England vs Portugal
On the first day of February, the stadium on the Scotland-England border was packed to the brim. England was hosting Portugal in the Quarterfinals of the Quidditch World Cup. The winner would go on to play the winner of the United States versus Mongolia match, which would take place across the Atlantic later that day. The winners of that match would have the chance to compete for the World Cup this coming summer. It was not a day to be taken lightly, least of all by the teams themselves.
The score currently 350-340, with England just holding the lead, the match had gone on for nearly five hours now. The Snitch hadn’t been sighted by either Seeker once. A timeout had been called by English team captain, Eugene Dent, after his Seeker took a Bludger to the chest that had been meant for the Portuguese Seeker.
“Get your fucking head out of the goddamn clouds, Malfoy!” Dent yelled at Natalie as she winced, clutching her chest in the midst of their team huddle and leaning heavily on her broom. “We’re in the middle of a match! Do you want to fucking win this or not?!”
“Yeah, I wanna win,” she muttered, gingerly pressing a hand to her ribs. She wasn’t sure if the Bludger hit had broken one. It hurt like hell, but Dent was right. She’d gotten hit because her head was a cesspool, her thoughts wracked her brain like a furious twister, and she had not been paying much attention to the match around her. She was exhausted mentally, and now physically. The match was taking forever. The faces of her teammates told her they were just as drained.
“Sorry,” Caddy whispered to her. “I was hoping it’d get the ugly bloke out of your way.”
Natalie had to hold in a laugh, which made her ribs hurt even more. The Portuguese Seeker was objectively an ugly bloke. Pasty, pimply Caddy looked positively winsome compared to him.
“Oi, does Malfoy need medical attention?” a Mediwizard approached the team huddle.
Natalie shot a panicked look at Dent, who narrowed his eyes but gave her an imperceptible nod.
“No, she’s alright,” barked Dent and once the Mediwizard backed away, he glared at Natalie and muttered, “for now.”
“Want me to pop it back in place for you, love?” asked Ricky, dropping his bat to the ground and cracking his knuckles.
One of the Pottingers, possibly Ted, shook his head, making his brothers snicker. “That’s not how ribs work, you dunderhead.”
Dent sighed, “Malfoy, I swear to Merlin, do not let me down here-”
“I’m fine,” grunted Natalie, lightly pressing on her rib and straightening up. She restrained herself from flinching. Caddy could whack a goddamn Bludger, it hurt like a bloody bitch.
“Let’s go,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as frightened as she thought it did.
She must have thought wrong. Worry flashed across Dent’s face, but the referee started hollering at them to get back in the air.
Natalie turned away from the team, slinging herself onto her broom and beginning to rise in the air. Dent grabbed her robes and tugged her down before she could rise too high, dislodging the sleeve of her robes from its place tucked under her wrist guard.
“Malfoy,” he said sharply, “just catch it and we’re done.”
Natalie nodded, too busy trying to block out the pain to bother responding.
He released her and she shot back upwards, the crowd roaring as she did so. The loosened sleeve of her robe flapped about, sending air rushing down her arm. But she had bigger problems than fixing it at the moment. She stuck one hand to her broom, keeping her elbow stiff to force herself to sit as upright as possible in order to alleviate some of the burning she felt from her chest. Bloody hell.
The physical pain did one useful thing, however. She was so focused on finding the Snitch in order to end the pain that her head didn’t have any time to run wild with everything she had been troubled about before. Tom Riddle’s hollow black eyes no longer floated through her mind. Nor did the piercing screams of house-elves, or the bloodied face of Willow Avery, or Abraxas’s eyes when he told her Melania had a miscarriage, or the creeping thought that she had caused Melania to lose the baby, due to the same uncontrolled release of energy that had caused the windows of the Manor to shatter and then ruined the party that Christmas Eve night.
A cough tore through her as the match resumed. The Pottingers tossed the Quaffle around only to be blocked by the Portuguese Keeper. Eyes darting around, she spotted the Portuguese Seeker. He hovered nearby and she accidentally made eye contact with him. There was nothing she hated more in a Quidditch match than making eye contact with the opposing Seeker. Annoyed and suppressing another cough, she flew off, darting over the play to scope out the stadium. Where was the bloody Snitch? She hadn’t caught a glance of it all game.
C’mon. She continued cruising about, head on a swivel. She had done this hundreds, if not thousands of times. She had to do it one more time and then they were one step closer to the Cup. And then she could get rid of the wracking pain running through her chest.
