They were the most exciting team in North America, serious challengers to the Fitchburg Finches - and even to the formidable Hollyhead Harpies, if their performance in their maiden World Quidditch League was any indication. Then the implosion began. Now, one question remains - just how did the Misthaven Wanderers fall so far, so quickly? With unprecedented access, award-winning journalist August Wayne Booth follows the labyrinthine money trail and gives the definitive account of what went wrong.
- Quidditch Quarterly, September 1998
"Will the sense of loss ever truly go away? I can't say. But we're trying to build something here, David and I. We have a loyal fan base that has supported us through every step. Here at the Misthaven Wanderers, we run on hope. That's all I can say about this."
- Snow White, President, Misthaven Wanderers
Emma Swan moves to Storybrooke on a fairly unremarkable summer morning.
The Bug draws a few curious stares from the locals, as it always does whenever Emma's in a magical township (and a few no-maj ones as well, if she's being honest). Emma pays them no heed. Her broom's stashed in the trunk along with a small suitcase that bears her precious few possessions, including faded Quidditch robes she hasn't had the heart to throw away.
Storybrooke is small, even by the standards of magical settlements in America. Emma spots a few cars here and there, a couple of businesses that do not seem averse to making use of computers. Most of the town, however, remains unchanged from what Emma remembers of it: slow, sleepy, hopelessly antiquated. There's more wizarding robes here than Emma's seen in hipster magical enclaves in Boston, as though the last twenty years worth diplomacy and subsequent influx of no-maj fashion has passed Storybrooke by.
The Sirens, back then, were a joke. Emma caught the Snitch about forty minutes into the game. The Warriors were promoted to the League Championship that year, Emma made the national team, and the rest, as they say, is history. Or old news — depending on where you're coming from. The Sirens, now , are a force to be reckoned with, and the only joke is Emma's career graph.
She pulls up in front of Granny's Diner, as per Marian Alvarez's instructions, and takes a deep breath.
This is going to be... something.
The elderly witch at the counter — possibly the Granny in question, though Emma doesn't risk calling her that — quirks a sceptical eyebrow at her when she asks for Marian Alvarez. "She mentioned you'd be here," she says. "You the new coach?"
"Yes ma'am," Emma says with what she hopes is a winning a smile. "That's me."
"Well, you better be good," says the woman. She does not sound particularly enthused. "We've been waiting for a long time."
"I'll do my best," Emma says. It isn't as confident as she'd been at the interview. But then, she didn't actually expect to be hired, regardless of Marian's professed enthusiasm.
"We have a room for you until your living situation is taken care of. Let's hope you last that long."
It's singularly unnerving, in a way that even the actual job interview was not. Sure, she got off on the wrong foot with the boss but that was not her intention. She's played the Wanderers a couple times — an unpredictable powerhouse of a team even when they were hurtling towards financial disaster. Emma really was a fan, followed their miserable relegation from the league and the dark, dark days of Regina Mills' final few months with the team, before she left for good.
It's probably not something she likes being reminded of, now that Emma thinks about it. The papers went wild , and the fans, well — that part Emma understands. Regina Mills isn't the only one with a history of failure.
She intends to get along, she does. To be less difficult and temperamental and all the words the press liked to throw around when she was still relevant.
The weight of expectations is beginning to sink in. Storybrooke is used to disappointment. It's a town that's been waiting, the memory of the good old days a faint, dusty echo in the hearts of old-timers like the woman behind the counter. There's a yellowed clipping of the Storybrooke Mirror framed on the wall, the word CHAMPIONS! standing out like a desperate shout out to the past. There's an image of a man lifting the trophy over and over again, his smile wide and joyous. It's Henry Mills, of course, Storybrooke's most (only) successful Quidditch captain and the father of Regina Mills, now Emma's boss.
Perhaps that's why Regina came here, after everything.
And Emma, well. She's here now. If this is her last stand, she might as well make it count.
