hear Ms. Norris prowling around the corridor. Guinevere is usually a lover of all cats, but even she can't stand the vile creature. Stevie Wonder isn't too fond of her either.
Where is that little traitor anyways? she asks herself as she's nearing the stairs. Probably in the company of Remus Lupin.
"Where is it we're going?"
Guinevere jumps back against the stone wall, swallowing a gasp.
Somebody else is up.
She presses her body as far into the shadows as it will go, until the stones dig into her back painfully. Though she doubts anybody who is also breaking the rules would tattle on her for doing the same, she has spent the entire day avoiding people. She doesn't plan to stop now.
"You'll see when we get there. Now quit being a nancy and follow me."
Two figures step into the moonlight, illuminating green and silver robes. Slytherins.
"I'm not a nancy. Let's just get there before Filch catches us, okay?"
Guinevere instantly recognizes the shorter of the two boys as the dark-haired boy she saw in Hogsmeade who shares an uncanny resemblance to Sirius. In the light, however, she can see the slight differences. His eyes are dark and serious, as opposed to Sirius's light, ever twinkling grey. His cheekbones are slightly higher, and his face is set in a stern expression that Guinevere can't ever recall seeing on Sirius's face.
Despite the differences in their features, both have the good looks the Black family is so well renowned for.
The other boy Guinevere instantly recognizes as Mulciber. Her nose crinkles in disgust and she has to grip her wand tightly to resist from hexing him where he stands. Mary has never quite been the same since that beast of a boy attacked her in 5th year. She still refuses to tell anybody what exactly happened, but whatever it was earned him a burning hatred from all the Gryffindor girls.
Guinevere holds her breath as the two walk down the hallway she just came from. Her mind races with possibilities of what the two could be doing sneaking around the castle at night. Some rational part of her insists that the two are probably just up to get a late-night snack.
But the kitchens are in the opposite direction.
She sucks in a deep breath.
The way Guinevere sees it, she has two options:
She can rush back to her dorm as she planned. She can jump into bed and put this entire day behind her. And most importantly, she can mind her own business.
Or she can satisfy her curiosity. She can follow the two Slytherin boys and see what they're up to at such a late hour. She may even have something to report back to Sirius about his brother that will make up for punching him in the face.
One option is smart, while the other is reckless.
As usual, her body has already decided for her. She's silently sliding along the wall in the direction she just came from. This is a bad idea. This is an awful idea. She's mentally screaming at herself to stop now, to turn back, to run to her dorm and curl up under her covers. But she's not one to go only half-way. She dives in head first.
She creeps along the edge of the corridor, staying hidden by shadows while keeping a good amount of distance between herself and the boys. If they were any closer, she fears they would hear her heart threatening to beat right out of her chest. If Mulciber finds her, a muggleborn, following him late at night with no witnesses around but a friend of his…
Guinevere does not plan on finding out what Mary went through. Not this way.
Even as the two dart into an empty classroom, Guinevere doesn't allow herself to leave the safety of the shadows. She takes each step slowly and silently in fear of being heard. She hardly dares to breathe as she settles in next to the entrance to the empty classroom where she learns potions every week. The thought of anything even remotely sinister happening in there, in her safe haven, sends a shiver up her spine.
Letting out a silent breath, she makes a pitiful attempt to calm herself.
It's probably nothing, she tells herself. They're just knocking over some potion bottles or stealing some unicorn hairs. It's just general mischief.
Guinevere turns her head to peer into the doorway.
This… This does not look like general mischief.