Chapter 12: Green and Silver

Albus

Quidditch Definitions:

Checking - In cannon, checking is an interception of the Quaffle. In this universe, however, it means to fly up alongside an opponent player. Two Seekers side by side chasing the Snitch in front of them could be said to be in check. Checking is also common for Chasers, where defending Chasers will check offensive Chasers in order to slow them or stop them from flying into them as well as trying to steal the Quaffle in check.

Front - Moving in front of a Chaser to block a shot on goal or stop them from moving forward. Generally done from a check position, it is usually performed to attempt to block or pressure a Chaser's shot on goal. A risky maneuver that can lead to a wide open shot if the Chaser avoids the front or a collision if they don't, although this would draw a blatching call (see below).

Blatching (canon) - A Quidditch foul when a player flies with the aim to collide with another.

Albus, better known as Al, hated Hogwarts.

He'd thought coming to Hogwarts would be a chance to finally get away from his brother and many older cousins. Al always ended up the butt of the joke, the only one not in on the prank. He had thought for a while that it was because he was younger and an easy target. Yet Elias, only a couple months older than him, was always willingly involved in the mischief.

In the year before coming to Hogwarts, Al had come to realize the truth; he just didn't fit in with his family. He'd hoped Hogwarts would be different. He'd hoped he'd find friends and a place to belong here, just like his dad had described finding when he'd boarded the Hogwarts Express.

His hopes hadn't diminished when he'd been Sorted into Slytherin. Al had thought that going to a different House than the rest of his family could be a good thing. The positive attitude, however, hadn't lasted long.

Slytherin was made up of a few inflated egos and a number of groveling followers. Almost half of the Slytherin first-years flocked around Ambrose, drawn by his money, status, looks, and tutored talent. Even Phillip, a Muggleborn, tried his best to fit into Ambrose's group with mixed success. Another third, largely girls annoyed by Ambrose's arrogance, gravitated towards Thalia, who was as haughty as she was ice cold. The rest of Slytherin, too brutish to even recognize they should suck up to the "king" and "queen" of their house, followed Tor.

The last group was the only one Al hated, but he received little love from the others. Ambrose and his followers treated him politely enough, but once Ambrose had realized Al wasn't nearly as talented as the Potter name was famous, he'd largely been ignored. Thalia's group kept their distance, adopting their leader's haughty attitude. Tor liked to flaunt his power over his fellow first years, but he largely kept his attentions turned outside the House and Al stayed out of his way.

Once again he was alone, now amongst his Housemates rather than his family. He hadn't written back home since being Sorted, knowing that his mom and dad were worried but having nothing he could write but lies to reassure them.

It didn't help that he was constantly compared to his dad, the famous 'Harry Potter.' When he'd failed to cast the Disarming Charm in his first attempts at the Dueling Club last night, it was remarked with surprise that it was his dad's signature spell. Such comments were commonplace, thoughtless remarks that only Al would remember. He wondered if that was why James had turned into a notorious prankster, to define himself outside of his last name.

Stepping out onto the Quidditch field, he wondered if he was doing the same thing. He may not be the most talented wizard, the best duelist, or the most studious student, but he could fly.

It'd been a source of an embarrassment that he'd been stuck on the kids broom until he was almost ten. He'd been a late bloomer, and hadn't had the magic to power a full wizard's broom. James and Fred, out of earshot of the parents, had convinced Al that he was a Squib. Al had spent many sleepless nights wondering where he would go if not Hogwarts, wondering what it would be like to live like a Muggle and hating his brother and cousin.

When he could finally ride a wizard's broom, specifically the 5 0 SweepFly housed in the shed, he'd been excited to join in on the Quidditch game played at the weekly Potter-Weasley gathering. Over the course of the game: James had spelled his broom to reverse the controls and nearly cause Al to plummet to the ground, Fred tossed a stink bomb at him as he reached out to grab the Quaffle, and Teddy, who Al though was in on it at the time but likely didn't notice that Al was dealing with the aftermath of the pranks, had barked for him to come back quicker on the defensive rotation. Al had only been ten, but he got the message loud and clear; he wasn't wanted there.

He'd taken to flying by himself, inspired by stories of his mom sneaking off to do the same and then surprising everyone by making the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Al's mom had quickly found him out of course, but she agreed to not only keep his practice a secret but to teach him techniques and maneuvers. He couldn't have said exactly why he didn't want to tell his dad, though deep down he knew.

The broom in his hand, taken for the school shed for tryouts, was old and splintered. The older students got first pick of the school brooms and first-years were lucky to get a broom at all. Al wasn't sure it would even fly until the Slytherin captain, a large beater with a loud voice, called for them to lap the field and he took into the air.

