two
EXMOOR QUIDDITCH STADIUM
LATE MAY, 1999
PRE-SEASON MATCH: MONTROSE MAGPIES VS HOLYHEAD HARPIES
Ginerva Weasley settles into her nosebleed seats, a box of Bertie Botts’ in one hand, a pair of battered Omnioculars in the other. Someone cried out in indignance when she accidentally trod on their foot trying to get to her seat earlier and the interaction has haunted her since. Yet the overall thrum of anticipation throughout the stadium overwhelms her guilt. Nearly everyone is dressed in swathes of black and white, the younger generation in more relaxed sweaters to compensate for the spring chill whilst the elder generation of Quidditch fans stick to their thick robes. Despite today’s advertisement as a pre-season match that contributes nothing to points, floods of fans had turned up to see the first time the Holyhead Harpies would return to the pitch in nearly three years since the war had begun.
Only half the teams are returning this year.
“And now, we welcome the Holyhead Harpies. Let’s hear it for Valmai Morgan, Nellie Milton, and Anna Norton!” A commentator, someone named Smithers she knows from her daily reads of the Quidditch tabloids, bellows out the following names. There’s barely any reaction from the crowd as the team flies onto the field; everyone is waiting for the real show. She’d lying if she says she isn’t either.
Maybe not everyone knows what she does from hours pouring over anything Quiddditch-related. The Montrose Magpies are the record holders. She knows they finished third overall in 1994, second in 1995. James Damon is possible the league’s best Beater after Gwenog Jones, but he often overrides plays from his captain, Dean Gideon. The captain is on the old side but he’s been on the team for a decade. It won’t surprise her if he retires after the next few seasons, especially if the Magpies pull themselves up a rung. Renfield, their Keeper, is slow and consistent. Theodore Harris was the most recent addition pre-war, a hotshot Chaser that, according to Witch Weekly’s small Quidditch section, plays as good as he looks.
To put it simply, it won’t be a tough fight.
Even though the crowd can’t hear Ginny’s internal remarks, it roars in anticipation of the slaughter to come. The Magpies are going to murder them, she notes, popping a treacle-tart flavoured bean into her mouth. She savours the sweet taste on her tongue for a minute, mind wandering back to fifth-year exploits that always ended up with her lips tasting like treacle tart.
“Who’re you gunning for?”
The question rips through her memories, causing her to choke rather uncomfortably on the jelly bean. The owner of the question looks vaguely startled until she sucks in a clean breath of air and responds with a small shrug. Her logical, Quidditch side is screaming that the Magpies are the obvious choice, and quite clearly three black-and-white quarters of the stadium agree with her, but the little girl in her, the one who picked locks and stole brooms, inches towards the Harpies.
“My daughter over here is convinced that the Harpies are going to pull off a miracle. Better be a treat worthy of the Chosen One, eh?” He offers Ginny a smile, tilting his head in the direction of his daughter. She can’t be more than twelve - and her brain does the math, automatically, of course, that she couldn’t have been more than nine or ten when the war started. She’s decked out in a homemade dark green poncho of sorts, and a nice glittery charm that’s sputtering out a bit embellishes the talon on her chest.
It’s like the past just opened up in the seat next to her.
She’d made that cloak when she was younger, except the girl was missing the large pointy harpy wings Ginny had constructed out of fallen branches in the garden. The only part she’d had help with was the charm on the talon, from Percy of all people. She’s pretty sure he just wanted to show off his aptitude with magic the second they were on school grounds while she traipsed around Hogwarts, but it’s the sentiment that counts.
“Can I?” She gestures to the emblem, which has now completely lost its charm. The man nods, ears going pink with embarrassment as his daughter squeals in excitement and stands up. Ginny casts a slightly altered version of Colovaria and the talon lights up in bright gold, blinding a nearby Magpies fan.
“Per’haps are you rooting for a certain team, then?” He chortles, and then his attention is stolen by Smithers yelling out the names of the Magpies’ starting seven.
“The Chasers of the magnificent Montrose Magpies; Teddy Harris, Ethan Arnolds, and Jaime Arnolds!” From the left hand side of the pitch, three black-and-white blurs rocket out from the hidden entrance in the bleachers, shooting straight to their positions on the field. Ginny brings the Omnioculars up to her eyes, zooming in on the smirk on Harris’ face.
He is extremely attractive, unfortunately, and only a couple years older than her. The swoons from a line of Magpies fans (female and male) linger in the air as he sends their section a wink. Ginny switches her gaze to the Arnolds, twins who were allegedly trained since birth to play in the BIQ. Smithers announces the rest of the team; James Damon and Dean Gideon as Beaters with crooked noses, Neil Richards as the Seeker, and Keeper James Renfield. They all look confident.
The Harpies, on the other hand, are a mess. Nellie Milton is openly freaking out in front of Jaime Arnolds, and Lucy Easton, the Seeker, is flying in slow circles while her face turns a pale shade of green. All in all, not exactly an optimistic line up. The only player who seems to be ready to play is Gwenog Jones, newly appointed captain of the Harpies. Ginny’s tiny room in the Burrow was plastered with posters of embarrassing boy bands and whatnot, but the one thing she’s still proud of is the signed Gwenog Jones poster hung up above her bed. The first season Jones had been signed into the league, Ginny had waited hours in line on her own in the rain to purchase the signed copy with her saved up pocket money. In the end, she’d had just enough, and with the help of her father who hadn’t even noticed she’d left the house, the poster was magically affixed to the wall.
