Storybrooke's success under Emma Swan will go down as one of the greatest achievements in sport, never mind the insular world of US Quidditch. As the mind wanders forward to Saturday evening's home game against the [Camelot Knights], and the moment when Lancelot Morgan steps forward to pick up that coveted League Championship trophy, the obvious question to ask is: how on earth have they done it?
The truth is that even those on the inside at Storybrooke shake their heads in disbelief, half-expecting to rub their eyes one morning and realise it was all a dream. Nobody at Storybrooke would dare to claim that they saw this coming, yet that is not to say that they struggle to come up with reasons why everything has spectacularly fallen into place, chief among them being the exhilarating mix of team spirit and talent within a group of players who possess a rare commodity in a game increasingly awash with money and fast going the way of the more famous Quidditch leagues across the waters: hunger.
- August Wayne Booth, Quidditch Weekly
"I've won tournaments, yeah, but I would be lying if I didn't say that this is the greatest achievement of my career [players cheer in the background]. This is the greatest achievement of my career. I couldn't be prouder that it's as a part of this team. Everyone's worked so hard for this. Nobody believe that we could do this, but here we are, the champions and deservedly so."
- Lancelot, Captain, Storybrooke Sirens
The Storybrooke Sirens beat the Boston Legends 230-140 at home, making, finally, to the elusive thirty points milestone, mandated by their coach, Emma Swan. The gallery erupts in joy, impromptu — and possibly illegal, considering the town's fire safety norms — fireworks lighting up the night sky in shades of red and gold.
And with that victory, the Storybrooke Sirens scramble to the top of the League Championship table for the first time in forty years.
IT'S MAGIC! reads the Storybrooke Mirror the morning after, while the American Quidditch Weekly waxes poetic about THE REMARKABLE RISE OF THE STORYBROOKE SIRENS. Quidditch pundits spend hours debating whether or not the poor form of the Sweetwater All-Stars — last year's champions — and the current state of financial mess at the Arizona Thunderbirds have contributed to Storybrooke's sudden rise to the top.
Regina cries. There's no way for her to deny this, considering the sheer number of witnesses at the stadium. She bursts into tears and has to be escorted out by an equally teary-eyed Marian, earning herself a separate spread in the Storybrooke Mirror (THE ICE QUEEN MELTS! EXCLUSIVE PHOTOGRAPHS INSIDE!) the following day.
Jacinda does not allow Sidney Glass inside her office afterwards, despite his best efforts to secure an interview.
"Ms. Mills won't see anyone right now," Jacinda says, much to Glass' disappointment. "Why don't you talk to the coach instead?"
"Don't tell me how to do my job, Tremaine," Glass snaps. "And besides, the Swan is monosyllabic. You think my readers want to read that ?"
The Mirror , nonetheless, sells out as the Quidditch fraternity — small and insular as it is — begins to wake up to the fact that something remarkable is underway in that faraway little town in Maine, and that the protagonists of this story are none other than a ragtag bunch of perpetual underdogs, forever destined to languish in the bottom of the league table.
That is, until now.
The world, one might say, begins to wake up to the Storybrooke Sirens.
"Look, I'm all for fun. You know I'm a fun person. I'm known for having fun." Emma Swan is rambling, gesturing wildly with her hands while she tries to make her point. It's rather entertaining, but Regina has to cut her short. The pile of paperwork in front of her won't manage itself.
"Your point, Coach?"
"I just don't think we need these distractions right now," Emma says. "This is not the time." She folds her arms in front of her, stubborn, and looks down at Regina as though daring her to disagree.
Swan is spoiling for a fight, Regina can tell.
On an average day, this absolute mulish resistance mostly infuriates Regina. It's almost as though Emma, in her juvenile need to strain against authority, forgets that she is a part of what makes up authority when it comes to the Storybrooke Sirens.
It has often made Regina's job difficult, even if a part of her — not that she will ever admit this out loud — enjoys butting heads with Emma Swan.
It's different this time, because for once, Regina agrees with Emma. This isn't the time. They can't afford distractions, not when they just have eight more games to go. Eight crucial games, after getting this far. Regina can almost taste it, the victory, the place in history that awaits them if they can just hang on and forge ahead, playing their natural game.