It wasn't as fast as the 5 0 SweepFly back home. It didn't handle as well. The rough wood hurt his hands. The stick wobbled when he accelerated to a reasonable speed. It almost made Albus wish for his old toy broom, but it would have to do. This was his once chance to prove himself, to make something of himself besides Harry Potter's son.

Lament, the captain, cut a number of the Quidditch team hopefuls during laps alone. Al watched them walk grumpily back to the castle from he sat on his uncomfortable and uncushioned school broom. He considered trying for one of their brooms, but didn't think they'd be gracious enough.

"We're doing breakaway drills! Keepers! To the posts! Chasers! Two even lines in front of me! Beaters! Go with Sid!" Lament shouted at them, wasting no time with his instructions.

"What about Seekers?" A wheedly third-year asked, clearly uncomfortable with the snort that Lament gave him in reply.

"If you want to Seek you better prove you can Chase first, line up!"

Al was vaguely familiar with breakaway drills, they involved one offensive Chaser, one defensive Chaser, and a Keeper. The aim was clear enough, score on offense and take or stop the Quaffle on defense. He happened to be in the offensive line first, which meant he had to catch the Quaffle, bypass the defender, and score on the Keeper. It was by far the harder role.

When his turn was up next, Al stood with one foot planted on the ground and his other leg on his broom. Lament shouted "Go!" and he was off, pushing himself into the air with his leg and accelerating as fast as the broom would allow. The Quaffle had been thrown out to his right and he sped towards it. Al, approaching the Quaffle, broke his sideways momentum while still pushing his broom forwards. He reached out to grab the Quaffle while turning his head to get his bearings on the defending Chaser. Al tried to bring his sideways momentum to a halt as he got his hand on the Quaffle and began to pull it in, but the broom didn't respond. He had positioned his body in anticipation of the brake, and when it didn't come he was left off balance. He nearly dropped the Quaffle and was forced into an awkward dive to keep it in his hand and regain his balance.

Al rose from the dive with his face burning red and moved to take on the coming defender, who had realized there was no way Al could overtake him with his inferior broom and advanced to check him. He was much larger than him, and bumped into Al when he reached him. Al rolled with the hit, keeping hold of the Quaffle and spinning under the defender. A mess of maneuvers followed to get Al in range of the posts, as he couldn't pull ahead of the defender no matter well he flew. The defender moved to front Al as he got closer, and Al decided to make his move, knowing that he wouldn't get a clear shot on the posts with the longer defender blocking angles.

Al initiated contact, bumping into the larger defender and taking the momentum when he was pushed back. He made the same maneuver he had in the beginning of the breakaway, but this time, so close to the goal, the defender was forced to follow him and Al corkscrewed into open air. Or he would have, if his broom hadn't hitched and rushed his throw on goal. The Keeper batted the approaching Quaffle away with ease, and Al returned to the lines shamefaced.

"Breakaway drill, Potter! Not dance around!" Lament bellowed at him as he returned to join the defense line.

Al landed and peeled his hands off his broom. Peeled, because his hands were caked with blood and splinters of wood cracked off as his hands pulled off the broomstick. Al grimaced and began pulling slivers of wood out of his hand. It hurt, but he wasn't bothered. James, for all his talk and pranks, was the baby when he got hurt. Rather than moan about his hands, he thought about how he was going to manage to score and defend on the slowest and least reliable broom on the field as he pulled splinters of wood out of his hands.

The answer on defense was clear, he had a window of time to get ahead when the other Chaser flew to catch the Quaffle. Al didn't like it, his small frame was better suited to checking and harassing the Chaser than fronting, but it was better than nothing. He was still thinking about how he might score when his turn came and Lament shouted for him to go.

He gripped his broomstick and shot off, racing to the goal posts as the other Chaser flew to catch the Quaffle. Al lucked out, the other Chaser must have barely made it past laps, and almost got his hand on the Quaffle. As it was, the shot went wide of the goal and the Keeper didn't even need to stop it.

Al joined the offensive Chaser line for the second time, thinking and thinking and looking at his bloody hands for inspiration and thinking and finding nothing. He shot off into the air without any better ideas than the first time, and now he was matched against a larger and more competent opponent. Al was sure that the other Chaser had played on the Slytherin team last year. He looked more than comfortable in the air, rode his own broom, and would have been a serious challenge had Al been riding a legitimate broom.

