Author's Note: Beware, this chapter has plenty of OC's. However, bear with
me, they're there for a purpose.
***
Puddlemere United was officially the oldest club in the British and Irish League.
William Chess III was rather proud of that fact. He sat at the desk of Puddlemere HQ, a large stone building next to the Puddlemere river. One of this ancestors had founded this club in 1163, almost a millennia ago.
Easing himself back into the comfy leather armchair, William let his gaze travel upwards, towards where all the portraits of past Presidents hung. There were too many to fit into this room, so only the more recent ones were present. The others hung in the trophy room.
Unlike usual wizard portraits, these did not move. Their features stayed the same, stony and silent. Most people didn't realize how dangerous being in the Quidditch business could be. The players themselves, they had no cause to fear for their lives. As much as someone as compassionate as William hated to admit, they were servants, almost, doing their job while their masters squabbled with each other.
There was a very good reason why the portraits did not move. Over the decades, different branches of the Chess family had fought over the highest seat in a Quidditch club. Being the President was like ruling your own little kingdom, and with such a club as Puddlemere, one with a very large and loyal fanbase, it was probably the closest to being Minister of Magic without having to work for the Ministry.
There were ten portraits hanging all around the room, from William's great- uncle Arthur, to Anne, who died in 1849. To say the portraits hated each other would be an understatement. They were all opinionated people with large mouths; no sooner had William taken the job, he was yelled bits of advice from morning till nightfall. That would have been all good and well, could he actually hear what they were saying. One bit of advice was accompanied by nine voices telling him not to listen. In a fit of terrible earache, William froze them all. They stood there now, all with permanent glares.
A polite knocking came at the door.
'Come in,' William said pleasantly. Whoever it was would be a welcome distraction from ten ancestors beating him to death with their permanent disapproval.
Max Cornwall entered. He was short fellow with a round, chubby face. Max was William's link to the Ministry. A stack was parchment was tucked haphazardly under one arm. William was concerned; Max seemed to have lost some weight. The robes hung about him a lot more loosely than usual.
'I've got the statistics you've ordered…sir,' he said, putting down the stack carefully. 'Full lists of all our players, averages, rival teams, plus comparisons with past years-' he rattled off.
'Thank you.' Max stopped abruptly. William smiled. 'I know what's in it, it says so,' he jabbed a finger on the contents page, 'right here.'
Max smiled uncertainly. He fought for something to say. 'Today's the trials, but you probably already know that.'
William looked surprised. 'Already? It's only summer.'
'Yes, but we moved it up several years ago. If we pick our sides now, we have two months to train them up before the season starts.' Max said proudly.
William frowned; he didn't usually forget these things. However, he didn't care. It had been a welcome change, forgetting. Having an extraordinary memory had its bad points, forgetting made him seem more human, somehow. 'It must be because my family didn't remind me,' he joked, gesturing to the portraits. They glared back at him. He never regretted shutting them up, it was probably the wisest thing he'd ever done.
Max fidgeted. The portraits made him nervous. Even thought they couldn't talk or move, their mere presence was a distraction. He cleared his throat.
'I've been thinking sir,' he started. William looked at him intently. Max usually had worthwhile suggestions, unlike the portraits. 'These ancestors, don't you think they'd be more comfortable in the trophy room? When you retire, and either Phillip or Colin takes your place, I think the sight of their an-'
Max stopped talking when he realized William was grinning. He frowned. It wasn't one of those smiles; it was grin that said 'I'm secretly laughing at you but too polite show it'. He sniffed. 'I think it's a reasonable suggestion.'
William chuckled. 'I couldn't remove my ancestors. That's sacrilege.'
'You froze them,' pointed out Max.
'That's different. Don't worry, my boys aren't intimidated by a bunch of ancestors. Why, they hardly listen to me, and I'm still alive!'
Max's face clearly showed that now wasn't the time to fool around. William stopped, his tone instantly becoming somber again. The many wrinkles on his face seemed to stand out more day by day. Being the head had its advantages, but it also had its drawbacks. Years of stress had taken their toll; he looked old and felt even older.
'I told them to come to today's trials,' Max spoke first, breaking the silence. He took on more of his usual confident tone. 'I thought we might let them try the ropes, see how they do.'
William thought about this. When he was a lad, it had been very clear cut. None of this 'choose the best person for the job', though sometimes it worked out okay. William inherited Puddlemere off his great-uncle Arthur. At 23, he probably wasn't the best person for the job.
'Sir?' Max ventured cautiously.
'Hmm? Oh yes. It's a good idea. Really, I don't know where my mind goes these days,' said William good-naturedly. He was tired, that's for sure, yet there was still so much work to be done.
'You haven't said anything on the subject of Catherine, sir,' Max spoke diligently. He was one of those people who turn over each stone twice, just to make sure they hadn't left any out.
'Catherine has no interest in Quidditch,' answered William forlornly, his usual gravity seeping in.
Catherine was William's eldest child. Twenty-four years old now, she left home right after graduating from Hogwarts to find her calling. She said she was sick of England, and eighteen years in a house where Quidditch was the only topic of conversation was more than enough. William didn't know where she was, or what state she was in. Six years had dulled the emotions, and to his dismay, found that he didn't care much about her.
'Add the fact that we have no idea where she is,' stated Max with his usual bluntness.
'No need to state the obvious,' William disguised the hurt in his voice. True, people talked and everyone knew about his missing daughter, but they didn't need to mention it so often. He rubbed his forehead tiredly, pushing the greying hair out of the way. When he spoke, his voice cracked with thinly veiled sadness.
'It was my fault,' he mumbled, not having the energy to speak properly. 'If I hadn't, if I-' he paused, unable to continue. The memories were painful, William counted himself lucky that he'd never encountered a Dementor before. He wouldn't know how to defeat it. During his time at Hogwarts he had been taught how to conjure a Patronus, but nobody in the class ever had a real Dementor to practise on.
Clearing his throat, he tried to continue. 'If I hadn't…hadn't pushed her so much, showed her some more affection, perhaps she wouldn't have tried to rebel.'
Max made a derisive noise. William's ears picked up on this, and he felt a pricking of anger. How dare he, making fun of Catherine? Max must have noticed, because he chose his words carefully.
'What I mean sir, is that Catherine,' he paused to think, 'well, you should move on.' William stayed resolutely silent. 'Forget about her. She obviously doesn't care about you, she's most likely passed away-'
'She is not dead!' William snapped, himself surprised at how angry he was. Taking a calmly breath, he tried to not let his emotions (what was left of them, anyway) cloud his thoughts. 'What I mean is, Catherine's not the sort of girl who'd leave unless she was absolutely sure of where she was going.'
Max tried to look sympathetic. When he spoke, it was in a smooth, confident, no-nonsense tone. 'I didn't mean any offense, sir. I was just pointing out that with the new season looming so close, and with a successor to choose, it is not wise to dwell on things we cannot change.'
'I suppose you're right,' grumbled William. 'Listen, just make sure the trials go well, okay? The last thing I need is to leave on a bad note.' He shuddered to think of the consequences of history repeating itself.
'Yes sir,' said Max before Disapparating.
***
Oliver gawked.
In all his life, he had never seen anything so majestic, so awe-inspiring. The main room of Puddlemere HQ was a hybrid of blue and gold; large, shiny banners hung from the tall ceiling, players strutted around the visitors; their heads held high, their Quidditch cloaks sweeping the floor. Oliver wished he didn't look so starstruck.
'Wow,' breathed one girl when the gaggle of applicants stopped right under a shiny banner. Oliver felt that 'wow' just about summed it up. There was no way the HQ could always look like this. It must be because they actually have visitors today. All the glossy material was probably just a show.
'Wait here,' commanded Mr. Cornwall. He disappeared through the double doors underneath the banner.
Oliver's eyes swiveled around, trying to take in everything at once. It was all too fantastic. The only time he had felt this way was right before the Sorting. Tearing his eyes away from the fancy decorations. He regarded his fellow applicants warily. A few he recognized from Hogwarts, on opposing House teams.
Oliver's eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Marcus Flint. Flint hadn't noticed him yet, and he wanted to keep it that way. Warrington was also present, conversing in low tones with Flint. Altogether Oliver recognized four people from Hogwarts and seven others he didn't know.
Mr. Cornwall strode back into view. Wearing navy blue robes with gold edging, he could have blended in perfectly with the walls. A big smile was on his face as he gazed fondly at the group of adolescents.
'In a minute, you will pass through these doors and join the rest of the team. Trials will run from now till twelve, when lunch will be held. Afterwards, they will continue until five in the evening. Understood?'