Granny — "Mrs. Lucas, but you can call me Granny," she told Emma — makes a surprisingly good cup of coffee, as it turns out. It's been awhile since Emma's lived in a town this small, and she had her concerns.
She skims through old copies of the Storybrooke Mirror , skipping the parts where they discuss the Sirens' new coach. She doesn't want to know what they think about her.
Lancelot's a particular favourite, which is unsurprising. Storybrooke hasn't had an international star — albeit ageing, and no longer fit for most of the competitive leagues in Europe — of his stature since the time of Nicolas Costa, and that was a decade ago and did not end well. There are countless photographs of him waving, of him shirtless, of him wearing the Sirens' colours, along with gushing puff pieces about his daily skincare regime and his favourite broom. There's a couple with him and Merlin, the rookie Beater on loan from the Chudley Cannons.
Emma's impressed that the Sirens managed to sign them both, what with their track record and fairly limited budget. But then, she gets the feeling that Regina Mills means business.
Regina's a frequent on the pages of the Mirror , as well. There are gossipy pieces about her love life that Emma absolutely does not waste her time reading (Robin Hood, really?), focusing instead on the somewhat more substantial pieces about her grand vision for the Sirens.
Emma can't help but linger on the photograph of her with an apple in her hand, smiling at the camera like she wants to devour it whole.
She perhaps lingers a little too much, because she nearly jumps out her skin and spills her coffee all over the paper when someone says, "Are you Emma Swan?"
She fishes out her wand and mutters a quick Tergeo before turning her attention to the person next to her. A small person — a white kid with a pair of bright eyes and messy brown hair that falls over his forehead.
"Uh, yes?"
"May I have your autograph?" the kid says, thrusting out a Quidditch card in her direction. It's an Emma Swan card, of all things. Her younger self winks at her, before performing a piece of complicated jugglery with the Snitch.
"Sure, kid," Emma says, charmed in spite of herself. She didn't know they still made these — at least, not with her face on them. "Do you have a quill I could use?"
"Here," he says, extending a red-and-gold Storybrooke Sirens quill at her.
"Quite a fan, huh?" Emma says, signing her name with a flourish. Autographs were commonplace when she was a Quidditch player of any worth, but that was in another time, and Emma's hardly the girl she used to be.
There's something to be said for the boy's enthusiasm, however. He slides into the booth and sits facing her, practically vibrating with excitement. "I have all your cards! And I've read all about you in American Quidditch Through the Ages and Seeking Seekers !"
She's been glad for the anonymity, the simple pleasure of walking down the streets of no-maj Boston without the cautious glances and the whispers — the curiousisn't that Emma Swan? , or the mocking look it's Runaway Swan . There was a time when the whispers haunted her dreams, vicious, a thousand voices telling her how useless and pathetic she was until she was terrified of sleeping.
There's none of that in the boy's smile, nothing but innocent hero worship. No one's looked at Emma like that in a very long time.
"So how old are you?" she asks him, settling for the most obvious bit of small talk.
"Ten," he tells her.
"Ten! That's a good age!" she says. It wasn't, not for Emma, but then, what did Emma know of a normal childhood in her seventh no-maj foster home? Her magic was an anomaly, something to hide and be afraid of. No one told her she would receive a letter from the fourth largest magical school in North America on her eleventh birthday.
This boy, at least, looks well fed. His nails are neatly cut and his robe pressed and clean. He's wearing regular no-maj clothing underneath — a little unexpected, considering the rest of Storybrooke. It's as clean and neatly pressed as the rest of his clothing. His sneakers are positively shiny. Someone cares how this kid appears before the world "Do you wanna play Quidditch someday?" she asks. She imagines it's the sort of thing regular kids in magical communities dream of while growing up.
Turns it's the wrong thing to say, because the boy's face crumples. "No," he tells her, and oh god is he going to cry? Did Emma just make a small child cry? "I'm just a fan," he says with a shrug, looking away.
She's desperately thinking of a way to change the line of conversation — anything that will bring the smile back — when she hears Marian call out her name. "Emma! You're here!"
