How many of you remember that Leigh Ann had been chosen for Quidditch Captain, or that she has a REALLY prominent Southern accent? If you did, cookie for you! If not, the Quidditch part comes in right here!(:

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor Quidditch, and unfortunately, I don't own Viktor Krum, either!

Quidditch Tryouts

Leigh Ann Nelson
Saturday, September 23, 7:00 A.M.
Quidditch Pitch

Between Officer Training, Advanced classes, and helping the Army with football conditioning, I'd almost completely forgotten about being Quidditch Captain and lead Chaser. I knew that my brother would be on the team, as he was the second best Chaser in the entire Army. I wasn't sure if Mary Louis would keep her position or not, because I had my eyes on a Third Year who had been pretty good in their first year...

I shook my head and concentrated on tryouts for Beaters. So far, I'd managed to whittle them down to about four, but I could only have two. For a moment, I wished that Fred and George were here, because they'd been pretty good, and I was having my doubts for a good Beater. Captain Jeanette McCurdy was alright, though, and I knew that the Seventh Year Officer would defiantly be one of the Beaters. So I kicked off one more Third Year from the roster, and then looked at my remaining two. One of them wasn't that great at flying, but was killer with the Beater's bat. The other was just the opposite. So, teach one to fly, or teach one to hit?

Viktor. Duh. I kicked off the one who couldn't hit, because I knew that Viktor could teach the scrawny Second Year to fly.

"Alright. Everyone take five." Oliver Riley, the Second Year Beater I'd chosen, was still excited about getting on the team, so he really didn't care about getting a break. But the rest of the hopeful contestants who'd been flying around the entire time, being looked over by Jason and Jeanette, were more than ready to take a break. "Keepers, you're all up next. And then we'll get our Seeker."

Jason came over to me, sweat dripping on his face. Since it was a Saturday, he was in civilian clothes, though it wasn't long before he took his shirt off to keep cool. "Leigh Ann," he said, throwing his broom onto one shoulder, "you're killin' us."

"Can't stand the heat, get off of my pitch," I said simply, shrugging. I looked over the roster as all of the fliers topped and set foot on the ground, some of them limping over to the water coolers. It looked like, for my Keeper, I had four contestants, one of them the Keeper last year with a thirty-point losing average per game. His name was Cameron, and he was an Eighth Year this year. I knew that I would get crap for not keeping him, because he was so popular and "supposedly" a good player, but the Third Year that I'd never seen before was pretty amazing.

So when I announced that the Third Year, (Estala, her name was, from Southern California,) had gotten the position after they'd all tried out, and I'd chosen Cameron as back-up, because heaven knows that we'd lost more than one Keeper to a bad Bludger, it was needless to say that people got quite angry. Half of my Seeker trainees walked out on me, even last year's Seeker, Ronald Zwieback from South Dakota.

"Damn," I cursed, looking over my last two contestants. I was left with a rather scrawny First Year and the new Fifth Year Officer, Alana O'Malley. There was something about the New Yorker that I hadn't liked from the beginning. Maybe it was her perfectly-wavy hair, or her perfect, lithe body. Or even her flat, fast-paced accent. All I knew was that I didn't want her as my Seeker. Even if she was the best person for the job. I probably would have even picked her over Ronald, though I would have hated to admit it.

And so, I had my Quidditch team for the year.

Saturday, 6:00 P.M.
Army Barracks "Common Room"

You know, most people don't understand the need for a good, old-fashioned Saturday afternoon off. There was no Quidditch, (no matter how much I loved to play, sometimes you just needed an afternoon off,) there weren't any classes, (even if I DID have that three page essay on hexes from Viktor and a dragon pox theory to come up with, but I could do that tomorrow after church and before the professional pigskin,) and most of all, there was no more Alana O'Malley from New Yo-ak. I swear, if I heard anything else about a "knish" again, I was going to shove a knish down her skinny little throat!

Ahem. Anyways, as I'd been saying, everyone needed an old-fashioned Sunday afternoon off. There was nothing better than sitting back with everyone in the Army Barracks, screaming their heads off at the multiple large-screen televisions that some of the older kids had smuggled into the "Common Room." It sounded so strange, coming from our school, to even hear those words. But ever since we'd gone to Hogwarts, the Rec Room had turned into the "Common Room," not that I was complaining.

Oh, wait, I was getting off track again. You'd think that I wanted a nice, quiet day off. But this Saturday, (and usually Sunday,) ritual, all of us sitting around the seven flat screens, watching different college and professional football games from as many different angles as possible...well, that was my kind of Saturday. One TV was even showing a rerun of the 1994 Quidditch World Cup! How did someone even get a camera in there? Anyways, I wasn't going to say that I was a particular fan of any certain football team, *cough*The Alabama Crimson Tides*cough*. No, of course not. I wasn't wearing my large, crimson jersey with the giant A on the front. Nope. And my brother wasn't arguing with me about how much better the Auburn Tigers were. Totally not. The Tides are better, just so ya know.

