eight
WEMBLEY QUIDDITCH STADIUM
EARLY JUNE, 1999
LAST PRE-SEASON MATCH: MONTROSE MAGPIES VS PUDDLEMERE UNITED
If the Harpies and Magpies match was stuffed, then today’s game against Puddlemere is positively overflowing the stadium’s capacity. On her way to her box seats, via Harris’ letter after she inquired about his offer (the git probably forgot he’d invited her at all, but whatever), she’d seen people sharing seats, sitting on each other’s laps, and making the most of Wembley’s stadium. Clutching the box tickets in her hand tightly, Ginny steps around a rowdy bunch of boys; Puddlemere and Montrose facing off before the match has even started. Oh joy, she remarks to herself drily as one of the boys starts spouting slugs from his ears.
The divide today is much fairer in comparison to the Harpies’ match; equal amounts of Puddlemere fans and Montrose fans have filled the stadium, a murky mess of navy-blue and black and white robes. She approaches the Magpies’ VIP box, determined to keep her head high and focus on the game, and, if possible, root around the abundance of rich sponsors and perhaps family members of players to solidify her presence with the professional Quidditch crowd. Her game plan is clear in her head.
The wizard at the door is checking a mile-long line of supporters that diminishes quickly with the rate at which he scans their tickets and deems them forgeries or fakes. It’s quite easy to tell which is which, judging by the lofty, posh attitude of those let into the box. Ginny shakes her head, imagining how easy it would be for Malfoy to fit in, and how uncomfortable Hermione would have felt. Harris’ hopes were that only - hopes. She hands over her ticket, and the wizard examines her faces curiously.
“Aren’t you Ron Weas—”
She snatches the paper from him and pushes into the box, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Then she figures she won’t have much opportunity to do eye-rolling without consequence in the presence of high wizarding society, so she lets herself diffuse all the tension and irrational from her body before approaching her seat. The children near the front are pushing their faces up against the glass barriers, much to the displeasure of their mothers - probably wives or relatives of the Magpies’ players - while the more put-together, older attendees mill around the back, grabbing drinks from the bartender at the back. He waves his wand, summoning a magical display of liquids to mix midair before directing them to a tall glass he hands to a smiling man.
Ginny recognises him instantly.
Gregory Phillips is the leading talent scout in the British and Irish Quidditch League, and here he is, three metres away from her. The temptation to rush over and start blathering about her statistics is strong, but she’s a bit logical, if anything, to bide her time. She strikes up a conversation with a girl she recognises from Hogwarts who was a few years above her.
“Oh, Jamie’s my brother,” she laughs at Ginny’s badly concealed confusion, “Jamie Renfield. We don’t really get that many new visitors to the box, so I tend to forget to differentiate between the three of them, sorry.”
“It’s no problem at all. What do you mean exactly, that you don’t get that many new visitors here?”
Amy laughs, “Oh, just that the Magpies are a…selective team, is what I mean. They don’t dole out box seats all the time, but I suppose if you’re related to Ron Weasley and whatnot, that’s no surprise.”
“Right,” she says softly. Of course it’s no surprise. That’s the only reason I’m here, the only reason Harris invited Hermione or Malfoy. “Do you play Quidditch at all?”
“Not for years, really. Jamie and I used to do a bit of pick-up in the field behind our house, but once he went pro and I was saddled with this lot,” Amy gestures to the plethora of blond children racing around the box, shushing them loudly, “There was no point.”
Frowning, Ginny asks, “Not even for fun?”
“Like I said, there’s no point. No time, even.” Amy shrugs, looking more downcast than Ginny had anticipated.
Desperate to inject some cheer back into the mood, she turns to face the open air of the box; the back half being set in the stands while the front half is open to the weather but protected through a series of warding charms. “Oh! There’s Oliver Wood, over there by the big Puddy flag.”
“He plays for Puddlemere?” Amy asks in shock. “I never knew.”
“He’s on the reserve team for now, but I’ll bet they put him on this game. Harris is too much of a threat for the Puddlemere defence, and if they’re going to play Griffiths, they might as well try-out that roster.”
