Settling the Score

Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make Quidditch Teams

Hands grasping either side of the porcelain sink with faltering resolve, I stared straight into my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Green irises speckled with flecks of yellow stared back at me, black pupils glittering with anxious indecision.

My dark curls were in their usual disarray around my face, loosely waved in the areas that I kept running a nervous hand through. My cheekbones, nowhere near as modelesque as Angelina's sharp features but still nicely angled, held an anxious tinge of pallor.

Try-outs were in exactly fifteen minutes.

Fifteen fucking minutes.

It takes five minutes alone to trek all the way to the Quidditch pitch, and five to change and get into the proper mentality for a try-out—it'd been a good week or so since I'd even been on a broom. This left me with exactly five minutes to make a huge decision: to try out, or not to try out.

That is the sodding question.

Earlier that day, I'd been accosted by Fred and George, both claiming that their little scheme was still in business—"all you have to do is show up, we swear." Knowing that this would undoubtedly entail something underhanded, against the rules, and more than likely illegal, I was somewhat skeptical.

Now, stuck in an anxious rut of indecision, I was more conflicted than ever.

"Quidditch or dignity; dignity or Quidditch?" I asked my reflection with a wry sort of cynicism, finding it ridiculous that I was actually being forced to choose between the two—they used to go hand in hand. My pride and confidence were heavily rooted within Quidditch, and losing one seemed like losing the other.

"Merlin, is it even worth it?" I murmured, caught by the thought—but then an image of Wood's smug, ungrateful little face clouded over my mind, making my expression twist into a scowl.

If it meant avoiding that particularly infuriating expression, then it sure as hell was.

But then again…

No, it was—end of story.

Yet still…

Argh, stop it—no.

But what about…

"ARGH!" I growled in frustration, eyes flying shut as arguments and counter-arguments washed over me, swallowing me in a wave of conflicting feelings and images. Pros and cons battled viciously within my head, keeping my decision in a game of tug-of-war that was eating up my time.

…the electrifying roar of the crowd in my deafened ears…

…his stupid, sodding little smirk…

…the thrill of spotting a faint glimmer of gold in the hazy distance…

…the overwhelming feeling of never being taken seriously…

…the humming power of knowing the game is entirely in my hands…

…the building fury of getting criticism in place of credit…

The emotions running through me were oddly electric at that moment, a mottled mix of renewed anger, frustration, anxiety, and a renegade glimmer of excitement. This decision, while paling miserably in comparison to various others people had to make every day, could do one of two things.

It could signal the return of my old life, or it could give me a new one. Drastic and melodramatic, sure, but still true. I wish I could say that some sport didn't define so much of me, that it was just another pastime, like football—but it wasn't.

It's what I love to do; it's my talent. There are plenty of things I'm sodding disastrous at—I think I got a Troll-minus on my last Astronomy paper—but Quidditch simply isn't one of them. It's the one thing I'm really bloody good at, and now it was all being taken away.

Taken away by some smarmy, arrogant, fascist little—

"Oh, sod it all to hell!" I growled aloud, knocking Alicia's shampoo bottle off the rim of the sink as I reached for an elastic. Wrenching my hair into a messy ponytail atop my head and grabbing my trainers by the laces, I swiveled away from the unhelpful mirror, shoving the door wide open. "I'm going to play some sodding Quidditch!"

This was just perfect.

Simply perfect. Like really, look up 'perfection' in the dictionary and you'll find a picture of me and Wood's little girlfriend Fiona hovering in the air together, awaiting instructions from the insufferable prick himself. If you look closely, you can marvel at the fact that I'm dressed in the traditional Quidditch kit—a ratty shirt and black sweatpants—whereas Fiona's clad in a tight little terry cloth dress. In all fairness, it does have athletic stripes running down each fluffy little side, and nothing says 'athlete' like athletic stripes.

To add to this picturesque little scenario, zoom in on the expression splayed over Wood's face—the distinctly smug one that tells me that he thinks he's won. Lip curled into a crooked little half-smirk, brow raised pointedly… it's all great bloody fun. Then throw in Fiona's tinkling little laugh at Wood's serious moments—moments where he acts like he's supposed to as captain instead of an immature wanker—which cause him to smile and interrupt the whole sodding try-out to get in a good bit of flirting.

Yeah. Mix that all into a bundle of joy and you get the basic gist of my scenario. Oh, and of course the snide little comments like 'Wasn't she kicked off the team? Why's she trying out?' and 'Some people are just desperate, I guess…' from the various onlookers on the stands were really heartening. Especially since those used to be the same people who'd scream their heads off whenever I emerged victorious from a characteristically risky move. Fair-weather fans—you've got to love them.

