His stomach churned nervously as it had never done before in any other match, threatening to spew his lunch all over the emerald Quidditch field. Confidence, he told himself, confidence. While he had lost a few matches here and there, he was widely acknowledged to be the best player in the entire school, and the Gryffindor teams had competed in matches of this caliber, before. That, he thought, was something, for the talent to be found there was remarkable. But still.. the Championship was special, and he sincerely wanted to win, deep in his heart. For his parents, perhaps, or perhaps to show that he was just as good as Bill ever was.
Charlie Weasley gulped and tugged his scarlet robes into position, swinging the latest model Cleansweep to a jaunty angle over his shoulder. He was not the ideal build for a Seeker, for though he was rather short, his body construction tended to the stocky, rather than light and thin. No one could deny that he had the eye, and consistently spotted the Snitch before his opponent did. It was an odd talent, and few people these days had it. He had always had a keen appreciation of detail, and it translated itself onto the field. And so, it was with these thoughts that he stepped out into the arena, listening to the yells and hoots of the spectators.
It was Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, and the Slytherins were simply furious. In the last qualifying match, Gryffindor had beaten them by ten points, and it galled them fiercely. They insisted that there had been cheating, someone had broken the rules, but were unable to prove exactly when and where this was. Charlie couldn't help but smirk to himself as he thought this, shaking his head sadly. No matter what the year or the circumstances, the Slytherins were always the same. From here, he could see the champions of a lost cause, dressed in green, and glowering at the two teams on the field. They were of course rooting for Ravenclaw, though even the praise that they awarded that team was grudging.
He could also see his closest friends, turned out to cheer them on. Sorcha, an Irish witch with the deepest black hair he'd ever seen, was a tiny whirlwind of crimson: her braids had been tied with red ribbons, she wore a red hat; her robes were red.. It hurt to look at her for too long. His other best friend, Simon, was standing next to her, rather difficult to miss. Simon was one of the tallest people he'd ever met; close to six feet by the time of his twelfth birthday. He'd leveled off somewhere around six four, a cheerful smile wreathed over his face, wrists showing out of the ends of his robes.
There were others, the whole of Gryffindor House, especially the seventh years, seemed to be there. The others followed him, the announcer yelling at their names as they came. "Here are the Ravenclaws! As fine a team as they've seen in quite a while! Jones! Aiken! Kim! O'Meara! Goldberg! Caerwyn! Aaaaaaand— Still!" They raised their hands above their heads and pumped their fists in the air, and the crowd, or at least, those of it dressed in blue, howled their appreciation. The Gryffindors simply howled, attempting to drown out their rival supporters. Charlie found it impossible to hear just one of the phrases shrieked by the group; it all blended together into a sort of roar that was reminiscent of a freight train.
Larissa Meeker, the announcer, continued, her voice amplified through a magical bullhorn, as the team in red trickled onto the field. "The Gryffindors, ladies and gents, the Gryffindors!" She gave them time to applaud, and then continued. "Here they are! Again, one of the most excellent squads that this House has ever produced! Ulrich! Patterson! Gadling! Kelley! Finnigan! Aisling! Aaaaaaaaannnnnnd—Weasley!"
Perhaps he was imagining things, but it seemed as though the yells were more pronounced than they had been previously. He could feel himself blushing, which was always embarrassing, for his pale face turned bright red, and clashed horribly with his hair. Kelley thumped him on the back, huge grin on his face. "Don't be nervous, Weasley! We've done this before." Charlie grinned lopsidedly at his friend, shaking his head.
"Nervous? Me?"
Madam Hooch was waiting for them, a forbidding presence on a broom. "Right!" she said shortly, pausing to let everyone clamber onto their brooms. Charlie, as Captain, shook Caerwyn's hand. The girl was a Beater, and built like a bear. She gripped his hand tightly, and he pulled it away, face contorted in an expression of disgust. "None of that!" Madam Hooch admonished, on her own broom now. Charlie lifted off the ground on her whistle, as she kicked the lid from the box, releasing the different Quidditch balls. Instantly, the Snitch flitted off to the other side of the arena, and vanished from sight.
Charlie yelled to his team; "Right, you know the drill!" They rolled their eyes, having already received quite a long speech from him earlier, in the locker rooms. Blond, ironically named Ciaran Finnigan pretended to fall off of his broom in disgust, moaning. "Not again! Not another sermon!"
