Chapter Eighteen
Born For This
We were born for this.

We trooped to the tunnel, my heart pounding somewhere around my ears. I had wanted to be excited about this moment – who hadn't dreamed about hearing their name called over the loudspeakers before the flew out into a roaring crowd? But I could feel my stomach doing sad, wet little backflips of anxiety. The team started to shuffle into line, chasers first (Tom, Keiran, me), Oliver, beaters, seekers. I glanced down. I was gripping my broom so tightly, my knuckles were white and bloodless. Oliver tapped my shoulder.

"Hey," he whispered. "You're gonna be brilliant. Okay?" I nodded mutely. He pulled me into a bear hug and, pulling back, kissed me on the forehead. "For luck," he winked.

And my stomach was doing backflips for an entirely different reason. I turned just as a crackling, magically amplified voice boomed, "On the Puddlemere United side, chasers - Evans!" Tom waved and flew out - oh god, it was happening – "Dawson!" Keiran tossed a thumbs-up in our direction and kicked off. Oh god, oh god. "Bell!" I couldn't even bring myself to say anything to the team. Just fly straight, Katie. I thought, and took off into the blinding sunlight, into the roar of the crowd.

The stands were packed. I was thankful I'd played Quidditch throughout Hogwarts, thankful I knew instinctively not to freeze up in front of a crowd – but Hogwarts had nothing on this. Thousands of upturned faces, cheering and waving from a sea of green and blue. Blue! I took heart in the vast swells of Puddlemere fans and concentrated on not being sick, and flying straight, pulling up next to Tom.

"How's a girl, Bell?" Tom muttered to me, his gaze not moving from the opposite side of the pitch.

"Can't complain," I answered, breathlessly. Tom had almost imperceptibly transformed from the mild-mannered, quiet figure he normally was to an upright, brisk captain exuding authority. I'll admit, I'd never really thought about why Tom, of anyone, was lead chaser but, even through the low hum of anxiety thrumming in my ears, I could see why now. He glanced over at me. "You'll be fine," he said, not unkindly. "You wouldn't be here or have gotten this far if this weren't your sport." I nodded weakly.

"We're all here for a reason," he nodded, almost to himself and turned back to scrutinize the Harpies' side of the pitch.

"Wood!"

I glanced behind me. Oliver burst out of the tunnel to a high-pitched chorus from the audience. Fangirls? Jeez, Oliver. He spiraled off to the goalposts (the showoff) and, once he was situated, caught me watching him and cheekily saluted. There was collective applause. Alright, girls. Calm yourselves. That was for me. It wasn't long before the rest of the team was out, Jordan and Hannah flanking us, Charlotte hovering over our heads. The pitch's collective attention turned to the opposite end. Gwenog Jones (dear god) came out first, a dark green blur shooting out like a comet. She took up place as a beater, and the rest of her team streamed out. These girls were fierce. With a delicate little spiral, and a flash of blonde hair, Gwen Bedlam was across from me. She was every inch the pretty girl I'd seen in the photo – even at the angle across the pitch, I could see her brilliant and (totally sly and cunning – dude, who would trust this girl?) smile flashing in my direction.

Facing the Holyhead Harpies was like facing living legends. They were fierce, a line-up of long, waving hair and pretty features contorted into fearsome game faces. I took brief comfort in that – my hair was pulled back tight from my face, braided and tied – these girls were obviously willing to sacrifice visibility and efficiency for their image. That would be a useful tool. Bedlam was, from what I could see, taller than me – probably longer arms and a longer reach, but, hopefully, a bit heavier and less agile. (Thinking back to that photo, though, she probably didn't have much extra weight).

Our ref dropped in between our teams, barking out the rules of the game from behind his bushy mustache. Tom flew forwards to shake Gwenog's hand, his face impassive and unreadable.

"I want a good, clean match, alright?" His mustache ruffled as he spoke, giving the strangest impression that he had no mouth at all. Balancing on his broom, his opened the box on his lap. A flash of gold whizzed into the air, before darting up and vanishing. "And the snitch has been released! We are less than a minute away from start, now," I nearly jumped at the commentator's voice. After all this time, I had still half-expected it to be Lee Jordan's familiar tones – but, strangely, it was still a voice I recognized. I turned, squinting at the booth. A dark-haired head turned. "And, of course, we have two excellent teams here, the Holyhead Harpies and Puddlemere United, which has not one, but two of my fellow former members of the Gryffindor quidditch team." The boy waved, and I gasped. "Hello, Katie, Oliver!"
Dean Thomas! I turned round on my broom, mouthing at Oliver, who gave me a quick thumbs up, before gesturing for me to turn around again.
"Of course, I will ever remain your unbiased, unprejudiced and completely fair quidditch commentator." He added, the smile evident in his voice. The ref had obviously heard that line before, because he gave a little eye-roll as he hefted the quaffle.
"1…" all eyes were on that bright little ball, now.

