five
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
EARLY JUNE, 1999
GRYFFINDOR & SLYTHERIN VS HUFFLEPUFF & RAVENCLAW
They’re playing in black robes. Harper decided. It feels odd, wearing the colours of the Death Eaters, not that one can really claim a colour in addition to the fact that black isn’t a colour but a shade, but standing next to Draco Malfoy swathed in black feels like a rather unfortunate situation. She doesn’t comment on it, though. Harper and Vaisey preen alongside each other, having spent the previous half hour of their warm up talking about their plans once they were recruited to the league.
She kept her mouth shut and continued throwing the Quaffle with Coote.
There’s no roar in this stadium, unlike the Magpies and Harpies’ match. The stilling silence is better, maybe, because that way the scouts won’t be swayed by the crowd. When they fly out from under the stands, she searches the small audience for the people she recognises. She knows Hermione is there, re-reading the book Malfoy had commented upon. After finding Luna and Neville there, she automatically searches for red hair and comes to the realisation that this is her first game without any of her brothers.
Without Fred.
The idea is so bewildering that Peakes almost knocks her off her broom from her standstill shock in the middle of the air.
“Weasley, what are you doing?” Harper barks, considerably more ruffled now that the other team has joined the pitch. The blue and yellow signs below cheer for the Ravenpuffs. A smattering of green and red-clad supporters sit opposite each other despite being on the same team.
“Some things never change.” Demelza says softly, her blue eyes stark against the weak sun.
Ginny inclines her head in some kind of response, moving next to Vaisey, whose position smack bang in the middle of the seven draws the right kind of attention. Hooch drags the Quidditch chest out to the middle of the field, tapping her wand to her throat with a quick Sonorus to broadcast her voice. The flying instructor’s fierce yellow eyes search each player with the sharpness of a hawk, thankfully never resting on Ginny’s broom. Or Malfoy’s, for that matter. Earlier that morning they’d snuck in per usual, except this time Malfoy and Ginny had each transfigured a replacement for their brooms. They wouldn’t be able to fly, but they’d convince Hooch nothing was amiss.
“I want a nice, clean game. You are all aware that we have visitors here today. Play well, play fair.” With that, the umpire tosses up the Quaffle and lets the other balls loose.
Ginny shoots forward, Vaisey only realising the game has started after she has the Quaffle under her arm. As practiced with Coote, he rams the other Chasers aside with his body without being called for blatching, driving a clear path for Ginny up field. His broom lags behind as always, lacking the speed the Firebolt offers, which forces Ginny to simultaenously defend herself and score. The Keeper is a Hufflepuff, one she played against briefly before the war. She knows he favours the right hoop and risks a near-halt, feinting a throw to her right. The second he dives in that direction, she urges the Firebolt to pick up speed and carry her straight to the first goal of the game.
She’s about to take a lap, feeling ridden of the deadweights around her, when she hears the familiar squeal of a Bludger rocketing towards her. Morgan’s early knockout flashes before her eyes, a reminder to nudge her broom downwards and avoid the Ravenclaw-sent Bludger. The Hufflepuff Keeper has thrown the Quaffle back into play, one of his Chasers determinedly fighting Demelza and Malfoy’s Bludgers. Malfoy isn’t too shabby as a Beater, but he obviously prefers flying as a Chaser and a Seeker, which makes his subservience to Harper’s demands all the more confusing. Either way, she focuses and waits for the perfect Bludger to disarm the Chaser. The moment the Quaffle slips from her grasp, Ginny swoops in and passes off to Coote.
The Beater-turned-Chaser looks terrified as he flies up pitch, wrapped tightly around his broom.
“Go!” Ginny roars, knowing full well his Cleansweep can fly much faster than Flobberworm pace he’s inching along at. “I’ll defend.”
Regaining some confidence, Coote begins a weaving path through the enemy lines, leaving Ginny to swerve deliberately in and out of his path, followed by their Beaters. Coote falters in his flight path, desperately throwing the Quaffle to Ginny in a last ditch attempt before a Bludger knocks into his side. Catching it one handed, Ginny locks in on the hoops. Demelza is nowhere to be seen. Malfoy is busy swatting Bludgers out of Coote’s way. And out of nowhere, Vaisey slams into her at full force, ripping the Quaffle from her fingers.
“Merlin’s left saggy tit!” She shouts, then resigns herself to a moody grumble. Malfoy flies past, shaking his head with disapproval.
“Keep your eyes on the ball, Weasley.”
“You should too.” She replies sweetly, watching a Bludger careen into the side of his head. He spins away with a loud curse, staring daggers at her while he clutches his head. Serves you right you ferret.
With a resigned sigh, she flies towards the hoops where Vaisey is determinedly trying to shoulder his way through the pack of Ravenpuff players. She spies Harper for the first time this entire game, wallowing somewhere in back. If he’s looking for the Snitch at all is another question. He hasn’t been directing plays, strategising, nothing. She’s about to approach their team ‘captain’ when Vaisey yells angrily, directing his broom towards Demelza. The unsuspecting Beater is attempting to swat a Bludger back at the Ravenclaw Beater when he seizes her bat and swings wildly for the nearest opponent. The Bludger hits his target, sure, but his stolen bat cracks Demelza in the back of her head.