She isn't used to winning things or even hoping , but this time, they're poised on the brink of… something. Something big, something that will change their entire lives.
"We do have some obligations to our financiers, Coach Swan," Regina says, dry. She takes off her glasses and places them on the papers she was reviewing. She has a feeling she isn't going to get anything done at the moment.
"And do those obligations include bending to their every whim, especially when it could hurt our chances at a time like this?" Emma says, furious.
"They have said they wish to felicitate the players," Regina says. "It is not an unreasonable request."
In other words, Mal Blake has asked for a party, and a party she shall get. Regina is not exactly in a position to turn down the very generous woman who ensured Storybrooke could afford someone like Lancelot, or Emma herself, for that matter.
"Now? " Emma Swan says, furious. "With eight matches to go? With Fitchburg breathing down our neck?"
"I don't disagree, Emma," Regina says, shaking her head. She's already had this argument with Marian and she's tired . "You're right."
And just like that, Emma Swan deflates. It's almost comical, the way her jaw slackens. "Wait, really?" she says, sounding genuinely surprised. "Did you just say that I'm right ?"
Regina should not find it as charming as she does. This has been a persistent problem of late.
Something has changed between them, ever since the time Regina dragged her into the forest (Emma went, willingly) to look for Henry and spilled out her heart to her in the process. It should embarrass her, but Emma Swan has a way about her that disarms her and puts her at ease.
Perhaps it's just that Regina hasn't had a friend outside of Marian or her perpetually-at-New York-or-London sister in a very long time. Emma Swan is… a friend. That must be it.
"I'm also saying that we don't really have an option but to have our players attend the event," she tells Emma, unable to help the smile that pulls at the corners of her lips. "But yes, you're right. It is a distraction we could do without."
"I can't believe this," Emma says. She's half-sitting on top of Regina's desk now, but Regina can't bring herself to reprimand her. She's honest-to-god pouting, like the overgrown child that she is. "Here I thought I was going to get to call you frivolous and irresponsible."
Regina can feel her smile grow wider. "Dream on, Swan," she says.
"Do I at least get to set a curfew for the team?" Emma says, sounding very put upon. She's fiddling with the spyglass that Regina keeps on her desk, and Regina has to slap her hand away.
"I can negotiate a curfew, yes," Regina tells her.
That gets her one of Emma Swan's blinding smiles, wide and infectious.
True to her signature style, Mal Blake throws a grand party for the Sirens.
They have taken over the Town Hall, which is practically unrecognizable thanks to Mal's characteristic over the top decor. There are miniature dragons throwing up magical fire and handsome waiters in golden uniform, serving exotic wine and champagne.
It's the sort of thing that Storybrooke hasn't witnessed since the demise of Cora Mills, featuring the who's who of wizarding sports and the rich and powerful — or at least, the folks who get along with Mal, anyway. There's celebrity journalists from New York, including that smarmy Booth guy who imagines he's god's gift to womankind and insists on flirting with Regina whenever they meet.
"I'm going to write the Sirens' story," Booth tells her after cornering her at the bar. "It's going to be my best work, I can already tell. Nothing fires up the muse like a good underdog story."
He looks at her expectantly, like he expects her to fall over and thank him for his generosity.
"That's… interesting," Regina tells him, offering him her best politician's smile. "Best of luck writing it."
These are the sort of people Leopold hob-nobbed with. Regina despised them then, and she despises them now. She doesn't want to have anything to do with any of them.
She misses her sister, who has chosen to remain in New York citing 'important work'. Considering the general state of her relationship with Mal, it's probably for the best — Regina or the Sirens cannot afford to offend the people whose money has kept them afloat.
The Championship might change all of that, but for now, Regina will be cautious.
Instead, she has Marian for support, who's hissing, "Don't stare daggers at the man, Regina, for god's sake , we need the press on our side," in Regina's ears, even as Regina tries and fails to be nice to most people on the guest list.