"Hey, Finnigan, keep your eye on the Quaffle!"
"Yessir!" Ciaran replied, snagging the red sphere under his arm. Swerving around Jones, he pelted towards the Ravenclaw end of the field, where their Keeper, Aiken, waited anxiously. A Bludger rocketed towards his head, but Patterson hit it hard with the club, almost knocking O'Meara off of his broom. "That better, sir?" Ciaran asked facetiously, dipping low to avoid another Chaser.
"And Gryffindor in possession!" Larissa Meeker exclaimed excitedly, "Chaser Finnigan flying fast! It could be— yes! It is! GOAL! Gryffindor up, ten to nothing!"
Charlie whooped excitedly and flew over Ciaran, slapping the boy on the back. The victim yelped in annoyance, and returned the Quaffle to Madam Hooch. While this went on, Charlie floated over the stadium, searching for the Snitch. Several times he thought that he might have seen it, but when he dived to check, the Ravenclaw Seeker, Still, followed closely behind. Larissa was still yelping into the microphone, he could just imagine Professor McGonagall sprayed with spittle. It was an amusing picture, and Charlie snickered to himself.
Wait! There? No. That wasn't it. "Gryffindor in the lead, sixty-forty—" He thought he saw something – diving, dropping, there! Was that the Snitch? Suddenly, someone careened into him, almost knocking the solid figure from its broom. "Shit!" he yelled, and saw Caerwyn zooming away down the field, looking smug.
"FOUL! And a penalty to Gryffindor – ooooh. Very nice move by Keeper Aiken, difficult to block on a penalty. Too bad—sorry, Professor." Larissa continued with her running commentary. "And Gryffindor gets its own back with a nice Bludger hit towards Kim— yes, I know, Professor."
Charlie's stomach twisted as he saw the Snitch, glittering near the bottom of the field. He was fairly sure that Still hadn't seen it, and so dove as quickly as possible, his Cleansweep straining to meet the demands put upon it. "Weasley has seen the Snitch!" That was Larissa; but he couldn't let that distract him now. Swirling in a strange parody of a dance, the two Seekers dropped towards the glittering golden form, so close together that Charlie could have caught hold of Still's robes, if he had so wished. An inch more— and just an inch—
Got it! His fingers closed tightly around the struggling golden ball, soaring back upwards to hold the thing high in his hand. "GRYFFINDOR WINS! IN POSSIBLY THE SHORTEST CHAMPIONSHIP IN THE HISTORY OF HOGWARTS!" The Gryffindor team swirled upwards to mob Charlie, still waving the Snitch in the air, grinning insanely. He had won the Quidditch Championship before, though in his seventh year, with Sorcha and Simon shrieking in the stands, that was a feeling that he had always known was possible. Gone was the twisting nervousness in the stomach – it was a perfect day. Just perfect.
-----
Robes sticking to his body, covered in sweat, Charlie trudged with the rest of the team towards the locker rooms, still grinning widely. His face hurt, for it had remained in one position for too long. His body, also, was bruised, from the numerous hugs and from being pounded on the back by every Gryffindor within arm's reach. After showering and changing, they trooped out again, heading to the celebratory end of year feast. With the Quidditch victory, Gryffindor had won the House championship for the third year in a row.
To his surprise, there was a wizard waiting for them outside of the locker rooms, a thin man dressed in neat black robes, with an equally neat mustache and a bald spot. "Ahem, hem," he said, and the Gryffindor team glanced at each other curiously. What did this oddball want? The neat little man stood there watching them for a moment, and Charlie was strongly reminded of his mum's second cousin, who was an accountant. The thought brought a small smile to his face.
"Can we help you, sir?" Christopher Kelley asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Ahem, hem, yes, actually," the man said, clearing his throat nervously. "I am Nigel Sanford, and I, ahem, wished to speak to Charles Weasley."
"That's me," Charlie said, exchanging another puzzled glance with the team.
"Ahem, I, ahem, represent the, ahem, British national team. We are, ahem, looking for a new Seeker, Mr. Weasley, and, ahem, the managers have decided that, ahem, you are quite fit for the job. Hem, ahem. If you so desire, you will be accepted onto the team."
