Chapter 25: Quidditch
Cressida never does end up asking James for those extra sessions to catch up on Quidditch training with. And maybe that is a mistake, but a mistake she is willing to risk for the sake of her sanity.
The tent is freezing, its red material walls flapping against the stark wind that brings snow and ice from the skies. But the game will go on. James Potter stands at the front, the rest of the team huddle in a horse-shoe around him.
Sirius leans down close to her ear, leaning on his broom and whispers, "Do you reckon Morrison's sideburns will freeze over?" Cressida smiles silently, ducking her head to avoid their Captain's sharp gaze that lays on each member. Morrison, their Seeker, has sideburns that are almost as long as the rest of his hair. He confidently assured people they are the raging style in London.
"Black," James snaps, halting the pair's sniggering instantly. "Shut up and listen."
Sirius rolls his eyes as James continues talking about tactics they've already run over a hundred times. They brush him off easily enough. He was like this before he was made Captain and the title has only made him worse. "Feeling confident?" Sirius questions lowly, clearly not bothered about James' warning. "Weather's a bit bleak."
"It's a snowstorm," she mutters, shifting weight onto her left foot from the right. "I'd be surprised if there's anyone in the stands."
"I'd say enough people want to watch us kick Slytherin's butt," he smirks. "Besides, it's Britain. People are used to shit weather."
Cressida tightens the thick Quidditch jacket around her, another thick woollen jumper below that as well. "Ain't that the truth."
A whistle blows from outside, eyes naturally turning towards it but James claps his hands together, drawing their attention back. "There are two endings to this day. Defeat, or victory. And I don't accept defeat. Let's move!"
The team begin shuffling out of the tent, Sirius and Cressida being pushed into the heart of it. "You'd think he'd give us some slack, wouldn't you?" Sirius questions, no longer bothering with a hushed whisper. "Considering we're his mates."
Cressida purses her lips together, raising both her hands – the broom in one. "Friends. Quidditch." She weighs the air, the both of them lapsing into chuckles at her result.
The tent entrance opens, an icy wind penetrating even the thickest layers of clothing and the team jobs towards the stands which barricade some of the weather. She jumps from foot to foot, hearing at least a small crowd beginning to chant and their announcer introduce the game. At James' signal, they mount, hovering in the air.
And at the announcement of their team, they begin flying around the Quidditch pit. It is white as far as the eye can see, the usual bright colours of the stand looking as though the colour has been bled out of them. The weather continues to snip at her skin, drying out her lips and skin.
Hooch flies to the base of the pitch where the trunk lays and their match would begin. Both teams circle the area, flying into their starting positions. Cressida moves towards the goals, flying at level with the middle and watches the dark specs from the distance.
This would be a difficult game, she realises. Slytherins play dirty on a regular basis, but with the hard weather impacting not only theirs, and the audience's vision, but Hooch's as well. And they will know they can get away with a lot more than usual.
The harsh wind blows at her and her broom, needing constant readjustment. Cressida watches the dark blotches, delighted that she can at least see the red tint of their uniform. Then suddenly they are moving.
Her grip tightens around the handle of her broom, circling and manoeuvring tactics running through her head. Follow the Quaffle. It belongs to the Gryffindors first, James having snatched it up in the first few seconds – to which she only knows is him due to the abnormally loud announcer's speaker.
The icy wind blows a haze of thick white snow. Cressida raises an arm to shield her uncovered eyes, quickly losing sight of the game. The move is too dangerous, knowing that the tide of the game could be turning at any second, so she settles for squinting, wishing she had worn some sort of sporting goggles instead.
And it's lucky she did. Three players come out of the haze; one Slytherin, two Gryffindor. The Slytherin has the Quaffle, his arm pulled back and ready to strike. Cressida's broom jolts underneath her grip, twinging instinctively in prediction of his movements.
Heffler, to the right, is just a little more behind him the James is. She is at the middle ring, so he'd go for the one on her right where the space is more open. But Cressida waits just a moment before moving, knowing a good Chaser's mind would see her move and adapt quickly. She can't give him the chance to adapt.
At the last second, she whizzes down, the cold air stinging her face. The Slytherin Chaser sees her, but it has become his only opportunity and he strikes for the shortest ring. The Quaffle lands in her hands.
The Slytherin chaser, she anticipates, is sending her a blithering glare, but the weather casts a wall between them. As he reunites with his two other Chasers, Cressida tosses the Quaffle to James as he flies past, arms already open.
From there the weather only seems to worsen if possible and instead of simply hovering around the hoops, Cressida is forced to constantly be flying against the wind.
She loses sight of the Quaffle. And the bludgers. Hell, she loses sight of half the pitch. To compensate, Cressida relentlessly flies between all three posts, moving in and out in hopes to catch a glimpse of what is going on beyond figures that she can't identify.
And maybe if she paid more attention to the announcer again, she would know where exactly the Quaffle is. If she should be expecting it. She would know that it is in Gryffindor's hands and just about to be thrown through one of the goals. But she hasn't been, wanting to block out anything that her brain doesn't deem worthy.
And when a wicked fast blur of a dark ball comes towards her, Cressida's first instinct is to block it. Her arm extends out, barely giving a second thought about what other thing it may be. It is only at the last second – the last singular moment before it touches her hand that she realises what it is.