She coughed, unable to stop it, and winced as the movement shot a bolt of fire through her ribs. Dammit. Glancing down, Portugal had scored, tying the game. She watched the Pottingers retrieve possession of the Quaffle and quickly put them back in the lead. That had been the trend the entire game. The only other trend being that the bloody Snitch was nowhere to be seen.
Gripping her broom with one hand as tight as she could, she darted to the opposite side of the field, as the Portuguese Seeker had once again gotten too close to her. Stupid idiot. He hadn’t had any more luck in seeing the Snitch than she had.
Another cough, a guttural hack this time and her throat felt warm and sticky. Something wet splattered onto her lips and her instinct was to glance up to see if it was raining.
It was not raining. The stadium was enclosed by several protection enchantments that made it impervious to the weather despite it being considered “open-air.” She knew that.
Trying to focus on her breathing, which, she realized, was becoming rather difficult, Natalie raised the hand not tightly clutching the broom to swipe at her mouth — and felt something hard hit her just below the chin.
What the hell? Bewildered, she pulled her hand away. It was the arm Dent had snatched the robes from her wrist guard so they flapped about in the air. But there seemed to be a bump under her robes that shouldn’t have been there. She first thought she had gotten her arm hurt too and it had swollen, but that was ridiculous. Her pain-wracked ribs clearly told her where the injury was. Unsticking her other hand from the broom and using her knees to balance to avoid using any core strength, she slowly pulled back the sleeve of her robes and watched the Snitch neatly fall out into her hand.
Natalie could do nothing but gawk. She forgot she was high above the stadium in the middle of a match, that she could hardly breathe, and that her ribs were like a vice around her lungs. The first thing she felt was disappointment. There would be no dramatic chase for the Snitch this match. No flawlessly executed sequence with her teammates. No screaming crowd as she pursued the Snitch like it was the most important thing on the planet.
No. Instead the little bugger had flown up her fucking sleeve and gotten stuck there. What a stupid winged ball. Of all ways for a match to end. . . she supposed she ought to thank Dent for tugging her sleeve free. . . he would gloat about it for days, weeks, even.
Wrapping her fingers around the Snitch, she glanced around. Nobody had noticed. The match continued below her, the crowd screaming when the Pottingers knocked home another goal for England. Even the Portuguese Seeker, who had followed her across the stadium, floated just below her, eyes following the play of the match as the Portuguese Chasers barreled towards Dent and the English goal.
Natalie blinked. She didn’t know what to do. Should she raise her fist in victory? She doubted anyone would notice that either. She didn’t feel triumphant, just relieved. The match was over. She could take a bloody nap and-
A cough tore through her and she had the sudden urge to vomit. She fell forward, holding tightly to her broom with one hand, clutching the Snitch with the other as her insides seemed to want to swim around. She remained still for a few moments, clenching her teeth and blinking with each wave of fresh pain. Something wet coated her lips again, and remembering what she had tried to do seconds ago, she shakily raised her hand to her lips and kissed the Snitch. When she pulled it back, streaks of blood stained its gold surface. Its wings flickered wildly for a moment, before growing still between her fingers. Her ribs were definitely broken and the blood indicated something else, possibly a punctured lung. Brilliant. Well, the match was over now, even if she was the only one who knew it.
Had she not been struggling to breathe, she would have giggled as she descended back down to the ground. She dropped at a steady speed, ignoring the continued gameplay of the match. They would find out eventually.
About halfway to the ground, she pushed her left leg over the side of her broomstick as if she were riding it sidesaddle. The position was much more comfortable for her broken ribs, as she didn’t have to lean forwards. She continued drifting downwards, clearing her throat and sucking in any air she could while aiming for the cluster of Aurors, reporters, Mediwizards, and other staff near the entrance to the teams’ dressing rooms. Her approach caused an uproar amongst this group.
“MALFOY I ASKED IF YOU NEEDED MEDICAL ATTENTION DURING THE TIME OUT!” shouted the Mediwizard from earlier.
The reporters, meanwhile, were going mental, shouting to their assistants who frantically tried to scribble out the play-by-play articles that would be published tomorrow morning.
“IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE MATCH? IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MATCH-”
“MALFOY DROPS FROM THE SKY MID-MATCH-”
“ENGLISH SEEKER CALLS IT QUITS? NATALIE MALFOY LEAVES GAME PLAY-”
Hacking at the stickiness in her throat, Natalie dropped to the ground in front of this group, slid off her broom and managed to stand, though her legs started to shake and her knees very much wanted to give out. Camera lights flashed and the reporters questions grew frantic as the game continued above her.
