A/N: I've never written a Quidditch match before, so I hope its okay. Thank you all for your reviews!

I need some opinions on my character, Rosalie, after you read this chapter. Do you think she's developed well enough, and does she seem like a Mary Sue? Because the last thing I want is for her to be a Mary Sue. This is my first multi-chapter story, so any critique is welcomed. Thanks for all of your feedback!

Chapter 9 - A Match To Remember

I was sitting by myself at the Slytherin table, tentatively eating some potatoes that had gone cold thirty minutes ago. I stared at my fork, watching the light reflet dimly on the metal, my mouth slightly parted. Eyes blinking tiredly, I finally dropped my fork and wiped my hand over my face in exhaustion. I cracked my knuckles anxiously, out of habit.

There was a thud as Georgiana sat with Veronique on their side of the table, like usual. I didn't bother telling them that they'd just missed dinner.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Georgiana demanded.

I already knew where this was going. "Fuck off, Ruthford."

She winced when I called her by her last name. That meant I was already pissed and cranky. But she didn't back down; she had probably worked on this speech the entire walk to the Great Hall. "What's been going on with you lately?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, not interested in what she had to say.

"Well, first of all, you broke up with Matthias. And I've been seeing you and Potter exchanging glances lately..."

"Look, Georgiana," I growled. "What I do and who I "exchange glances" with is entirely my business. Keep your huge nose out of my affairs!"

Georgiana's hand rose to her nose at my offence.

"So, you've taking a liking to the Potters then, have you?" Veronique asked me, eyebrows cocked.

"I didn't say that," I said snarkily. "But so what if I did? Why should you care?"

Georgiana shook her head. "You're a smart girl, Rosalie. You were the perfect image of a Pureblood Slytherin two months ago. But now... you're going to create a lot of enemies by hanging out with filthy blood like the Potters."

Shaking my head in disgust, I stood to leave. "I'm not going to listen to this bullshit any longer."

"You need to pick a side, Rosalie!" Veronique called out. "Its us or them."

James snickered with his cousin and best friend, Fred, as they watched some third year Slytherins run around with bright scarlet and gold hair, screeching profanities. It was an old prank, pulled millions of times, but still a classic and very entertaining.

"That's great," Fred laughed. "Where should we strike next?"

James pondered for a minute. "Maybe we should do something with Professor Snape's portrait, or feed some first years the Canary Creams I've had since my fifteenth birthday."

Fred nodded. "All very valid suggestions... Oh, I know! How about we put some Puking Pastilles in that cow Rosalie's drink! Haha, she'd get sick all over the Slytherin table!"

The answer was quick but off beat. James responded with a "no", clearly not impressed by the idea.

Fred's brow furrowed. "Why not? She deserves it."

James shook his head. "Don't talk about Rosalie like that." And he got up and left, leaving Fred terribly confused and unsure.

Today was the day.

Gryffindor verses Slytherin.

I cracked my knuckles vigoriously, rotating my head in clockwise circles and grinning like a child on Christmas.

"This is what I've trained you for!" I yelled at my team. There were enthusiastic shouts errupting from all of them, brooms raised into the air like precious trophies. We were all dressed into our green and silver uniforms, numbers permanently stitched to our backs.

I was number 6. I'd always been number 6; I wore it proudly. On my chest, I wore my Captain's badge with dignity.

"We're quick guys. We're smart," I said, voice hushed dramatically. "They take risks, but they don't take them carefully. Observe, guys. Keep your eyes out. Beaters: protect your players at all costs. But most of all, protect the Seeker and the keeper. They are important players.

"Chasers: Don't hoard the ball! I've said it once and I'll say it again. You can't win the game by yourself; its a team effort. Always remember that.

"Albus, well-" I ruffled his black hair with my gloved hand. "You do everything you can to get that snitch."

"Aye, aye!" He mock-saluted me.

I shoved him playfully. "Who's ready to kick some arse? Who's ready to win?"

The sounds of the crowd cheering sent chills down my spine. I couldn't help but grin widely as I ran to the center of the field, where Madam Hooch stood impatiently. Potter was there, too, giving me the most arrogant smirk ever.

"Alright guys. I want a fair game, you hear?" Hooch barked. "Shake hands."

Potter reached out and I swiftly took his hand, shaking it briskly. "Ready to get bitten in the arse?" I asked, challenging him.

He waved the thought away dismissively. "In your dreams, Flint."

Hooch went over some basic rules, but I wasn't listening; I basically breathed Quidditch. Plus, admitted without shame, I'd memorized the entire Quidditch rule book.

"Brooms in the air!" she shouted, and I mounted my broom gracefully, rising into the air to join my team. I got into the position for Chaser, hovering over the center of the field and waiting for Hooch to release the Quaffle.

"Today's going to be quite a match!" A booming voice echoed. It was Siobhan Finnigan's voice, heavly laced with a thick Irish accent like her parents'. She sat in a box near the professors, gripping an amplification device carefully. "Everyone's going to be on the edge of their seats today for the first Slytherin/Gryffindor match of the season!"

Screams errupted from the stands.

I quickly evaluated the Gryffindor team with careful eyes; James Potter was suspended in the air with a beater bat clenched in his hand, a determined look on his face. I recognized the other beater to be Justin Goforth.

Evelyn Wood sat on her broom in front of the goal posts, dressed in top notch Keeper pads. Her father, Oliver Wood, had played for Puddlemere United and was quite famous in the Quidditch world. She would, no doubt, have the best equipment money could buy.

The Gryffindor chasers were Jonathon Thomas, Fred Weasley, and Liz McLaggen. They, too, wore expressions of intense determination. Last but not least, Roxanne Weasley flew up ahead, Seeker goggles planted firmly over her eyes.