It's grows worse when the team makes an entrance, resplendent in their formal Storybrooke Sirens attire that bears the DragonFire logo. Most of them look awkward in it, more at home at the grounds with their broomsticks than in the company of the rich and famous.
Lancelot, at least, is a natural. Once again, Regina is proud of her own ability to clinch deals as she watches him smile through the excruciating conversations with the rich businessmen, who explain strategy and going for the kill to a man who has spent a lifetime playing for some of the best Quidditch teams in the world.
Emma is not a natural, judging by how comically uncomfortable she appears in the company of the men and women who swarm around her, attempting to make conversation. She's in formal attire like the rest of the team, and every time someone shows up with a camera, she winces. It's charming, really, but Regina is not going to think about why she finds most things about Emma Swan charming of late. Theirs is a professional relationship, no, maybe a friendship —
There's no reason why Regina should bristle at Mal looking at Emma like she's an exotic creature she would very much like to devour, no reason whatsoever .
"I've heard so much about you, Swan," she says, looking her up and down, appreciation written all over her face. "You look different up close."
"Thank you," Emma says, clutching her drink.
"You never mentioned how adorable she is, Regina," Mal tells her. "I would have come and introduced myself much earlier if I'd known."
Regina is fairly certain her smile is more like a grimace at this point.
"She does clean up well," Cruella says, all but purring at Emma, who looks like she's ready to make a run for it.
It's not surprising. Cruella likes her women sporty. Her on again off again romance with Ursula Merryweather has been the staple of tabloid gossip for years now.
The Sirens accept their tokens of appreciation from Mal — little fire-breathing dragon trophies with their names on it, and the DragonFire logo on top — and bid a hasty retreat.
Emma watches them longingly, wishing, no doubt, she could leave with them. Regina can almost sympathize.
She's busy making small talk with a few of Mal's guests from New York — a Quodpot star past his prime and a couple of businessmen — when she hears the commotion near the entrance of the hall. It can't be, no , there's no way —
"Regina, please don't," whispers Marian into her ears. "Don't do whatever it is that you're thinking of doing."
There's no mistaking Snow White or that idiot husband of hers, making a fashionably late entrance like the celebrity couple they like to pretend they are.
"Who invited them? " Regina hisses, not caring if she might be overheard.
It must be Mal — has to be. Mal enjoys this sort of drama.
She walks up to Snow at Marian's nudging, greeting her with a frosty smile. "Hello, Snow," she says. "Welcome to Storybrooke."
Snow, damn her, is sugary sweet as always, genuine as though she actually likes Regina, as though she doesn't know she's not welcome anywhere near Storybrooke. "Congratulations," she tells Regina, entirely earnest. "You've earned this. It's truly been remarkable, watching the Sirens perform."
"Yes, it has," Regina says, gritting her teeth. Coming from Snow, that's a backhanded compliment, no doubt reminding her of their defeat in the last game.
It is impossible to believe that she doesn't hate Regina — that she isn't daming Regina with every word of praise.
It's what Regina would do. It's what Regina does, every single day.
She hates Snow White. She hates her awful father, she's glad he's dead. She's not sorry that she tried to save her father's club from his legacy of profligacy and mismanagement. She's not sorry that it offended the so-called fans. She doesn't give a damn about their sentiments. She hates every single one of them, and she wants them to rot in hell .
Everyone is looking at them like they're enjoying Regina's mini-meltdown. She has to get out of here, before she loses control and says something awful. Or worse, lashes out with magic, right here in front of a hundred guests.
"I need air," she tells Marian, who nods in agreement.
"I'll handle it," Marian says.
Regina makes her excuses, certain no one's buying them, and heads outside, away from the noise and the bustle of the hall. There's a hard to find gazebo in one secluded corner of the garden, overgrown shrubbery all around it. It's come to Regina's rescue on more than one occasion in the past.
She makes her way to the gazebo, seating herself on a stone bench and breathes .
She's not sure how long she sits there, trying to get a grip over the anger that threatens to spill over and burn everything in its path. It's a cool night out, a hint of Autumn chill in the gentle breeze. There's no one out here save the rustling of leaves and —
"Emma? "
"Sorry," Emma Swan says, emerging out of the darkness, a sheepish smile on her face. "I didn't know anyone was here."