“Griffiths?” Amy is about to inquire further when Smithers’ voice booms out into the stadium.
“Witches and wizards, welcome to today’s preseason match between the Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United!” The stadium thunders with cheers, and Smithers’s chuckles draws them to silence. “Please join me in welcoming the Magpies’ Chasers…let’s hear it for Teddy Harris, Ethan Arnolds, and Jamie Arnolds!”
Three black-and-white blurs zoom out from underneath the Magpies’ box, the numbers 3, 21, and 12 making a fast lap around the stadium. With each bleacher they pass, the crowd rises to their feet and cheers, people have crammed themselves into every free spot possible even if it means jabbing elbows with the enemy.
“The indomitable Beaters and the captain himself, James Jaw-breaker Damon and Dean Gideon!” Damon’s nickname incites a gigantic roar from the Magpies fans, and for good reason. Last season played, Damon’s magnificent performance as a Beater earned him a nasty reputation, having broken no less than four Chasers’ jaws and two Seekers’ jaws in one season. The crowd is ready for more blood, and judging by Damon’s odious smile, he’s more than ready to spill it. Gideon, on the other hand, looks a bit downcast which is dangerous for a captain - a leader’s mood is so easily spilled over to his followers - though she can imagine why, given his lacklustre playing aside from one or two knock-outs (including Gwenog Jones).
“The incredibly long-armed Keeper, James Renfield!” Ginny doesn’t comment that such a mundane description replaces what could be a more accurate opening statement of: the incredibly slow yet somehow lucky Keeper, alas, his sister is right next to her. “And finally, as the Magpies’ Seeker once again, Neil Richards!”
The number fourteen shoots out onto the pitch and joins his teammates where they assemble in the middle of the pitch, waving at the enamoured crowd. Smithers seems to forget that he’s cast Sonorous and what should be a whisper about Puddlemere Keeper Annie Mitchell and what a shame it is they’re putting Wood on today, I’ll miss that arse is broadcasted to everyone. The crowd titters. The box chuckles. Ginny does neither. She scowls figuratively as to not displease the Keeper’s sister with her foul mood.
Smithers, having realised that he’s meant to introduce the opposing team, clears his throat and begins rolling off the names with dramatic flair. “As for our Puddlemere side, make some noise for their Chasers; Alfie Green, William Jenkins, and….Wilda Griffiths!”
A big gasp runs its way through the stadium, only fuelling Griffith’s gigantic grin as she flies around the field, lapping it all up. Ginny summons her Omnioculars wordlessly from her bag, examining Griffiths with a close eye. This being the ex-Harpies’ first appearance on pitch since the war started, her performance today will be marked closely by everyone to see if the Galleon-loaded trade was worth it. It’s even more important considering that Griffiths is one of the few female players in the league who isn’t part of the Harpies, whose reputation as an all-women team already garners them enough drama, but at least they have each other to lean on. She hopes Griffiths does well, selfishly, because if Griffiths can survive the harshness of the Quidditch world, maybe she can too.
Smithers rattles of the rest of the names, and Ginny whoops a bit too loudly when Oliver appears on the pitch, forgetting for a moment that she’s in the opposing team’s box. The referee for this match is Jordan Halfstead, who is famed for his calls on the tiniest of muck-ups, so today will be interesting with two new players debuting. Halfstead rides his broom halfway onto the pitch, taps his wand to his throat and opens up the game chest. She aims the Omniocular lenses at his face, watching for any flickers of doubt on his many calls to come. The fans will be merciless with this one, with the Magpies and United being one of the big four rivalry teams. Coincidentally, they’re also the teams with the highest number of wins amongst the Ballycastle Bats and the Wimbourne Wasps. However, neither the Bats nor the Wasps are returning this season so all the lovely animosity is focused on today’s match.