Thank god for Marian, and not in the least for of the way the boy's face lights up when she sees her.
"Did you get your autograph, Henry?" Marian says as she draws near them.
Why didn't Emma think about asking him what his name is? Would have been a better ice-breaker than the one she did manage.
"Yeah," the kid tells her.
"Then it's time to go home," she says, laying an arm on his shoulder.
"But I just met Emma!" Henry protests. There's an easy familiarity between them, a quick back and forth that, Emma imagines, comes from years of knowing each other. The kid doesn't shrink away from her, doesn't resist her touch.
"We agreed to an autograph," Marian says, firm. "Your mom will kill me if I don't send you home in time."
"Fine ," Henry says, sounding very put upon. Emma is just relieved that she hasn't mortally offended her first (only) fan in Storybrooke.
"It was nice meeting you, Henry," Emma says. "I'm sure we'll meet again soon!" She doesn't have to force the smile, she realizes.
It doesn't appear to comfort Henry, who looks as though he has been greatly wronged.
"Cute kid," Emma tells Marian as they watch Henry drag his feet out of the diner. She's surprised how much she means it. She's awkward around children, never quite sure what to do or say.
"You'll be seeing him around," Marian says with a smile. "He's kind of the team mascot. And Regina's son."
Settling down is a blur of activity.
Emma's never been one for settling down — hasn't dreamed of it since that fiasco of a season and a half with the Sweetwater All-Stars. By the end of it, she was in no-maj prison on charges of petty theft. No one, not even President of the Quidditch Federation, could get her out of that mess.
But she's here now. She signed up for this, whatever it means. There was no signing in blood involved, at least.
In between meeting and getting to know the team, convincing Marian to cough up the bucks for an expanded support staff (Harry, the bespectacled mediwizard, is very supportive of this), and attempting to set up a rudimentary work station despite the magical interference (that Marian is fairly unhelpful in getting operational), there's one particular moment of utter joy: the signing of Yasmin Saeed, which leaves her just one Seeker short of a full first team of her choice.
Regina Mills is a distant presence: omnipresent, but never quite there.
Emma knows she's being observed — knows it in the meticulous reports Marian makes her write every week, and the questions she comes back with, always on point. Regina is the final decision-making authority around these parts, including on matters related to the team itself.
Sometimes, when they do speak, Regina speaks to her in clipped, professional tones, always referring to her as Coach Swan or Miss Swan like her name isimpossible to pronounce. Emma gets the feeling that Regina Mills doesn't like her very much, which. Whatever.
She isn't here to be liked . This is her job.
It's different with the younger Mills, who makes it very clear that he has no intention of maintaining any sort of a distance whatsoever. Emma is pathetically grateful for the company, if only because of how genuine he is in his belief that she's the savior the Sirens need.
"You don't understand, Emma," he tells her for the umpteenth time, hop-skipping up the stupid stairs that keep disappearing behind her. "We really needed you."
She isn't comfortable with compliments, most of the time, and she sure as hell doesn't want to offer this little kid some false hope about her abilities to whip this team into shape for a fairytale run to the top. But it's nice, having a cheerleader this earnest. He might be her first real friend in Storybrooke, though Emma's not going to think about what that says of her as a functioning adult.
"Uh huh, kiddo," Emma says. "Are you sure this is the right way to my office?"
"Yes , Emma. Just follow me."
"This is stupid," Emma grumbles, ignoring the way Henry smirks at her.
The portraits call out his name as they walk, wishing him a good day and inquiring about his school work.
"It's Saturday , Ronald," he tells an overly inquisitive portrait of a Quidditch star from the '20s. "I don't have school on Saturdays."
"Ah, right," says Ronald — Ronald Rubblemore (1892-1950), says the plaque underneath — heaving a deep sigh. "I can't keep track of days, you know."
"Is she the new one?" asks another portrait (Imelda Orpington, 1885-1934). "How long until your mother fires her?"
"Don't be rude, Imelda," Henry chides. "Emma's really good."