"I needed some fresh air," Regina tells her.
And Emma, bless her, doesn't pry, doesn't ask questions, accepting Regina's explanation at face value. She plops down on the bench with zero grace and says, "I feel you. I hate parties."
"Are you hiding, Miss Swan?" Regina says, a genuine smile playing on her lips for the first time this evening. Her words come out more playful than Regina intended.
She came out here to be away from everyone else, but she finds that she doesn't mind the company.
"Maybe?" Emma says. "Definitely. This isn't my scene."
"You do clean up well," Regina says, echoing Cruella's words from earlier that evening.
"As do you, Madam President," Emma says with a pleased smile. "Not to say that you don't look good otherwise. I mean, all the time. Okay, I'll stop now."
The conversation is bordering on flirtatious now, as it so often seems to do when she's talking to Emma Swan.
"I got us a drink," Emma says, handing over a bottle of wine that's almost certainly stolen from the bar.
"Were you going to drink an entire bottle of wine on your own?" Regina says, incredulous.
"Do you want to drink or not?" Emma says. Regina snatches the bottle from her hand in response.
They drink straight out of the bottle like a couple of truant schoolchildren, passing it back and forth without any attempt at small talk. It's… soothing. It's exactly what Regina needed. "This reminds me of the first time I met you, Coach Swan," Regina says, suddenly, inexplicably fond.
"In your office?" Emma says, confused.
Regina smiles, remembering the drunk, unfocused Emma Swan from years ago. She didn't intend to tell her this story. Not now, not ever. She didn't think there would be an occasion where she would be comfortable enough around Emma Swan to share stories of that period in her life.
"It was after the World Cup semi-final," she tells Emma, without bothering to clarify which World Cup she means. Emma will understand. "You were drinking all by yourself in a bar. I asked you for an autograph."
Emma's eyes grow comically wide. "You asked for my autograph?"
"You said you'd sign my chocolate frog card only if I let you buy me a drink first," Regina tells her.
"That does sound like me," Emma says ruefully. "I can't believe I don't remember," she says, shaking her head. "I remember drowning my sorrows in booze, then I spoke to a beautiful woman who I may or may not have imagined — wait, that was you?"
"You said you hated losing," Regina tells her.
"I can't believe I didn't remember," Emma says, still shaking her head in utter disbelief. "I mean, I don't think I could ever forget meeting someone like you." She's looking at Regina when she says that, something more than just friendship in her eyes.
Regina is acutely aware of how close they are to each other in this moment, their thighs brushing against each other as they gaze into each other's eyes. She's aware of that pull between them, magical.
"Does this mean you were a fan, Ms. Mills?" Emma says softly. Her breath is warm on Regina's cheek.
"Perhaps I was," Regina says.
"And what about now? Are you still a fan?"
"I mostly think you're an idiot," Regina says flatly, but she's smiling, smiling.
That earns her a laugh, a bright, clear laugh that makes her heart sing. She has had way too much alcohol. It was that encounter with Snow White, damn it.
"Well, I'm going to do something idiotic, so here goes," Emma says.
The kiss is definitely not idiotic. It is, in fact, the most spectacular thing that has happened to Regina in a long time, soft and slow and deep, everything she had imagined about kissing Emma Swan when Emma was just an object of explicit fantasy. It's more, because of how intimate it feels. How right it feels to give in to the attraction that has never quite gone away.
They're both breathing hard when Emma pulls away.
"We should probably head back inside," Regina says, unwilling to let go of Emma's hand.
"Yeah," Emma says, and leans in for another kiss.
The following week is a disaster.
Regina has little time to reflect on what happened — she kissed Emma Swan, she wants to keep kissing Emma Swan — because the Sirens end up losing the next match against the New York Pirates, and the one after that, against an off-color Sweetwater All-Stars. They slip down to second position, with the Boston Legends and the Misthaven Wanderers breathing down their necks. Fitchburg is on top now, and the only way they might salvage this if they win every single one of their remaining matches.
