Chapter 3 – Slightly Afraid of Toil
**
Will never cared much for getting changed prior to Quidditch matches. He understood the reason behind the show of unity, as mandated by his team captain, but it always seemed like a very large, very visual reminder of his reserve status. There was only so much he could contribute to the House effort from the sidelines, and being in team garb only amplified his anxieties. They hadn't won the Quidditch cup for quite some time, let alone a succession of matches, and he didn't want to face another year of "Don't worry, we're only playing Hufflepuff…" and "After we flatten Hufflepuff…" The thought made him grouchy, as well as desirous to make good use of the Hair-loss Hex on the naysayers.
But a rather nice thing had happened not long before this Saturday morning, nice enough to distract him even from the importance of the impending match. Perhaps this once, he was better off without the responsibility of defending his house on the pitch. Tension and excitement were seeping into the locker room from the outside air, but Will gave a small, lopsided grin as he strapped on his shinpads, remembering the evening prior.
**
He had just stopped by the dormitory to deposit his books after classes on Friday, wanting nothing more than to tuck in to dinner. He had been about to pass through the sparsely populated Common Room when the unexpected sight of Abby Loomis, alone and reading on a sofa, greeted his eyes. His friends' loud, annoying voices began to echo in his head, replaying their recent dinnertime conversation. He hadn't given Owen's idea much attention at the time – filing it away under the categories of "yeah, right", "no way", and "not bloody likely" – but now it seemed as if a band of Cornish pixies had joined together to form the words "NOW'S YOUR CHANCE, STUPID" in gigantic blue letters over Abby's head.
Countless thoughts ricocheted across Will's mind as he stood in the doorway, dithering. If he didn't get up the nerve to approach her, he would be disappointing whichever higher powers had orchestrated this encounter. But Owen and Davey were expecting him for dinner. This would only take a minute, though... But there was Priya's sketchbook, lying next to Abby, along with Chrissy's schoolbag. Maybe her friends were lurking in the shadows nearby. They might see him talking to Abby, and then they'd pounce on him in that way that girls did, and then he'd have to say stuff to them. Or worse – maybe his friends had staged this, and they were crouching behind the sofa, with cameras, at this very moment.
Finally, if only to stop the acrobatic routine in his stomach, Will bolted back down the corridor and pulled his Quidditch robes out of the wardrobe. He had to act now, he told himself as he tugged on a button, before Davey or Owen blabbed anything. Or before she left for dinner and some smarmy Gryffindor made a move on her. His mind grew more frantic as the button proved quite obstinate, refusing to move even when he wedged it in the lid of his trunk and pulled with all his might. Flaming Quaffles! Why were there no scissors? Who had taken the blasted scissors? There probably had never actually been scissors in the room, he realized grudgingly, but there should have been, and that had to be someone's bloody fault.
Pulse racing, Will rifled hurriedly through his bathroom things (and those of his roommates), only to confirm the lack of even nail clippers. He considered using his wand, but that would make the cut seem too obvious, too intentional… Besides, he was so flustered at this point, he stood a good chance of blasting the ruddy thing off instead. Not that it didn't deserve it, he thought, as he tried to pin the button underfoot and give the robes a good yank. The minutes were slipping by, and Abby could easily have left by now. Blast, there was probably a queue of flower-toting, poetry-reading tossers downstairs right now, just waiting to steal her away.
Daunted but still determined, Will carried on…the foot trick was no use, and an attempt with a stray dinner fork proved equally futile. Finally, aided by a penknife discovered at the bottom of Alistair Coggins' trunk, Will managed to saw off the button in a convincing fashion. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he forced himself to meander down the corridor and into the common room toward Abby, who sat with her feet tucked beneath her. His legs took him there all too quickly, but his heart skipped a beat when the cover of her book came into focus – "He Flew Like a Madman: The Autobiography Dai Llewellyn Would Surely Have Authorized, If Only He Were Still Among the Living".