There was a murmur from the group. Mr. Cornwall pressed on. 'As you all know, not everyone will be chosen. While I wish with my heart that we could take on every one of you, alas this isn't so. Get out there, give it your best shot, and no one will think the worst of you. I wish you all the best of luck.'
'Certainly silver-tongued, ain't he?' Flint whispered to Warrington, who snickered. 'No wonder he's in the Ministry.'
Mr. Cornwall didn't hear them. With a great flourish of his wand, the double doors leading to the next room began to open. Oliver felt the pounding in his heart grow stronger. Quidditch clubs guarded their secrets jealously and all the gold in Gringotts couldn't buy you a pass into the inner chambers where the players trained.
Mr. Cornwall led them all into the room. For the second time, Oliver felt his breath stop. While this room was less cluttered with useless decorations, it was nevertheless just as impressive. The seven members of Puddlemere's First Grade team stood in a picture-perfect formation near the back doors. The entire back wall was glass, polished so smooth you'd believe you could fly through it. On the left, were the broomsticks. They were too far away for the names to be seen, but their shapes showed that they were Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, each twig straightened to precision.
Oliver was a tad disappointed that they weren't Firebolts. It was too good to hope for, really, he knew they cost a great deal of money. A Nimbus Two Thousand and One was still one better than the broomstick he had at home, a Nimbus Two Thousand. He should be grateful, the Weasley twins still played on Cleansweeps.
'Everybody up for the position of Beater or Seeker…follow Lyons,' Mr. Cornwall said. Oliver watched as a thick, heavy-set man detached himself from the rest of his teammates. He sauntered towards Mr. Cornwall, accepting the clipboard he was handed, and made off in the direction of the grassy pitch outside. A few applicants followed him, leaving Oliver standing with Flint, Warrington, and three girls.
A small lithe lady had stepped forward beside Mr. Cornwall. Oliver's eyes nearly popped out in shock. She was a dead ringer for Cho Chang, same hair, same face, right down to the same way of walking. If he ever got the chance, he just had to ask if the two were related.
'Only six? Nevermind, follow me.' Same voice too.
The group trotted obediently after her. By this time, even someone as ignorant as Flint couldn't fail to notice Oliver being present. They had seen him - he could hear the snickers behind his back. Squaring his shoulders, he tried to look confident. Truthfully, today was a lot more nerve-racking than House trials ever could be. Oliver's whole future depended on his performance today. He was getting a headache just thinking about it.
The lady that looked like Cho Chang led them to another pitch, different to the ones that the Beaters went to. This one had the goal posts set up, the rings looking a lot higher than usual. Made out of steel, the metallic sheen reflected the sunlight. Hogwarts goalposts could never compete with these ones. Due to the high energy magical fields around, they had to the annoying habit of making sounds whenever anything came in contact with them. Too many times Oliver had come back from Quidditch training with a horrible ringing in his ears.
'My name is Mei, I'll be checking you out today,' Mei said enthusiastically. Her eyes wandered around as she spoke, taking in everyone's appearance. Oliver hastily hid the dirty patch on his trouser leg with his cloak. She looked young, maybe 20 or so, which probably explained her enthusiasm. None of the other team members looked too keen. 'I suggest you give me no reason to hate you, because what I say counts.' She flicked the application forms with a bit of a smirk. 'This is the way it works: The application forms say that we have three going for Keeper, three going for Chaser. Am I correct?'
The players nodded uncertainly. Oliver looked at the competition casually. Two opponents eh? The only other guys were Flint and Warrington, which meant that two of the girls were going for the same position as him. He was surprised, not many girls would pick Keeper as their first choice. It was a dangerous position. Oliver knew from personal experience if you weren't willing to put your body on the line, you wouldn't be very successful.
'So we'll do it this way. Flint, Warrington, and McHardy; you'll work as a team. I'll put each Keeper on one at a time, see how many goals they can stop. Switch Keepers after twenty minutes.' Mei whipped out her wand, and summoned five broomsticks from a cupboard indoors. She did not drop them to the ground, but let them levitate in front of each player.
'Beckfield, you're up first.'
Mounting their brooms, the four players and Mei rose up to the level of the goalposts. Oliver was relieved he didn't have to go first. It was much easier to scope out the competition first. He sat down on a nearby bench, next to the other girl playing Keeper. She didn't look at him, but a slight change in posture meant that she noticed his presence. Oliver chose not to look at her, instead concentrating his energies on the players up overhead.
Mei passed the Quaffle to Flint, then flew so she was out of the path of play. Oliver saw the girl hover uncertainly in front of the middle goalpost. This was mistake, and Oliver shook his head in disappointment. He knew she was his opponent, but he couldn't stand to see any form of Quidditch being played badly. It cheapened the winning feeling.
Exactly as he imagined, Flint passed the Quaffle to Warrington, who raced off towards the left goalpost. Beckfield saw this, and rushed to head him off. Warrington snapped the Quaffle to Flint, right in position in front of the right goalpost, who threw it in for an easy 10 points.
Warrington flew to Flint and they gave each other high-fives. Oliver groaned, since when did they become so chummy? He should have guessed what was happening, they were going to use their teamwork, which put them at a considerable advantage over the other Chaser.
The next twenty minutes passed by quickly; by the end of it Oliver shielded his eyes, it was too embarrassing to watch Flint and Warrington totally destroy this girl. Once or twice, he had the mad urge to yell out pointers; it was the inner captain coming out, but he bit his lip firmly and kept silent. It would probably go unappreciated, anyway.
'Alright, you can come down now.' Mei gave a blast of her whistle. The four players touched down.
Oliver saw her furiously scribbling on the parchment with a quill she had conjured up, looking at each of the sweaty players in turn. Ten minutes generally wasn't a long time in a game, but it was only the three Chasers versus the Keeper, with no Bludgers or opposing Chasers providing distractions. Mei sent the players inside to wash up a bit. He glanced at each of them in turn as they walked past him, but none of them glanced back. Beckfield looked heart-broken, Flint and Warrington pleased with themselves, their teammate just looked glum. Between her and Beckfield, she was probably worse off. At least Beckfield got to do something; the Chaser was only passed the Quaffle a few times, and those moves were so badly set up, Oliver would not be surprised if even League players could not pull off a goal.
A few minutes later, the three Chasers and the other Keeper were up in the air again. Mei took her usual spot, keeping a firm eye on the proceedings. Oliver was disappointed Mei had nothing to say about Flint not giving McHardy a fair go; a lone Chaser had about as much fighting chance as a hen in a fox den. It was bloody unfair.
Mei blew her whistle, and Flint seized the Quaffle immediately, flying straight towards the goalposts. Oliver could tell this Keeper had more on- field experience; she hadn't done anything yet but just the way she held herself over the broom; arms taut, eyes not leaving the Quaffle, showed that she knew what she was doing.
The sun peeked through a cluster of fluffy white clouds. It was going to be a hot day. Oliver stopped looking up at the players when he found that he'd have to squint to see through the sunshine. There was nothing interesting on the ground; a few tufts of weed on an otherwise neat lawn, some noticable skid marks and a small depression in the dirt.
Looking around, he saw the pointy bit of a wizard's hat emerge from the doorway, followed by a stranger wrapped up in a black cloak. He looked around, first up at Mei, then at the four players. Mei did not see the stranger; she kept on watching the players.
It was over all too soon. A familiar knot of nervousness fluttered across Oliver's stomach as Mei asked for the players to come down.
Flint and Warrington looked more sweaty and less pleased with themselves. The Keeper had made them work. She was smart, that girl, having caught on early to Flint's trademark moves. Mei gave her a smile before she sent them off to get a drink.
She noticed the stranger for the first time.
'Mr. Chess!' She sounded surprised. 'What are you doing here?'
Mr. Chess turned his face towards Mei and took off his hat. Oliver strained to catch a glimpse. He saw first a head of brown hair, cut and combed neatly. Mr. Chess looked up into the light, revealing a handsome face with chiselled features.
'No need for formalities. You may call me Colin.' He tried to smile, but obviously didn't try hard enough. It look raw; like a badly scuptured statue. 'As for me being here, can't a King observe his own kingdom?'
Mei had no answer to this, so she merely nodded to show that she understood. They did not speak to each other again, as Colin didn't seem very talkative. Taking out his wand, he conjured up an armchair and sat down on it.
Oliver was intrigued by Colin. Mei had addressed him as "Mr. Chess", the same name that appeared on the bottom of all acceptance letters. It was rare for the head of a Quidditch organization to appear at something as trifling as a trial, those events were organized by their underlings.