They were nothing compared to the Slytherins, however. The entire Slytherin team was lined up on the front row of the bleachers, expressions curled into wicked sneers, calling out demeaning things as if they were getting paid by the insult I hadn't even spared them a glance upon entering—I knew the routine, they sometimes did this during practices. A single look feeds their fire.

Fiona, clearly new to this whole atmosphere, shot them snooty looks every few minutes, flipping her hair in a show of supposed superiority. I wondered if she was aware of the fact that this was a House where having a superiority complex was a pre-requisite—the flip probably wasn't all that effective. It was, however, making them rowdier, which was distinctly aggravating. All she had to do was ignore them, and they would keep to a tolerable hum—otherwise, they would try to get inside your head. It didn't much matter for her, however, because I was clearly the target of their jeers.

"Oi, Wiles—maybe if you sleep with Flint, he'll let you try-out for our team too!"

"Go home, Wiles—you were kicked off, have a little dignity!"

"She's a Gryffindor, mate—she didn't have any to begin with!"

"Oi, don't screw this up! You've already been rejected once!"

"Twice would just be pathetic!"

"Just let the blonde take over, she's probably a better shag anyway—right Wood?"

At the very mention of her, Fiona's head whipped around, eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled into a snotty look that was about as intimidating as a paraplegic earthworm. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as the Slytherin chorus grew louder—why couldn't she just use a brain cell and figure out not to acknowledge them?

"Hey, er—Fiona," I began, tired of having to deal with consequences of her moronic actions, "it's generally better if you just ignore them, 'coz usually even looking at them makes them louder."

Her head swiveled around to face mine, expression frosty. "I don't know what things you did to make them say those things about you, but I don't deserve to be called a whore."

My diplomatic expression flattened entirely, eyebrows shooting up. "What things I did?"

"Well, obviously you did something. And I simply won't tolerate taking any of the heat for it—for all I know, you really are a tart," she snipped, making my eyes narrow into slits of anger—this was getting ridiculous.

"Look, you little—"

"Alright, it looks like no one else is coming, so we might as well start," Wood's voice interjected from below, his expression holding a tinge of confusion as he glanced around the field. It really was a bit odd—dozens of people had signed their names off to try out, and yet it was only the two us.

"Anyone seen the Weasley's?" he added as an afterthought, glancing over to the bench where the rest of the team was seated, observing the try-out like they were supposed to. Everyone's gaze instantly averted, and Katie and Angelina started mumbling excuses at the same time. Alicia, always the loudest, spat out something about a detention, which seemed to appease Wood enough to simply let it go for the time being.

"Alright, well let's get started—I want you both to take a few warm-up laps, nothing too fast or fancy, just something to get your blood flowing," he instructed, though I had already veered my broom into motion halfway through the command. It was something we did before nearly every practice—I didn't need it explained. Nothing strenuous, just an easy warm-up, no big—

"Wiles!"

I pulled my broom back shortly, rearing into a halt at the sound of the barking tone—the one that implied I had done something wrong. Surprise, surprise. "What?"

"I haven't told you to go yet—listen for instructions!" he scolded, making annoyance flood my tapered gaze. Honestly, if it wasn't a sodding race, it didn't matter when I started. I just wanted to get this thing over with. Eyes rolling briefly, I swung my broom back over to the starting point, righting it sharply next to Fiona's and tossing him a somewhat impudent look that clearly stated 'Satisfied?'

He gave a nod of approval, gesturing to the field with a simple wave. "Alright, go."

I scowled as Fiona took off beside me, holding his gaze with my own. I could feel it growing steely with aggravation, slowly entering the realm of fiery, though I kept my tongue in check.

The tiniest hint of a smirk pulled up half of his mouth as he raised a brow. "Problem, Wiles?"

I held his stare for a moment longer before releasing an angry scoff, muttering a barely audible 'prick' and shooting off into motion. I could practically hear his smirk behind me.

The sensation of the bitter wind whipping against my face was a welcome one—it'd been far too long since I'd been able to fly. Even though a week didn't seem like a long time, my whole body seemed to respond to the sensation, as if fulfilling a craving it didn't even know it was having. As the cold slapped against my cheeks and numbed my hands, I felt old senses reawakening, and through my aggravation I could feel a sense of focus slowly taking over. There was nothing like flying through sharp November air to instantly straighten your thoughts—the bite of the temperature shocked you into complete concentration.