“A clean match, gentlemen.” orders Halfstead, conveniently forgetting Griffith’s existence. All eyes are trained on him as he unlatches the restraints around the Bludgers and the Snitch, and throws the Quaffle up high. Her Omnioculars lag for just a second, the enchantments slightly weary after plenty of use since the World Cup. The lenses replay Halstead’s throw-up, just slightly angled towards the Magpies, yet his face is impassive and facing upwards as if the wind had altered the Quaffle’s throw.
As if to amend the referee’s holey memory, Wilda sweeps forward and snatches up the Quaffle, swerving around the Arnolds twins and a momentarily confused Richards trying to get up in the air. The end of her navy-blue robes slap in Harris in the face - Ginny dutifully keeps her expression straight and not at all giggly, after all, he’s the one who invited her even if it was for ulterior reasons - and Griffiths is off, careening down the pitch with such speed Ginny is half-convinced she’s tampered with her broom until she sees the Puddlemere Chaser Jenkins glide onto the same current of air that’s carrying her to the Magpies’ goal.
Ginny crosses her fingers under her dark-green robes, praying that Griffiths makes it unscathed to the hoops, but she can already see Damon drawing his arm back to send a Bludger hurtling after her. It clips the tail end of her broom and sends it spinning, forcing the Chaser to throw the Quaffle to Alfie Green, who ducks Damon’s bat swinging for him and dashes a bit upwards before being faulted by Gideon’s cracker of a Bludger, and Green doubles over for air in a panic. She narrows her eyes, using the Omnioculars to replay Gideon’s furious attack. It takes a considerable amount of strength to direct the Bludger from so far away, and in the past he’s been unable to do so - yet today, she notes, as the games continues and Montrose and Puddlmere keep one-upping each other, he’s in top form. Above his peak, which many would argue came years ago, Gideon’s plays are more aggressive and more dangerous than Damon, and Smithers is nothing but delighted by this as every other name out of his mouth is Gideon.
“—oh, and off he goes again, Gideon with a nasty Bludger to Alfie Green again, poor lad. Quaffle to Montrose, Arnolds — Ethan’s the blonder one, isn’t he? — passes left to his brother — ooooh, cracker of a Bludger there Chambers, get ‘im next time — another pass to Harris, and he’s off! Harris swerves Gardner and Green, just him and Wood and — oof another block, excellent work from the defensemen, Harris doesn’t look too happy there, that’s the third goal Wood has stopped from the star Chaser himself. Quaffle is back in play — score is thirty to twenty to Puddlemere United, and the ref has called a foul against United for a nasty blogging — next time Gardener, don’t grab onto Harris’ broom.”
The Magpies box erupts into cheers as Harris flies to take the penalty shot. If he scores, he’ll bring the Magpies neck and neck with Puddlemere. Then Richards will actually have a reason to go on the offensive for the Snitch, which has darted in and out of the match with the Seekers locked in separate battle; as no other players are allowed to interfere with the Snitch at the risk of a foul. Frowning, Ginny replays Gardner’s supposed foul. It doesn’t look as if Gardener is holding onto the back of Harris’ broom, just that his hand is brushing past it as he stretches back to thump his bat off somewhere. From a different angle, maybe the blogging is more clear.
Smithers natters on as the other players clear behind Harris, waiting for his shot. Halfstead holds his hand up, allowing Wood and Harris to steady themselves. Both look calm, though Harris’ back is facing her, one of the large screens displaying the match live is zoomed in uncomfortably close on his concentrated expression. She could count his eyebrow hairs if she really wanted to (and she doesn’t). Maybe the integration of Muggle video thingies isn’t that beneficial. There’s a clanking of Galleons behind her as a few of the older men exchange mutterings and money. They’re betting on the goal, what they’ll do, she realises, this is my chance.
Phillips stands behind them, his eyes trained on Harris asking for a new Quaffle, disinterested in what must be routine betting in the team boxes.
Loudly, Ginny turns to Amy and says, “How much would you bet on Harris double feinting, then going left? And Wood following the first feint, but not the second?”
“Double feinting on a penalty?” Amy questions, which tells Ginny that she knows a lot more about Quidditch for someone who says there’s no point a rather lot. “Can he risk it?”
