Chapter Six
Down
…it gets me so down, down, down, down…
I had the broom in one hand, and was almost too preoccupied with kicking that stupid prat's ass – no, Katie, control yourself - that I nearly took off in my neat skirt-and-blouse ensemble I'd worn for my interview.
"Um," I said, looking up sheepishly, suddenly conscious of my (no longer) sensible-looking heels and pencil skirt, "Anyone have some spare robes?"
"Seriously?" Farrow rolled his eyes, turning his broom away. "Coach. Let's get back to prac-"
"No." Bard eyed Farrow coldly, "You need a lesson in some damn humility." He turned to me, Farrow staring slack-jawed at the back of his head.
"You're a touch taller than Charlotte, but otherwise, her's might work. GREENE!" He bellowed out to the field, voice like a foghorn. Charlotte Greene, seeker, landed gracefully and walked over, beckoning shyly to me to follow her back to the locker room. I tossed a wink over my shoulder to Oliver as I went, heart thudding.
xoxox
"Here," Charlotte tossed me a pair of jeans and a set of pale blue robes, emblazoned with the Puddlemere United crest, and GREENE across the back in navy. "Wow. Where can I get me a set of these? Thanks, Charlotte!"
"Oh – it's. It's nothing." She smiled awkwardly. Oliver had said she was a nice kid, just chronically shy. Well, if there's one thing Katie Bell can do, it's put shy people at ease. Or just drive them to extreme embarrassment. Either way, it tends to involve a lot of babbling.
I tugged my hair out of the bun, putting it back into my familiar old workout ponytail, smiling at the feel of it whipping behind me. As I changed, I started talking, faster even than usual.
"Okay, so Char – can I call you Char? – Farrow. Tell me about him. Weaknesses. Blind spots. I've already seen that he's an awful feinter, and a damn good flyer. But you've been with him for seasons. So… spill?" I smiled winningly at her as I tugged the robes over my head.
"What? Oh – um – no one's ever called me Char, but, uh, I guess – what? Eric? Uh. I-"
Okay. So maybe I wrongfooted her a little.
"He's… uh… this feels weird, since he's a teammate and all…"
I looked Charlotte up and down. I knew kids who played by the rules - knew the cut and measure of Percy Weasley the second I saw him. And Charlotte, no matter her shyness, her sweet face, had just a little bit of glint in her eye. This girl didn't strike me as meek – just as Neville wasn't really meek. She just needed a little space (and a little push) to show the world the secret badass she was.
"Char. I'm best friends with Oliver. There's no team I'll be selling this to. I even rooted for Puddlemere when I was a kid."
So that was maybe a lie. Holyhead Harpies all the way!
Actually, when I was really a young kid, I didn't even know what Quidditch was, so-
I digress.
Charlotte sized me up for a moment, debating.
I decided to take a chance.
"Plus, he's an arse, and you know it. And you – I'm going out on a limb here, Char – you want to see him taken down just as much as I do."
Charlotte cocked her head at me. I grinned, a Weasley-influenced smile full of mischief, and her expression softened a little.
"…fine." She whispered. "He's weaker in his left arm then his right – his aim is always better firing on hoops to his left. He hates anyone pointing that out, and will do anything to protect his pride – even if it means shooting and missing or playing it dirty. But he's an excellent flyer, and can dive the hell out of anything. Always expect him to come at your from above – I mean, he'll vary it, but he knows most chasers won't dive on someone. And he's not afraid to try whatever he can get away with."
I nodded.
"Thank you, Char. You know, how about Charlie? Or Lottie? Actually, we'll figure out your nickname later. I think you and I could be excellent partners in crime."
She smiled weakly.
"I… uh, don't really have nicknames. Or commit crimes."
I smiled innocently.
"Oh, that'll change. Got any extra gloves?"
I beamed into her shocked expression.
xoxox
Considering everything Char (Charlie? I'm liking Charlie, I think.) and I shared, I was in and out of the locker room fairly quickly, striding onto the pitch in boots we'd magicked up to my size. "Damn my overlarge feet," I'd muttered as Charlotte pulled out her size 5 (size 5!) quidditch boots. I flexed my fingers in gloves I hadn't worn for years. Oliver met me on the pitch, proffering me a broom – a Nimbus 2000.