By the time I'd completed a good five laps, I forced myself to slow to a halt, lithely maneuvering back to the starting point with a better sense of focus and purpose. I was here to do what I loved to do—I was here to play Quidditch, and nothing more. Remnants of irritation were still swirling beneath the surface, but the feeling was nowhere near as overwhelming as it had been earlier. I righted my broom in front of Wood with a neutral expression, waiting patiently for further instruction.

"Okay—now we're going to practice a bit of technique. Playing seeker takes cunning and impressive flying, so let's begin with a few feints." Wood took a few step backs and crossed his arms, cocking his head to the side contemplatively. "Grizzle Feint," he ordered.

Fiona instantly flew over to the other end of the field, using quite a bit of speed in doing so, which was a rookie mistake—you save the speed for the dive. I hovered in place, however, eyes locked on Wood's with a cool expression.

"You didn't say go."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Go."

A hint of a smile pulled at my lips, satisfied with his expression. Maybe two could play at this game.

"Wiles, damn it!"

"What!?"

"I'm still talking!"

"Brilliant—and?"

"You can't start the bloody exercise until I done explaining it!"

"I already know what a Freslow Manuever is, Wood—I'm the one that told you about it!"

"Yeah, and no matter how many times I tell you, you always drop your left shoulder too far!"

"No, I don't!"

"You were already dropping it!"

"I haven't even started the move!"

"Just get down here!"

"You criticize me before I've even done anything!"

"Now!"

I exhaled sharply in intense aggravation, growling as I veered my broom around and flew back to the bleachers for what must've been the twenty-fifth time that day. Honestly, this was just getting ridiculous—I knew how to do all of these things and he sodding knew it, and yet he still bloody insisted on nit-picking everything. My hand placement, my speed inflections, the angle of my broom—everything! And his stupid bint of a girlfriend was the blandest, most unexciting flier on the sodding continent, but she had her hands in the right place, so gold fucking star, Fiona!

This is why I knew a try-out would be frustrating and stupid: it would be me trying to fill in my own bloody shoes. He took his time explaining absolutely everything in great detail, and after two hours, I was beyond restless. And of course, sodding Fiona wouldn't stop acknowledging the stupid Slytherins, so they were louder and more boisterous than ever. It was getting harder and harder to stay focused, and getting interrupted by Wood's criticism every five seconds wasn't helping at all.

"This is complete bollocks," I muttered to myself as I straightened out next to Fiona, who was observing me closely and taking it upon herself to be the exact opposite—respectful, compliant, and steadfast. "Complete and utter bollocks."

"What was that, Wiles?"

I tensed immediately at his unbearably commanding tone—what the hell was this, I wasn't four years old. I glanced up at his sergeant-like expression, demanding of an answer, and I couldn't help but scowl. "I said that this was all complete and utter bollocks."

He raised a brow. "Really?"

"Really!"

"Then why even bother?"

"I don't bloody know, Wood, why don't you tell me!? You're the one making me do this in the first place!"

"Making you? I gave you a choice, Wiles."

"No, you didn't!" I cried, feeling myself growing irrational as that familiar overwhelming feeling swept over me. "You really think giving up Quidditch for the sake of some stupid power struggle is even an option for me?"

"It sure as hell seemed to be an option a week ago."

I threw my head back in frustration, wanting to scream at the fact that such an inconsequential, rash decision was constantly being thrown back at me, haunting my actions. "I wasn't serious, Wood—I just wanted a damn apology!"

"Well, maybe this will teach you to rethink your words," he growled, his own temper starting to flare at the insolence in my tone. "In fact, here's a tip: next time you want to be treated fairly, don't call your captain an unreasonable prick."

"Next time you want your Seeker to cooperate, don't bloody act like one!"

The Slytherins were practically screaming with jeers and laughter in the background, fueling the spiraling sense of overwhelming frustration growing around me. I could feel Fiona's frosty eyes boring holes through me, burning cold with satisfaction, and I had to close my eyes for a second to block everything out. "Look, I love this game," I finally gritted out, sick of this never-ending battle and wondering if it was really even worth it anymore. "And it's for that reason and that reason alone that I'm here right now, putting up with this ridiculous try-out and those bloody idiotic Slytherins that you," I glared angrily at Fiona, "keep encouraging."

I heard the howls increase tenfold from below as a low, throbbing pain began pounding in my head, adding to the feeling of a pending explosion building within my body. "So don't for one second think it's easy for me to swallow my pride and undermine my own resolutions and come out here, because it's not," I growled, eyes trained steadily on Wood's, "it's actually really fucking hard. But I love playing, I love flying, and with the exception of you," I spat, "I love this team. So I really have no other choice."