The heavens were smiling down on him, Will thought, and he took a few stolen seconds to stare at Abby while she read one of the three greatest books known to Wizard-kind. She looked very small from his height, and he wondered briefly how someone of her size could instill so much fear. That fear grew to mammoth proportions when she looked up, causing all coherent thought to leave his brain with the speed of a Nimbus 1001.
"Oh!" she said, and her mouth grew round in surprise. "Hi, Will."
The sound of her voice made him acutely aware that he hadn't developed his plan much beyond the removal of that troublesome button. He knew this was probably the point at which he should flash her a smile and join her on the sofa with cavalier ease, but he felt lucky to still be standing, and didn't dare risk anything by moving.
"You're reading that?" he blurted out instead, gesturing at her book.
Abby put a finger in the pages to keep her place. "I told Chrissy I wouldn't come to dinner until I'd finished the first chapter," she said. "She was pestering me because I hadn't read it yet, and I promised her ages ago that I would."
"It's about Dai Llewellyn," he breathed reverently, remembering the 1969 match in which the Catapults' Chaser had played with a fractured fibula for over an hour – scoring nine goals in the process – before mediwizards dragged him bodily from the pitch.
"Oh?" Abby questioned, wide-eyed. She looked down at the cover. "Was he any good?"
Was he any good? Will felt as though his heart had thrown itself into the Hogwarts lake, or had at least sunk to somewhere near the vicinity of his knees. It was all right, he told himself, trying to muster up a reply. Really, it was. She only needed a little more time to really get into the book, and then she wouldn't be able to put it down. "Dangerous" Dai hadn't been named the "Man Responsible for the Greatest Number of Concussions and Marital Spats Among His Emulating Fans" for nothing. Will looked down at the robes in his arms, remembering why he'd come in the first place. He opened his mouth, but Abby's tentative laugh interrupted before he could speak.
"Sorry, that was awful," she said, cheeks turning pink. "Everyone knows who Dai Llewellyn was."
A breath of relief rushed out. She had only been joking – brilliant! Brilliant!
"Yeah, he was great," Will said, breaking into a grin. "My dad broke his collarbone trying out 'Dai's Death-Defying Divebomb'."
"My dad knocked off a third of the roof." A wide smile spread across Abby's face, and then, for a blissful moment, she wasn't "ABBY" to him, but the girl he'd known for four years already, the same one who managed to tip over at least four cauldrons a term. Without thinking, Will moved around the sofa and sat, placing the robes between them.
"Do you follow Quidditch?" he asked. Why on earth had he been so worried? This was dead easy.
"I do," Abby replied, tucking her hair behind one ear, "but I was…um…discouraged from trying out for the house team. After that first flying lesson, you know."
Will ducked his head, trying keep from laughing. He hadn't thought about that incident in years. Quite a lucky thing it had been that Madam Hambeck, the Quidditch instructor, had known how to swim.
"Hey, could you help me with something?" he asked.
Abby's eyebrows rose in curiosity, but before Will could get any further, he made the mistake of noticing that her lips were rather…curvy. His brain took a sharp detour from Quidditch robes, and his newfound confidence fumbled and fell, threatening to take his vocal ability along with it. There was a strangled sort of pause, which seemed to last for ages, and Abby's expression changed from curious to confused. Will took a deep breath and plunged onward, if only to keep her from questioning his mental competence.
"I, er…Robbie Welkin ripped a button off these in practice yesterday," he stammered, pointing at the robes, "and I'll make a right mess of things if I try to fix them myself. I know you have, er, needles and stuff…"
He stopped before he could say anything more pathetic than he already had, praying that she'd finish the sentence in the way he wanted. It would serve him right if "Oh, don't you know about the house elves?" floated off her lips, but if he'd got this far already, maybe chance was on his side. He braced his ears for the fateful words, which, blessedly, Abby didn't utter.