"2…" the ref lifted it higher, grumbling his countdown around the whistle clenched between his teeth. It moved up infinitesimally, and I caught a sudden flash of white. Gwen Bedlam had caught my eye and, grinning brilliantly, winked at me.
"3!" he threw the quaffle, hard, straight up and the whistle blew.
"AND THEY'RE OFF!"

Our cluster exploded. Tom had shot straight up, aiming to catch the ball at its apex, Keiran and I dodging to our respective sides. Hannah and Jordan spiraled away, out of my line of sight, and the first thing I realized was that Gwen Bedlam was dogging me. Tom was deceptively fast, faster than their head chaser, Wilda Griffiths, and his hands closed around the quaffle as he kept shooting up, over her heads. I had already flattened myself to my broom, diving shallowly under the scrum, shooting up and almost colliding with Bedlam. You've got to be kidding me. Was that her play? She'd reversed in a frantic mess, thrown by my dive, but she was getting in my way. I gritted my teeth. Fine.

The first thing you learned on a Quidditch pitch was how to adapt, and think in the air. And the second thing was never, ever call your plays. Our whole team had a catalogue of plays and plans memorized; we relied on the fact that everyone had an equal knowledge of them, so if someone headed into tactic B or C or 13, we'd all follow suit. So, I would adapt. If Gwen Bedlam wanted to be my shadow, that's fine. Because, I suddenly realized as I shot past her, eyes locking briefly with Tom, I wasn't nervous anymore. If Gwen had been put there to freak me out, they'd miscalculated wildly. She'd just gotten my blood up, and the last thing the Harpies needed was a competitive Katie Bell.

I rolled left, diving again, swiping the quaffle that Tom had dropped down milliseconds before.
"And oh! What a sneaky pass from Puddlemere's captain, Tom Evans to rookie left-wing chaser Katie Bell," Dean's voice was thick with approval. "And Bell is off, with Harpies rookie Gwen Bedlam hot on her tail! In this field of veterans, will this really be a newcomers' game, folks?"
"We'll see about that, Thomas." I muttered, one ear pricked for the whoosh of Bedlam's broom. She was coming up on my left side. I grinned. Rookie mistake, girl. She was just trying to block me from Tom, who'd fallen back. As though we had just two chasers. I rolled again, bracing my chin against my shoulder to get a good glance at the field to my right. I caught a flash of red as Keiran nodded.
"And Bell is just showing off now, isn't she?"

Oh, please. I grinned. If it fooled Thomas, fingers crossed none of the Harpies had caught it either. I reverse passed quick and hard over my shoulder, whipping around to make sure it connected. Mistake. Gwen took the chance to dart in on my left side, and I whipped around to catch where she was, just getting a flash of devilish smile before a well-aimed bludger crunched into my side. "Oh, fuck," I moaned, clutching my broom.

"Gotta be faster than that, Bell." Her voice was low and sickly sweet in my ear. I grimaced hard, fighting to get my wind back, just as a ding and cheer filled the stadium.

"And first goal goes to Puddlemere! And, ooh, that is a nasty bludger to the ribs for Bell, from Gwenog Jones."

I straightened up. I'd be fine. You had to be, in quidditch. "10 points, Bedlam. Worth some bruises." I grinned into her smirking face and peeled away, back into play. I needed to get away from her.
"Oi, Bell!" Hannah was flying past me, corralling a bludger. "Nice work! You alright?"

"Fine!" I shouted back, keeping my eyes on the quaffle, about to be pitched back into play.
"Don't worry. I'm gonna wipe the smile off of that little blonde bitch's face." Hannah grinned evilly at me, before shooting after her bludger.

We were on our game. Dean Thomas' commentary grew more and more delighted as our chasers ducked and dove, practically reading eachother's minds. We were working so seamlessly that a quaffle hadn't even yet come into Oliver's area. I had a vague awareness of him hovering anxiously in the goal area. Oliver hated not being part of the fray. But I was too busy, far too busy trying to shake Gwen Bedlam and keep and eye on the quaffle to worry about him. The Harpies were damn good, and we were quickly reduced to a mid-field shuffle, neither team being able to break through the other's defenses.
"Oh, fuck this," I heard Hannah mutter as she sailed over my head, before turning, grinning and whacking a bludger directly at my face.
"What the-?" I ducked, fast, flattening down, and understood immediately, as I heard the smack and squeal of the hard ball connecting with Gwen. Keiran took advantage of the distraction to nab the quaffle and, merely holding it out, passed it to me as I shot past him. I threw it, hard, and we'd made our second goal before Gwen Bedlam had even known what had hit her. The sea of blue set up another roar.
"GOOOOAL!" Dean Thomas yelled, the megaphone crackling at the volume of his shout. "And Puddlemere scores again! 20-0!"
I punched the air as their frustrated keeper dove to catch the quaffle again, punting it far faster than I'd expected.