It's not impossible, no. But Regina can't help being furious. At the Sirens, for losing. At Mal, for demanding to be catered to, against the best interests of a team she claims to support. But mostly she's furious at herself, because she allowed this, despite Emma's explicit caution against it. She allowed that accursed party to happen, falling over herself to satisfy Mal's whims, distracting the players like Emma had warned it would.
There should be no room for complacency, not when they're this close to winning the League Championship. And now it seems like it might be slipping from their grasp, all thanks to a petty distraction that Regina shouldn't have allowed in the first place.
Emma throws herself into work, driving the team harder than ever before.
Regina watches them practice every day, Emma Swan right up there with the players as they go over and over the drill and the formations. And maybe her heart skips a beat when Emma spots her in the stands and pauses to wave at her, before going back to yelling at her Chasers for their lack of co-ordination. But this is no time for any of that. No time for distractions.
Still, she drops by at Emma's office that evening. They kiss on Emma's couch, hard and tinged with desperation. It's easy, so easy to fall into this, to lose herself in Emma's lips and the softness of her skin.
At some point, Regina should probably try and have a conversation with Emma about this... kissing, but she can't bring herself to care right now.
The only person not stressed in the Sirens camp is Henry, who remains unflinchingly calm in the face of potential disaster. He's still a child, unused to loss, to the possibility of things going irrevocably out of one's grasp.
To Regina, who has never been allowed to have a single thing she's truly wanted — at least, not until Henry — that sort of faith feels physically impossible.
She allows him to comfort her, nonetheless, when he catches her in one particular moment of utter despair — in her office, sitting with her head covered in her hands as she considers the possibility of yet another year of nothing after coming so close, and wallows.
"We're going to win, Mom," he tells her, with a smile so bright that Regina can't help but smile back at him. "I know we are."
It's easier between them, ever since that escapade of his. It's as though something changed for Henry that night, between flying that carpet into the forest and spending what must been a godawful hour or so with Mother's ghost.
Regina doesn't regret banishing her there. Not now. Not ever.
She pulls Henry close and presses a kiss on his forehead, one that he allows with no fuss. "Your believing heart is your magic," she tells him. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
This, she believes. With all her heart.
He may or may not find his magical abilities someday, but Henry is magic, in ways that the magical community can scarcely comprehend.
Perhaps it's the magic of Henry's belief, after all, but the Sirens do begin to inch back up to the top after that.
There are more kisses with Emma — stolen kisses in Regina's office, as Regina presses her up against the door and drives a knee between her legs, making her gasp. Soft kisses on the couch in Emma's office after hours, reassuring. Hard and desperate kisses in a quiet balcony, away from prying eyes.
They don't talk about the kisses, as though by mutual agreement. There are more important matters at hand, after all; matters like winning the League Championship after nearly four decades.
It's just Regina's luck that their penultimate match is the away game with Misthaven. As the league table stands, the Sirens have the chance to grab a clear victory if they beat Misthaven this time around. A loss on the other hand might mean a complicated set of permutations and combinations, depending on a number of other factors beyond their control. Regina refuses to consider it — refuses to accept that that accursed team might snatch this away from her, just when it's at her grasp, finally.
She has given too much to Misthaven. Some of the best years of her life, her reputation, her peace of mind.
They can't have this.
She doesn't say any of this when she asks Emma to join them for dinner the night before the game, suddenly desperate for her touch. She pulls Emma to her study after Henry goes to bed, and kisses her and kisses her, pouring every bit of her frustration into her lips and her fingers.
"This is going to be different than the last time," Emma tells her when they briefly pull apart from each other, chests heaving. "You know that, right? It is. It's gonna be different."
"I know," Regina tells her.
"We've got this," Emma tells her, her eyes shining with fervent belief. She takes both Regina's hands in hers, and presses them to her lips, one after the other.
"I know," Regina says.
She pulls Emma back down for another kiss, because it's easier to kiss Emma than to put into words why the thought of traveling to Misthaven with the team is enough to keep her up at night. Emma doesn't know that she hasn't gone back to Misthaven in all these years, that she doesn't want to step foot in that town — not now, not ever.
She fortifies herself with Emma's kisses, because what else can she do?