The team erupted into yells, and Charlie was pounded on the back again. Wincing, he managed to extricate himself from the pile, blinking. "Really? Um. I don't know what to say." Shock had not yet set in, there was a sort of numb surprise that lingered around his brain. He loved Quidditch, to be sure, but did he want to spend the rest of his life doing it? He had made plans with Sorcha and Simon – wait. This man thought he was good enough to play for Britain – it was the chance of a lifetime. He had promised them – but for Britain!
"I, ahem, can give you to, hem, hem, think about our proposition."
"Yeah.. thanks.." Charlie said vaguely.
-----
"Lunacy!" Molly Weasley exclaimed.
"You're giving up the opportunity to play for your country in order to study dragons?" Arthur Weasley said, sounding dumbfounded. His parents were watching him as though he had suddenly grown several extra arms, or perhaps had turned into a particularly stupid giraffe. In a moment, thought Charlie, he's going to say something about foolishness. "But that's— that's just foolish!" It's so nice to be right, and so painful at the same time, he thought.
"Dad, we've had this planned for years."
"But.. ROMANIA?"
"Mom! Calm down!"
"I will not calm down!"
"At least try to be reasonable?"
"Charlie," Arthur said, voice lowering somewhat. "This— it's amazing, it truly is. You're throwing away a chance at—"
It had been going on like this for hours, and frankly, Charlie was quite sick of it. It's difficult to be amiable and even tempered when your parents deride your dreams, and all over – what? Nothing. Broomsticks and Snitches. Normally, Molly and Arthur never got this angry – it was strange. But now, it was his turn to lose his temper. When Charlie was mad, his words cut deep, but never rose above an even tone. Perhaps that was why he so rarely grew temperamental, for when he did, someone was hurt. But now – now it had gone too far. "Look, Dad, just because you were never good enough to get on the team, and you wanted too, doesn't mean that I want to spend the rest of my life searching for a golden ball!"
Arthur went pale, but Molly moved forward like a venomous snake striking, slapping her son hard across the face. "Stop that this instant, Charles Oliver Weasley! I won't have you talking to us like that." His head recoiled as her palm hit him, but snapped back again, normally cheerful brown eyes narrowed, lips pressed together in rage.
"Well, perhaps you should think about how you talk to me, for a change! I'm not perfect like Bill, or your darling little Percy! Perhaps you should think about what I want out of life! But that would be too much trouble, wouldn't it?" His hands shook, clenching into fists. Whirling on the ball of his heel, Charlie fled, face flushed, and heart sick.
Charlie Weasley gulped and tugged his scarlet robes into position, swinging the latest model Cleansweep to a jaunty angle over his shoulder. He was not the ideal build for a Seeker, for though he was rather short, his body construction tended to the stocky, rather than light and thin. No one could deny that he had the eye, and consistently spotted the Snitch before his opponent did. It was an odd talent, and few people these days had it. He had always had a keen appreciation of detail, and it translated itself onto the field. And so, it was with these thoughts that he stepped out into the arena, listening to the yells and hoots of the spectators.
It was Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, and the Slytherins were simply furious. In the last qualifying match, Gryffindor had beaten them by ten points, and it galled them fiercely. They insisted that there had been cheating, someone had broken the rules, but were unable to prove exactly when and where this was. Charlie couldn't help but smirk to himself as he thought this, shaking his head sadly. No matter what the year or the circumstances, the Slytherins were always the same. From here, he could see the champions of a lost cause, dressed in green, and glowering at the two teams on the field. They were of course rooting for Ravenclaw, though even the praise that they awarded that team was grudging.
He could also see his closest friends, turned out to cheer them on. Sorcha, an Irish witch with the deepest black hair he'd ever seen, was a tiny whirlwind of crimson: her braids had been tied with red ribbons, she wore a red hat; her robes were red.. It hurt to look at her for too long. His other best friend, Simon, was standing next to her, rather difficult to miss. Simon was one of the tallest people he'd ever met; close to six feet by the time of his twelfth birthday. He'd leveled off somewhere around six four, a cheerful smile wreathed over his face, wrists showing out of the ends of his robes.