It isn't a bad way to grow up, Emma supposes. At ten, she wouldn't have minded an entire professional Quidditch team and all its facilities at her disposal. Even if those facilities include ridiculous disappearing staircases and mysterious passages that lead nowhere.
Henry, the little nerd, has an explanation for that as well, something about the original designer being terrified of no-maj folks coming to get him. Not entirely unjustified, considering their history. It's just that a part of Emma, for all that she's been a part of the magical community for years now, has never quite caught up with the reality of magic, and the absurd way it just seems to work even when it shouldn't .
Eleven years of being terrified of your own magic does that you. Emma's too old now to do anything about that.
At least she has something to show off in her mostly bare office — she threw out the preening portrait of Robin Hood on her first day, because who the hell keeps their own portrait in their office? — her battered old laptop, which sends him into a burst of ecstasy. "A laptop ! That is amazing !" he breathes. "Have you cast all the shielding spells?"
"You know what a laptop is?" she has to ask. He is a boy growing up in a sheltered magical community.
It earns her a withering glare that really should not be so effective coming from a boy this young. "I'm ten, Emma. I'm not stupid," Henry says. "And anyway we have a desktop computer at home. I'm allowed to surf the internet for an hour on school days, and two hours on weekends. Mom says I have to learn about the no-maj world if I am to keep up."
There's a shadow in his face when he mentions his mother. Emma's not prying, but she'll be lying if she says she hasn't noticed it more than once.
"You have wifi at home?" she says instead.
"Yeah," Henry says. "It's easier at home because there's less magical interference, but I think Dr. Jekyll could help you around that. He's really into no-maj stuff."
Harry? Huh. Marian did not mention that.
"Thanks, kid," she tells him. "You wanna see how it works?"
The smile she gets is worth the hours of fumbling her way around blocking and shielding spells to ensure her ancient war horse doesn't sputter and die thanks to an overdose of magic in the air.
Emma is a novelty, even in a town that's otherwise accustomed to famous witches and wizards hanging around in regular places. It means that she can't visit Granny's without someone trying to buy her food — a trick that always works, curse her gluttony — and using the opportunity to tell her what the Sirens reallyneed. The Storybrooke Mirror photoshoot, a.k.a. the most embarrassing and atrocious event in Emma Swan's long list of embarrassments, doesn't exactly help, either.
Sidney Glass has some sort of a deal with the Sirens where he gets exclusives in exchange for writing flattering things about Regina Mills' vision for the team. Thatapparently means Emma has to surrender herself to the whims and fancies of Naveen and Tiana, who spend an entire weekend shooting Emma in awkward postures that have nothing to do with Quidditch.
She puts her foot down at the ridiculous chainsaw pose, but that doesn't prevent the horror of the double-page photo spread the following week that screams, SWAN SONG: STORYBROOKE MIRROR EXCLUSIVE PHOTOSHOOT!
Emma spends the next few weeks dodging birds bearing love letters. On one memorable occasion, a grumpy-looking owl dumps a vial that explodes right in front of Granny's, and has the patrons declaring their love for Emma in song for an hour until the effects wear off.
Then there's the parties, the never-ending parties that Storybrooke's wealthy insist on throwing.
For a small magical town in the middle of nowhere, Storybrooke sure has a lot of rich (white, old) people seemingly dying to host their new coach and get to know her .
"I don't like people," she explains to Henry after yet another cocktail party that Emma has to show up at, dressed in stiff formal robes and pretending to care about the opinions of men and women who have never played Quidditch in their lives. "Not you," she hastens to add, before she offends her only real friend/confidante in town. Even if he is ten. "You're a good kid. But most people."
"You're weird," Henry says, wrinkling his nose at her. "If you don't like it, just don't go."
He's a more sympathetic listener than Marian, who will not hear a word about Emma's anti-social tendencies. ("A lot of these people have kept us afloat over the years, Emma," she told her, firm. "If they want you, you'll go.")