My own team was impressively intimidating, especially Albus. I knew Potter was irritated that Albus was on the Slytherin team, and I always took joy in that.

I turned my head to bring my eyes to Hooch. She reached for the buldgers and unbuckled them quickly, releasing them on to the pitch. Instantly, the beaters were after them like hunters chasing their prey. She also released the snitch, but it was impossible to see no matter what, so I didn't bother looking for it.

My focus was entirely on the Quaffle now.

She blew on her whistle with a hard gust, the defeaning, screeching sound hurting my ears. Then, she threw the Quaffle into the air.

Following the stragedy we discussed at practice the other morning, I flew forward into the lions' side of the field. Corrin Vandevort grasped the Quaffle in her arm, steering her broom forwards. With nimble and fluid movements, she threw the Quaffle to Scorpius, but the pass was intercepted by Fred. Scowling, Corrin followed James hot on his tail, until he passed the Quaffle to Liz.

While the Quaffle was being knocked around, the Beaters were busy protecting the players.

"And James Potter sends a nasty buldger at Corrin Vandevort, but Elliot Guff deflects it and sends it flying at Justin Goforth! Ouch, thats going to leave a mark," Siobhan boomed.

I looked to my left to see Scorpius throw the Quaffle at me. I quickly caught it in my hands and flew towards the goal, tossing it towards the lowest hoop. Unfortunately, Evelyn Wood was fast and kicked it to Thomas.

"Rosalie Flint makes a great shot but Evelyn Wood is too quick!"

I scowled.

My cloaks billowed behind me as I continued flying. The game continued on like this for a while. About thirty minutes later, the score was 40 - 10, Gryffindor leading, and Guff was in the infirmary with a concussion.

This wasn't going the way I expected.

Roland was holding off well on his own, but just one Beater wasn't enough.

I hurriedly intercepted a pass between Thomas and McLaggen, zooming towards the Gryffindor goals. I gracefully avoided a buldger, which flew at me with sickening speed. By dodging it, it smacked into McLaggen behind me with a disgusting crack.

"Flint dodges the buldger sent at her by Potter, only to have it bring McLaggen down! Flint flies forward and throws the Quaffle at the hoops and... she scores! Ten points for Slytherin!"

Cheers errupted from the Slytherins in the stands and I smirked. Soon enough, the ball was back in play.

Another ten minutes later, and the score was 50 - 30. I looked up ahead and saw Roxanne flying after the Snitch with great speed, Albus behind her.

No. We couldn't lose. We weren't going to lose.

"What a save by Cadmus Galloway! And James sends a nasty buldger at his brother, Albus-"

The thought registered in my mind and my stomach flopped. If Potter took out Albus, Roxanne was sure to catch the snitch. The thought of Gryffindor celebrating their victory made me sick and I decided rather arrogantly that it wasn't going to happen.

I stopped listening to Siobhan's play by play of the scenario and, acting on impulse, I pushed myself to go faster and faster towards Albus. He seemed to be oblivious, not noticing the buldger flying at him with terrible accuracy, or me barreling towards him determinedly.

"If this buldger hits Albus, he'll be out for the rest of game and Gryffindor will be- What's this? It looks like Flint is trying to get in between the buldger and Albus! She's trying to take the hit for their star Seeker!"

I came to a halt in the air between Albus and the buldger, waiting as it grew closer and closer... In a matter of seconds, I felt an excruciating pain in my stomach and heard a repulsive, splintering sound. The blow knocked me off of my broom, but I couldn't understand what was happening. All I could think about was the immense pain.

It felt like everything I saw was through a thick fog. My vision was blurred and my hearing was hazy.

And then I saw black.

"What is she doing?"

James watched, dumbfounded, as he watched Rosalie towards Albus, who wasn't aware of the scene going on behind him. His brother was inching closer and closer to the snitch, slowly passing his cousin Roxanne.

Rosalie stopped and within three seconds, the buldger connected with her thin body and the crack was so loud, even James heard it from the other side of the pitch. The sound distracted Roxanne for half a second, but by then it was too late. Albus reached forward and grabbed the snitch in his hand victoriously. Flint was unconscious as she fell towards the ground, landing with a disgusting crunch.

"And Albus Potter catches the snitch! 150 points for Slytherin; Slytherin wins the match! Rosale Flint has- holy shit, is that blood?"

McGonagall didn't even have time to yell at Siobhan about her language. She hurried to Rosalie's crumpled body on the pitch with Madam Hooch and Madam Pomfrey by her sides.

James ran a trembling hand through his hair nervously before landing, like the other players, near Rosalie and examining the damage.

She was lying on her side, curled into an ball. Some of her ribs were obviously broken, poking out of her stomach unnaturally. Her leg was bent awkwardly and the back of her head was gushing blood from an odious gash. On top of that, her wrist was twisted and her nose was dripping more blood.

"Ugh," Roland muttered and turned his face away. James heard someone puke behind him.

"Everyone back away!" Madam Pomfrey yelled. "She's seriously injured! Potter, you carry her to the infirmary!" She ordered.

James stood there with his mouth agape.

"Now!"

Blinking back to reality, he bent over and scooped the light girl into his arms. Her head lolled backwards and her cracked lips parted slightly from the motion.

James obeyed Pomfrey and carried her all the way to the infirmary. Only when he put her down did he see all of the blood on his left hand and he shut his eyes tightly.

He couldn't help but feel responsible for Rosalie's injuries. It had been him, after all, who sent the viscious buldger at his own brother. Rosalie was an acceptable- no, an outstanding Quidditch player and captain, and this sacrifice had allowed them to win the first match.

She deserved it.