There were others, the whole of Gryffindor House, especially the seventh years, seemed to be there. The others followed him, the announcer yelling at their names as they came. "Here are the Ravenclaws! As fine a team as they've seen in quite a while! Jones! Aiken! Kim! O'Meara! Goldberg! Caerwyn! Aaaaaaand— Still!" They raised their hands above their heads and pumped their fists in the air, and the crowd, or at least, those of it dressed in blue, howled their appreciation. The Gryffindors simply howled, attempting to drown out their rival supporters. Charlie found it impossible to hear just one of the phrases shrieked by the group; it all blended together into a sort of roar that was reminiscent of a freight train.
Larissa Meeker, the announcer, continued, her voice amplified through a magical bullhorn, as the team in red trickled onto the field. "The Gryffindors, ladies and gents, the Gryffindors!" She gave them time to applaud, and then continued. "Here they are! Again, one of the most excellent squads that this House has ever produced! Ulrich! Patterson! Gadling! Kelley! Finnigan! Aisling! Aaaaaaaaannnnnnd—Weasley!"
Perhaps he was imagining things, but it seemed as though the yells were more pronounced than they had been previously. He could feel himself blushing, which was always embarrassing, for his pale face turned bright red, and clashed horribly with his hair. Kelley thumped him on the back, huge grin on his face. "Don't be nervous, Weasley! We've done this before." Charlie grinned lopsidedly at his friend, shaking his head.
"Nervous? Me?"
Madam Hooch was waiting for them, a forbidding presence on a broom. "Right!" she said shortly, pausing to let everyone clamber onto their brooms. Charlie, as Captain, shook Caerwyn's hand. The girl was a Beater, and built like a bear. She gripped his hand tightly, and he pulled it away, face contorted in an expression of disgust. "None of that!" Madam Hooch admonished, on her own broom now. Charlie lifted off the ground on her whistle, as she kicked the lid from the box, releasing the different Quidditch balls. Instantly, the Snitch flitted off to the other side of the arena, and vanished from sight.
Charlie yelled to his team; "Right, you know the drill!" They rolled their eyes, having already received quite a long speech from him earlier, in the locker rooms. Blond, ironically named Ciaran Finnigan pretended to fall off of his broom in disgust, moaning. "Not again! Not another sermon!"
"Hey, Finnigan, keep your eye on the Quaffle!"
"Yessir!" Ciaran replied, snagging the red sphere under his arm. Swerving around Jones, he pelted towards the Ravenclaw end of the field, where their Keeper, Aiken, waited anxiously. A Bludger rocketed towards his head, but Patterson hit it hard with the club, almost knocking O'Meara off of his broom. "That better, sir?" Ciaran asked facetiously, dipping low to avoid another Chaser.
"And Gryffindor in possession!" Larissa Meeker exclaimed excitedly, "Chaser Finnigan flying fast! It could be— yes! It is! GOAL! Gryffindor up, ten to nothing!"
Charlie whooped excitedly and flew over Ciaran, slapping the boy on the back. The victim yelped in annoyance, and returned the Quaffle to Madam Hooch. While this went on, Charlie floated over the stadium, searching for the Snitch. Several times he thought that he might have seen it, but when he dived to check, the Ravenclaw Seeker, Still, followed closely behind. Larissa was still yelping into the microphone, he could just imagine Professor McGonagall sprayed with spittle. It was an amusing picture, and Charlie snickered to himself.
Wait! There? No. That wasn't it. "Gryffindor in the lead, sixty-forty—" He thought he saw something – diving, dropping, there! Was that the Snitch? Suddenly, someone careened into him, almost knocking the solid figure from its broom. "Shit!" he yelled, and saw Caerwyn zooming away down the field, looking smug.
"FOUL! And a penalty to Gryffindor – ooooh. Very nice move by Keeper Aiken, difficult to block on a penalty. Too bad—sorry, Professor." Larissa continued with her running commentary. "And Gryffindor gets its own back with a nice Bludger hit towards Kim— yes, I know, Professor."
Charlie's stomach twisted as he saw the Snitch, glittering near the bottom of the field. He was fairly sure that Still hadn't seen it, and so dove as quickly as possible, his Cleansweep straining to meet the demands put upon it. "Weasley has seen the Snitch!" That was Larissa; but he couldn't let that distract him now. Swirling in a strange parody of a dance, the two Seekers dropped towards the glittering golden form, so close together that Charlie could have caught hold of Still's robes, if he had so wished. An inch more— and just an inch—
Got it! His fingers closed tightly around the struggling golden ball, soaring back upwards to hold the thing high in his hand. "GRYFFINDOR WINS! IN POSSIBLY THE SHORTEST CHAMPIONSHIP IN THE HISTORY OF HOGWARTS!" The Gryffindor team swirled upwards to mob Charlie, still waving the Snitch in the air, grinning insanely. He had won the Quidditch Championship before, though in his seventh year, with Sorcha and Simon shrieking in the stands, that was a feeling that he had always known was possible. Gone was the twisting nervousness in the stomach – it was a perfect day. Just perfect.