'Wood! You're up.' Mei said curtly.
Taking a deep breath, Oliver rose from the bench and walked to pick up his broomstick. Flint leered at him as he walked by. He did not endeavor to whip out some snappy retort, there were more vital things to concentrate on.
His hands trembled as he gripped the Nimbus Two Thousand and One, the handle slick with sweat and dirt from the palms of the previous two Keepers. Taking a corner of his cloak, he gave it a quick swipe; it got rid of the sweat but now the broom handle felt lightly sticky to touch. Swinging one leg over the side, he mounted and pushed off.
It was amazing how much rushing air cleared up the brain. No matter how calm a day might be, there always was a breeze up here. The feel of fresh, cool air heightened the senses marvellously, Oliver felt every trace of nervousness leave his body. This was just another match, he knew his opponents, he had absolutely nothing to worry about.
He grinned at the thought of Flint doing him an unexpected favour. Using the same Chaser moves as they always did at Hogwarts matches, Flint and Warrington succeeded in demolishing the first two Keepers. Not bad, except for one minor detail they left out.
There was no way in Hell those moves would fool the same opponent they'd had for the last three years, and Oliver planned to make them pay dearly for that one little mistake.
Tilting his head from side to side, he got ready to make some potentially neck-snapping movements. He did not hover, hovering betrayed insecurity. Instead, he planted himself firmly in front of the right goalpost, watching Flint intently, muscles poised for action.
As usual, Flint made the first move. Oliver felt a tingling go through his muscles. Every fibre, every nerve was straining for action.
Flint headed towards the posts, Warrington flying close next to him. McHardy zoomed alongside Flint, on his other side. Had they looked more intimidating, it might have passed as an Hawkshead Attacking Formation.
Flint headed for the middle post, the other Chasers on either side of him. Oliver knew what he was going to do. It looked Flint was aiming for the middle post, but at the last minute, he would swerve to the left and go for the left post instead. Not yet, Oliver told himself, move too soon and you lose. The trick was in the timing. Too fast, and you give the Chaser the opportunity to aim for another goal. Too slow, and they'll get it in.
Sure enough, that was exactly what Flint did. Oliver was ready; he raced to the left goalpost, executing a perfect 360 to knock the Quaffle off course. It gave the broomstick a satisfying smack, flying back towards Flint, who caught it.
Oliver felt a stab of panic race through him. Having been a Captain, he was accustomed to doing lots of things at once. His eyes were used to darting around; making sure the Chasers were getting the Quaffle up the pitch, that Fred and George aimed for more than one person, that Harry hadn't dozed off…and now he could see McHardy within range of the right goalpost. If Flint was to toss her the Quaffle now, he would never have the time to race over there.
A crucial second went by. Flint drew his arm back, and threw the Quaffle right at Oliver, who was so stunned that he didn't feel the pain just yet. He was all ready to race off at break-neck speed, he didn't expect that Flint would chuck the Quaffle right at him.
Once he regained his senses, he shook his head. Throwing the Quaffle as hard as you could at the opposing Keeper was a lousy tactic. Might hurt them, but they were solid, you'd never score. He threw the Quaffle at McHardy, who was so surprised someone passed had passed her the Quaffle she almost dropped it.
The game went on in similar fashion for the rest of the twenty minutes. Halfway through, Oliver saw Mei descend to talk to Colin.
'A promising group, what do you think?' Mei said, drawing up a chair to sit next to Colin. It was too hard trying to watch the game on a broomstick. They were built for flying, simply staying up in the air was more to flying carpets' tastes.
'Who's that big Chaser? The blonde one.'
'Flint.'
'And the Keeper?'
'Wood.'
Colin didn't say anything more, Mei wondered why he wanted to know about those particular two. He watched the game intently, his eyes like blue pinpricks of light. She would be the first to admit that he scared her sometimes, just a bit. She turned her attention back to the game.
Flint and Wood were really slogging it out now. They seemed to have forgotten the other two players existed. Harder and harder they played, neither wanting to be the first to break. In Mei's opinion the Keeper had the edge, but the Chasers weren't defeated yet. It was a shame she could only pick one, two would be stretching it a bit.
'Flint and Wood, I want them on the team.'
Mei blinked. She must have misunderstood. Colin was the President's son, he would know best that each year they only picked one. 'I'm sorry? I thought you said you wanted both.'
'You heard correctly.'
'But, but-' she racked her brain for a good reason why those two could not be chosen. 'Look at them. Those two seem to have a personal grudge against each other. You can't have teammates who hate each other.'
'If it is a grudge, then I'm all for it. Look at them. They've worked harder than anybody else I've seen all day, striving to outdo each other. Think about how good that would be for the team. It doesn't matter if they don't like each other, Keepers and Chasers rarely have any interaction on the pitch.'
Grudgingly, Mei had to admit he was right. Colin had been a Ravenclaw, spent all his time in the library during his Hogwarts years. He was a passionate supporter of Quidditch, but had never once attempted to play himself. He had an sharp mind, the only thing better than his memory was his logic. But she wasn't going to let him mess with tradition without a fight.
'Okay, competition is good, but what if they still hate each other by the time the Annual Charity Ball rolls around? The fact that every team will be there is bad enough, but could you just imagine the headlines if two players from the same team start a fight? Rita Skeeter would have a field day.'
'Rita Skeeter doesn't need a field day. She can make a scandal out of thin air. Now that's real magic.' Mei hoped he was being sarcastic. It was hard to tell. Colin went on. 'These two players are both fresh out of Hogwarts right? The only way they could have hated each other with such a passion is if they were on opposing House teams. But we put them on the same team, we remove the need for that hatred. Trust me, it won't last long.'
He smiled at her, but it didn't look sincere. He had other thoughts on his mind. She opened her mouth to argue.
'But Colin-'
'Who is the boss?'
The question took her by surprise. 'Why you, of course.'
He nodded. 'And had I reminded you of that fact, I would have saved this conversation a few minutes.' He patted her hand mockingly. 'Flint and Wood, I want them on the team.' He stopped to consider something. 'And McHardy. I want her too…and the second Keeper, didn't catch her name.'
Mei was lost for words. Four new players? They certainly didn't need them. She shook her head ruefully; Colin might be the boss but that wouldn't stop Avalon giving her hell once he found out. A glance at her watch showed that the game had gone on too long, but the players hadn't noticed yet. She hastily whistled them down.
Colin sat as still as never, quietly watching the players descend. He said nothing, but Mei could only guess as to how many different thoughts were running across his brain. It was in her experience that people who said very little tended to think more. His head propped up on one elbow, face tilted slightly to one side, he looked like a king on his throne.
'Good job,' Mei addressed the sweaty players. 'If you'd go inside, there are some showers in the locker rooms and a cupboard with clean robes. Put them on, and we'll see you at lunch.'
The players obeyed. Oliver trotted up ahead, in front of the rest of the group. Going back into the training room, he saw the other group of players; all sweaty, their shirts stuck to their backs, their hair hanging limp in front of their faces…there was a reason why the Quidditch season didn't start till Autumn.
After taking a quick shower, he was amazed at how refreshed he felt. Mei was right, there was a stack of robes piled neatly on the benches. They were made of cotton, and a navy blue colour. Not as showy as the regular Puddlemere robes, but they still bore a small emblem embroidered on the chest area.
He made his way back to the main hall. It was set up with a long dining table, and rough wooden chairs for everyone. The banners were gone, the room looked a lot more plain now. It could have given Hogwarts' Great Hall a run for its money in size, but not for decor. There was no need for floating candles, the sun was all to happy to shine through the large windows, casting a warm glow over Oliver as he sat down. Everyone looked a lot less threatening with the light making haloes over their heads.
The table was stacked with food, mostly sandwiches and fruit. Oliver helped himself to some cheese sandwiches. It didn't matter how much he ate, the plates kept refilling anyway. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colin enter and take a seat next to Mei. The two seemed attracted to each other in an obscure and unexplainable way. Either way, it was none of his business. Oliver reminded himself that he was here to play Quidditch, not meddle in other people's lives. Nothing good ever came out of meddling.
Lunch went on for quite a while. The plates refilled themselves, so everyone just kept eating. Oliver had long ago finished, so he spent the time talking with one of the reserve Seekers. The little guy was keen to talk, and by the end Oliver had learnt a lot.