Al caught the Quaffle without fumbling this time, but going much slower than he would've liked, and flew for the posts. The other Chaser pulled up to check him and Al braced himself for the bump that always went uncalled in Quidditch matches. The ensuing collision, however, was far more than a bump. Al was nearly thrown off his broom and barely held onto the Quaffle. If they had been in a game, the collision would either have been called blatching or sent the crowd and team into an uproar. The other Chaser reached for the Quaffle immediately. Al held his arm out and away from him and twisted down so that he was upside down and looking up at the other Chaser.

The maneuver bought him some time, but the Chaser dove right at him. He clearly didn't mind the possibility of colliding again, but Al preferred that he made it back down to the ground on his own volition and narrowly dodged away from him.

But the defending Chaser didn't quit, going straight at Al again and again. He managed to narrowly avoid him twice, and nearly lost the Quaffle on the third time as the other Chaser punched it out of his hands and Al caught it half by luck before it could fly away. He wasn't making much progress towards the posts either, not with him flying to avoid rather than score. Al fought to buy himself a moment to breathe and took it look over his situation.

A barely functional broomstick, bleeding hands that threatened to fuse into the wood, and a clearly blatching Chaser out for his head. It started to get to Al's head. Maybe it was because he grew up with an older brother and countless cousins that constantly played pranks on him, but Al rarely got angry. The last time he could remember being truly livid was his first bout of accidental magic well over a year ago.

James had stolen his toy broomstick and Al had chased him through the house, rewarded for his efforts by stick bombs, sharp pins that stuck in his foot, and a slime ball that caused him to fall down the stairs. When he finally cornered James in the kitchen, Al was seeing red. James's smile had disappeared as soon as he turned and looked at Al, seeing the state he was in and the pure fury on his face, and realizing he had gone too far. The kitchen had exploded, largely at James, and their parents counted it as lucky that there wasn't a knife embedded in him. Afterwards, Al had regretted that he'd lost control, but he didn't mind that James had largely left him alone after the kitchen incident.

In the air at Slytherin Quidditch tryouts, Al wasn't quite seeing red, but he was beyond frustrated. If blatching's the game, then let's blatch.

The Chaser was to Al's right now, and the posts were ahead to his left. A plan came to mind as the Chaser moved to collide with him again and Al just hoped his broom could follow it. He feigned a rise, convincingly enough that the Chaser adjusted for it, and instantly dipped and braced. The Chaser's broomstick hit his back and both of them were sent spinning, but Al was prepared for it. He wrested control back from his broom and flew straight at the Chaser. Al saw the Chaser's eyes widen right before he turned to collide with him side to side. The Chaser all but lost control of his broom and there was nothing but open air between Al and the Keeper. Al knew he didn't have the greatest scoring arm, but he was accurate and the Keeper guarding against him didn't look to be the Slytherin starter.

It was only after scoring that Al considered that Lament and the Chaser, who had all too likely been on the team last year, might take offense at his blatant disrespect for the rules of Quidditch.

"Potter!" Lament shouted at him and Al's stomach dropped. "Go to our locker room, wrap your hands, and grab one of our spare brooms."

Al didn't comprehend at first, but once he did he shot towards the ground to run towards... where? He looked around, including at the Chaser he'd ran into, who grinned and pointed him in the right direction. Al continued to descend so that he could run... why would he run when he could fly there?

Knowing he looked like a fool, a red faced Al made a beeline for the locker room. He dropped down and walked into a surprisingly nice silver, green, and dark wood locker room. Al dropped his broom on a holder and looked for tape for his hands. Quidditch players were no strangers to injury, and medical supplies were prominently displayed in the Slytherin locker room. He treated his hands, which had been torn up even more from his latest set of stunts, as quickly as he could. Al grabbed one of the spare broomsticks on the rack and mounted it at the door. Al still preferred the 5 0 SweepFly that he knew and loved, but riding a responsive broom after that disaster of a glorified stick was nothing but elating.

There were fewer players on the field when he returned, which didn't particularly surprise Al considering how many Lament had cleared out after laps alone. There were twenty or so left, and twelve or so in the pool of Chasers and Seekers. They would take at least eight of them so that the Slytherin team could run full scrimmages. Which meant there only a few more to go.

"Potter!" Lament bellowed. "You're up again, scoring! Vain, defence!"

Vain, the Chaser who he'd just flown against, flew to the front of the defense line as Al went to the offense line. He knew it looked silly but he tested out his broom as he approached: a sharp dive, a hard turn, and a quick roll. It would do.