Something in her snaps.
She’s by Harper’s side in seconds, hands closing around his throat when someone pulls them back, and she’s yelling, shouting, screaming at the idiot. “How are you so fucking stupid? Vaisey just committed a foul against our own team, you need to call our bloody plays, you git!”
Harper blinks for a moment and then a sneer appears on his face. “I thought I ordered you to refer to me as Captain.”
“Captain?”
“Oh, please, don’t act stupid. That’s a blonde thing. It doesn’t look good on gingers.”
“Bats coming out of your nose isn’t a good look either.”
“Salazar, are you really that thick? Just keep your mouth shut, traitor. Might be difficult for you though, from what I’ve heard. Did Potter like your pretty little mouth?”
An inhumane scream threatens to tear itself from her throat, and if not for the hands binding her, she would most definitely have launched herself at Harper through thin air. The Seeker laughs darkly, about to say something else when she frees herself from her captor and whips out her wand from the holster under her robes. She’s quite aware there’s a crowd around her when she mutters her favourite spell.
“Nasus Vespertilio.” The bright green light shoots out of her wand and hits Harper squarely in the face. Vaispey, who had just chucked the Quaffle through the undefended hoops and returned to find his lack of audience, is the next to receive the hex. With a shriek of horrified rage, Vaisey throws a fist at her nose, the crack foreshadowing the stream of blood dripping down her face. A shrill whistle pierces her ears moments later, and Ginny finds herself face to face with an enraged Madam Hooch.
“There are scouts here, Miss Weasley. How dare you use magic on the pitch!”
“Madam Hooch, she was provoked by the both of them. You should have heard what they said.” protests Coote weakly, and it’s only then she realises that he was the one holding her back.
He really shouldn’t have.
“That does not excuse the fact that she openly attacked and used magic against her fellow teammates in front of scouts!” Hooch’s voice, normally so baritone and strict, has evolved into an odd sort of screech that’s muted by the blood rushing in her ears. “Is that a Firebolt, Miss Weasley? Where did you acquire such a broom?”
When Ginny fails to respond, Hooch is thin lipped and practically smoking at the ears.
“Both teams will submit to an umpire-mandated time out. Sort yourselves out, or I will cancel the match entirely.”
—
The seven of them sit in silence in their locker room.
Demelza has a long bandage winding around the back of her head. She insists she can play. Harper has stopped sneezing bats, quite unfortunately, and she can see the effects of her hex will wear off soon on Vaisey. As much as Hooch disapproved of Ginny’s…actions on the pitch, she didn’t cast Finite Incantatem on the two idiots sitting as far away from her as possible. Surprisingly, Coote is the one to break the silence.
“You’re a shit captain, Harper.”
A low laugh breaks out of her, followed by a hiss of pain as she casts Episkey on her nose again.
“Oh, fuck off, Coote. You wouldn’t know any better.”
“I will admit that I’m not the greatest strategist, but it was clear from day one that there are two people here who are qualified to lead a team much better than you can. One,” Coote points at Ginny with a fierceness in his eyes that reminds her very much of a dog the Weasleys had adopted for a while. Fred had found it. “Is Ginny. The other, as much as it pains me to say it, is Malfoy. They’ve played the hardest, the longest, and they know the game the best. Don’t let your pride get in the way of a victory.”
She can tell Demelza wants to say something. Why does this matter? perhaps, because Ginny knows Demelza is playing for fun, Ginny knows Demelza wants to work at St. Mungo’s, not fly around all day. Silence consumes them again.
“I don’t want to.” says Malfoy. No reason why. Vaisey hisses in discontent, the sentiment shared by Harper. And then Coote, oh, wonderful, naive, loyal Coote, raises his hand. Demelza, Peakes, even begrudging Malfoy. Four to two. This time it’s a proper laugh that breaks free of her. It turns into something hysterical, because it seems so common nowadays to find herself in these ridiculous situations; playing Quidditch with Slytherins, having her nose reset by Madam Hooch, Malfoy conceding leadership to her, scouts in the audience. All of this without Fred.
Is it selfish to have a favourite brother?
Is it selfish to cling to the fact that he is her favourite brother, even in death?
Don’t die, whispers his voice in the back of her mind, and she wants to cry because she knows he’s not talking about death, and because she knows she can’t say those words back to him and mean it in either sense. Why does it take Demelza’s near concussions, her outburst on the pitch, an abysmal performance for people to take her seriously? Does she not come off committed, or serious about the sport? Does her sincerity appear laughable because she's a woman, and a woman in Quidditch is not a woman but an opportunity to prove why they don't deserve the same respect? When does any of it get easier?
Don’t die, he echoes, and his voice fades. Her nose stops bleeding. She takes in a sharp breath, steadying her mind.