A screech of sheer anguish erupts from her throat as the Bludger collides with her hand. The blasted thing continues on as if nothing was in its path to begin with, disappearing once more into the weather. Cressida continues to scream, cradling her hand close to her chest, only able to release the pain through her voice.
Her sobs are dry and croaky, no tears down her face. They'd freeze before they left her eyes. The entirety of her right arm pulses in long, sharp aches. And she thought the game couldn't get worse.
James. She wants to tell James.
He's her Captain, her friend. He'll help her. Cressida has no idea what he'll do, but he has to do something.
The chain of her thoughts is broken as brooms and their riders come into view again. There are more green coats than there are red, making Cressida's breath catch in her throat. The lowest of the three has the Quaffle in hand, heading straight towards her left post. The three Gryffindor Chaser are coming up right behind them, but would never catch them in time and Cressida knows that it is her job to prevent their scoring.
In the sparse moments that she has, Cressida slowly drops her right hand to grip the broom and tracks the opponents' movements towards the left hoop. She's still flying through the air as he throws.
She's caught this type of throw before numerous times. It should be easy. She's close, the ball is slow. Even Remus couldn't miss it.
But with her right arm out of action, Cressida extends her left one. The Quaffle comes right towards her, its hard leather embracing her fingers, then slips right through them almost as easily as the Bludger.
The sound of the point score going up rings louder than any other sound as Slytherin achieve their first goal of the game. Twenty points behind Gryffindor.
Cressida goes back to coddling her right arm against her chest, the knuckles of her left hand turning white as they brace the broom handle with frustration and pain beyond belief.
As the game begins to start up once more, a figure flies up towards her. James, she recognises. Her mouth opens to say something about her arm, but he beats her to it.
"What are you doing Cress?!" he cries out. "You should have had that! Get your head in the game." Without waiting for her response, he leans forward and flies off towards the centre of the pitch once more.
All desire to tell him drops as quickly as stone in water. She's disappointing him. Cressida knows she's worked unbelievably hard to keep her position as Keeper, and she'll be damned to let her first game of the year be the reason that Gryffindor doesn't win. They won the last game even with Andrews. Maybe James would reconsider Andrew's position if she couldn't handle a bruised arm.
"Soldier on, Cress," she mutters to herself. James is being hard because he needs to be. And she needs to hear it. "Just a good bruising."
With a new grit in her mind and her jaw clenched tightly, Cressida keeps her left hand gripping the broom, the right hanging down by her side. The pain keeps her attention sharp, feeling every breeze and ruffle of the thick robe against it even through the woollen sleeve of the red and gold jumper.
Soon enough, the Slytherins are coming towards her, quite literally kicking Heffler's broom. The dark-haired boy snarls at her, his arm pelting the Quaffle forward. Cressida leans close to her broom, darting closer to the shorter hoop. This time with her weaker, but more coordinated arm, she blocks it well before there is any chance of it slipping through her defences.
A vibration of agony traces up her arm, but the cheering crowd and Sirius' whooping from the sky above her forces her to keep that pain hidden. James flies up, catching her weak toss of the Quaffle back. "That's better," he cries in praise, zipping away without a second glance back. Cressida nods, nevertheless, letting her head hang between her shoulders before sitting back up and readying for another round.
Again and again, the Slytherins come at her posts, only one of four slipping through because a beater sent a bludger her way and blocked her path. And it's fair to say she has an avoidance of them now, more so than before. But Sirius had taken care of him, the bludger breaking the top of his broom.
The bravery is gone. Cressida hunches over, hair loose from its once-tight braid and cascading around her face which is red and dry from the cold. All she wants is that damn snitch to be caught – by either team. As long as it means the game is over.
It's another fifteen minutes at least before that happens. She doesn't register the names, only the cheers and the sound of the whistle ending their game. No idea who won – not even able to figure out who would win either way since she had long lost track of the scores prior.
But Gryffindor's victory becomes apparent as their red cloaks congregate on the middle of the pitch grounds as each member of the team centres in. The light-headedness from the pain makes it all seem so unreal.
Cressida flies past them towards the edge of the pitch, coming to a slow and cautious land. Her feet are marching as soon as they touch the ground, broom in one hand, the other held near her chest again. It hurts too much to celebrate with, but she'd see and cheer the team later that night when they no doubt have a small party in the Common Room.
Only a third of the way back to the castle, someone catches up with her. "Hey! Hey!" Cressida slows, both hands-free with her broom left in the tent just outside the pitch. Remus is jogging towards her, his hands rightfully stuffed in the pockets of a large black coat. "Where are you off to in such a rush?"
"It hurts," she confesses, a sob starting to rack at her chest. "It really fucking hurts, Remus."
His slow jog speeds up, nearly skidding along a thin sheet of ice on the stony path as he reaches her. Cressida looks up at his lanky face, a desperate plea as though he could whisk away the pain. "Cress? What hurts?"
"My hand," she breathes rapidly. "A Bludger hit it."
"Bloody hell when did that happen?" he almost demands of her. "Nevermind, let's just get you to the hospital wing." He wraps an arm around her back, the other laying softly under her elbow to keep it braced against her chest.
So, together they trudge slowly back through the castle, and Madam Pomfrey only sighs in resignation but her kind-hearted soul pulls out a comforting smile for her and her other favourite patient.