If she were in a position to think, Regina would perhaps be concerned about how much she's grown to depend on these stolen moments — on the feeling of Emma's arms around her, warm and solid. On this time that's theirs, and theirs alone, and ihow much/i that's come to mean to her.
But then, middle ground has never been Regina's forte. She falls hard and fast. Always has, always will.
Emma has her own history to make up for — for a past littered with her own failings, and all the times she let everyone down, most of all, herself.
When she's in Emma's arms, it's almost possible to believe that they might actually build something together this time.
Regina fusses over Henry before they leave for Misthaven, straightening his scarf and brushing imaginary lint off his robes until he protests. "Come on, Mom, we're getting late," he whines.
He has been full of nervous energy all morning, so much so that she'd had to insist that he eat everything on his plate or she would be forced to leave him at home — a threat that worked wonders, as it turned out.
His excitement helps her keep sane, keep her focus on the things that matter. Like the fact that they are here, now. That this distant dream might be within their grasp.
She thinks of her father, and his pride and joy, the Storybrooke Sirens. She thinks of the town has waited for so long for this moment.
It feels like they're poised for something great — like this fairytale might indeed come true. She looks at Henry, his eyes bright and sparkling and so very dashing in his little red and gold attire, and she dares believe.
Marian is waiting for them in front of Granny's, where the Portkey is.
"Ready, guys?"
Regina isn't ready, no. Regina will never be ready for this. But they're going to Misthaven, and they might just win this thing.
A moment later, they're in front of the familiar premises of the Misthaven Wanderers' stadium, all decked in the colours of the local team. There's a giant image of their dear, departed former owner, flanked by Snow White on one side and David Nolan on the other.
Regina holds Henry's hand tight, and walks in with her head held high. If there are whispers — no, there are whispers, there are a hundred heads turning in her direction, whispering, Isn't that the Evil Queen? — then she doesn't care.
There are too many memories in Misthaven that she will never quite manage to erase, but Regina is here to make new memories. They might just win this thing.
"Hello, Regina," Snow says. "You look well."
Snow's smile this time is tight, brittle — none of the sickly sweetness that she likes to lay on as a part of her helpless damsel act. Good , Regina thinks. Good. It suits her.
"Hello, Snow," Regina says. She will not smile at Snow White, not even for the cameras. "You as well."
The tension between them is thick and palpable. Henry squirms, uncomfortable with the scrutiny he's suddenly receiving.
It had to be that this place, of all places. They might still have another match to go, but this is it, this is where Regina's fate will be decided, once and for all. She feels rooted to the spot, unable to move or breathe. Her heart beats faster, faster, as though she's been running. She holds on to Henry's hand as though it's her anchor, the only thing that will keep her from drowning.
Emma's voice cuts through the haze, clear and bright. "Hey there, guys! We've been waiting for you for ages!"
"Emma!" Henry brightens, dropping Regina's hand to run towards her.
"You alright?" Emma murmurs as she draws near, solicitous. She's more observant than Regina gives her credit for.
"I'm fine," Regina tells her, although Emma doesn't look like she believes her. She should not have accompanied the team to Misthaven.
And Emma, wise, kind Emma, holds her hand and says, "We got this. You know that, right? We got this." She squeezes her hand, firm.
The stadium is packed to capacity, the crowd a sea of white and grey chanting, "Misthaven Wanderers! Misthaven Wanderers!"
Henry, of course, is thrilled to the very core. Their box seats make for prime viewing, and he soaks it all in with the excitement of a boy at the biggest sporting event of his young life. He points at every little thing, from the funny hats some of the Misthaven supporters are wearing, to the large enchanted blackboard flashing adverts for everything under the sun.
Every now and then the audience bursts into song, singing familiar tunes that have haunted her nightmares.
"We've had our ups and downs," roars the crowd in one voice, "But we'll never let you go." On and on, it keeps singing, waving flags to the beat of trumpets and drums, breaking into joyous applause as one song ends and another begins.
