Chaser Prodigy
“ C’mon , Pete, we’re gonna be late!”
“Late for being early, maybe.”
“Come on -”
“Alright, alright, hold your bloody horses.”
It had been only a few weeks, and already Gangster was starting to rub off on the four Gryffindor first years. Peter had fought it the hardest, solely because he refused to pick anything up from the scarred giant, but there wasn’t much to be done short of donning a pair of Professor Sprout’s fuzzy earmuffs and cowering within his four-poster curtains. He wasn’t quite so desperate just yet.
Although, if it could get him out of Quidditch tryouts, he might give it a go. “Finally, will you get a move on,” James groaned, wrapping both hands around Peter’s arm and physically hauling him the rest of the way out of the common room, nearly capsizing them both. “You know I wanted to go practice early! Now it’s going to be so crowded!”
“We’ve been practicing early every weekend , James, you’re not going to get miraculously better in an hour,” Peter huffed, still being dragged along. His best friend was strong, not just from Quidditch practice but from staying in shape for all the sports he participated in, that counting Muggle as well. James had already pinned large scribbles of baseballs and footballs to Gryffindor’s notice boards with instructions for meeting times for pickup games. They were popular, too, especially after Sirius Black joined. Peter was pretty sure his eyes had bulged out of his skull when James told him. A Black playing Muggle sports? Evidently, there was a first time for everything, and it was whenever Sirius Black decided to make his way over.
His relationship with his new DADA partner had only worsened with time. Sirius Black was talented , incredibly so, and although Elessandre had allowed them the use of their wands soon enough, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if Black secured the professor’s grand prize for mastering wandless magic first, a prize which seemed to grow by the day. What had originally been just a handful of quills now included chocolate from Hogwarts’s neighboring town, five points extra credit in class and a ticket to some muggle museum back in London. Peter had gotten the lowdown on the concept of a museum from some muggleborn in the class – he couldn’t quite see the appeal. Black didn’t much seem to either.
“He doesn’t think any of us can do it,” Black had mentioned off-hand, after he’d successfully disarmed Peter for the fourteenth time. He twirled the short wand in his fingers carelessly. “I’m going to stick it in his face, though. He can keep his bloody quills and chocolate.”
“Can I have my wand back?” Peter had asked, face screwed up with the effort it took to be polite. Of course none of us can do it , he didn’t say. The reading assigned had claimed it was only something the most accomplished wizards ever achieved. Black had only smirked.
“Disarm me, why don’t you? C’mon Wormy, where’s your magic?”
Which was another thing, really. The nickname had caught on far too fast for such a large castle, and now Peter was fairly certain half the people who he spoke to didn’t even know his real name. James resolutely held out, refusing to participate and taking care to correct others even though Peter had outright refused to tell him about the incident with Snape and Derratia. It was obviously enough a derogatory nickname. Still, Peter was resigned to it, just as he was to Black’s taunting, and he’d eventually gotten his wand back only to have it stolen once again before he could so much as open his mouth.
The pureblood boy genius met them at the pitch, flying over to knock fists with James and tug on Peter’s broom’s tail as he passed. Peter nearly capsized twenty feet up. At least no one was looking when he’d finally regained stability; he glanced over the field to distract himself.
The Quidditch pitch was bursting at the seams with students.
Today was Gryffindor tryouts, so the sea of kids was distinctly colored maroon and gold, with a couple other colors sprinkled in where other Houses had come to watch, or someone had forgotten their uniform robes. Peter had opted for a hoodie and jeans, since he truly hated flying in robes, but James was looking regal as ever adorned in bright red. They were only first-years. Really, it was insane to imagine an eleven-year-old could ever play on a team where majority of the participants were closer to seventeen. James was determined to try, though, and he’d pleaded until Peter agreed to try alongside him, although for what purpose Peter wasn’t sure. James had more than enough support to go around.