Puddlemere had three grades: Premiership, First Grade and Second Grade. Reserves usually played First Grade, and if any of the Premiership guys were injured before a match, they were the ones to step in. Second Grade was an under-17's competition, for those who never went to Hogwarts or left school after their O.W.Ls. Out of the Chasers and Keepers, they usually only chose one player. (Oliver's stomach tightened at this.) Players needed to be present everyday, but training didn't happen everyday. Flying only occured on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, with games played on Thursday evenings.
'What about Weekends?' Oliver asked.
'Once the season starts, All Premiership matches are on Sunday, with First Grade beforehand in the afternoon and Second Grade on Saturday afternoons.'
Oliver nodded, taking a sip of water out of a silver goblet. The food had stopped refilling, players started to leave the table, walking outside to stretch their legs. The little Seeker apologised, saying he had to go join his teammates now. He wished Oliver good luck before walking off with the rest.
Oliver's group were the only ones left in the hall. Mei and Colin sat at the far end, talking in hushed voices. It looked like they were arguing about something. They whispered quickly at each other; Mei was making gestures, Colin looked undisturbed.
'Faucon, Flint, McHardy and Wood,' Mei said suddenly, pushing her chair out and standing up, 'follow Mr. Chess. Beckfield and Warrington, follow me.'
Silently, they obeyed. Colin came over, and they clustered around him. Mei led Warrington and Beckfield outside. Colin beckoned them to follow him.
They walked silently, the only sound that could be heard was the squeaky footsteps of the group. Colin led them on, through a set of doors Oliver had never opened, into a long carpeted hallway. He did not say where he was talking them; no one wanted to ask. It was a collective feeling that what was about to happen was very important indeed, and it seemed a scandal to disturb it.
Their shoes stepped onto polished wooden floorboards. Colin had led them into a small office. This one was bare and rather lacking compared to some of the ones they had passed through the hallway.
Colin walked over to some cabinets and opened them one by one. He seemed to be looking for something. The group stood around, politely bewildered. Oliver's heart started to hammer. Was it possible that he was looking for some sort of dismissal papers? He had overheard Mei telling Colin they only took one, at most two, and there were four people in this room.
Still, the logical part of Oliver's brain told him it was absurd. Beckfield, better than him? Warrington, better than Flint? Impossible.
'Here it is.' Colin must have found what he was looking for. He thumped a folder of parchment onto a dusty desk. Opening it up, he took out four copies and laid them out on the desk. Using his wand, he conjured up four quills and an inkpot and beckoned them over.
Oliver took a piece nervously. He didn't think of turning it over just yet. If it was what he thought it might be, then he would rather not know. A gasp from McHardy caught his attention. It was a happy gasp; if one could call it that, and encouraged, he turned the parchment over.
The joy at seeing the word 'accepted' was at first too strong for words. Ecstatic didn't even come close. He grabbed a quill quickly, and scrawled his name on the dotted line.
Once they had all finished signing their names, Colin took the stack of parchment and stowed it back in the same cabinet it came from. Another stack he had found, he tucked in his robes.
'You're free to go home now, or watch the rest of the trials.' He said pleasantly. 'Go into the main hall, there's a large pot of Floo powder beside the main fireplace. That's the only way you can get home. If you wish to stay, the Beater trials are still on, you can watch them.'
However much Oliver wanted to see some more professional players in action, the thought of going home and telling everyone was overpowering. He didn't say anymore; rather he sprang back down the corridor at the speed of scandalous gossip, grabbed the container of Floo Powder and sprinkled some onto the flames. That done, he stepped into the column of warm air, yelled 'Saltram House!' in a clear voice, and disappeared home.
Oliver returned to an empty house. He stepped out of the kitchen fireplace, brushing soot off his robes out of habit rather than actually caring to get all the ash off, and headed for table. A slip of parchment lay on that table, written in emerald ink, Emilia's favourite colour.
Oliver: Gone shopping. Will not be back for dinner. Seth said he'll drop by sometime in the afternoon. -Em
The curt and cold tone of the letter sucked away some of Oliver's joy. As far as he could remember, Emilia had always ended a letter with 'love, Em.' It hurt that she had decided to do so differently today, however short the message had been.
Oliver drew a chair up and sat down, breathing hard. He had planned to tell Emilia first. But she wasn't here, and wouldn't be back till after he had gone to bed. Most likely she and Ian had decided to gallivant around Diagon Alley together. She lived for that place.
Seth dropping by would be something to look forward to. Dimly, a message from the small part of his brain that wasn't occupied with thoughts of Quidditch told him he should change. But Oliver ignored that message. Seth wouldn't mind his appearance.
As if on cue, a face poked through the back window. Oliver nearly fell off his seat. With a big grin on his face, he got up to let his old friend inside.
'Golly, don't you look a mess.' Were the first words out of Seth's mouth, as he looked Oliver up and down. It was true; Oliver's hair had been slicked up at odd angles from all the sweat, his robes had large sweat patches everywhere and he probably smelled a bit too.
'I was planning to change,' Oliver lied. He moved over so Seth could take a seat.
Seth looked different the last time Oliver had seen him. His hair was always the same; a mixture of dirty blond, brown and black, but it had grown so that it now bits of it shielded his eyes. His skin had gotten paler, so that his dark eyes looked more piercing than ever before.
'Where have you been half the summer?' Oliver asked, 'you even missed graduation! Couldn't get a sound out of you after the N.E.W.T's.'
Seth shrugged lightly, flicking a few strands of hair out of his eyes. He regarded Oliver with a weary look.
'I've been roaming round Scotland. Getting in touch with my animal side. Only last week I made my way down here when I got sick of being alone. How was graduation, by the way?'
'Long. Percy made a speech, nabbed a couple of awards. There was one for you, but Percy's got it since you were away. Oh!' Oliver suddenly remembered something urgent. 'I made the Puddlemere reserve team!'
'Well, let me be the first to say congratulations.'
'You are the first. I haven't told anyone else yet.'
'What! Not even Emilia?'
'Emilia's mad at me. Something about me having no responsibility. She's out at the moment.'
'As if I couldn't tell,' Seth smirked. 'If she was here she would have offered me something to eat, by now.'
'Which reminds me, do you want something to eat?' Oliver asked hurriedly, with a smile on his face. Seth didn't say anything, but Oliver got up to take a look around the cupboards. Emilia did all the shopping; he had never asked for anything specific, as long as it was edible, that was okay by him.
The cupboards didn't show much promise. Just a lot of fruit, something that looked like a health tonic, but he spied a bar of chocolate hidden way deep in the corner. Oliver grabbed it with glee. Emilia must have stashed it away and forgotten about it, her loss.
'Try this.' He said, tossing the bar onto the table, where it slid across to stop at Seth's fingertips.
'Oliver, you know I don't eat chocolate.' Seth declined with a sigh.
'You don't eat a lot of other stuff as well. Meat, cheese, eggs, nothing to do with animals. I thought you might had changed your mind about things, roaming around Scotland and all.'
'Roaming around Scotland is very different than roaming around South England.' Replied Seth, averting his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Oliver unwrap a bar of 'Honeydukes Gold' and take a huge bite.
'Must you eat that in front of me?' asked Seth exasperately, who couldn't resist and had now turned back to face Oliver. 'Can't you eat something else? Like marmite on toast?'
'Don't like marmite,' said Oliver through a mouthful of caramel. 'I'm doing Emilia a favour. If she found it, then she'd be tempted to eat it, and thus wreck her diet.'
'Isn't Emilia already thinner than most girls?'
'Yeah, but she thinks chocolate is bad for your health.' Oliver made a face as he scrunched up the packet and banished it to the bin. 'Totally wrong, that view is.'
Seth stood up suddenly. 'What, going already?' said Oliver with a start. 'You've only just got here!'
Seth stood in the middle of the kitchen, torn between two choices. Really, he wasn't supposed to stay long, he had only come to inform Oliver that he was back in town, and now he should go. On the other hand, where was the sin in staying just a few minutes extra?
Self-control won through in the end. 'I was only coming to tell you that I was back in England.' He said, letting his gaze fall wistfully on the domestic cheeriness of Oliver's kitchen curtains.
'How long are you staying?'
'Not long. For the summer.'
'Have you seen Percy?'
'Not yet. I will, though.'
Oliver nodded. He wasn't happy, but he was satisfied. Seth never stayed in one place long. He was always on the move. Seven years at Hogwarts was long enough in one place for him.
'Coming to the World Cup?' He asked Seth brightly.
'Of course. What about Percy?'
'He'll come.' Oliver suddenly grinned. 'It'll be like old times again. Me, you and Percy.'
Seth laughed. 'I remember. 7th year?'
'Smart-'
'-sexy-'
'-unstoppable.' They said at the same time.
It was good to be together again.