“Risk means nothing when he’s desperate. Wood has stopped three of Harris’ own goals — if he’d let them through, the Magpies — we — would be up twenty. He wouldn’t have to double feint, he’d just take the shot clean.”
“Yes, but, why not just take the shot anyway? What’s the point of dallying around?” Interjects one of the men from behind, his big (thankfully) eavesdropping ears having picked up on their conversation.
“Penalties are different to uninterrupted scoring. Harris may be skilled enough to plan for multiple feints before scoring then, sure, but he has more time in situations like these. He’s not asking for a new Quaffle because the old one’s all holey. He’s wasting time, because it’s just him and Wood. Keeper has the upper hand, he’s been defending well. Chaser has to knock him down a few pegs. Wood is a rookie to the starting team, it shouldn’t be that hard to mess with him. That’s just how it works.”
Another man butts in with a dubious expression, “Which direction will the feints be?”
Ginny surveys the scene before her, the new Quaffle delivered to Harris’ hands. Picks her brain to put the pieces together. She’s only played with Oliver Wood informally and watched the matches, but she can assume his playing style hasn’t changed much. He was confident for his team, but he’s not leading Puddlemere. He’s on the back end today, stepping up to start for the first time. “Harris is right handed. All of his shots have been for either the middle or right hoop, so he’ll go left. Wood will intercept the feint, so he’ll expect Harris to fall back on the other hoops. He’ll turn right a little, take the shot for the left.”
“You can’t predict all of that,” drawls a black-haired boy around her age. He’s been sitting, smoking something awful out of his pipe the entire game so far. “You can’t get into their heads.”
For a second, all she can see is blood dripping on the castle’s stone walls, blood on her hands, something else, someone else in her head, and then she’s back to staring daggers at the boy.
“Twenty Galleons.” she says, with about four Knuts and three Sickles in her pocket.
He lets out a little puff of smoke, the ring dissolving in the air. “Alright. Don’t blubber too much when you’re wrong.”
Ginny opens her mouth to shoot something indecent back, but Halfstead blows his amplified whistle, and his hand cuts down, signalling the beginning of the penalty. Harris remains unreadable. Oliver looks a little nervous. The Chaser whips to the left quickly, and Oliver follows the movement. Harris changes direction quickly, so quickly his turn back to the right snaps Wood’s attention to the other hoops and he dives, dives so well in the wrong direction that Ginny tries not to groan with the United fans as Harris sinks the Quaffle in the left hoop.
The pipe falls out of his mouth and clatters to the floor. Has she ever heard a sound more satisfying? Bellatrix slumping to the ground, her mother’s wand raised, a boy finding her collapsed. The box is silent, even though Harris has saved the Magpies from what could have been an even bigger gap. The Magpies fans around them are cheering as Wood tosses the Quaflfe to Jenkins. Ginny knows what staring feels like - out with Hermione, with her brother, with hair that now screams war hero to some instead of blood traitor. Yet today, the staring is because of her, not whoever’s by her side.
A voice breaks the quiet.
“You owe her twenty Galleons, boy.”
Gregory Phillips meets Ginny’s eyes, and gives her the smallest of nods.
—
She does it three more times, for the smallest and biggest of plays, before people stop betting against her.
She provides two outcomes for the Snitch catch, and the one she weighed as more likely results in the navy blue United horde to push against the boundary of the warding charms with how loudly they cheer.
She says goodbye to Amy, who is explaining the complicated bits of Ginny’s predictions to her kids with wonderful clarity only years of Quidditch could have offered her.
She’s about to leave the box when someone clears their throat behind her.
“Miss Weasley,” Phillips intones, smoothing his robes, “You certainly offer a detailed perspective on the game.”
“I prefer playing it.”
“Many do. They wish, however, without understanding the game completely.”
“Quidditch isn’t that difficult.” You must be a nonce not to understand it, she withholds. Even Gobstones is more complicated. The only thing finicky about Quidditch are the fouls.