The shriek of a whistle pierced through the chatter, dropping a blanket of silence over the whizzing of brooms flashing past. A girl with braids severely parted two thirds of the way across her head was floating by the goalposts, about halfway up. When she spoke, her voice echoed through the listeners’ bones, and Peter nearly fell off his broom for the second time in as many minutes.
“Oi, listen up! I'm Bones, and I'm your House’s Quidditch captain, unless you aren't in Gryffindor, in which case why the fuck are you here.”
This last part she paired with a glare towards the stands. The smattering of victims only laughed good-naturedly, with the brave students actually flipping her off. She sniffed and turned from them, guiding her broom in a lazy circle around the eager faces of prospective teammates. Her movements were easy, comfortable. It was as though she'd been born to fly.
A harsh elbow caught Peter in the side and he scrambled to keep himself upright. Beside him, James was already hissing the essential update. “ That's Amelia Bones !”
“Oh, damn,” Peter winced, not just from the pain in his left arm. “You mean – Amelia Bones who's one of the youngest players signed onto the Tornadoes ever ? That Amelia Bones?”
James nodded eagerly. “D’you reckon she'd autograph something for me?”
“We’re going to start with Chasers. Everybody else, off the pitch, and if you're in your first three years you may as well go too, save yourselves the time.”
Peter looked sidelong over at his friend, whose shoulders had slumped slightly. “Maybe now's not the best time.”
“This is bloody rigged. Is she not even going to consider us?”
“Oi.” He waited until James met his gaze, offering a smile. “Since when do you ever avoid something because you might mess up? That's my brand, mate. Give it a try, there's nothing to lose right?”
“She's gonna kick me out the moment she realizes I'm a first year,” James protested. Peter narrowed his eyes.
“More like she's gonna be impressed by how good you are for a first-year. You're better than average, James.”
“You don't know that-”
“I do . Quit comparing yourself to kids six years older than you and just play Quidditch, James, and if she wants you she'll take you and if not you'll try again next year.”
“But-”
“James. Go .”
With a lopsided grin and a steeling-himself breath, James saluted and sped off. Peter watched him fly, a blur of red streaking across the pitch towards the growing crowd of hopefuls, already being herded into individual groups by the yelling captain. James was quickly shoved aside. Peter looked on, heart in his throat, as his friend shook it off and joined a random group himself.
They were splitting up to do different tasks, Peter noted, and as he squinted he could see how several of them didn’t look too pleased about it. One group was set onto taking laps, another onto passing drills, and a third tipping in shots at the triple-hoop setup on one end of the pitch. James went with the passing group, and seemed to be doing alright, although some of the players were tossing way off target. As he watched, a Quaffle hit the boy beside James smack in the side of the head, sending him spiraling to the ground. James dived down in time to grab his arm, stopping enough of the momentum for the kid to only tumble softly across the grass, before heading back up to his position. As far as Peter could tell, no one had noticed his brief absence. Maybe he would get points for sportsmanship –
“GET OUT OF THE WAY!”
He startled so hard the wood slipped beneath his fingers, and all of a sudden the broom was gone, and he was weightless in the air, his heart weightless in his stomach, an arm hooking around his waist, and they flew , like he’d never flown before, cutting twists through the whistling air on a near vertical path straight for the stands.
“Oi, get on!”
Shaking all over, Peter scrabbled at his savior’s arm and clambered on behind, getting a faceful of frizzy blonde hair before he realized he knew this girl. She was the one who made everyone call her by her last name, to make some point or other – McKinnon, that was it. He reflected, as they dived into formation at the head of the group doing laps, that it wasn’t at all surprising for her to be moving faster than everyone else even with an extra passenger. Brooms didn’t care about weight. The charms would support as many people as could physically fit on the handle, but balancing that weight into maneuvers was not the least bit intuitive.
McKinnon handled it like she was born with wings.