-----
Robes sticking to his body, covered in sweat, Charlie trudged with the rest of the team towards the locker rooms, still grinning widely. His face hurt, for it had remained in one position for too long. His body, also, was bruised, from the numerous hugs and from being pounded on the back by every Gryffindor within arm's reach. After showering and changing, they trooped out again, heading to the celebratory end of year feast. With the Quidditch victory, Gryffindor had won the House championship for the third year in a row.
To his surprise, there was a wizard waiting for them outside of the locker rooms, a thin man dressed in neat black robes, with an equally neat mustache and a bald spot. "Ahem, hem," he said, and the Gryffindor team glanced at each other curiously. What did this oddball want? The neat little man stood there watching them for a moment, and Charlie was strongly reminded of his mum's second cousin, who was an accountant. The thought brought a small smile to his face.
"Can we help you, sir?" Christopher Kelley asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Ahem, hem, yes, actually," the man said, clearing his throat nervously. "I am Nigel Sanford, and I, ahem, wished to speak to Charles Weasley."
"That's me," Charlie said, exchanging another puzzled glance with the team.
"Ahem, I, ahem, represent the, ahem, British national team. We are, ahem, looking for a new Seeker, Mr. Weasley, and, ahem, the managers have decided that, ahem, you are quite fit for the job. Hem, ahem. If you so desire, you will be accepted onto the team."
The team erupted into yells, and Charlie was pounded on the back again. Wincing, he managed to extricate himself from the pile, blinking. "Really? Um. I don't know what to say." Shock had not yet set in, there was a sort of numb surprise that lingered around his brain. He loved Quidditch, to be sure, but did he want to spend the rest of his life doing it? He had made plans with Sorcha and Simon – wait. This man thought he was good enough to play for Britain – it was the chance of a lifetime. He had promised them – but for Britain!
"I, ahem, can give you to, hem, hem, think about our proposition."
"Yeah.. thanks.." Charlie said vaguely.
-----
"Lunacy!" Molly Weasley exclaimed.
"You're giving up the opportunity to play for your country in order to study dragons?" Arthur Weasley said, sounding dumbfounded. His parents were watching him as though he had suddenly grown several extra arms, or perhaps had turned into a particularly stupid giraffe. In a moment, thought Charlie, he's going to say something about foolishness. "But that's— that's just foolish!" It's so nice to be right, and so painful at the same time, he thought.
"Dad, we've had this planned for years."
"But.. ROMANIA?"
"Mom! Calm down!"
"I will not calm down!"
"At least try to be reasonable?"
"Charlie," Arthur said, voice lowering somewhat. "This— it's amazing, it truly is. You're throwing away a chance at—"
It had been going on like this for hours, and frankly, Charlie was quite sick of it. It's difficult to be amiable and even tempered when your parents deride your dreams, and all over – what? Nothing. Broomsticks and Snitches. Normally, Molly and Arthur never got this angry – it was strange. But now, it was his turn to lose his temper. When Charlie was mad, his words cut deep, but never rose above an even tone. Perhaps that was why he so rarely grew temperamental, for when he did, someone was hurt. But now – now it had gone too far. "Look, Dad, just because you were never good enough to get on the team, and you wanted too, doesn't mean that I want to spend the rest of my life searching for a golden ball!"
Arthur went pale, but Molly moved forward like a venomous snake striking, slapping her son hard across the face. "Stop that this instant, Charles Oliver Weasley! I won't have you talking to us like that." His head recoiled as her palm hit him, but snapped back again, normally cheerful brown eyes narrowed, lips pressed together in rage.
"Well, perhaps you should think about how you talk to me, for a change! I'm not perfect like Bill, or your darling little Percy! Perhaps you should think about what I want out of life! But that would be too much trouble, wouldn't it?" His hands shook, clenching into fists. Whirling on the ball of his heel, Charlie fled, face flushed, and heart sick.