"It's not that simple," Emma tells him, taking another massive bite out of her bearclaw. "You're lucky you're a kid." A kid who doesn't seem to have any friends his age, but still a kid.
Henry has come bearing Granny's pastries — Emma should really stop taking advantage of the old lady's weakness for the Sirens — and they're holed up in Emma's office as she polishes them off one by one.
"Do they throw parties every time the Sirens get a new coach?" Emma muses. Because that would mean a lot of parties, considering the Sirens' history.
"I'm a kid, Emma," Henry says. "I don't go to parties." His glare is withering , a mini-replica of his terrifying mother.
"You can go to the Mayor's shindig instead of me," Emma tells him. "You do that and I'll do all your homework, how 'bout that?"
"Homework's not so bad," Henry says with a shrug.
"Okay, who's weird now , kiddo?" Emma says, shaking her head. "You like homework. Who the hell likes homework ?"
"It's important to learn new things," Henry says. He actually puffs his chest out, the little nerd. Emma uses the opportunity to reach out and mess his hair up, earning herself a squeal of half-protest and half-delight.
Of all the people she's encountered since her arrival in Storybrooke, Henry Mills has been the most unexpected.
The kid's nothing like the children Emma grew up with — wretched, impoverished orphans with little love in their lives. Henry has never known hunger. Henry has never not known love. He trusts easy, as though he's never known reasons to truly distrust or fear the adults in his life. He believes fervently, with all his heart. It's why he can look at someone like Emma and see a hero.
And sometimes, sometimes Emma senses a deep unhappiness within him — a shadow on his face, occasional bouts of silence. Sometimes, Emma watches him with his mother — drawn, inexplicably, by the little family unit — and wonders.
Emma does show up at Mayor Gold's shindig at the Town Hall in her shiniest formal attire, stumbling through a speech no one told her she had to deliver and suffering through advice from the same wizards who seem to be the only attendees at every posh party in Storybrooke.
"You need to go for the kill," says a very inebriated Albert Spencer. "Get it? Go for the kill . Wreck 'em."
Emma can guarantee the man has not been on a broom since the 1970s, but she nods obediently, wishing she could disappear instead.
"Strategy," says Mayor Gold, smiling a tight-lipped smile at Emma. There's a reptilian look in his eyes that makes her skin crawl. "Strategy is key."
"I was always an attacking captain," says Gaston Legume, flashing his pearly whites at her. "Defensive play is for cowards."
He sang an entire power ballad for Emma during the love potion incident. Most people would be embarrassed, but Legume — "call me Gaston" — takes it in his stride, owns it. Emma would be amused if it weren't so irritating.
"I agree," says another voice. "Sometimes offence is the best defence." The men — and Emma — turn to the owner of the voice like moths to a flame.
Regina Mills is a vision in black, her fashionable dress robes falling open in the middle to offer a glimpse of the modified no-maj attire underneath, sleek and stylish. Her top probably costs more than what she pays Emma every month.
"A world please, Coach Swan?" She curls her index finger, beckoning Emma towards her. It would be outright rude coming from anyone else, but Regina makes the gesture look inviting . Emma is drawn helplessly towards her, as though there's an invisible cord stretching out between them, pulling her towards Regina.
Emma murmurs apologies that she doesn't mean and follows Regina to a spot near the giant window.
"You, uh, had something to say?" she ventures when Regina says nothing, preferring to stare out of the window, a glass of wine in her hand. The silence makes her nervous.
"You looked like you were about to beat Gaston to death with your bare hands," Regina says, her gaze fixed upon a spot outside the window. "It would make for terrible publicity."
"That's…" Emma isn't sure how to respond to that statement, to the thought that this might possibly be Regina's idea of a gallant rescue from the clutches of Storybrooke's rich and awful. Which worked . "Thank you?"
"My son thinks I should make you attend less parties," she tells Emma, finally looking her in the eye. Her gaze is dark, unfathomable.