"Would you like me to sew it back on for you?" she offered instead, her face lighting up. "It'll only take me a moment. Let me get my things."
"That'd be great," Will managed. "Thanks."
She stood up and, after untangling her feet from the hem of her robes, made her way down the corridor to the girls' dormitories.
Will sunk back into the cushions and exhaled. So far, so good. He hadn't passed out, and she hadn't run away – well, except to get her sewing box, and she would be coming back (or so he desperately hoped). At least the dormitories were underground, so there weren't any windows from which she could escape. Encouraged, he took a moment to shoot a quelling glare at the handful of third-year boys who'd been observing their interaction from a nearby table. He didn't need spectators, and any other male was still unwelcome competition at this point. Cheeky, presumptuous little buggers.
Abby returned soon enough, and Will watched with curiosity as she threaded her needle and began to reattach the button with deft, even stitches. She worked quickly, he noticed. That had to be heartening – unless, she was just desperate to rid herself of his presence. He had showered that morning, hadn't he? Hadn't he?
"I hope we win tomorrow," Abby said, as she knotted and clipped the thread. "Slytherin think they're the favourite this year, don't they?"
Quidditch, yes. This was a manageable topic of conversation. "Yeah, they do. Now that James Potter and his lot have left."
"Good luck." She handed the robes back to him, flushing becomingly as their fingers brushed.
Too busy wondering how a girl's hand could be so soft, Will didn't remind her that he would have little, if any, involvement in the match' s outcome. He didn't even realize that she'd made no mention of Chocolate Frogs.
**
The locker room door creaked open, and Aristotle Kane poked his head inside. "It's time, men," the team captain said, his mouth drawn into a tense line.
Stowing the rest of his things into his locker, Will fell into line with the other players and moved out into the common area, where the team's female players were already waiting for them. Thoughts of Abby Loomis retreated into the background as the feeling of match day began to truly sink in. No one spoke above a whisper here; some players clenched and unclenched their brooms obsessively, while others looked as though they'd fallen victim to a Jitter Jinx. Will slipped into the second row of benches as Kane strode to the front of the room. The few audible voices came to a halt as the he took his place.
A detailed plan of attack usually came at this point, and the players waited for Kane's customary run-down of strategy and statistics. But the dark-haired boy stood, silent, for at least a full minute. The seconds ticked by, each seeming endless.
"There's not much I can tell you right now," Aristotle began at last. Will's eyebrows rose at the hearing the unconventional beginning.
"You know the importance of today," he continued, "both to our strategy for the season and to our team morale. I have only thing to tell you – "
The room had been silent already, but it hushed even further as Kane scanned the room, boring his dark eyes into each player.
"I see no reason why we shouldn't take this match."
Will's eyebrows rose even further. He was all for instilling team confidence, but that was, well, unusually brash for a Hufflepuff. Cool. Adrenaline and anticipation began to stir inside him.
"Slytherin know full well who they're playing today. It's only Hufflepuff, right? They expect us to play fair, to put up a good fight, perhaps to even give them a scare or two. They don't expect us to win. No one expects us to actually win. Which means…" his voice lowered to a steely whisper, "…we've got nothing to lose."
Kane waited a moment for the impact of his words to settle in, then singled out the Chasers first, speaking in brisk, clipped tones. "Welkin, Wicks, Rose – take every opportunity to score. No hesitation, no second thoughts."
He focused on the two Beaters next. "Van der Hoff, Evers – keep the Chasers free. I want all of your efforts directed toward protecting them. I want every point possible."
Kevin van der Hoff started to speak, no doubt to question the fate of the Seeker under this plan, but Kane held up a hand to silence him.
"We can't let the score get away from us," he said determinedly. "We need EVERY goal, and we need our Chasers alive for that. If I'm in dire need, then yes, help me out, but until then, I'll have to look after myself."