***
The End.
A/N: Gem, remember Seth?
***
Puddlemere United was officially the oldest club in the British and Irish League.
William Chess III was rather proud of that fact. He sat at the desk of Puddlemere HQ, a large stone building next to the Puddlemere river. One of this ancestors had founded this club in 1163, almost a millennia ago.
Easing himself back into the comfy leather armchair, William let his gaze travel upwards, towards where all the portraits of past Presidents hung. There were too many to fit into this room, so only the more recent ones were present. The others hung in the trophy room.
Unlike usual wizard portraits, these did not move. Their features stayed the same, stony and silent. Most people didn't realize how dangerous being in the Quidditch business could be. The players themselves, they had no cause to fear for their lives. As much as someone as compassionate as William hated to admit, they were servants, almost, doing their job while their masters squabbled with each other.
There was a very good reason why the portraits did not move. Over the decades, different branches of the Chess family had fought over the highest seat in a Quidditch club. Being the President was like ruling your own little kingdom, and with such a club as Puddlemere, one with a very large and loyal fanbase, it was probably the closest to being Minister of Magic without having to work for the Ministry.
There were ten portraits hanging all around the room, from William's great- uncle Arthur, to Anne, who died in 1849. To say the portraits hated each other would be an understatement. They were all opinionated people with large mouths; no sooner had William taken the job, he was yelled bits of advice from morning till nightfall. That would have been all good and well, could he actually hear what they were saying. One bit of advice was accompanied by nine voices telling him not to listen. In a fit of terrible earache, William froze them all. They stood there now, all with permanent glares.
A polite knocking came at the door.
'Come in,' William said pleasantly. Whoever it was would be a welcome distraction from ten ancestors beating him to death with their permanent disapproval.
Max Cornwall entered. He was short fellow with a round, chubby face. Max was William's link to the Ministry. A stack was parchment was tucked haphazardly under one arm. William was concerned; Max seemed to have lost some weight. The robes hung about him a lot more loosely than usual.
'I've got the statistics you've ordered…sir,' he said, putting down the stack carefully. 'Full lists of all our players, averages, rival teams, plus comparisons with past years-' he rattled off.
'Thank you.' Max stopped abruptly. William smiled. 'I know what's in it, it says so,' he jabbed a finger on the contents page, 'right here.'
Max smiled uncertainly. He fought for something to say. 'Today's the trials, but you probably already know that.'
William looked surprised. 'Already? It's only summer.'
'Yes, but we moved it up several years ago. If we pick our sides now, we have two months to train them up before the season starts.' Max said proudly.
William frowned; he didn't usually forget these things. However, he didn't care. It had been a welcome change, forgetting. Having an extraordinary memory had its bad points, forgetting made him seem more human, somehow. 'It must be because my family didn't remind me,' he joked, gesturing to the portraits. They glared back at him. He never regretted shutting them up, it was probably the wisest thing he'd ever done.
Max fidgeted. The portraits made him nervous. Even thought they couldn't talk or move, their mere presence was a distraction. He cleared his throat.
'I've been thinking sir,' he started. William looked at him intently. Max usually had worthwhile suggestions, unlike the portraits. 'These ancestors, don't you think they'd be more comfortable in the trophy room? When you retire, and either Phillip or Colin takes your place, I think the sight of their an-'
Max stopped talking when he realized William was grinning. He frowned. It wasn't one of those smiles; it was grin that said 'I'm secretly laughing at you but too polite show it'. He sniffed. 'I think it's a reasonable suggestion.'
William chuckled. 'I couldn't remove my ancestors. That's sacrilege.'
'You froze them,' pointed out Max.
'That's different. Don't worry, my boys aren't intimidated by a bunch of ancestors. Why, they hardly listen to me, and I'm still alive!'
Max's face clearly showed that now wasn't the time to fool around. William stopped, his tone instantly becoming somber again. The many wrinkles on his face seemed to stand out more day by day. Being the head had its advantages, but it also had its drawbacks. Years of stress had taken their toll; he looked old and felt even older.
'I told them to come to today's trials,' Max spoke first, breaking the silence. He took on more of his usual confident tone. 'I thought we might let them try the ropes, see how they do.'
William thought about this. When he was a lad, it had been very clear cut. None of this 'choose the best person for the job', though sometimes it worked out okay. William inherited Puddlemere off his great-uncle Arthur. At 23, he probably wasn't the best person for the job.
'Sir?' Max ventured cautiously.
'Hmm? Oh yes. It's a good idea. Really, I don't know where my mind goes these days,' said William good-naturedly. He was tired, that's for sure, yet there was still so much work to be done.
'You haven't said anything on the subject of Catherine, sir,' Max spoke diligently. He was one of those people who turn over each stone twice, just to make sure they hadn't left any out.
'Catherine has no interest in Quidditch,' answered William forlornly, his usual gravity seeping in.
Catherine was William's eldest child. Twenty-four years old now, she left home right after graduating from Hogwarts to find her calling. She said she was sick of England, and eighteen years in a house where Quidditch was the only topic of conversation was more than enough. William didn't know where she was, or what state she was in. Six years had dulled the emotions, and to his dismay, found that he didn't care much about her.
'Add the fact that we have no idea where she is,' stated Max with his usual bluntness.
'No need to state the obvious,' William disguised the hurt in his voice. True, people talked and everyone knew about his missing daughter, but they didn't need to mention it so often. He rubbed his forehead tiredly, pushing the greying hair out of the way. When he spoke, his voice cracked with thinly veiled sadness.
'It was my fault,' he mumbled, not having the energy to speak properly. 'If I hadn't, if I-' he paused, unable to continue. The memories were painful, William counted himself lucky that he'd never encountered a Dementor before. He wouldn't know how to defeat it. During his time at Hogwarts he had been taught how to conjure a Patronus, but nobody in the class ever had a real Dementor to practise on.
Clearing his throat, he tried to continue. 'If I hadn't…hadn't pushed her so much, showed her some more affection, perhaps she wouldn't have tried to rebel.'
Max made a derisive noise. William's ears picked up on this, and he felt a pricking of anger. How dare he, making fun of Catherine? Max must have noticed, because he chose his words carefully.
'What I mean sir, is that Catherine,' he paused to think, 'well, you should move on.' William stayed resolutely silent. 'Forget about her. She obviously doesn't care about you, she's most likely passed away-'
'She is not dead!' William snapped, himself surprised at how angry he was. Taking a calmly breath, he tried to not let his emotions (what was left of them, anyway) cloud his thoughts. 'What I mean is, Catherine's not the sort of girl who'd leave unless she was absolutely sure of where she was going.'
Max tried to look sympathetic. When he spoke, it was in a smooth, confident, no-nonsense tone. 'I didn't mean any offense, sir. I was just pointing out that with the new season looming so close, and with a successor to choose, it is not wise to dwell on things we cannot change.'
'I suppose you're right,' grumbled William. 'Listen, just make sure the trials go well, okay? The last thing I need is to leave on a bad note.' He shuddered to think of the consequences of history repeating itself.
'Yes sir,' said Max before Disapparating.
***
Oliver gawked.
In all his life, he had never seen anything so majestic, so awe-inspiring. The main room of Puddlemere HQ was a hybrid of blue and gold; large, shiny banners hung from the tall ceiling, players strutted around the visitors; their heads held high, their Quidditch cloaks sweeping the floor. Oliver wished he didn't look so starstruck.
'Wow,' breathed one girl when the gaggle of applicants stopped right under a shiny banner. Oliver felt that 'wow' just about summed it up. There was no way the HQ could always look like this. It must be because they actually have visitors today. All the glossy material was probably just a show.
'Wait here,' commanded Mr. Cornwall. He disappeared through the double doors underneath the banner.
Oliver's eyes swiveled around, trying to take in everything at once. It was all too fantastic. The only time he had felt this way was right before the Sorting. Tearing his eyes away from the fancy decorations. He regarded his fellow applicants warily. A few he recognized from Hogwarts, on opposing House teams.
Oliver's eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Marcus Flint. Flint hadn't noticed him yet, and he wanted to keep it that way. Warrington was also present, conversing in low tones with Flint. Altogether Oliver recognized four people from Hogwarts and seven others he didn't know.
Mr. Cornwall strode back into view. Wearing navy blue robes with gold edging, he could have blended in perfectly with the walls. A big smile was on his face as he gazed fondly at the group of adolescents.
'In a minute, you will pass through these doors and join the rest of the team. Trials will run from now till twelve, when lunch will be held. Afterwards, they will continue until five in the evening. Understood?'