Peter – on the other hand – couldn't speak, had no time to even scream. They arced around the track for another loop and it was all he could do to screw his eyes up against the wind whipping at their faces. In his mind a chant played, over and over and over in panicked prayer: don't die, don't die, don't die, don't -
She let him off amid a cluster of trees just infringing on the borders of the pitch, and his swaying vision managed to pick up her return to the pack, now more evenly in line with the rest. The groups dissolved at Bones’s whistle and the sudden raise in volume was all the motivation Peter needed to get the hell out of there. He left his school-loaned broom where it had fallen, twenty paces away from Bones herself, barely an indentation in the tall grass.
The courtyard where he'd carved himself a spot that first day was fairly empty, as usual. In some sort of exposure therapy to defy the boys who'd set upon him, Peter had been making a point to sit and do work there (perhaps the most pathetic display of defiance he'd ever engaged in, but that was just as well). It hadn't antagonized them much – they never returned to the spot to nag him again. Of course, they found other places. Kids like that always did.
“You look like shit, you know.”
Peter startled, lifting his head from the wood where he'd slumped over to see none other than Gangster, one foot up on the bench beside where he sat, leaning on his raised leg. A thick tome was open on the table before him, no paperweights necessary to keep that open. Peter stared for a moment, then remembered the comment. He tried for a shaky shrug.
“Yeah.”
Gangster raised his eyebrows. “Not gonna clap back ’en?”
“I'm not really in the mood.” He was too tired to be scared, too miserable to try at all just then. “Just go back to whatever that thing is,” he gestured vaguely to the book, “I’ll be quiet, promise.”
A long moment passed before Gangster finally nodded, once. Peter returned to his original position, focusing on his breathing, on counting the beats. With his eyed screwed shut he called up the first song he could think of, the lyrics reverberating through his skull over Scholz’s riffing.
It’s more than a feeling, more than a feeling
When I hear that old song they used to play, more than a feeling
I begin dreaming, more than a feeling
‘Til I see Marianne-
“Boston? Really?”
Peter's head snapped up, irritation surging through every muscle, and spat the first thing he could think of. “You look like shit too, you know-”
“Let me guess, you're an Elvis fanatic too-”
“I'm not American -”
“Could've fooled me,” Gangster smirked, and of course he was just trying to get a rise, the cheeky bastard. “Aren't you pureblood, anyway? How’d you know muggle music?”
He wasn't happy with the tone, just dripping with derision, but then neither of his parents had ever made an effort to give him any kind of musical education. “Went to muggle school before here. You're muggleborn, then? Where'd you go to school?”
“Didn't,” Gangster said airily, waving a hand as if to ward off Peter’s sparked curiosity. “And I'm half. Uh, half-blood, I'm a half-blood.” He swallowed and glanced away. “Yeah.”
Was he blushing ? Peter squinted, but he was too far away, and it was cold, and he was staring again. He caught himself staring basically every day, those scars just – oh, great, now Lupin was glaring. He searched for anything to say to break the awkwardness of the stretching silence, but his mind was blank, “you're not into Quidditch then?”
Lupin tilted his head, eyes still narrowed. “Because I'm a half-blood?”
“Because you're not at tryouts,” Peter corrected, rolling his eyes. He gave Lupin a look and was shocked at the sheepish smile spreading across his roommate’s face. The scars stretched and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled and between the expression, light curly hair, and excess of freckles across his cheeks and down his arms… Lupin looked, well, his age. He looked like a kid.
It hadn't quite occurred to Peter before, that he hadn't been seeing his intimidating year-mates as just a group of eleven-year-olds. Because that was what they were, really. Just a bunch of kids.
“I've never really been one for sports,” Lupin was saying, and Peter tuned back in. “And you're not one to talk anyway, weren't you meant to be there with James?”
“Technically difficulties,” Peter mumbled. “Obviously I'm not much for it either,” he gestured down at himself and ignored Lupin’s skeptical raised eyebrows. “What are you reading, anyway? That's bloody massive.”
“That's what she said. Uh, it's just a novel. Here-” and he began to slide it over, pausing when he caught sight of Peter’s gaping expression. “What? C’mon, you can't be scandalized by that .”
Peter just shook his head mutely, shutting his mouth and taking the book. Lupin cracked up. “And you said you were British.”
