Does Anyone Know What's Going On
For a split second, in the middle of the match, Eugene Dent froze. He had just spotted the two Seekers, who had last been seen soaring up into the low mass of wall clouds, dropping back down to earth. Except something felt very, very wrong.
He veered right and flung out a leg to block the Quaffle flung by an American Chaser, kicking it up and away from the English goal. The crowd groaned as he denied the Americans another ten points, but their groan soon turned into frenzied screaming. His eyes shot back to the two Seekers. They were hastily descending — rather close to each other.
The pitch had grown dark from the accumulated clouds. The tornado was dissipating off in the distance now, but the remainder of the storm seemed stuck on top of the enchanted pitch, throwing an enormous shadow over everything. Lightning branched out in a hundred different directions as Dent squinted at the Seekers. They were practically on top of each other, heading directly towards the group of Aurors and Mediwizards on the ground.
“Fuck,” he groaned to himself when he understood what he was seeing. The American Seeker was propping Natalie up, her blonde head lolling on the other Seeker’s shoulder as though she was either unconscious or badly injured. Dent swore again and there was a horrible dropping sensation in his stomach. They had lost. There was no way Natalie could have caught the Snitch looking like that. He peered closer, trying to catch a glint of gold in the American Seeker’s hands, but both of her arms were around Natalie as though his Seeker was about to fall out of the air.
The match paused as everyone in the air stopped to watch the Seekers land. Ricky and Caddy shot Dent questioning looks. He shrugged in response. He had no idea if the match was over. The Pottingers hovered halfway down the pitch, one of them loosely holding the Quaffle, as the American Chasers stopped beside them. A conversation seemed to have begun between the six Chasers, with a lot of shrugging, pointing, and shaking of heads.
Once the two Seekers landed, a group of Mediwizards and staff swarmed them and Natalie’s blonde hair vanished. Dent desperately looked for something gold, nearly falling off his broom when lightning forked above the pitch again.
The referee flew over and entered the swarm of Mediwizards. Dent couldn’t take it anymore. He abandoned the goalposts and shot towards the group. The American captain seemed to have the same idea. The rest of the players on the pitch soon followed.
He jumped to the ground just as the bewildered referee emerged from the group, looking like he had just gotten yelled at by a bunch of Mediwizards.
Dent stared at him, hardly daring to hold onto hope. “What happened-”
“Malfoy,” it was not the referee but the American Seeker who said this. She stepped out of the group of Mediwizards, sounding dazed and confused. Her dark hair was wild and she had a wide-eyed, spooked look about her.
“Malfoy?” repeated the American captain in astonishment. “Did she catch the Snitch?”
“Either she caught it or it's still up there,” said the American Seeker, rubbing a hand over her forehead as though trying to remember. “I don’t know where the Snitch went. Worse storm I’ve ever flown in. Dunno what happened — it was so dark up there. We were chasing the Snitch, next thing I know, I’m almost thrown off my broom by something — could’ve been the wind but I swear there was something up there with us. A thunderbird probably — there’ve been sightings in the area. Dunno, but I ran right into Malfoy, unconscious on her broom. . . I dunno how she still managed to look that pretty up there, knocked out and all-”
“Jackson, this is insane!” yelled the American captain and Dent had to agree with him. The Americans’ Seeker sounded barking mad. “Where’s Malfoy? Where’s the Snitch?”
The Seeker dropped to the ground, looking faint herself. The referee tugged a Mediwizard out of the group to tend to her. Feeling like his head was about to explode, Dent tossed his broom aside and ducked around the referee and the American Seeker to see for himself. The American captain right on his tail while the rest of their teams tried to figure out what was going on.
“Where’s Malfoy?” asked Dent, trying to push through the horde of Mediwizards.
“Back off, both of you,” snapped one of them.
“What’s going on?” he demanded furiously.
“Does she have the Snitch?” asked the American captain with just as much rage.
They didn’t receive an answer. Instead the group seemed to spread out. Someone shouted a spell and a tall, make-shift tent arose around the group surrounding Natalie, falling into place right on the pitch and blocking the view of the group from everyone else in the stadium.
Dent shared a look with the American captain, who he believed was named Johnny Winslow, before they both started sprinting, pushing past Mediwizards, Aurors, and staff, until they burst through the flaps of the tent.
The scene inside was complete chaos. Dent and Winslow stood in shock, taking it all in. Natalie lay unconscious on the ground, her blonde hair strewn all about, her skin pale enough to see the blood vessels underneath as Mediwizards hovered over her, muttering spells and screaming at one another.
“IF A SPELL DOESN’T WORK, STOP USING IT-”
“I’M STILL NOT GETTING ANYTHING FROM HER!”