His expression was entirely inscrutable. Similar to the way it had been in the common room a few days earlier, yet somehow different. Harder. Stonier. Something about it was distinctly more intimidating, and the silence that followed only augmented this. "I'm the captain of this team, Wiles," he spoke after a moment, voice low and even, "and I'm going to be for the rest of the season. Since that's clearly going to be a problem for you, since I'm clearly going to be the weak spot in your commitment, the person that makes you think you have a right to quit at your little fancy and leave an entire fucking team behind—then I'm going to ask you to get off the field."

His eyes were frighteningly serious. "Now."

I blinked.

And suddenly it was all just too much. Way too bloody much. The Slytherins' jeers howling in my ears, Wood's livid gaze burning into mine, Fiona's barely hidden little smile ringing with satisfaction, unexpected tears forming in my eyes—everything around me spiraled together into more than I could possibly take, and I needed to get away.

Fast.

Without so much as a warning, I jerked my broom to the side, cutting a dangerously sharp turn away from the field. Stubborn, stupid tears were blurring my vision as I barreled forward, speed reckless and irresponsibly fast.

"Andy!"

I heard Katie's voice sound faintly from behind me as I streaked past the stands, motion directed toward the Black Lake—I didn't know why, but I needed the tranquility of the frigid water. It was far too cold for people to be lounging by the edges, and I just wanted to get away from anything and everything. Trees began flying past me as the freezing wind mingled with the burning tears in my eyes, drying them before they could fall. I flipped and turned to avoid the sharp branches jutting into my path, more concerned with getting away than with safety.

I didn't know why Wood's words had made everything reach a sudden breaking point in me, but they had. A dry, choked sort of sob escaped from my throat, and I just felt like bloody crying. I was overwhelmed and disoriented, and all I wanted was for everything to stop.

A fair few scratches decorated my arms as I finally cleared the patch of dry forest, the bitter underbrush below me giving way to crystalline grey water. I soared over the lake with the same reckless abandonment that Wood always maligned me for. Something about moving at the same speed as my thoughts gave me a strange sense of balance—and balance was something I desperately needed. There, in the freezing cold of the winter air, hovering above the glassy surface of the Black Lake, I felt like I could finally think.

And so I did.

For two hours, I skirted the entire expanse of the lake. I flew across it, around it, high above it, inches away from it, grazed my fingers along it, let the tips of my hair trail the surface—everything. And after two hours, I could finally call myself calm. Tense, yes, but still calm. My heart had slowed to a slow beat within my chest, my thoughts were floating instead of racing in my head, and my eyes were completely void of stubborn tears. I was collected, but that didn't mean I wasn't content.

I was simply alright.

My fingers were numb as I reached for the door to the Entrance Hall, my overall appearance ragged and windswept. The warmth of the room flooded over me in a welcome rush, soaring through my knotted hair and flushed, tear-stained cheeks. I wandered slowly through the corridors, looking like absolute hell on earth with my puffy eyes and wind-chapped lips. A little boy screamed when I walked into the Common Room, but I didn't pay him any mind. I just ambled my way up the wooden staircase, tired and numb and craving a hot shower.

The second I pushed the door open, three heads sporting various expressions instantly shot up: an anxious brunette, a relieved head of braids, and an absolutely livid blonde. Alicia was, predictably, the first to speak.

"Where the hell were you!?" By speak, I mean yell.

"Oh, thank Merlin you're alright," Katie breathed out, the furrow of worry relaxing slightly from her expression.

"Kats was about to have a sodding heart-attack—you can't just fly off like that, Andy," Angelina scolded, though concern was the primary emotion in her voice.

They all began speaking at once, overrunning each other's sentences and trying to get there message across, and quite frankly, I really didn't want to hear any of it. It was late, I was tired, and I was cold.

I wanted quiet.

Without saying a word, I simply walked over to the bathroom, ignoring the sounds of their loud, blurring voices as I slammed the door shut. I could hear a momentary silence seize hold of the other side of the door, but at this point, I really didn't give a damn. I simply wrenched the showerhead on to its fullest, stripped off my damp clothes, and stepped into the heat of the scalding water.

No more Quidditch. No more Wood.

End of story.

A/N: Sorry for the astronomical wait – college apps and interviews have taken over my life. I know this chapter is nowhere near as humorous and light as the other ones, but I knew this try-out was going to go disastrously from the beginning, so I didn't want to break that for a bit of humor. The next chapter will be far less boring and back to it's usual zing, so don't be disillusioned!

And of course, Happy Thanksgiving! Ingest a lot of Tryptophan! (Woot for Bio nerds).