"I, uh, thank you," Emma says, more earnest this time. She doesn't know what to make of Regina's words, doesn't know the details of what Henry might have told her, or why that has somehow convinced his mother to make an intervention — was it an intervention? — on her behalf. But she appreciates it, appreciates the gesture. "He's a good kid," she tells Regina, unable to hold back her smile. "A great kid."
It earns Emma her first real smile from Regina Mills, one that starts slowly at the corner of her lips and reaches all the way to her eyes. A girl could lose herself in those eyes.
Emma's convinced Regina dislikes her. She's made her peace with it, she has . But a smile like that, Merlin .
There's something about Regina Mills that makes Emma want to throw all caution to the wind and do something drastic to gain her approval.
"Go home, Miss Swan," Regina says, turning to face the window again. "You've done your part for the evening."
Emma doesn't dare push, doesn't dare ask why. But that night, she lies awake, and thinks of a pair of dark, dark eyes.
As the season approaches, she's beginning to feel more comfortable with the team — comfortable enough that she can call them hers , odd as it may sound.
She dusts off her old Quidditch robes, the ones she holds on to as relics of a past life. She wears one of them to practice, earning her more than a few admiring looks from the younger players, and a wolf-whistle from Yasmin.
Marian has kept her word, and Harry's support team is now sufficiently large enough for him to mostly ignore his mediwizard duties in favor of spending most of his time with a reworked camcorder. It has an unfortunate tendency of sputtering and dying at the most inopportune moments, much to his consternation, but Emma appreciates the effort. It will be awhile before they have a fully functional set-up, but Emma prefers to not rely on her memory alone, despite what traditional wizarding coaching manuals may have to say on the matter. If the team thinks she's a little unorthodox, they don't comment it.
Billy's performance remains a niggling concern. He sticks out like a sore thumb even as the rest of the team begins to fall in place, and Emma has more than one urgent meetings with Marian about a solid new Seeker for the first team. They've had two deals fall apart, and another one that Marian claims is beyond their means, leading to sharp words about champions and cutting corners.
Emma scowls as she watches him fumble with the simplest of feints, yet again.
"Watch out," Merlin yells, and then there's the loud thwack of a Bludger hitting him squarely on the back. Emma winces in sympathy and blows the whistle for play to stop.
Quidditch is weighed heavily in favor of Seekers — that's a thing about the game she can't change even if she tries to. Seekers win matches, and a guy with Billy's speed and reflexes is not gonna cut it in a pro league.
She snaps back to the present with the sound of Henry's voice, promptly entranced by the scene playing out in front of her.
There's Guinevere, pressing kisses to his face while she coos, "Who's the cutest Siren of them all?"
"Ew , stop it," Henry protests, giggling and breathless and trying to wriggle away.
Lancelot swoops in to rescue him, placing him atop his shoulders in one fluid move. Henry is red-faced and delirious with joy, laughing, laughing, until everyone else has gathered around them, talking in high-pitched, excited voices and joining in on the laughter. Merlin challenges him to an arm-wrestling match, and Ali snatches Harry's camcorder away from him to try and record the scene (Emma can't tell if he does know how to use it).
It's the sort of picture perfect moment that's straight out of the movies Emma used to watch as a kid in her no-maj foster homes: happy stories about children surrounded by love and laughter, among people who want them, in places where they belong .
On the hardest days, like when foster dad three gave her a black eyes because she couldn't explain why the light bulbs in the kitchen were broken, Emma would dream of being in a movie like that — of being the sort of kid who has a life full of laughter.
She walks up to Henry, who looks up at her and beams. She wants to hold onto this moment, stretch it out and soak it in.
"Wanna fly, kid?" Emma says. It's the thing that has given her the most joy in her life, and she wants to —
"I can't , Emma," Henry tells her, his smile beginning to fade, but Emma will have none of it. She wants to be a part of this, childish thought it might be.
"I'll give you a ride," she says, grinning at him. She may not be as fast or crafty as she once was, but she can give him this.
"No offence, Coach," Tamara says, always the sceptic. "I'd say it's a little dangerous to try that. Our brooms are designed for agility, not safe carriage for multiple riders."