Natalie’s gaze drifted over the cameras and the reporters without blinking, as her vision was becoming blurry anyway. She raised the hand in which she clutched the Snitch and showed them the tiny, blood-stained ball, hoping they would shut up once they realized the match had ended. Two familiar faces caught her eye in the mob. Taking a few steps, she grabbed the quill Jonathan Shaw was scribbling something out with and dropped the bloodied Snitch into his hand instead. She shot a wink at a gaping Lloyd Avery before the Mediwizards were in her face, and she was getting dragged past the reporters and into the tunnel leading to their dressing room.
Eugene Dent was in a state of shock. He barely had any idea what happened. He had watched his Seeker drift down to the ground in the middle of the match — and next thing he knew, the match was over.
A Mediwizard signaled to the referee that the match had ended, the referee blew his whistle, and Dent rushed down to the ground, dropped his broom onto the pitch, and practically tore off his Keeper’s equipment. Heading straight into the tunnel, past the reporters who were losing their minds a little extra over the ending of this match, the rest of the team hot on his heels. He had to find his Seeker, he had to know what the bloody hell had happened. He hadn’t seen her catch the Snitch. One minute she hovered above the pitch, the next she was on the ground.
The team charged through the tunnel, which was packed with Mediwizards, Aurors, and other support staff. The Aurors and most of the staff started clapping and congratulating them, which was how Dent learned that they must have won. Ricky and Caddy took the opportunity to enjoy the attention; bowing, whooping, and offering autographs and photos. The Pottingers’ Irish wives all ran into their husband’s arms at nearly the exact same instant, which made Dent feel even more surreal.
“Oi,” he snatched the arm of a Mediwizard hurrying past. “Where’s Malfoy?”
“Medical room,” snapped the Mediwizard, pushing by him. Dent attempted to tail him, as he was heading in that direction anyway, but some of Jack Lament’s support staff stepped in front of him to say their congratulations.
Finally extricating himself out of the crowd, he bolted towards the door of the medical room, only to find Seymour Mulciber and Reginald Harlowe guarding it.
He stared between the two before blurting out, “what happened? Did she catch the Snitch? Is she okay?”
“Yeah, she caught it, but with broken ribs, I heard,” Harlowe said with a sympathetic wince. “They haven’t let us in, just told us to make sure nobody entered.”
“Let me in,” demanded Dent.
Harlowe gave him a look. “No.”
Dent went to snap a retort, but instead the medical room door banged open and the Mediwizard who had asked if Natalie needed assistance on the field stepped out, frustration written all over him. He scanned the crowded hallway and shook his head.
“Harlowe. . . clear out all these bloody people. And see if Fabienne Lestrange or Lancelot Prewett are here somewhere.”
“Why?” barked Dent, as Harlowe went off to fulfill this request. “What’s wrong?”
“Malfoy is refusing to be taken to St. Mungo’s, so we’ll need a certified Healer to check her out,” the Mediwizard narrowed his eyes. “She’s got two broken ribs, which I suspect both you and her were aware of during the time out.”
Dent said nothing.
“As I suspected,” the Mediwizard looked personally affronted by his silence. “Quidditch players. Think they’re invincible. . . broken ribs usually aren’t too difficult to fix. But they ended up puncturing her lungs, no doubt from proceeding to play without being attended to, which is why it would be much easier to just bring her to St. Mungo’s, but she nearly bit my head off when I said that. I’ve never met a witch with such a blatant disregard for her physical health.”
Seymour Mulciber made a noise as if he was struggling to keep in a laugh. Dent tossed him a glare.
“You’re lucky you’ve got time before the next match,” the Mediwizard continued, “hopefully Healer Lestrange can-” the bloke was interrupted by Natalie herself shoving past him and proceeding down the now empty hall towards the team dressing room.
“I. . . Merlin’s beard — Malfoy, you’re in no state-” he hurried off after Natalie. Dent and Mulciber watched him go, trying in vain to get her to stop. Mulciber finally let out a snicker and Dent sighed, not sure if he ought to be exasperated or amused by his Seeker. If she could bolt on down the hall, he knew she’d be fine.
“What happened?” Winky Crockett popped up beside the two, looking dapper as always in the customary black robes and homburg hat he wore on match days. “Rumor is Natalie is bleeding to death.”
“It’s already been exaggerated, wow,” snorted Dent.
Crockett shot Dent a dark look that distorted the white scars on his face. “Not the type of rumor we want spreading.”
“Well,” Mulciber gave him a toothy grin, “then spread another rumor that Malfoy is a stubborn cow and refuses to go to St. Mungo’s to get patched up.”