She has one last shot.
“Vaisey, Keeper. Peakes, Coote, Beaters. Malfoy, Robins, Harper, Chasers. Malfoy and Robins will be the actual goal scorers; Harper, if there’s one thing you can do, it’s waste time. Don’t waste ours, drain theirs. Peakes, Coote, you’ve played together before. It won’t be the exact same, but let’s have at least one Beater on the Chasers at all times. Regroup only if necessary.”
“What about you?” Harper bites out the words.
“Well, Seeker, obviously,” she says, waiting for the blow. Harper’s face twists unhappily. “And if you’d like to ask me any questions in the future, we both know what respect a Captain deserves.”
—
Her head is not held high as she kicks off into the air. It’s focused on the opposing team, like it should have been from the start, instead of on her own. Harper is none too happy about being booted to Chaser, but she knows if they are to at least try and fight, they need someone who can actually catch the snitch. And the fact that she has to beat Cho bloody Chang to do it isn’t an aversion at all. Malfoy and Demelza have instructions to score at minimum fifty points to match Ravenpuff’s inevitable gain. There’s no point catching the Snitch before then. It would have to be enough. In the meantime, she’ll be running defence for the Chasers to add to the confusion and keep an eye out for the Snitch to make sure Chang doesn’t get her hands on it.
Easy work.
Hooch gives her a lethal stare as she blows her whistle and calls for play to resume. The instant Malfoy and Demelza are off, Harper is flying loops in the air like he’s drunk on Firewhiskey. At least he’s doing what he’s told. Coote is predictably much happier back as a Beater, slugging shots towards the Quaffle-hoarding Chasers wherever he can. And now that Vaisey, semi-competent in front of the hoops can defend their goals, the second he throws the unsuccessful ball to Demelza, Ginny feels something sputter to life within her.
She’s quick and efficient with her distractions, flying precise loops around the opposing Beaters to give the two actual Chasers some clemency, Harper replicating her efforts with far less control. They’ve scored forty points. Ravenpuff are beginning to get frustrated when Demelza slams her third Quaffle through the hoops and hoots wildly for the fifty-point mark, Ginny cheering her throat sore in response.
And then Harper gets greedy.
He dives in to grab the ball from the Keeper’s hands - a foul and penalty that Hooch calls immediately, giving Ravenpuff ten goals without any sweat or effort. Then to save himself, he doggedly hangs onto the Quaffle and beings a stomach-turning path across the pitch.
“Why can’t he listen?” Ginny grumbles, throwing her hands up. Demelza offers her a pitiful glance before trying to clean up Harper’s mess. There’s not much she can do, for if any other players aside from the Chasers touch the Quaffle, Hooch will call a much harsher foul. The answer to her question is quite clear as the opposing team scores again. Even the rainfall of Bludgers can’t keep Harper or the Ravenpuffs down. It’s like a one man battle, and all she can do is watch and scoff in the face of his oh-so-Slytherin ambition.
Malfoy, on one of his returns trying to strangle the Quaffle from Harper, stops for a nice conversation mid match.
“I’m going to fucking murder him.” growls the ex-Death Eater. The threat might have been more sinister if not for Harper screeching for the eighth time that I’m going to score just watch me.
“You can dig up his body once I’m done with him.” Is all she says in response, glancing at the scoreboard.
It’s 50 - 250.
Ginny has accepted that she’s lost control of Harper. There’s no point in calling a time-out to staunch off the inevitable. She has to end it now, before the score gets any worse.
She’s kept an eye on Chang the entire half, biding her time. The opposing Seeker is excellent, but from what Ginny remembers, fails to go after the Snitch at the right time. She typically follows the other Seeker in pursuit and uses her skills to gain the upper hand there.
All she has to do is be better.
Die down, and everything else fades away. Just her and the pitch. She takes a quick lap of the field, watching for movement before winding through the battle in the air. Behind Harper’s left foot, the Snitch waits, almost tauntingly, next to the former Seeker. Chang is watching her make her calculated rounds. There’s no point yelling for Harper to move - that would attract attention, and the idiotic Slytherin waving the Quaffle about is already causing that, so she waits, pretends she’s inspecting the corner of Peakes’ robes when Harper moves and she’s off like a firework, honed in on the tiny golden ball. She can sense Chang following behind her, the rest of the pitch suddenly becoming aware of the chase.
When the Snitch darts out of her view, Ginny jerks sharply to the right in blind hope that Chang will follow. She does, counting on the fact that Ginny is tracking the Snitch when she most definitely is not. Continuing on her pretend course of action, she tries not to get her eye stuck looking through her peripheral, and then there - a flash in the light - the Snitch appears.
She unleashes the Firebolt’s full speed and knocks aside about half the players, fingers closing in around the Snitch. The cool metal rests against her palm as she thrust the ball up into the air, the wings fluttering in the wind as she tilts her face up and basks in the light of the sun.
Gryffindor and Slytherin lose the match by fifty points.