“HOW MANY TIMES ARE YOU GOING TO USE RENNERVATE-”
“THE CLOCK IS FUCKING TICKING HERE PEOPLE-”
“CAN WE GET A TRAINED HEALER IN HERE PLEASE?!”
The flap opened behind the two team captains and in burst several Healers. Dent recognized Fabienne Lestrange among them.
“Move, boys,” she snapped and he and Winslow scurried to the side. The Mediwizards also cleared away to allow the Healers to approach Natalie. “What are we dealing with?”
“Not sure — could have been foul play resulting in some sort of traumatic shock,” reported a Mediwizard. “All we know is she’s in cardiac arrest. . . and nothing we’re doing is helping.”
A ripple went through the Healers and in an instant they had surrounded Natalie, acting almost as frantic as the Mediwizards had been.
“Try a Fulmina Charm,” said one of the Healers.
“We’ve already tried that,” said a Mediwizard.
“Well, did several of you try it at the same time?”
“No, that would be too dangerous-”
Another Healer interrupted, looking panicked. “She's not breathing.”
“Three of you try a Fulmina Charm with me,” said Fabienne Lestrange with clear urgency. “Dangerous is what we need right now.”
Three other Healers stepped up around her and began muttering something that sounded like “fulminora” and made sparks start to jump out of their wands, gradually growing in size. Johnny Winslow nudged Dent in the gut.
“What?” he said angrily, spellbound by watching the Healers work.
Winslow nodded at Natalie’s hand, “look.”
Following his gaze, Dent caught a hint of gold between Natalie’s clenched fingers, followed by a sorrowful flapping of wings. Relief flooded through him, despite the fact his Seeker apparently didn’t have a heartbeat. They were going to the World Cup Final.
Winslow clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Congrats. That’s one hell of a Seeker you got there.”
“Yeah,” said Dent, now feeling dizzy. “Yeah, she is.”
“Still nothing!” yelled a Healer. The three others muttering spells over Natalie paused, eyes turning to Fabienne Lestrange, the most senior Healer amongst them. A shadow passed over her face and she beckoned one of the Mediwizards towards her. She whispered something in his ear and he darted out in a hurry.
“Keep trying,” Fabienne addressed them, turning back to Natalie and taking a deep breath.
“She’s got the damn Snitch,” said Winslow, drawing all eyes to the captains. Several Healers glared at them as though they were trespassing a sacred space. Dent remained silent, avoiding their eyes. He had just wanted to know who had won.
“He’s right,” said a Healer with a shake of his head. He knelt down and tried to peel Natalie’s fingers away from it but wrenched his hand back with a shout of pain. “Merlin’s ballsack-”
“Fleming!” snapped Fabienne between spells, “get out of the way!”
Another Healer not currently engrossed in muttering spells over Natalie pointed her wand at the Snitch and said “accio!”
The Snitch burst out of Natalie’s hand, rolling a few steps on the ground before melting before their eyes, letting up a puff of black smoke as it sank into a pool of molten gold. Its wings fluttered weakly before falling limp on either side of what remained of it.
Dent found himself staring at it in horror, along with most of those present in the tent. Everything was silent for a minute, as though the world had decided to take a quick break without telling anyone. Even the Healers paused their spellwork. The roar of the audience outside had never seemed louder. The tent was eerily illuminated as lightning flashed overhead.
The flaps of the tent flew open again and the Mediwizard whom Fabienne Lestrange had sent off stepped back in with Tiberius Malfoy behind him.
“What’s going on?” demanded the Minister of Magic, surveying the frozen chaos before him.
Fabienne Lestrange turned, a raw expression on her face. “Tiberius. . . we — she. . . I’m sorry. . . .”
Tiberius looked stony. He pushed the Mediwizard aside and stepped forward to see his motionless niece for himself. Silence returned to the tent. Winslow covered his mouth with a hand, Dent found himself holding his breath and counting the seconds to himself. He briefly wondered if this was all just a dream and he was going to wake up at any moment and get ready to play in the Semi-Final-
Natalie coughed.
Several Healers screamed. Tiberius flinched. Dent shared a wide-eyed look with Winslow.
She coughed again. A tremor went through her and she rolled over, curling into a limp fetal position. Dent caught a glimpse of bloodshot eyes before Fabienne Lestrange kneeled beside her, blocking his view. He noticed the same Mediwizard who had tended to Natalie in the last match was standing behind the Healers, looking as though he was very upset his contract had not mentioned anything about having to be in situations like this. Dent found himself agreeing with the look on the Mediwizard’s face. The shit Natalie put him through would put him in cardiac arrest one of these days. . . .
“Fabienne. . . .” began the Minister, stepping next to the Healer. “What just happened?”
“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” said Fabienne Lestrange, “but it looks like we just got her back.”