Wilda Griffiths caught it, and was flashing down the pitch like a lightning bolt. We roared after her, Jordan smacking a bludger that just skimmed her head, soaring past her. Oliver was waiting, tense, watching her. Shit. There was no way to get there in time. She passed, suddenly, and Valmai Morgan seemed to appear out of nowhere, catching and throwing the quaffle in one fluid movement. I gasped for the briefest moment, as the ball sailed towards the right-most hoop. Smack. It bounced, hard, against Oliver's outstretched foot. He'd swung, hard and fast off of his broom and kicked the quaffle away from the goal. The fangirls went wild.
"You show-off, Oliver Wood," I grinned to myself, as Oliver swung himself back onto the broom, scooping up the quaffle in the process. He saluted to the crowd, - "A flashy save by Puddlemere's Oliver Wood –" (Fair enough, Dean.) - and pitched the quaffle. We were off, zinging up and down the pitch, the quaffle changing hands and teams so quickly Dean could barely get out names out in time.

I found myself in front of the Holyhead goalpost again, the quaffle tight under my arm, when it was suddenly wrenched out of my grasp. Keiran had been setting himself up for another pass, but I shouted over my shoulder, and he wheeled, both of us shooting off after Griffiths. For the first time all game, I realized, suddenly, there was silence behind me. Bedlam wasn't tracking me. She wasn't even on this side of the pitch. I blinked. My focus slipped, the quaffle and Wilda Griffiths fading from my mind as I realized, with a little jolt, that Gwen Bedlam was all the way across at the other end of the pitch, and she was talking to Oliver – and he was turned to her, talking back.

What in the hell?

I think the rest of the team must have been as shocked as I, because it felt like we all moved in slow-motion, and it wasn't until the shout went up that we realized that Oliver had spun around far too late, and Wilda had already sunk the quaffle through his right-most hoop.

"And that's 10-20, with Puddlemere still in the lead, despite a damn strange goal scored against them-"

Tom flew past me, recovered quaffle in hand. "Regroup!" he shouted as he passed, and I broke out of my reverie, spinning like a top. With a tell-tale whoosh, Gwen was behind me again, flattening herself to follow me.
"What the fuck was that?" I spat at her, speaking louder than I'd intended, sudden anger making my hands clench. What was she playing at?
She didn't answer, just smiled, and passed me.

The Harpies' keeper blocked our attempt on goal, and the next three after that. We played them mercilessly, lost count of the number of times we'd all been hit by bludgers, and the game toiled on. Oliver redoubled his concentration, and block goal after goal. Gwen Bedlam had returned safely to being my tail; irritating, but somehow, I preferred it. However, this game was getting ridiculous. The sun was already starting to drop dangerously low in the sky, and I was starving.

Charlotte swooped into my line of sight, one of her rare forays into our altitude.

"Mind catching the snitch, Greene?" I yelled after her, mostly kidding.
She glanced over her shoulder at me and grinned. "If I must," she shot back and, in a shockingly perfect moment, dropped down towards the base of the Harpies' goalpost, flat against her broomhandle.

I stared after her, open-mouthed, as the Harpies seeker dashed after her, eons too late.
"Has she seen the Snit- my god! She has! And she – yes! Trench is way behind! And – I don't believe it! Yes! Charlotte Greene has caught the snitch! Puddlemere United wins, 170-10!"

We won?

I turned, eyes wide, before Hannah smacked directly into me, forcing me into a bear-like, midair hug.

Oliver's mishaps, Gwen Bedlam's antics – all of it didn't matter. Charlotte Greene had wiped it all clean, and in that moment, as the team bore down on us, everyone cheering and laughing, I felt achingly, wonderfully, wondrously happy. We had won. It had been long, and hard and brutal, but we all had won. Tom was right – we did belong on this pitch, in this sport.
It wasn't until Oliver, beaming proudly, pulled me against his side and my ribs twinged in protest that I remembered Gwen, remembered all the weird, little things she'd done that had pissed me off, and I snuck a look up at Oliver. He was grinning, looking, for all the world to see, blissfully happy as we all slowly descended, still whooping. But there was a tightness in his jaw and a coolness in his eyes that made my stomach lurch. Something is going on here, I realized, and, somehow, I get the feeling it's nothing good.

Ergh, minor cliffie? Anywho, sorry for the loooooong time between updates. I've been planning these upcoming 2-3ish chapters for months, so they should come along pretty quickly!

Born For This – Paramore