"Really?" I ran a finger over the gold lettering. It may seem old, now, but I'd never been on more than a Cleansweep.
"Going pro has its perks," Oliver said smugly. "We've a whole shed of these guys."
"This day is just… is just fantastic. But going to get better. I hope. Okay. Let's see if I remember how to fly…"
And with that, I kicked off.
My stomach lurched for a moment, and I clung drunkenly to the handle, my balance tipping and my world spinning. Panic filled me – I didn't want to make a fool myself now. No. Breathe. Just… breathe, Katie. And as I did, my muscles suddenly remembered the years I had spent training to do this, the long workouts and countless hours. I sat perfectly still, feeling my body right itself. Then, with a wild shout of joy, I was off, spiraling around the team, doing loop-the-loops, rollercoaster-ing around, spinning into the sharp mid-air halts Oliver used to make us do at six in the morning to wake us all up.
"Oi, Kates!" Oliver's voice, to my back left. I swerved round, hands automatically up to catch. My fingers closed on the smooth leather of the quaffle, before I'd even seen it coming at me, and I grinned. It was so perfectly familiar – even my reflexes were sharp.
"Alright, Farrow!" I yelled, tucking the quaffle under my arm, facing him with my game face on.
"Come and get me!"
xoxox
Farrow dove straight for me, flat on his broom.
It was true – he was a killer flyer, better than I'd ever be. But I'd been coached by a fanatical tactician for six years of my life – some things can be ingrained. I shot straight up, as opposed to what he expected – down and to the right, since he'd been approaching at a left angle. I flattened myself and shot straight towards Oliver.
He came out of nowhere, a blue-gray blur that threw me off-course, and I could feel the superior strength of his broom as he ripped the quaffle from me. He was heading towards Oliver now, his eyes on the left-most hoop, just as Charlotte had said. I barreled after him, shouting from his left side.
"Gonna shoot now, Farrow? How bout you meet me on equal brooms, yeah? Or you too scared to be beat by a girl?"
His shoulders tensed in irritation at my words. I grinned as I swerved closer. I was more streamlined than he was – not matter how he hunched, there was no way for him to fly as fast with the bulky quaffle, particularly on his tiny frame.
"Oi! Farrow! Suck on this!" I dove suddenly, hard and fast at his head, cutting off his viable shot to the left hoop. He saw me at the last second, and shot wildly to the middle hoop, which Oliver caught with ease. Before he'd even turned, I was already accelerating into the center of the pitch, ready to catch the quaffle Oliver had automatically lobbed back into the game. That was something I could take advantage of, I realized, plunging after the quaffle, ears pricked for Farrow, who was hot on my tail. My knowledge of Oliver – I'm sure I knew his game better than Farrow did. A whistling over me tipped me off suddenly. Farrow was going to divebomb me, just like Charlotte had said. I grabbed the quaffle and, hard as I could, braked and reversed. I shot backwards, just as Farrow, already overcompensating for my pulling out of the dive – which I would've, normally, plunged past me.
With a spin, I was flying at Oliver, determined to leave Farrow in the dust. I made it to the edge of the keeper's circle before Farrow had caught me up, throwing an arm across my face to knock me off. I growled.
If he wanted to play dirty, I would play dirty. Without hesitating, I knocked into him, hard, knowing he was already off-balance, and in that moment of confusion, threw the quaffle. Hard. Oliver's eyes had been locked on Farrow's arm, and he saw the quaffle too late. He lunged, outstretched fingertips just brushing the leather as it sailed into the right-most hoop.
"YES!" I punched the air in triumph as Oliver scowled, always the sore loser. I scrambled to grab my broomstick, just as Farrow, struggling to balance himself, knocked back into me.
I'd thought it was an innocent mistake, the first moment I felt the impact, but in that split-second, I caught sight of his eyes – furious, hard and violent. His hand hit my wrist, the pain making me gasp and pull back and suddenly I was tipping past the point of no return and falling, falling, falling down….down….down.
Down - Blink-182
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