Lucky Number Eleven

AU! Muggle.

(number) 11

A cricket team consists of eleven players. One by one, they go out to bat and score runs. Runs are scored in 1s, 2s, 3s, 4s and 6s.

Batting at number eleven for a cricket team wasn't ideal; everyone believed you were a tail-ender, a bowler who rode on the coattails of the batsmen who came before you. But to Sirius, who was one of the best bowlers in the world, it was the best number.

While the last members of his team tried to score as many runs as they could out there on the field to make a good enough score for the opposition to chase, Sirius stood in the changing rooms, looking around at the forlorn faces of his teammates.

"Cheer up, mates!" he said with a grin. He picked up his bat and raised it in the air. "It's not that bad."

"Not that bad?" James, the captain of their team, asked incredulously. He squinted at Sirius. "Are you out of your mind? We're still thirty-six runs down! And it's the last over—which means there are only seven balls left! Pete and Kings are both bowlers—Kings is our last hope!"

"Correction, James," Sirius said, placing his bat on his shoulders and puffing his chest out. "I'll be your last hope."

"This isn't the time to flirt with me," James said, exasperated by Sirius' carefree attitude. "If we lose, we're not going to the semi-finals!"

"Trust me, James," Sirius said, strolling over to the door and looking outside. "I'll win this for us if either of them loses a wicket."

James looked at him suspiciously, but just then, there was a loud shout from outside and cheers echoed throughout the stadium. James glanced at the television mounted on the wall and groaned. "Great! A run-out. Alright, Sirius, you're up to bat."

"Perfect!" Sirius quickly put on his thigh pads, adjusted his jockstrap before whistling and strolling out the door, the number 11 emblazoned on his back in bold white.

James muttered, "We're going to lose."

No one could believe their eyes as they watched Sirius hit four sixes, his mischievous smirk fixed on his face; it was difficult—even for a batsman— to hit such a powerful shot once, but Sirius—who wasn't even trained for batting, only bowling— had hit four sixes in a row.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, the other batsman who stood on the other end of the pitch, walked on over to him while the bowler got ready to bowl the next ball. "How did you do that? You know what? Never mind—just keep it up."

"You got it, Kings," Sirius said, giving him a quick fist-bump before walking back to his spot. He squatted and tapped his bat twice on the ground, waiting for the ball.

When the ball soared towards him, he took a step forward and flicked his wrist, swinging his bat to the left. The cracking boom of the ball against the face of the bat echoed throughout the crowded stadium as it flew over the field and boundary ropes for yet another six.

The crowd went wild, screaming Sirius' name at the top of its voice.

Sirius beamed as he turned around and pointed to the number on his shirt. According to his mother, who believed in astrology, the number eleven had always been lucky for Sirius, but if there was any chance it could help him take his team to the semi-finals, Sirius swore he would never doubt his mother's old-fashioned thoughts again. Winning by placing bets on his lucky number were one thing, but winning a match would be different.

Thirty runs in five balls. Not bad, Black. Not bad at all. Just six more runs to go—and one ball left…

Closing his eyes, he breathed in and out, making sure to remain calm. His team depended on him and him alone. Kingsley was on the non-striker's end, which meant that he wouldn't be batting. It was all up to Sirius now.

The pressure was on.

He knew if he managed to hit another six—which was highly unlikely—his team would win. He had been trusting his instincts and allowing his body to react accordingly to the ball, and now, he wondered if he could really do it. Though he had boasted about his team depending on him, the truth was that Sirius wasn't as calm as he looked.

On the inside, Sirius was mentally screaming in terror.

He glanced down at the bat in his hands and he caught sight of the number eleven on the side of his gloves. He had never noticed it before, but when he saw it, a sense of absolute stillness washed over him. The sounds of the crowd disappeared to a soft lull, and his heart thumped in his ears.

Loosening his grip a little, he looked up at the bowler, who stood a few feet away. Ready for the last ball of the innings, Sirius crouched and waited.

The bowler's feet pounded on the flat pitch as he swung his arm back and hurled the ball at Sirius.

Biting his lip, Sirius focused all his intentions on smacking the ball through the air. It flew overhead and down the ground for another six.

"Six sixes in an over! Sirius Black is a trailblazer! Finishes things off in style! The first time it's happened in this championship league! He takes his team to the semi-finals! Get out of here, Sirius Black! Look at that!" the commentator yelled, clapping along with the rest of the stadium. "Everyone's on their feet! You can hear the screams for miles!"

Sirius laughed, letting go of his tension and raising his bat in the air to acknowledge the crowd crying his name. Kingsley hollered as he ran over and swung his arm around his shoulders, pulling him in for a one-arm hug.

As he was carted off by the rest of his team to the post-match presentations, Sirius grinned and looked down at the inconspicuous number inscribed on his gloves.

The eleventh man had won them the match. A remarkable feat. This is no coincidence. Mum was right. Eleven is my lucky number!