“Quidditch is an off and on pitch game, Miss Weasley. Here,” Phillips gestures to the now emptied box, “At galas, trainings, press conferences, interviews, parties, wherever you are, your reputation would precede you.”
“As a Quidditch player or as…” she trails off, unsure, “As Ron Weasleys’ sister?”
“Both. But you know this. You played well today, in here.” Phillips produces a thin card of parchment, and hands it to her. “I’d like us to continue our discussion some other time. Do owl me when you’re home.”
He steps outside of the box, and strides away, his black robes billowing around him with fitting dramatism that reminds her of Snape. Ginny loses sight of him quickly and debates running after him to double check that he hasn’t made a mistake when she smacks into somebody else.
“Jones?” Ginny rubs her nose, puzzled, as Jones’ eyes dart about.
“Yes, what? Have you seen Wilda Griffiths?”
Ah.
“I haven’t. Are you here to talk to her?”
“No.” Jones marches down the bleachers, and without question and only intrigue, Ginny follows her. “I’m here to kill her. I had to wait until all the reporters were gone. They saw me here earlier and probably have run off to print a new front page about my murderous quest. Bunch of nosy pricks, they are.”
“Er—look, I know you might be mad about her playing for Puddlemere, but I don’t think that warrants her a beating. Or death, really. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
Jones stops suddenly, looking at Ginny in surprise. “You’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you, Ginny Weasley?”
“What?” She demands hotly - what to how Gwenog Jones knows her first name - what to them and her likeness, because it doesn’t sound like a good thing.
“I’m not actually here to kill her, if that’s so hard to believe. I’m here to congratulate her. Even if it pains me.” A strange sort of strangled expression has overcome the Beater’s face. “We’re going to crash and burn without her — not only because of her, but that’s what everyone feels like. She was with us for so long, it feels — hang on, why am I telling you this?”
“You’re not the first to confide things in me.” Ginny shrugs. As the youngest, everyone was always pouring in to complain about each other to her. As a baby she couldn’t respond, not that they were looking for advice, just someone to be there as they babbled on. As a toddler, she figured her words wouldn’t mean anything to them anyway. As a teenager, her words were used for most things but comfort. Fred had once said, one night in the Gryffindor common room, that the same fire everyone could hate for its intensity was the same flame that could make them feel warm, safe behind a wall of fire.
He had his moments.
Jones huffs. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Harris invited me to watch.”
“Teddy Harris?” Her eyes narrow as if a target has suddenly appeared on Ginny’s forehead, naming her the enemy. Jones mutters something that ends in always one step, but Ginny didn’t catch the start of her quiet remark.
“Just to watch,” Ginny clarifies quickly. “I’m not trying to join the Magpies.”
“Hmph.”
“I’m not!”
“I don’t particularly care what you’re doing, Weasley. You’re not a threat until you’re on the other side of the pitch.”
“I’m on your side!” She cries exasperatedly. Jones talks like the world is against her, hard and fast, tinged with spite. Maybe it is. “I’m—I’m using what I have to get where I want.”
“Slytherin?” Jones cocks her head, and then shakes it. “No, you Weasleys are all Gryffindors, aren’t you?”
“It wasn’t a Slytherin thing to say.”
“That you’re using Harris to get what you want?” Jones barks a harsh laugh. “Maybe it’s not a Slytherin attribute, but it’s a good one to have.”
Ginny just waves a hand in the air as if she can evaporate this conversation entirely. It is not all how she’d imagined meeting her favourite Quidditch player of all time, on a murderous hunt to congratulate her ex-teammate. Jones’ face has taken on a more curious expression, staring at Ginny so intently she feels like a hole is being burnt between her eyebrows. Like she’s reworking her idea of Ginny in that moment completely. Then she turns around and continues stomping down the bleachers, disappearing to the change rooms.
Jones leaves Ginny in an empty stadium, so vast and lacking of the life it had once been injected with. It feels hollow, dead on the inside. It’s not an unfamiliar sentiment.