There was a murmur from the group. Mr. Cornwall pressed on. 'As you all know, not everyone will be chosen. While I wish with my heart that we could take on every one of you, alas this isn't so. Get out there, give it your best shot, and no one will think the worst of you. I wish you all the best of luck.'
'Certainly silver-tongued, ain't he?' Flint whispered to Warrington, who snickered. 'No wonder he's in the Ministry.'
Mr. Cornwall didn't hear them. With a great flourish of his wand, the double doors leading to the next room began to open. Oliver felt the pounding in his heart grow stronger. Quidditch clubs guarded their secrets jealously and all the gold in Gringotts couldn't buy you a pass into the inner chambers where the players trained.
Mr. Cornwall led them all into the room. For the second time, Oliver felt his breath stop. While this room was less cluttered with useless decorations, it was nevertheless just as impressive. The seven members of Puddlemere's First Grade team stood in a picture-perfect formation near the back doors. The entire back wall was glass, polished so smooth you'd believe you could fly through it. On the left, were the broomsticks. They were too far away for the names to be seen, but their shapes showed that they were Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, each twig straightened to precision.
Oliver was a tad disappointed that they weren't Firebolts. It was too good to hope for, really, he knew they cost a great deal of money. A Nimbus Two Thousand and One was still one better than the broomstick he had at home, a Nimbus Two Thousand. He should be grateful, the Weasley twins still played on Cleansweeps.
'Everybody up for the position of Beater or Seeker…follow Lyons,' Mr. Cornwall said. Oliver watched as a thick, heavy-set man detached himself from the rest of his teammates. He sauntered towards Mr. Cornwall, accepting the clipboard he was handed, and made off in the direction of the grassy pitch outside. A few applicants followed him, leaving Oliver standing with Flint, Warrington, and three girls.
A small lithe lady had stepped forward beside Mr. Cornwall. Oliver's eyes nearly popped out in shock. She was a dead ringer for Cho Chang, same hair, same face, right down to the same way of walking. If he ever got the chance, he just had to ask if the two were related.
'Only six? Nevermind, follow me.' Same voice too.
The group trotted obediently after her. By this time, even someone as ignorant as Flint couldn't fail to notice Oliver being present. They had seen him - he could hear the snickers behind his back. Squaring his shoulders, he tried to look confident. Truthfully, today was a lot more nerve-racking than House trials ever could be. Oliver's whole future depended on his performance today. He was getting a headache just thinking about it.
The lady that looked like Cho Chang led them to another pitch, different to the ones that the Beaters went to. This one had the goal posts set up, the rings looking a lot higher than usual. Made out of steel, the metallic sheen reflected the sunlight. Hogwarts goalposts could never compete with these ones. Due to the high energy magical fields around, they had to the annoying habit of making sounds whenever anything came in contact with them. Too many times Oliver had come back from Quidditch training with a horrible ringing in his ears.
'My name is Mei, I'll be checking you out today,' Mei said enthusiastically. Her eyes wandered around as she spoke, taking in everyone's appearance. Oliver hastily hid the dirty patch on his trouser leg with his cloak. She looked young, maybe 20 or so, which probably explained her enthusiasm. None of the other team members looked too keen. 'I suggest you give me no reason to hate you, because what I say counts.' She flicked the application forms with a bit of a smirk. 'This is the way it works: The application forms say that we have three going for Keeper, three going for Chaser. Am I correct?'
The players nodded uncertainly. Oliver looked at the competition casually. Two opponents eh? The only other guys were Flint and Warrington, which meant that two of the girls were going for the same position as him. He was surprised, not many girls would pick Keeper as their first choice. It was a dangerous position. Oliver knew from personal experience if you weren't willing to put your body on the line, you wouldn't be very successful.
'So we'll do it this way. Flint, Warrington, and McHardy; you'll work as a team. I'll put each Keeper on one at a time, see how many goals they can stop. Switch Keepers after twenty minutes.' Mei whipped out her wand, and summoned five broomsticks from a cupboard indoors. She did not drop them to the ground, but let them levitate in front of each player.
'Beckfield, you're up first.'
Mounting their brooms, the four players and Mei rose up to the level of the goalposts. Oliver was relieved he didn't have to go first. It was much easier to scope out the competition first. He sat down on a nearby bench, next to the other girl playing Keeper. She didn't look at him, but a slight change in posture meant that she noticed his presence. Oliver chose not to look at her, instead concentrating his energies on the players up overhead.
Mei passed the Quaffle to Flint, then flew so she was out of the path of play. Oliver saw the girl hover uncertainly in front of the middle goalpost. This was mistake, and Oliver shook his head in disappointment. He knew she was his opponent, but he couldn't stand to see any form of Quidditch being played badly. It cheapened the winning feeling.
Exactly as he imagined, Flint passed the Quaffle to Warrington, who raced off towards the left goalpost. Beckfield saw this, and rushed to head him off. Warrington snapped the Quaffle to Flint, right in position in front of the right goalpost, who threw it in for an easy 10 points.
Warrington flew to Flint and they gave each other high-fives. Oliver groaned, since when did they become so chummy? He should have guessed what was happening, they were going to use their teamwork, which put them at a considerable advantage over the other Chaser.
The next twenty minutes passed by quickly; by the end of it Oliver shielded his eyes, it was too embarrassing to watch Flint and Warrington totally destroy this girl. Once or twice, he had the mad urge to yell out pointers; it was the inner captain coming out, but he bit his lip firmly and kept silent. It would probably go unappreciated, anyway.
'Alright, you can come down now.' Mei gave a blast of her whistle. The four players touched down.
Oliver saw her furiously scribbling on the parchment with a quill she had conjured up, looking at each of the sweaty players in turn. Ten minutes generally wasn't a long time in a game, but it was only the three Chasers versus the Keeper, with no Bludgers or opposing Chasers providing distractions. Mei sent the players inside to wash up a bit. He glanced at each of them in turn as they walked past him, but none of them glanced back. Beckfield looked heart-broken, Flint and Warrington pleased with themselves, their teammate just looked glum. Between her and Beckfield, she was probably worse off. At least Beckfield got to do something; the Chaser was only passed the Quaffle a few times, and those moves were so badly set up, Oliver would not be surprised if even League players could not pull off a goal.
A few minutes later, the three Chasers and the other Keeper were up in the air again. Mei took her usual spot, keeping a firm eye on the proceedings. Oliver was disappointed Mei had nothing to say about Flint not giving McHardy a fair go; a lone Chaser had about as much fighting chance as a hen in a fox den. It was bloody unfair.
Mei blew her whistle, and Flint seized the Quaffle immediately, flying straight towards the goalposts. Oliver could tell this Keeper had more on- field experience; she hadn't done anything yet but just the way she held herself over the broom; arms taut, eyes not leaving the Quaffle, showed that she knew what she was doing.
The sun peeked through a cluster of fluffy white clouds. It was going to be a hot day. Oliver stopped looking up at the players when he found that he'd have to squint to see through the sunshine. There was nothing interesting on the ground; a few tufts of weed on an otherwise neat lawn, some noticable skid marks and a small depression in the dirt.
Looking around, he saw the pointy bit of a wizard's hat emerge from the doorway, followed by a stranger wrapped up in a black cloak. He looked around, first up at Mei, then at the four players. Mei did not see the stranger; she kept on watching the players.
It was over all too soon. A familiar knot of nervousness fluttered across Oliver's stomach as Mei asked for the players to come down.
Flint and Warrington looked more sweaty and less pleased with themselves. The Keeper had made them work. She was smart, that girl, having caught on early to Flint's trademark moves. Mei gave her a smile before she sent them off to get a drink.
She noticed the stranger for the first time.
'Mr. Chess!' She sounded surprised. 'What are you doing here?'
Mr. Chess turned his face towards Mei and took off his hat. Oliver strained to catch a glimpse. He saw first a head of brown hair, cut and combed neatly. Mr. Chess looked up into the light, revealing a handsome face with chiselled features.
'No need for formalities. You may call me Colin.' He tried to smile, but obviously didn't try hard enough. It look raw; like a badly scuptured statue. 'As for me being here, can't a King observe his own kingdom?'
Mei had no answer to this, so she merely nodded to show that she understood. They did not speak to each other again, as Colin didn't seem very talkative. Taking out his wand, he conjured up an armchair and sat down on it.
Oliver was intrigued by Colin. Mei had addressed him as "Mr. Chess", the same name that appeared on the bottom of all acceptance letters. It was rare for the head of a Quidditch organization to appear at something as trifling as a trial, those events were organized by their underlings.