“St. Mungo’s?” Crockett raised an eyebrow, “was the Bludger hit that bad?”
“Broke her ribs,” replied Dent, now a bit guilty he hadn’t forced the Mediwizards on her during the timeout. “They said her lungs got punctured.”
Crockett’s expression faltered. “That’s. . .”
“Not ideal?” offered Mulciber with a solemn laugh.
“Not the exact wording I was looking for, but it’ll do,” Crockett stepped over to peer into the medical room. “Where is she? Did they convince her to go to St. Mungo’s?”
“No, she ran out and headed to our room,” Dent tilted his head in the direction of the team’s dressing room. They could vaguely hear what sounded like arguing drifting from the open door.
“Where’s Malfoy?” called a voice from down the tunnel. Reginald Harlowe stepped back onto the scene, with both Lancelot Prewett and Fabienne Lestrange behind him.
“Dressing room,” said Dent, nodding at the Healers. Harlowe hurried down the hallway, the Healers following.
Crockett removed his hat to run a hand through his ginger hair and sighed. Then he turned to Dent, “can you see if you can get her to cooperate so they can bring her to St. Mungo’s?”
“Doubt cooperation is likely,” Dent muttered with heavy sarcasm, but walked off down the hall, leaving the two others.
Mulciber glanced over at Crockett. “There’s no way he can convince her. She’s been living here for more than a month. This’ll need a bigger stick. . . .”
“Yeah, I know. I’m meeting with the Minister in a few minutes so I’ll brief him on the situation,” said Crockett with a grim smile. “Ian Rowle is sick of keeping his Aurors posted here all day every day because Natalie had the genius idea to live in this stadium so Tiberius will probably step in, seeing as they won and that she’s been hurt.”
Mulciber had a smug smirk on his face. “He’ll have a lot to say with these latest developments, I’m sure.”
Crockett gave him a curious look but Seymour turned and headed off down the corridor without explaining himself. Shrugging it off, Crockett darted down the hall, towards the back entrance, in the opposite direction Mulciber had gone, so that he passed by the team’s dressing room on his way out. But the door had been closed and the room was magically soundproofed; he couldn’t hear anything.
He hurried out of the hallway, stepping through the enchanted wall and nodding to Bertram Tarold and Keefe Jameson. The Aurors stood guarding the back entrance, watching the last few fans leave the stadium. They gave him a salute and allowed him to step through the stadium’s protective enchantments. Once outside the boundaries of the stadium, he turned and disapparated away.
Appearing in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, he stalked towards the Minister’s offices, knowing the Minister was anxiously awaiting his report. The top brass of the British Ministry had either opted to not attend the match, or only attended the first half, seeing as it had gone on for over five hours; the owls announcing England’s victory wouldn’t have reached them yet.
The Ministry was dark at this hour, only a few gleaming blue lights reflected off the golden fountain in the middle of the Atrium. The soft sound of tinkling water muffled his footsteps as he headed deeper into the Ministry. A short lift ride and a brief walk and he found himself outside the Minister’s offices.
The external office door was always open. Crockett let himself in, passing the empty rows of chairs that were reserved for witches and wizards who thought themselves important enough to deserve a meeting with the Minister of Magic. Anybody who actually was important enough simply walked on in. Crockett did this now, sliding past the empty desk Pamela Selwyn usually occupied. The door to the Minister’s internal office had been left ajar, voices and light spilling out into the external office.
Crockett approached, quickly rapping on the doorframe. A voice called him in to enter. He did so and glanced around. Tiberius was present, of course, sitting behind his desk at the center of the office with his fingers steepled as he listened to Rabastan Lestrange outline something. Rabastan, Seamus Dawson, and Jack and Matt Lament sat around the polished wooden table to the left of the Minister’s desk. A stack of parchment and an ashtray was on the table and they all clutched thick cigars that puffed out light blue smoke when they spoke.
“Ah, Winky,” greeted Tiberius, sitting up in his chair. “We’ve been waiting for you. How did it go?”
Crockett briefly smiled, pleased to at least have some good news. “We won.”
A whoop went around the office. Seamus Dawson shook Jack Lament’s hand, patting him heartily on the back. Matt Lament lit another cigar, kicked his feet up onto the table, and lifted his bowler hat in the direction of the moving poster pasted to the wall. On it, Natalie Malfoy waved back at him. Rabastan and Tiberius exchanged a glittering look before Tiberius popped the question.
“Did she catch the Snitch?”
“Uh. . . .”
Tiberius unsteepled his fingers and leaned forward. “Winky. . . .”