"Score here and you're on the team, Potter!" Lament called and Al looked over with surprise before checking on his opponents. Vain, the Chaser, had come off as brutish on their last drill but he looked dead serious now. The Keeper at the posts, who looked like a full grown man, rested confidently on his broom. Al held little doubt that this was the starting Slytherin didn't matter that the odds were stacked against him though, all he had to do was score and he had made it. A first year on the Quidditch team was a rarity; they still talked about his dad making the Gryffindor team in his first year at Hogwarts.

He took a deep breath, gripped his bandaged hands on his broom, adjusted his grip, and lowered his body to his broom. Al shot off as soon Lament opened his mouth to yell "Go!". He caught the Quaffle without sparing it so much as a glance, keeping his eyes ahead as he successfully broke hard sideways and kept his forward momentum on the new broom. Vain flew ahead, playing a much more conservative defense now that Al was on a real broom.

Al didn't realize it as he sped over the Quidditch field, but he was smiling. The pain of his hands on the broom and the soreness that ran across his ribs didn't take away from the joy of air rushing past him and a challenge ahead.

He tried to blow by Vain, thinking for a moment that Vain had misjudged his speed. Al didn't get that lucky; Vain matched with a burst of acceleration that put him right next to Al. Vain wasn't blatantly blatching this time, but Al was betting he was still going to play the edge of legality when it came to physical contact. Al staked his spot on the team on it, braking hard in the moment before contact. They collided, Al's center of mass against Vain's lower body. He was knocked to the side pushed slightly off balance, but Vain was thrown into a full spin that left only open air and a Keeper between Al and the posts.

He didn't waste any time, Vain would doubtlessly recover and look to block his shot from behind. If Al acted quickly, it was just him and the Keeper. That was still no easy feat; he was easily the best Keeper at tryouts and would no doubt win this contest if Al played it straight up. Al dipped just slightly to the right, but not so slightly that it wasn't noticeable, and raised his to throw the Quaffle. As his arm started the throwing motion he, with only one hand on the broom, shifted suddenly up and to the left, finishing his throw aiming for the far edge of the bottom left post. It went better than he could've asked for. The Keeper bought his subtle feint to the right and had leaned heavily into defending it and his throw had been perfect, just inside the leftmost portion of the circle.

His heart soared with the Quaffle, watching it fly inevitably towards the open goal.

And came crashing down as an outreached hand reached the Quaffle inches from the post. Fingertips brushed the leather ball and deflected it into the goal post. It clanged against the metal and dropped slowly down to the ground.

Al, downcast, returned to the lines, the exhilaration of flying draining out of him. The image of the Quaffle being deflected played over and over again in his head, the hand coming out of nowhere to dash his hopes.

"Chasers! Seekers! Tryouts are over!" Lament called.

"Potter! Dramon! Hedges!" Al's heart sunk at being listed, next he would be told to leave and the field and he'd have nothing at Hogwarts. No friends and nothing to belong to, not truly even the Slytherin House. "Team Green Chasers!Vain Seeker!"

Al didn't comprehend the words at first, didn't understand that he was still expected to play on the field. Lament listed three Chasers and a Seeker again for a second team, but Al was too shocked to register them.

"The rest of you can leave! Tryouts are over!" Lament's words lacked any measure of compassion or empathy but they might've been the sweetest words Al had ever heard.

"He said if you scored you'd make the team, not that you were off if you didn't," Vain laughed at his expression as he flew up to eye level. "You fly with serious balls, Potter; I like you already!"

"Let's blitz these halfwits. I hope we're against Vace, no one shows more of a challenge at the posts." Vain grinned at Al, who had gotten past his confusion and was now smiling stupidly wide at him.

"You're barmy Potter," Vain laughed again at Al's new expression. "Come on, Lament has our team assembled."

Al followed Vain to his practice team and donned a green overrobe with the rest of them. All fourteen players had already been decided, just enough to run full practice games. It was quick, but what little Al had seen of Lament had shown that he wasn't one to waste time or mince words. Most of the them were returning players from last years' team anyways. Al noted that the second youngest player, a Keeper, was a third year.

The Green and Silver practice match started, and it lasted for four full hours. Al learned that Lament was obsessed with winning the Quidditch cup this year, to repeat Slytherin's success from last year. He wasn't content even when they finished, despite everyone sagging on their brooms and playing much slower and sloppier Quidditch than they had to start.

Al had to admit he was behind the other Slytherin players. He was still confident he could match any of them in the air, but playing Quidditch was about more than just flying. You had to be able to work with the other Chasers, flying in set formations that were proven to work on offense and defense and coordinating plays wordlessly with each other. Al had little practice playing with other players, much less a full team, and was often out of step with his Chasers and Beaters. He tried his best to make up for it, harassing and managing several steals on defense, and making a few plays on offense that left the Silver team Chasers in the dust.