'Wood! You're up.' Mei said curtly.
Taking a deep breath, Oliver rose from the bench and walked to pick up his broomstick. Flint leered at him as he walked by. He did not endeavor to whip out some snappy retort, there were more vital things to concentrate on.
His hands trembled as he gripped the Nimbus Two Thousand and One, the handle slick with sweat and dirt from the palms of the previous two Keepers. Taking a corner of his cloak, he gave it a quick swipe; it got rid of the sweat but now the broom handle felt lightly sticky to touch. Swinging one leg over the side, he mounted and pushed off.
It was amazing how much rushing air cleared up the brain. No matter how calm a day might be, there always was a breeze up here. The feel of fresh, cool air heightened the senses marvellously, Oliver felt every trace of nervousness leave his body. This was just another match, he knew his opponents, he had absolutely nothing to worry about.
He grinned at the thought of Flint doing him an unexpected favour. Using the same Chaser moves as they always did at Hogwarts matches, Flint and Warrington succeeded in demolishing the first two Keepers. Not bad, except for one minor detail they left out.
There was no way in Hell those moves would fool the same opponent they'd had for the last three years, and Oliver planned to make them pay dearly for that one little mistake.
Tilting his head from side to side, he got ready to make some potentially neck-snapping movements. He did not hover, hovering betrayed insecurity. Instead, he planted himself firmly in front of the right goalpost, watching Flint intently, muscles poised for action.
As usual, Flint made the first move. Oliver felt a tingling go through his muscles. Every fibre, every nerve was straining for action.
Flint headed towards the posts, Warrington flying close next to him. McHardy zoomed alongside Flint, on his other side. Had they looked more intimidating, it might have passed as an Hawkshead Attacking Formation.
Flint headed for the middle post, the other Chasers on either side of him. Oliver knew what he was going to do. It looked Flint was aiming for the middle post, but at the last minute, he would swerve to the left and go for the left post instead. Not yet, Oliver told himself, move too soon and you lose. The trick was in the timing. Too fast, and you give the Chaser the opportunity to aim for another goal. Too slow, and they'll get it in.
Sure enough, that was exactly what Flint did. Oliver was ready; he raced to the left goalpost, executing a perfect 360 to knock the Quaffle off course. It gave the broomstick a satisfying smack, flying back towards Flint, who caught it.
Oliver felt a stab of panic race through him. Having been a Captain, he was accustomed to doing lots of things at once. His eyes were used to darting around; making sure the Chasers were getting the Quaffle up the pitch, that Fred and George aimed for more than one person, that Harry hadn't dozed off…and now he could see McHardy within range of the right goalpost. If Flint was to toss her the Quaffle now, he would never have the time to race over there.
A crucial second went by. Flint drew his arm back, and threw the Quaffle right at Oliver, who was so stunned that he didn't feel the pain just yet. He was all ready to race off at break-neck speed, he didn't expect that Flint would chuck the Quaffle right at him.
Once he regained his senses, he shook his head. Throwing the Quaffle as hard as you could at the opposing Keeper was a lousy tactic. Might hurt them, but they were solid, you'd never score. He threw the Quaffle at McHardy, who was so surprised someone passed had passed her the Quaffle she almost dropped it.
The game went on in similar fashion for the rest of the twenty minutes. Halfway through, Oliver saw Mei descend to talk to Colin.
'A promising group, what do you think?' Mei said, drawing up a chair to sit next to Colin. It was too hard trying to watch the game on a broomstick. They were built for flying, simply staying up in the air was more to flying carpets' tastes.
'Who's that big Chaser? The blonde one.'
'Flint.'
'And the Keeper?'
'Wood.'
Colin didn't say anything more, Mei wondered why he wanted to know about those particular two. He watched the game intently, his eyes like blue pinpricks of light. She would be the first to admit that he scared her sometimes, just a bit. She turned her attention back to the game.
Flint and Wood were really slogging it out now. They seemed to have forgotten the other two players existed. Harder and harder they played, neither wanting to be the first to break. In Mei's opinion the Keeper had the edge, but the Chasers weren't defeated yet. It was a shame she could only pick one, two would be stretching it a bit.
'Flint and Wood, I want them on the team.'
Mei blinked. She must have misunderstood. Colin was the President's son, he would know best that each year they only picked one. 'I'm sorry? I thought you said you wanted both.'
'You heard correctly.'
'But, but-' she racked her brain for a good reason why those two could not be chosen. 'Look at them. Those two seem to have a personal grudge against each other. You can't have teammates who hate each other.'
'If it is a grudge, then I'm all for it. Look at them. They've worked harder than anybody else I've seen all day, striving to outdo each other. Think about how good that would be for the team. It doesn't matter if they don't like each other, Keepers and Chasers rarely have any interaction on the pitch.'
Grudgingly, Mei had to admit he was right. Colin had been a Ravenclaw, spent all his time in the library during his Hogwarts years. He was a passionate supporter of Quidditch, but had never once attempted to play himself. He had an sharp mind, the only thing better than his memory was his logic. But she wasn't going to let him mess with tradition without a fight.
'Okay, competition is good, but what if they still hate each other by the time the Annual Charity Ball rolls around? The fact that every team will be there is bad enough, but could you just imagine the headlines if two players from the same team start a fight? Rita Skeeter would have a field day.'
'Rita Skeeter doesn't need a field day. She can make a scandal out of thin air. Now that's real magic.' Mei hoped he was being sarcastic. It was hard to tell. Colin went on. 'These two players are both fresh out of Hogwarts right? The only way they could have hated each other with such a passion is if they were on opposing House teams. But we put them on the same team, we remove the need for that hatred. Trust me, it won't last long.'
He smiled at her, but it didn't look sincere. He had other thoughts on his mind. She opened her mouth to argue.
'But Colin-'
'Who is the boss?'
The question took her by surprise. 'Why you, of course.'
He nodded. 'And had I reminded you of that fact, I would have saved this conversation a few minutes.' He patted her hand mockingly. 'Flint and Wood, I want them on the team.' He stopped to consider something. 'And McHardy. I want her too…and the second Keeper, didn't catch her name.'
Mei was lost for words. Four new players? They certainly didn't need them. She shook her head ruefully; Colin might be the boss but that wouldn't stop Avalon giving her hell once he found out. A glance at her watch showed that the game had gone on too long, but the players hadn't noticed yet. She hastily whistled them down.
Colin sat as still as never, quietly watching the players descend. He said nothing, but Mei could only guess as to how many different thoughts were running across his brain. It was in her experience that people who said very little tended to think more. His head propped up on one elbow, face tilted slightly to one side, he looked like a king on his throne.
'Good job,' Mei addressed the sweaty players. 'If you'd go inside, there are some showers in the locker rooms and a cupboard with clean robes. Put them on, and we'll see you at lunch.'
The players obeyed. Oliver trotted up ahead, in front of the rest of the group. Going back into the training room, he saw the other group of players; all sweaty, their shirts stuck to their backs, their hair hanging limp in front of their faces…there was a reason why the Quidditch season didn't start till Autumn.
After taking a quick shower, he was amazed at how refreshed he felt. Mei was right, there was a stack of robes piled neatly on the benches. They were made of cotton, and a navy blue colour. Not as showy as the regular Puddlemere robes, but they still bore a small emblem embroidered on the chest area.
He made his way back to the main hall. It was set up with a long dining table, and rough wooden chairs for everyone. The banners were gone, the room looked a lot more plain now. It could have given Hogwarts' Great Hall a run for its money in size, but not for decor. There was no need for floating candles, the sun was all to happy to shine through the large windows, casting a warm glow over Oliver as he sat down. Everyone looked a lot less threatening with the light making haloes over their heads.
The table was stacked with food, mostly sandwiches and fruit. Oliver helped himself to some cheese sandwiches. It didn't matter how much he ate, the plates kept refilling anyway. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colin enter and take a seat next to Mei. The two seemed attracted to each other in an obscure and unexplainable way. Either way, it was none of his business. Oliver reminded himself that he was here to play Quidditch, not meddle in other people's lives. Nothing good ever came out of meddling.
Lunch went on for quite a while. The plates refilled themselves, so everyone just kept eating. Oliver had long ago finished, so he spent the time talking with one of the reserve Seekers. The little guy was keen to talk, and by the end Oliver had learnt a lot.
Puddlemere had three grades: Premiership, First Grade and Second Grade. Reserves usually played First Grade, and if any of the Premiership guys were injured before a match, they were the ones to step in. Second Grade was an under-17's competition, for those who never went to Hogwarts or left school after their O.W.Ls. Out of the Chasers and Keepers, they usually only chose one player. (Oliver's stomach tightened at this.) Players needed to be present everyday, but training didn't happen everyday. Flying only occured on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, with games played on Thursday evenings.