“She, well, the word is the Snitch got stuck in her robes and nobody knew, not even her, for a while.”
“What?” laughed Rabastan, blowing out a long puff of blue smoke. “How did she not know?”
Crockett fixed his gaze on Tiberius, hoping the Minister would decide to step in with the latest developments over Natalie acting like a child. “She took a Bludger to the ribs, sir. Broke two of them and punctured her lungs.”
Silence swept through the room as looks were exchanged.
Tiberius rose to his feet, pushed his chair in and gripped the back of it. “Is she at St. Mungo’s? How bad is it?”
“Fabienne Lestrange and Lancelot Prewett are on site, they just went to check her out but she refuses to leave the stadium. The Mediwizards aren’t too pleased about it all. . . .”
Tiberius muttered something under his breath. Jack Lament groaned, running a hand through his thinning hair. The man looked like he’d aged ten years since the tournament began. Crockett wondered if he knew what he was getting everyone into when he recruited Natalie.
“I’ll send Abraxas to bring her to the Manor, at least, if she refuses to go to St. Mungo’s,” said Tiberius with finality. It was clear the Minister was relieved he had a clear excuse to wield his authority. “My mother is impatient to see her and Fabienne can treat her there as well. They’ve got a break for. . . .”
“A few days,” said Jack Lament. “The Semi-Final date is set for April fourteenth. But they’ll have plenty of practice trainings before the match.”
“April fourteenth is a while away. I don’t see a need to cater to this living in the stadium whim anymore. She can stay at the Manor between practices, it’ll be the safest place. Ian Rowle has started insisting he can’t keep his top Aurors guarding the stadium all day, everyday. And quite frankly, I’m tired of hearing it from him.”
“We all are,” said Matt Lament with a grin. "Rowle's got a big storm coming once the Final rolls around though."
“That settles that, then,” Tiberius looked pleased. “Rabastan, how’s the Prophet coming along?”
Rabastan Lestrange smiled. “I had Jonathan Shaw and Lloyd Avery at the match. They’ve got their instructions. . . actually, gentlemen, if you’d wait a few seconds. . . .” Rabastan held up his pocket watch and silently counted down until there was a small pop. A piece of parchment with a black and white moving photograph appeared on the table in front of him.
“Bloody hell,” Rabastan softly exclaimed. “This is going to be our best seller!” He held up the parchment for all to see. Underneath a working headline that stated “Kiss the Cup Goodbye, Portugal!” was a photograph of a stone-faced Natalie Malfoy, it depicted her sliding off her broom and raising the golden Snitch with a bloody kiss on it directly to the camera.
“Merlin’s beard,” chuckled Jack Lament, taking a long draw from his cigar and puffing out a cloud of smoke as laughter circled the room.
Amusement was evident on Seamus Dawson’s face but his title demanded seriousness. “Portugal is going to give us hell for that for years.”
“It’s worth it,” said Matt Lament with a grin, gesturing for Rabastan to slide the parchment over for a better look. “It’s brilliant. This’ll drive the public wild. Whoever took this photograph deserves a raise.”
Crockett took a step closer to inspect it, his eyes landing on the tiny Snitch in the photograph. Matt Lament voiced exactly what Crockett was thinking.
“Where’s that Snitch? It’s going to be worth a fortune, especially once this is published.”
“Winky,” Tiberius addressed the agent and smiled, not needing to say anything else.
Crockett tipped his hat to the Minister of Magic, “on it.” He gave the others present a polite nod and departed from the office.
Tiberius looked around at his most important associates at the moment. “Then I believe the last order of business tonight is where the Final is held.”
“They still have to beat whoever wins the U.S. match,” Jack Lament reminded the room, “that should be taking place shortly. Near a place called Amarillo, Texas, I believe.”
“Of course,” his brother waved a hand, pushing the Prophet draft back to Rabastan and flipping through the stack parchment on the table. “I’ve already had Seymour Mulciber on this project for a few weeks now. Switzerland would be the ideal locale for the Cup Final. . . for a variety of reasons.”
“The economic ones, mostly,” cracked Seamus Dawson and a chuckle ran through the room. They all had considerable gains riding upon the English national team, and the Swiss Ministry had a history of being rather lenient when it came to enforcing international wizarding statutes that had to do with finances.
“No comment there, Seamus,” Matt’s lips twitched into a smile. “The Swiss Minister is also a member of the ICWQC and I’m sure he would have no objections to hosting the Final. Mulciber has even selected the exact spot. An isolated village called Lauterbrunnen. . . .”