"She's not wrong," Merlin chimes in, brow furrowed in concern.
They have a point, Emma knows this. Two people on a broom not designed for transport is a safety hazard, especially when one of them is a child. She could just buy Henry an ice-cream instead. It's a perfectly good gift for a ten year old, regardless of how rich and well-fed Henry might be. But then Ali says, "I might have something that'll help," shifting from one foot to another like a truant schoolboy.
And Emma can't help herself when she asks, "What'll help?"
"Glad you asked." Ali smiles. He raises his wand, and says, " Accio carpet!"
"The flying carpet from Agrabah? " Henry says. It's less a question and more a high-pitched squeak.
"The one and the same," Ali tells him, smug. "Spotted it in the Hall of Exhibits on my first day here."
Emma, on account of not being a nerd, has not in fact been inside the Hall of Exhibits. She watches as the carpet comes to a halt in front of them, hovering as though waiting for them to step in.
"Aren't these illegal in this country?" Yasmin says.
"It's called racism, darling," Ali tells her.
That, and the fact that the broom manufacturers in Europe and North America will do anything in their power to ward off competition.
"It was a gift from the Sultan of Agrabah to my grandfather," Henry says. "It's been in the Hall of Exhibits forever!" He's practically vibrating with excitement, and Emma can feel herself growing more enthusiastic by the minute. She hasn't been on one of these before. This one looks like it will comfortably seat four people at least, just the sort of vehicle the broom manufacturers would have conniptions over.
"So what do you say, boss?" Ali says. "Shall we?"
It's different from a broomstick — definitely more comfortable, for starters. If they do manage to market these as family-friendly vehicles, a lot of broom manufacturers will end up with lighter pockets.
Emma is in awe of how well Ali manages to navigate the carpet, despite there being no handle to hold on to or to point in a particular direction. The carpet seems to have a mind of its own — a personality , in the way that only the finest brooms have.
They go further and further up, until the stadium is a tiny, green box down below. The evening sky stretches out in front of them, red and pink and orange.
"This your first time flying?" Ali asks Henry, who nods. Emma puts an arm around Henry, just in case.
"Hang on, then!" Ali says, and the carpet swoops and dives , so sudden that Emma can't help the yelp that comes out of her mouth. She pulls Henry even closer, wrapping both arms around his small frame.
They do not stay up in air for very long. Not when they're on an unfamiliar flying carpet with a distinct personality of its own, not when they're flying with Henry.
The carpet lands smoothly, hovering a few feet above ground so that Henry can hop off without any particular trouble. His hair is sticking out in every direction. He looks dazed and pleased.
"Had fun?" Emma says, and Henry nods vehemently.
"You'll be flying it on your own in no time," Ali says, clapping him on the back.
"I would appreciate if you refrained from commenting on what my son will or will not be doing, Mr. Hamza."
None of them had noticed Henry's mother — Henry's very angry , terrifying mother — lurking in the shadows, as it turns out.
"Henry," she says, her voice low. Her face, as she emerges out of the darkness, is grim. "Will you please wait in my office?"
"But Mom, we were just —"
"Henry. "
Henry knows when not to argue with his mother, because he snaps his mouth shut and directs his gaze at his feet instead. "Please wait in my office," Regina tells him. "We'll discuss your insubordination later. Do you know what insubordination means?"
He shakes his head in denial.
"It means you're grounded ," his mother says.
Henry is a small, sorry figure dragging his feet towards his mother's office, his shoulders hunched and weary, as though bearing the weight of the world upon them. Emma's heart goes out to him as she watches him depart.
"Ms. Mills, I mean — I can explain!" Ali blurts.
"Mr. Hamza," Regina says, with a pleasant, politician's smile. It's a little scary, that smile. "It's getting late. You should head back."
Her tone is friendly enough, but there's no doubt that it's an order.
"Yes, ma'am. I mean, of course, ma'am," Ali says, and scampers away like a panicked mouse. Emma can't blame him.