Lastly, he turned to the Keeper. "Monaco, don't you let a thing through those hoops." Margaret Monaco, who had been readjusting the fit of her Keeper gloves, gave a grim nod.
Kane appraised the team once more. For a fleeting moment, his stern visage broke into a giddy, exhilarated grin. Will wanted to jump up, soar onto the pitch, and defeat Slytherin single-handedly.
"Now GO," the captain cried out, "and fly strong! Fly because you love the air, because Quidditch is the greatest sport you'll ever know, and for the love of all that's good and magical, fly because you love Hufflepuff."
A loud whistle punctuated the end of his speech, signaling the match would begin in two short minutes. Those would be playing rose to their feet and gathered in a last-minute huddle. Watching them, Will knew that more than ever, he wanted to win. Spectacularly, decisively, by five hundred points. In a way that would make people never say "It's only Hufflepuff" again. He'd even take a margin of three hundred points. Aristotle Kane had put together a strong side, and why they hadn't performed better was baffling to them all. Of course, it was always easier to critique the game as a spectator – predicting the plays, gauging the passes, anticipating the goal attempts. Margaret Monaco guarded the hoops like a mother dragon defended her eggs, so he'd be a total prat if he tried to find fault with her.
He turned his eyes on the girl whose position he coveted. If nothing else, this was Margaret's last year, and Will felt certain he'd start as Keeper next season. She might be quick, but he had the benefits of height and weight, and…what was happening to her face? Margaret's complexion was pale to begin with, but now it seemed to be exploring a whole new range of hues. She looked much like his pet Crup once had after doing a series of back flips on a stomachful of really bad eggs.
"Does Maggie look a little off to you?" Will asked, turning to the short, blue-eyed girl sitting next to him. "Think she's nervous?"
Beth Attenberg inclined her head towards him, not removing her eyes from the huddle of players. "Her dad's a Manticore researcher," she murmured. "They used to keep one for a pet. She doesn't get nervous."
But something wasn't right, Will thought, as Margaret closed her eyes and began
to take quick, short breaths. She looked as though a violent coup d'etat were
being staged within her stomach, and the rebel faction was winning. Suddenly, Margaret bolted past the benches
and around the corner. The sounds of a
displeased digestive system soon followed.
Beth's eyes widened, and she clapped a hand to her mouth. ""Oh, no!" she gasped. "I've been telling Maggie for years not to make haggis part of her good-luck routine."
Stricken, Kane raced after Margaret. His voice was audible above the retches and moans, asking her if there was anything he could do, could she try not to splatter the practice Quaffles, did she need Madam Pomfrey, and would she be able to get on her broomstick in the next sixty seconds? The room broke out in a flurry of whispers.
"You might get to play, Will!" Beth exclaimed, a note of envy sneaking into her worried voice.
You might get to play. The words reverberated in his suddenly empty mind. Actually if the sounds Margaret was making from around the corner were any indication, he was playing.
"You're so lucky!" she sighed. "Aristotle played once last year with dragon pox, a sore throat, and two ingrown toenails. I'm never going to get in a match."
Unable to speak, Will simply gaped. Yeah, he had wanted to play, but he wouldn't object to an hour or two of notice. He knew many of the Slytherin players from his summer training with the Falcons, and while he'd never admit it to them, they were the favourites for a reason. They certainly weren't going to go easy on him. Dread the size of Hogwarts castle settled in his stomach.
Kane finally gave up on trying to be heard over the sounds of Margaret's stomach. He turned the corner to face the team, his own face a shade paler.
"Lowby," he said curtly, "you're in."
**
A/N – Many thanks to Axelle and Tapestry for their comments, as well as to soupytwist, who didn't laugh too much when the Huff locker room began to border on "Sweet Valley High". J
Robbie Welkin appears courtesy of Catherine.
Sorry about the delay between chapters – I was derailed first by a hard drive crash, then by a bout of RL, then by a few other writing projects. Thanks for staying with me!