There's a solid block of red and gold in the right-hand side of the stadium, a pocket of dedicated Storybrooke supporters who have traveled all the way to watch their team, poised on the verge of history. Regina keeps her eyes trained on them, oddly grateful for their presence. If there's Evil Queen banners out there in the stands, she doesn't want to know.
She's helpless before the onslaught of memories: loss after loss after loss, in this very stadium. The jubilant crowds in white and grey transform into the dejected crowds that never stopped showing up, even as Misthaven spiralled and fell far beyond anyone's control.
She remembers standing on the field next to Leopold's coffin, draped in the Misthaven Wanderers flag. Regina played the grieving widow to the hilt, a sobbing Snow at her side.
Death made a martyr out of Leopold, the fact of his incompetence brushed to the side even as Regina sank under its burden, scrambling to hold together a fast-sinking ship.
The day she announced her plans to sell the stadium to recover some of their losses, graffiti had appeared all over the grounds: DEATH TO THE EVIL QUEEN.
It took them hours to remove the charms and get rid of the graffiti.
She didn't want Leopold's legacy any more than she'd wanted to be his wife. She wanted it all to crash and burn.
"They're here!" Henry's voice cuts through the haze like a beam of sunlight, and Regina looks up just in time to spot the seven figures in red and gold, shooting into the arena on their broomsticks as the crowd cheers. "Go Storybrooke!"
Emma Swan is a small figure on the ground, looking up at the players.
Later, Regina won't remember the details: the ninety odd minutes blurring together in an indistinguisable whole.
Henry's stories will change with every telling — and there will be a lot of them. In his stories, like in many other fan retellings, Lancelot will attain the standing of a god, even if the American Quidditch Championship is hardly the pinnacle of his rather illustrious career. Yasmin will be likened to the legendary Amanda Applebottom, with fans swearing that she has more than just one pair of hands. Mulan will make become one of the most sought after Seekers in America, and an immediate shoo-in for the national team. August Wayne Booth — much to Regina's displeasure — will earn a six figure book deal out of this.
Regina won't remember the details, though she'll remember flashes of it here and there.
It begins with Misthaven on the ascendant, buoyed by home support and a trio of Chasers in fine form. They're a masterclass in small, quick passes, the Quaffle barely visible in their midst.
Ruby Lucas catches the Quaffle and passes it on to Nova, who passes it on to Ella and then back. They play small, quick passes between themselves, dancing past Merlin and Lancelot, who hit the Bludgers at them deadly accuracy.
The pace is furious, and the Misthaven Chasers look like they're about to take the game out of Storybrooke's hands in a repeat of their previous performance.
Their Beaters play dirty, like they did the last time. Hyde is up to his usual tricks, keeping up a steady stream of abuse and under-handed moves that skirt the edge of legality. An altercation between Ali and Hyde eventually leads to a full-blown fistfight, the audience roaring in excitement. The referee screams at them for a minute straight before awarding both teams penalties that Ruby Lucas and Guinevere have no problem scoring from.
As the game progresses, the crowds grow even more raucous, following the Chasers of both teams with bated breath as they score again and again. The Chasers are on an even ground, not allowing their opponent an inch as the teams keep the scoreboard ticking in waves of attack and counter-attack.
Once again, it has to be the Seeker who will make the difference. Merlin hits a Bludger at Aurora that nearly dislodges her from her broom. Hyde takes to shadowing Mulan, while Liam Jones aims for her head.
There's one image that's etched in Regina's mind, an image she'll carry with herself to her dying bed: Mulan, diving, hurtling towards the Storybrooke goal in breakneck speed while Aurora Rose struggles to keep pace with her.
The crowd erupts in one voice as Mulan holds her hand up in air, the golden Snitch gleaming for everyone to see.
There's tears running down Regina's eyes that she's powerless to stop.
Lancelot pulls up in front of them in his broom, signalling for Henry to climb onto his. Regina forgets to tell them to be careful, forgets how to form words, even.
The massive image of Leopold White on the stands fades into large letters that read, STORYBROOKE SIRENS WIN LEAGUE CHAMPIONSHIP! CONGRATULATIONS!
There's fireworks going up above them in shades of red and gold. Regina sits down, and covers her face with her hands as she cries and cries.