And then, of course, there was the little priss, who thought that football was nothing but a Neanderthal sport and needed to be replaced with synchronized swimming and yoga. And no, it wasn't that I was completely jealous of her for taking my place as Belle in the Fall Musical, Beauty and the Beast. Because I'd gotten Pocahontas in Pocahontas! Beat THAT, miss football-is-a-sport-for-fat-men-who-sit-and-scratch-their-bellies! We Southerners took our football seriously, unlike that...that monster! Who in their sane mind doesn't like football? It's...it's FOOTBALL!

So, obviously, I was a little peeved at her. Over four-fifths of the Army was in the common room, the other few people out with their new little leader, Miss Alana. She wasn't even interested in watching the Quidditch match!

Strangely, though, I was. I had already seen reruns of it from my mother, from her memories, but watching it on the TV, seeing Viktor out there on his broomstick...it was amazing.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome - the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you – Dimitrov!" Ah, how is the old devil? A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick shot out onto the field from an entrance right below me. He was flying on a Firebolt.

"Ivanova!" Miss that old girl. A second zoomed out. "Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov!Aaaaaaaand...Krum!"

Many Omnioculars were pulled out, and the "camera" zoomed in, though I already knew what he looked like. How many times had I seen him, touched his face, held onto him as he kissed the breath completely out of me? He was tall, broad, and dark. His nose was long and straight, his eyes a dark chocolate that just made me want to melt. Here, his hair was shorter, though I thought that I liked him much better with his slightly longer hair that curled like fine baby curls. The maroon of his jersey suited him well. It was hard to believe he was only nineteen, then, and almost twenty, now.

"And now, please greet—the Irish National Quidditch Team! Presenting - Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Morgan! Quigley! Aaaaaaaand—Lynch!" Seven green blurs swept onto the field, all of them still using Firebolts. I wondered if, one day, some of them would be riding a Rocket, which was a broom of my own creation.

"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!" A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a mustache, and wearing robes of pure gold, strode onto the field. In his mouth was a silver whistle, and he was carrying the large crate customary for holding the Quidditch balls and his broom. He mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open.

Three balls instantly zoomed into the air, and the man threw up the Quaffle on his own. With a sharp blast on the whistle, Mostafa quickly climbed after the balls.

"Theeeeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Ludo Bagman. I knew that it was him, because I remembered his voice from England. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"

It was a usual Quidditch match to me. And did no one have any originality? With the Hawkshead Attacking Formation, and the Porskoff Ploy? I watched as Troy scored, and it was ten to zero Ireland. Of course, the Ireland chasers were superb, and I knew that Bulgaria hadn't stood a chance, then, even before they'd gotten good enough to lose by ten points to America.

Though within ten minutes, Ireland had scored two more times. Check back in with the Crimson Tide game...fourteen to ten, Tides winning against Georgia. And Auburn? Losing by one to Florida. Gotcha.

After Ireland's second score, the match became faster. The Bulgarian Beaters were starting to be on their A-game, working hard to throw the Irish off their own game. It worked for a while, too, and Bulgaria scored their first goal. After that, Bulgaria, of course, had possession. "Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova—oh, I say!"

One hundred thousand magical fold gasped as the two Seekers flew downwards, between the Chasers, and it seemed that they were falling with gravity from high up. If this was what I thought it was… If not, they're going to crash… At the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. The Irish Seeker, though, hit the ground with a sickening crack. "It's time-out!" Bagman yelled, "as trained med wizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!"

"Good move, eh?" Jason asked as he ruffled my hair. I jumped, not realizing that he'd been standing over me. "I don't think that Alana could pull it off, though."

"Of course not," I said, rolling my eyes. "It's the Wronski Defensive Feint. The little priss is lucky enough to catch the practice Snitches."

Jason, always the insightful one, sat down beside me with a beer, which was a violation and he was an Officer, but whatever, he was 21, he could do whatever he wanted. "I take it you weren't happy about havin' to pick her for Seeker?"

"What else could I do?" I asked, watching as Lynch got to his feet and The Crimson Tides got another touchdown. "She's good. I hate to say it, but she really is." Finally, after a long time, Lynch got to his feet and mounted, kicking off into the air. All that time, however, Krum had looked all around for the Snitch without interference.

Mostafa blew the whistle again, and the Chasers moved even faster. "I know that she's good, sis," he said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "But so are you. And you're the Captain. You don't like the way she does things, just boot her off the team."

"But I can't," I groaned, wishing that for a moment, all of the noise in the barracks would quiet, and that I could get a second of alone time with my brother. "Everyone else was upset because I chose Estala over Cameron, so they walked. And besides, even Ronald isn't as good as Alana, you know that."

"Yeah, I know." After fifteen more minutes, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals. It was one hundred and thirty points to ten.

Mullet shot towards the goal posts, clutching the Quaffle tightly, and the Bulgarian Keeper Zograf flew out to meet her. The whistle was blown and I shook my head. Excessive use of elbows, I guessed, and I was right. Ireland got a penalty.

I looked over at my brother, wondering when he became the one I had to go to for all of my troubles. Alex, who was sitting over with Mary, strangely, was the one I usually went to. And Mary was a close second. It used to be Michal, but he'd gotten expelled.