Jones is calmly tying her braids in a high ponytail, bat balanced across her lap, eyes trained on Dean Gideon. Ginny crosses her fingers under her jacket as the referee lets the Bludgers and the Snitch loose, then tosses up the Quaffle. Morgan swoops in for the Quaffle, and just a second later, Gideon throws his weight behind a mighty swing that sends a Bludger hurtling for her. Ginny’s breath catches as Jones intercepts the ball, hitting it so close to Morgan’s flight path that the entirety of the stadium stands up in shock. Ginny realises what Jones is doing before everyone else - clearing a path for Morgan, and eliminating a Bludger from the situation. Milton and Norton drive a distraction on the other side, tangling with the Arnolds brothers in a loud commotion that allows Morgan to feint a turn when instead the Chaser rockets towards the hoops and puts the Quaffle through the left goal.
The small population of Harpies fans roar in glee as Morgan takes a victory lap for the golden niffler; the first points scored without contact from the other team.
About five seconds later, the applause dies when a Bludger smashes into Morgan and sends her hurtling towards the ground. Dean Gideon spins his bat with a smirk and the Magpies sprint for the Harpies’ goal, Quaffle back in play. Ginny trains her Omnioculars on Morgan’s plummeting body, spying Milton shooting down to slow her fellow Chaser’s fall. She shivers slightly, the memory of Harry’s limp body slotting perfectly into place. Only this time there is no Dumbledore to save Morgan. Jones and Fairchild are busy swatting Bludgers anywhere they can, though she suspects it’s more Fairchild’s wild swings that make Jones’ precise shots seem to careen off course. Milton has laid Morgan on the ground and returned to the air in time for the Magpies to score.
The stadium shakes as the audience rises, applause thundering through the air. Ginny uncrosses her fingers. Down below, Healers have transferred Morgan to a stretcher and guided her unconscious body off pitch. The Harpies have lost their earlier drive; what should have been a fantastic start from Morgan has sucked the motivation from them. The only person still fighting is Jones. Even Ceri Powell, the Keeper, is losing steam as she lunges for the Quaffle every minute.
Everything rests on the shoulders of Lucy Easton. The score has risen to 10 - 140, to the Magpies. If Easton finds the Snitch now, the 150 points will give the Harpies the win. But it’s a ten point gap, one that could be closed in the next few seconds with the way Harris is flying up the field. Ginny’s eyes find the Snitch just before Richards, the tiny golden ball fluttering behind a decorative flag. He wastes no time pretending he hasn’t seen it, fully aware of the score. Easton is slow to follow his movement, a good ten metres behind him as he tracks the Snitch’s low path through the grass of the field. He’s on the newest of the Firebolts, so surely he knows the issues with the speed control that come as a sacrifice for the blistering speed. If she didn’t have some sense of dignity she’d be drooling over that broom. He crosses over the spot where only half an hour ago, Morgan’s still body had laid, and inches his broom further.
An inch too far, pushing him off balance. Sending him off his broom, tumbling onto the ground.
Easton is five metres behind, Richards is scrambling to remount.
Three metres. The Snitch pauses, surveys the two Seekers.
Two metres. Richards is on his broom again, conscious of Easton’s gaining presence.
There’s really no question - she’s close, sure, but not close enough to truly fight for the win as Richards’ hand closes over the golden sphere of metal and the black-and-white stadium cheers. Richards takes a lap, a mockery of Morgan’s earlier triumph, landing in the middle of the pitch with a brazen smile that draws in his teammates. After a number of claps on the back and hearty laughter, only then do the Magpies remember common courtesy. The Harpies wait in a line, six instead of seven, and shake the Magpies’ hands. Jones has a tight lipped scowl on her face that Ginny is sure will surface in tabloids the next day.
Even if it is better contained than Gideon’s outrageous glee when he took Morgan out of the game, it’s different for her. For all of the Harpies.
—
Ginny meets Hermione outside the stadium at the designated Apparition point, relieved, if anything after that slaughter to see her friend waiting with a large bag slung full of notes. A nearby specialist in house-elf treatment had been Ginny’s excuse to drag Hermione on a kind-of outing with her to escape Hogwarts on a weekend. Besides, she has been kind of helping with Hermione’s campaign out of interest whenever she has free time (By Merlin is Hermione a force of nature).
“I take it you lost?” Hermione searches the crowd of fans, finding only joy in the Magpies supporters. Ginny shrugs, catching the eye of the man and his daughter from earlier. The girl is adamantly flashing her twinkling cape off to the Magpies fans. They’re laughing, of course, but the look in her eyes is fierce - the same look of vengeance Ginny found in herself whenever they’d lost at Hogwarts.
“Did you get what you needed from your Flobberty guy?”
“Flobbern, and yes, he was very useful. Thank you for telling me about him.” Hermione’s about to launch into a further explanation when she tracks Ginny’s sharp glare, the one that’s directed towards a swaggering Gideon whose arm is slung across Harris’ back. Presumably on their way to celebrate the pre-season win. Gideon’s eyes land on Hermione and Ginny side by side, the familiar expression of recognition overcoming his face. He taps Harris on the shoulder, enough distraction that Ginny grabs Hermione’s arm and Apparates them to the nearest station.
Harris’ dark eyes linger in her mind as Hermione helps Ginny onto the train.
He’s Fred’s favourite player.
Was.
She never liked the finality of past tense.