Al's other weakness was glaringly obvious. He didn't have the arm to throw the Quaffle as fast or hard as the other Chasers. As a result, his passes were often unexpectedly intercepted and his shots on goal were saved in the nick of time. Al wasn't alone with his shots on goal though, Vace was an incredible Keeper and it took miraculous shots to get the Quaffle past him. Green team instead relied on teamwork, beating the Silver Chasers and forcing Vace to cover two or three of them at once.

They played the standard strategy for Seeker/Chaser play, with the Seeker playing as a fourth Chaser for the first fifteen to twenty minutes of the Snitch and then breaking off to hunt for it. They rotated Seekers every time it was caught, and Al was proud that he managed to snag the Snitch on his turn from right under the Silver team's Seeker's nose while narrowly avoid a Bludger.

When both Seekers spotted the Snitch and made a run for it, the Slytherin Beaters showed just how good they were. Lament and Sid, both clearly the starters and playing on Green team, dueled with the Silver Beaters, who were impressive in their own right. The two Bludgers shot back and forth in a dangerous expedition of skill that caused the Seekers to focus too much on dodging to catch up to the Snitch. It didn't happen every time, of course, the Bludgers and the Beaters had to be near the Seekers to be so effective, but it happened surprisingly often.

Al's hands were burning when they finished, enough to bother even him. He struggled to loosen his grip on the broom, where his bloody bandage covered hands had been locked for hours. A hiss of pain escaped him as he opened them. Ignoring it, he dismounted at the Slytherin locker room and hopped onto solid ground. He nearly gasped at the experience, had his body been hurting like this the whole time flying?

Al pushed the pain aside with a grimace and put the broom under his arm so he wouldn't have to carry it with his hands. He walked into the Slytherin locker room and nearly ran into the huge wall that was Lament.

"Potter," he grunted, taking the broom under Al's arm and putting it back on the rack. It was the first time Al had heard him speak without shouting and the deep sound still reverberated throughout the room. "Bandage up your hands but don't go to Pomfrey. She raises hell with the team when we send her players."

"Yes, captain," Al said; he could handle a bit of pain.

"Good," Lament said, walking past him and taking his leave. Al had been right when he had guessed Lament wasn't one to mince words; there hadn't been so much as an introductory speech to the new members of the team.

"Hey," Vain grinned at him and beckoned him over with a nod of his head. There was an unclaimed locker next to him that Al figured was as good as any. "He's testing you, ya know. Pomfrey can be a right witch, but Lament wants to know you're all the way in. He takes Quidditch seriously."

"I'm in," Al replied, exhaustedly but seriously looking Vain in the eye.

"Have I said that I like you Potter?" Vain smirked. "Barmy, you are, but I like you."

Al, smiling at the older student's declaration, began to peel the bandages off his hands. They didn't look good; the skin that hadn't been pierced by splinters, and there had been quite a few, had chafed red from the rough wood and was made worse by playing for hours afterwards.

Vain whistled at his uncovered hands. "Worse than I thought. I might be able to snag a Cut Curing Cream for you, I'll let you know."

"Thanks," Al said to his new teammate. "But I'll be fine, it's nothing."

Vain shook his head and walked to the locker room exit. "Right mental, these first years."

Al re-wrapped his hands and filled a pocket with extra, knowing that he'd have to unwrap the before showering. He walked to his dormitory, passing through the Slytherin common room unnoticed or more likely, ignored. None of his dorm mates were there, and Al grabbed his pajamas and went straight to the bathroom. He pulled off his robes and looked at himself in the mirror. Both of his sides were red from checking and minor collisions, but the side he had rammed into Vain with was a dark and heavy red. He touched the skin there and winced.

Showering wasn't fun.

Ambrose, Al thought of him as Arrogance in his head, was changing into his pajamas when he walked out. He was content for them to ignore each other, but he must have noticed Al's awkward walk to his bed.

"Are you well, Albus?" Arrogance still didn't call him 'Al.' To his credit though, he really did seem a smidge concerned.

"I'm fine, Ambrose," Al said, making an effort to stand normally and hide his hands in his pajamas.

"Tryouts, huh? Well, you couldn't have expected to make the House team, first-years almost never do." Ambrose replied, thankfully taking Al's word and leaving him be.

Al felt a rush of pride at Arrogance's misguided consolation. He made it to his bed, pulled the curtains around him, and fell asleep almost before he laid down his head. It was the first time in a long time he'd fallen asleep with a smile on his face. He would write back home tomorrow.