You see, the thing was, about this school...it wasn't a school that you just got into automatically. You either needed a letter of recommendation from a family member who'd gone to the school and a high enough test score to survive, or you really wanted to be here and you passed a series of tests, physically and mentally, to get inside. And then, just to please the Wizarding Congress, we allowed a certain number of Muggles into our second year, after they'd learned some things. And if you didn't get in, there were two other schools to go to in the US. There was the Salem Witch Institute, mostly for females, and then the Desert School of Arizona, which held both, but boys tended to go there. It was more based on England's school system, and the Salem Witch Institute was more based on a real life high school.

Needless to say, I didn't have to be here, enduring the highest level of learning or the Hell Week. I didn't have to be here, getting woken up at five in the morning just so that I could take a three-mile endurance run. I was here because I wanted to be, not because I had to. My mother had signed the admission slip, as had her father, before he'd passed away, and I'd passed the magic exam with flying colors.

"You know, Anna…I've been thinkin' lately…" His words caught me off guard and brought me back to the present.

"Ooh, dangerous," I said jokingly as I turned back to the Quidditch match and stole the beer from his hand, taking a swig of it. I still didn't like it, but a football party wasn't a football party without beer.

"No, I really need you to listen to this," he said, and I looked up at him as the Veela became the part of a large argument, and the ref gave Ireland another penalty. He looked really nervous. Like…really nervous. My brother was never nervous! He was my brother!

"Yeah?" I asked, trying to make this as nonchalant as possibly for him by turning back to the game. There were plenty more fouls as the game went on, and Bulgaria only scored a few more times. "Must be pretty serious."

He nodded, and I knew that this was going to be very, very hard for him. He had to clear his throat a few times in order to actually talk. "Well…you remember that girl from the Triwizard Tournament?"

Tall leggy blonde with the bright blue eyes and, ahem, assets? "Evangeline?"

"Yeah, her."

Obviously. "What of her?"

And now the un-brotherly-like things were continuing. Jason was fidgeting! "Well… things are gettin' a little…serious."

I had to bite my lip to keep from saying what I really wanted to, and also to keep from laughing. My brother…actually getting serious about a girl… What a laugh! "Well, you might want to bring her home to meet the family before you get hitched. You never know what she'll think of the in-laws before she actually meets them."

Maybe turning this conversation into a joke hadn't been the best thing ever, but that's what he would have done with me, and I really didn't think that I could have kept it serious anyways. He wasn't talking anymore, just had a strange look over his face as I turned my attention back to the TV.

One of the Irish Beaters swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and it was hit towards Viktor. I instantly covered my face, hearing the sickening crack of his nose breaking, and I felt really sick. Knowing that his nose had been broken before was sickening enough, but actually having to witness it? Blood was everywhere, but Viktor seemed to ignore it as he kept looking for the snitch. Hasssan Mostafa was too busy fighting with a now-bird-like-and-scaly-Veela who was throwing fire to notice that he was hurt.

"Someone call a time-out!" a spectator near the camera cried out, while Bagman was saying the same thing. "Look at him! He can't play like that!"

"Wait, look at Lynch!" a small voice, probably a girl, cried. The Irish Seeker was in a dive. "He's got his sights on the Snitch!" Viktor was instantly on his tail. They were drawing level as they drew towards the ground and—

BAM! Lynch ploughed into the ground again.

"Where's the Snitch?" Bagman asked, and everyone in the stadium looked around.

"Viktor's got it," I replied softly, listening as the entire stadium went wild. And that was the end of it. BULGARIA – 160, IRELAND – 170. Almost exactly how the American-Bulgarian game had ended, but 190 to 200. "Alana's good, but..."

"But no one could be better than him," my brother said, patting me on the arm. He stood up and swigged down the last of his beer, gently ruffling my hair again. "No even Alana. Remember that." And with that, he walked away, not even bragging to me about how Auburn won their game.

Damn. I owe him twenty bucks.

Hmm...what does Jason have up his sleeve? Leigh Ann doesn't seem to even understand the gravity of this situation!

"Leigh Ann," came a small Southern voice, and I looked down to see my little sister staring up at me with a smirk in her olive green eyes. "Looks like it's up to us."

"Looks like it," I said, happy that she had come over to me to take me away from the crowd. I wanted to tell her what I'd figured out about Jason, but I knew that he probably wanted to keep that a secret, so I bit my lip and kept at our conversation. "But don't get your hopes up, Jess."

She smiled widely, showing off perfectly straight white teeth, although something about the smile was…sinister. "We'll wipe the pitch with you."

I couldn't help but smile challengingly back, looking down at her five foot five inches of height. "You wish."

"See you later?" she asked, stepping back, as if afraid to touch me. That's strange… She's acting skittish.

"Yeah. You'll have to help me with Arithmacy."

She smirked again, my doubt in her suddenly abating. "See you then."

I smiled as I watched my sister mount her broom and fly off, ready to face the world as she always did. It was strange, seeing her walk away, because from behind, you'd never think that either of us were related. Just the confidence in which she held herself, or the look in her eyes made us both completely different. I'd never be like her, but maybe that was a good thing.