“It is not British to cuss-”
“It is where I'm from-”
“Oi, Pettigrew!”
Both boys whirled around, hazel and blue eyes catching on the easy swagger of the approaching figure, silhouetted by the setting sun. “That was one hell of a show, mate, don't think I've ever seen someone screw up so-”
Black stilled, and Peter knew he'd finally noticed Remus, now sitting stiffly beside him on the bench. He glanced over to catch Lupin’s eyebrows now raised at Black, gaze sharp.
Whatever was brewing here, he didn't want to be in the middle of it. “Yeah, I know. It wasn't on purpose.”
Seeming to shake himself free of whatever stupor had come across him, Black turned back to face Peter. “Almost impressive, honestly. If that McKinnon bird hadn't swept you up like some damsel-”
“Where's your broom?” Remus interrupted, cutting Black off. The pale boy blinked.
“Huh?”
“Didn't make the team, did you?”
“I – you –”
“Thought so.” Moving stiffly, Remus flipped his book shut and stood. “If you'll excuse me.”
He shoved the novel under his arm and strode off. Black watched him leave before turning back to sneer at Peter, who raised his hands in innocence, but his heart felt fuller than it had since arriving here. Black huffed and flipped him off before stalking away after Remus. Probably to grab dinner, Peter reflected, and he noticed for the first time how hungry he was. Picking himself up from the bench, he followed – albeit a safe distance behind.
James made the team. As did McKinnon, unsurprisingly. It didn't take long for the gossip grapevine to reveal that those two were currently the only first-years on any of the House Quidditch teams (with the small exception of Ravenclaw’s backup seeker). The two prodigies sat with their heads together all through dinner, expressions serious. Peter sat beside James and tried his best not to look like he was eavesdropping.
“It was Leviro that year, he goes to my second cousin’s brother-in-law’s church. ’Ve only seen him once –”
“Leviro’s your cousin ?!”
“Well not really-”
“All you purebloods really are related, damn.” McKinnon poked her head up abruptly. “Oi, Black!”
Sirius turned, shaking his hair (already significantly longer than upon arrival) out of his face with a ridiculous grace and grinning at McKinnon. “Got something to say, Marls?”
Her expression soured. “Call me that one more time and I’ll deck you, Black, don’t think I won’t.”
“Careful there, I might start to think you’re in love with me.”
“Oh, for all the-” McKinnon threw up her hands, slumping back down to talk to James, who only rolled his eyes at their roommate before giving her his full attention once more. “I hope you’re not related to him, Potter, because I might genuinely have to kill him and I don’t want you to have to go to his funeral.”
“He’s kinda cool,” James shrugged, and now even Peter needed to break his righteous facade and gape at the windswept boy. “He’s crazy smart, you know? And funny too. Always down for anything.”
“Does ‘anything’ include the mess at the professor’s table at breakfast last week?” Peter butted in, unable to restrain himself. James flushed but still managed to look proud, the idiot.
“They take from a different buffet, like ours is too far below them. So what if their coffee’s a little salty one morning?”
“They take from a different buffet because they eat at a different table ,” Peter huffed, and down the table he heard a scoff.
“Someone’s just jealous he wasn’t invited.”
He was, actually, and Black calling him out on it stung. “I’m not – it was a stupid prank, alright?” He glanced down the table to Remus for support, but the boy was only staring glumly at his own emptied plate, ignoring the conversation. His gaze went to James next, but he found those brown eyes staring at him filled with hurt. Shoot.
“James, wait, I didn’t mean-”
“Nice going, Wormy,” Sirius sneered, and instead of correcting the nickname, James just looked back to his own plate. The awkwardness stretched on: a beat, two. Peter held his breath.
“Uh, Potter, what were you saying about Leviro? That play you wanted to try?”
“Right. Right, the play. Er, I think it was called a Horseshoe Fall, does that make sense?”
Peter speared a tomato and shoved it viciously into his mouth.
“Yes! Oh, that always looked like it’d be so cool to pull off. And I was thinking…”