'What about Weekends?' Oliver asked.
'Once the season starts, All Premiership matches are on Sunday, with First Grade beforehand in the afternoon and Second Grade on Saturday afternoons.'
Oliver nodded, taking a sip of water out of a silver goblet. The food had stopped refilling, players started to leave the table, walking outside to stretch their legs. The little Seeker apologised, saying he had to go join his teammates now. He wished Oliver good luck before walking off with the rest.
Oliver's group were the only ones left in the hall. Mei and Colin sat at the far end, talking in hushed voices. It looked like they were arguing about something. They whispered quickly at each other; Mei was making gestures, Colin looked undisturbed.
'Faucon, Flint, McHardy and Wood,' Mei said suddenly, pushing her chair out and standing up, 'follow Mr. Chess. Beckfield and Warrington, follow me.'
Silently, they obeyed. Colin came over, and they clustered around him. Mei led Warrington and Beckfield outside. Colin beckoned them to follow him.
They walked silently, the only sound that could be heard was the squeaky footsteps of the group. Colin led them on, through a set of doors Oliver had never opened, into a long carpeted hallway. He did not say where he was talking them; no one wanted to ask. It was a collective feeling that what was about to happen was very important indeed, and it seemed a scandal to disturb it.
Their shoes stepped onto polished wooden floorboards. Colin had led them into a small office. This one was bare and rather lacking compared to some of the ones they had passed through the hallway.
Colin walked over to some cabinets and opened them one by one. He seemed to be looking for something. The group stood around, politely bewildered. Oliver's heart started to hammer. Was it possible that he was looking for some sort of dismissal papers? He had overheard Mei telling Colin they only took one, at most two, and there were four people in this room.
Still, the logical part of Oliver's brain told him it was absurd. Beckfield, better than him? Warrington, better than Flint? Impossible.
'Here it is.' Colin must have found what he was looking for. He thumped a folder of parchment onto a dusty desk. Opening it up, he took out four copies and laid them out on the desk. Using his wand, he conjured up four quills and an inkpot and beckoned them over.
Oliver took a piece nervously. He didn't think of turning it over just yet. If it was what he thought it might be, then he would rather not know. A gasp from McHardy caught his attention. It was a happy gasp; if one could call it that, and encouraged, he turned the parchment over.
The joy at seeing the word 'accepted' was at first too strong for words. Ecstatic didn't even come close. He grabbed a quill quickly, and scrawled his name on the dotted line.
Once they had all finished signing their names, Colin took the stack of parchment and stowed it back in the same cabinet it came from. Another stack he had found, he tucked in his robes.
'You're free to go home now, or watch the rest of the trials.' He said pleasantly. 'Go into the main hall, there's a large pot of Floo powder beside the main fireplace. That's the only way you can get home. If you wish to stay, the Beater trials are still on, you can watch them.'
However much Oliver wanted to see some more professional players in action, the thought of going home and telling everyone was overpowering. He didn't say anymore; rather he sprang back down the corridor at the speed of scandalous gossip, grabbed the container of Floo Powder and sprinkled some onto the flames. That done, he stepped into the column of warm air, yelled 'Saltram House!' in a clear voice, and disappeared home.
Oliver returned to an empty house. He stepped out of the kitchen fireplace, brushing soot off his robes out of habit rather than actually caring to get all the ash off, and headed for table. A slip of parchment lay on that table, written in emerald ink, Emilia's favourite colour.
Oliver: Gone shopping. Will not be back for dinner. Seth said he'll drop by sometime in the afternoon. -Em
The curt and cold tone of the letter sucked away some of Oliver's joy. As far as he could remember, Emilia had always ended a letter with 'love, Em.' It hurt that she had decided to do so differently today, however short the message had been.
Oliver drew a chair up and sat down, breathing hard. He had planned to tell Emilia first. But she wasn't here, and wouldn't be back till after he had gone to bed. Most likely she and Ian had decided to gallivant around Diagon Alley together. She lived for that place.
Seth dropping by would be something to look forward to. Dimly, a message from the small part of his brain that wasn't occupied with thoughts of Quidditch told him he should change. But Oliver ignored that message. Seth wouldn't mind his appearance.
As if on cue, a face poked through the back window. Oliver nearly fell off his seat. With a big grin on his face, he got up to let his old friend inside.
'Golly, don't you look a mess.' Were the first words out of Seth's mouth, as he looked Oliver up and down. It was true; Oliver's hair had been slicked up at odd angles from all the sweat, his robes had large sweat patches everywhere and he probably smelled a bit too.
'I was planning to change,' Oliver lied. He moved over so Seth could take a seat.
Seth looked different the last time Oliver had seen him. His hair was always the same; a mixture of dirty blond, brown and black, but it had grown so that it now bits of it shielded his eyes. His skin had gotten paler, so that his dark eyes looked more piercing than ever before.
'Where have you been half the summer?' Oliver asked, 'you even missed graduation! Couldn't get a sound out of you after the N.E.W.T's.'
Seth shrugged lightly, flicking a few strands of hair out of his eyes. He regarded Oliver with a weary look.
'I've been roaming round Scotland. Getting in touch with my animal side. Only last week I made my way down here when I got sick of being alone. How was graduation, by the way?'
'Long. Percy made a speech, nabbed a couple of awards. There was one for you, but Percy's got it since you were away. Oh!' Oliver suddenly remembered something urgent. 'I made the Puddlemere reserve team!'
'Well, let me be the first to say congratulations.'
'You are the first. I haven't told anyone else yet.'
'What! Not even Emilia?'
'Emilia's mad at me. Something about me having no responsibility. She's out at the moment.'
'As if I couldn't tell,' Seth smirked. 'If she was here she would have offered me something to eat, by now.'
'Which reminds me, do you want something to eat?' Oliver asked hurriedly, with a smile on his face. Seth didn't say anything, but Oliver got up to take a look around the cupboards. Emilia did all the shopping; he had never asked for anything specific, as long as it was edible, that was okay by him.
The cupboards didn't show much promise. Just a lot of fruit, something that looked like a health tonic, but he spied a bar of chocolate hidden way deep in the corner. Oliver grabbed it with glee. Emilia must have stashed it away and forgotten about it, her loss.
'Try this.' He said, tossing the bar onto the table, where it slid across to stop at Seth's fingertips.
'Oliver, you know I don't eat chocolate.' Seth declined with a sigh.
'You don't eat a lot of other stuff as well. Meat, cheese, eggs, nothing to do with animals. I thought you might had changed your mind about things, roaming around Scotland and all.'
'Roaming around Scotland is very different than roaming around South England.' Replied Seth, averting his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Oliver unwrap a bar of 'Honeydukes Gold' and take a huge bite.
'Must you eat that in front of me?' asked Seth exasperately, who couldn't resist and had now turned back to face Oliver. 'Can't you eat something else? Like marmite on toast?'
'Don't like marmite,' said Oliver through a mouthful of caramel. 'I'm doing Emilia a favour. If she found it, then she'd be tempted to eat it, and thus wreck her diet.'
'Isn't Emilia already thinner than most girls?'
'Yeah, but she thinks chocolate is bad for your health.' Oliver made a face as he scrunched up the packet and banished it to the bin. 'Totally wrong, that view is.'
Seth stood up suddenly. 'What, going already?' said Oliver with a start. 'You've only just got here!'
Seth stood in the middle of the kitchen, torn between two choices. Really, he wasn't supposed to stay long, he had only come to inform Oliver that he was back in town, and now he should go. On the other hand, where was the sin in staying just a few minutes extra?
Self-control won through in the end. 'I was only coming to tell you that I was back in England.' He said, letting his gaze fall wistfully on the domestic cheeriness of Oliver's kitchen curtains.
'How long are you staying?'
'Not long. For the summer.'
'Have you seen Percy?'
'Not yet. I will, though.'
Oliver nodded. He wasn't happy, but he was satisfied. Seth never stayed in one place long. He was always on the move. Seven years at Hogwarts was long enough in one place for him.
'Coming to the World Cup?' He asked Seth brightly.
'Of course. What about Percy?'
'He'll come.' Oliver suddenly grinned. 'It'll be like old times again. Me, you and Percy.'
Seth laughed. 'I remember. 7th year?'
'Smart-'
'-sexy-'
'-unstoppable.' They said at the same time.
It was good to be together again.
***
The End.
A/N: Gem, remember Seth?