It leaves just the two of them — Emma, and a visibly upset Regina, her lips pressed together in a thin line.
The unthinking rush of the evening is gone, and all Emma's left with is the sinking realization that she fucked up. She takes a deep breath, watching Regina step closer, soft and menacing. There's fire in her dark eyes, even as he voice is hard enough to cut diamonds. "Is there a reason why you thought it was okay to take my son on a ride on a dangerous and illegal flying object without my permission ?" Regina says. If she could breathe fire, she would .
There's no space for Emma to disagree here, not when it's phrased like that. She already knows she's fucked up. "I wouldn't let anything happen to him," Emma says, feeble. It's not much of a defence.
"My son is ten , Coach Swan," Regina says. "He is ten , with no magical training. How did you think it was okay to take him flying on that thing ?"
"I'm sorry," Emma says, feeling guilt churn in her stomach. "I would not, I would never endanger Henry's life." She wouldn't .
"And yet, that's exactly what you did," Regina says, furious. Emma does not have anything to offer in response. It's a relief that Regina hasn't held Ali culpable, at least.
She watches Regina pace instead, occasionally running her hands through her hair. This might be the first time she's seen Regina look less than put together, Emma thinks. But then, being terrified for your son might do that to you. What does Emma know of motherhood, or families?
"I have allowed him to spend time with you because I felt it did him good," Regina says, looking at Emma with fresh betrayal in her eyes. "He idolizes you, for some reason. It made him happy , and I thought—" She cuts herself short, looking away. There's tears in her eyes now.
Emma watches her in silence, frozen in place. She wants to apologize "I should have known better than to trust a frivolous washed-up former star with my son," Regina says, shaking her head. "I didn't hire you to be his playmate ."
That stings, even if Emma knows she's in the wrong here. Frivolous and washed-up sounds awfully close to difficult and worthless , and all the others words she's struggled not to be for such a long time. "I wouldn't have to be his playmate if he had friends his age," she tells her. "Haven't you noticed how unhappy he is?"
She knows her words have hit their mark when Regina winces. "Do not presume to tell me how to raise my son, Coach Swan," she tells Emma, nothing but cold fury in her voice. "Do the job you've been hired to do, and stay away from my son ."
She apparates in a blaze of fury, leaving purple smoke behind her.
Henry is defiant, utterly unrepentant despite the promise of grounding. "I had fun," he insists, looking at Regina with hard eyes.
"Henry, what you did today was dangerous ," Regina pleads. She wills herself to keep her voice steady, despite the tears that threaten spill. "That carpet—" she shakes her head. "What were you thinking ?"
He jerks away when Regina tries to place a hand on his shoulder.
"No using the computer for a week. You come home straight from school, and do your homework. Is that understood?" Regina says, trying not to baulk under the coldness of his gaze. Her son is ten . "You're forbidden from meeting Emma Swan. Enough is enough!"
And, sure enough, it's Emma's name that finally gets him to drop the veneer. "Emma is my friend ," he tells her, anger and hurt written all over his face. "You can't do that!"
"Henry —"
"I hate you," Henry says, stamping his foot. He dashes away, running up the stairs to his bedroom. The door slams shut with a resounding thud .
It is nothing Regina hasn't heard from him in the past year or so, ever since he discovered the truth about his adoption. It stings more today, right after this Emma Swan-orchestrated escapade of his, after the assertion that she's his friend.
She clenches her fists in futile rage, willing herself to stay calm, to breathe.
To think she brought Emma Swan on board because she wanted to build something, to give the Sirens their best shot. Henry had been besotted, even before he met her, and Regina had thought, maybe —
She doesn't know what she'd thought.
She keeps the wooden box on a drawer in her bedside table.
It's very tempting, that night, to set the box and its contents on fire — to leave nothing but ashes behind.
To the beautiful woman who hates losing , the card reads, as though the writer had anticipated that Regina would, in the years to come, lose her reputation, her peace of mind, and eventually, her son.