“Back?” said Tiberius slowly. Natalie hadn’t moved further, remaining on the ground and breathing shallowly while Fabienne quietly talked to her. “Back?”
“She was in cardiac arrest — her heart stopped,” said an American Healer on Natalie’s other side. “She wasn’t breathing either — I would have declared her dead but. . . something must have worked.”
“We need to get her off this field and to a hospital,” said Fabienne Lestrange, looking around at the American Healers.
One of them nodded. “Closest one is in Dallas. We can get her there stat.”
Fabienne rose to her feet and flicked her wand. A stretcher appeared under Natalie and rose in the air. Natalie flung a hand over the edge, reaching towards the melted Snitch on the ground and mumbling something that sounded like “-erdd?” Fabienne went to move her arm back onto the stretcher, but when she touched her robes, she pulled her hand back with a gasp and a muttered curse.
Tiberius stepped forward, glancing around at the Healers before singling a few of them out, including Fabienne Lestrange and the Healer who had mentioned the Dallas hospital. “Take her to Dallas. Several of us will follow as soon as everything is settled here.”
The Healers jumped into action, floating the stretcher with Natalie out of the tent. Dent watched her pass by, he caught a glimpse of luminescent silver eyes, surrounded by reddened veins before her eyes snapped shut and she grew limp.
“What are you both doing here?” asked Tiberius Malfoy, addressing the two captains.
“Uh,” Dent’s mind blanked.
“Wanted to see who won,” said Winslow in a gruff voice.
Tiberius glanced at the puddle of molten gold that had been the Semi-Final Snitch and then back at Winslow. Stepping forward to shake the American captain’s hand, he patted him on the shoulder. “It was a brilliant match.”
“Thanks,” muttered Winslow, looking rather uncomfortable with the attention from the English Minister. “Uh, I’ve got to go see to my team.” He shot Dent a nod and stepped out of the tent.
Tiberius turned to Dent. “I assume you ought to do the same.”
“Um, yeah, right,” he said stupidly, his brain didn’t seem to want to work. He still didn’t understand what exactly had happened. “Um, Dallas?”
Tiberius waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get her transferred to St. Mungo’s as soon as possible, get out of this bloody country.”
“Okay,” he said as the tent vanished around them. Blinking, Dent studied the stadium. The floating stands had returned to the ground and masses of witches and wizards were streaming off into the fields surrounding the pitch; disapparating, grabbing onto portkeys, some even procuring brooms of their own to fly off through the sheets of rain that wrapped all around the pitch. Next thing he knew, he’d been tackled to the ground by a howling Ricky Webster.
“We won!” yelled Ricky and Dent heard Caddy whoop in agreement as he tried to push Ricky off him. They both wore enormous cowboy hats. “World Cup Final, baby! Taking my talents — and looks — to the national stage! Though I hear these American witches can’t get enough of me — the Aurors had to escort a group of fit blondes off the pitch earlier-”
“Blondes?” asked Caddy, eyes wide. Dent finally shoved Ricky away and looked around for his broomstick.
Tiberius and all the Healers and Mediwizards had vanished, as had the American team. A mix of American and English Aurors milled about, directing the audience out of the pitch. Seymour Mulciber, Winky Crockett, another bloke who Dent recognized as Antonin Dolohov, as well as Natalie’s boyfriend — his name was Riddle or something — huddled beside the door leading to their dressing room, having a fast-paced conversation with a lot of hand gestures. Riddle didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the others. Looking somewhere between annoyed and curious, Riddle stared up at the sky where the storm clouds were still massed, the occasional burst of lightning flickering through them. He said something to the group; Crockett nodded and then Riddle and Dolohov turned and headed out of the enchantments of the pitch, where they quickly disapparated. Dent looked back at Mulciber and Crockett for a moment before Reginald Harlowe stepped over, holding two broomsticks. Dent recognized them as his and Natalie’s.
“You lot done?” Harlowe glared at them. “Can we get out of this blasted country before another bloody tornado drops down on us all?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, grabbing his broom from Harlowe. After hesitating for a moment, he grabbed Natalie’s and shouldered both.
“Oi, kids!” he barked at Caddy and Ricky and they jumped to attention, turning away from waving and winking at a gaggle of giggling, intoxicated witches being ushered out by several American Aurors. “Let’s go!”
“Pottingers are already inside,” said Harlowe, leading them over to the tunnel down to the dressing rooms. Mulciber and Crockett watched them approach before moving away to continue their discussion. “Your stuff’s been brought back to Britain already. Matt Lament has a portkey set up for you all as soon as you’re ready.”
“Not wasting any time, huh,” said Dent. He felt like he was floating, everything seemed surreal — the chatter of the leaving crowds, the weight of two brooms on his shoulder, the darkness of the stadium and the flickering of lightning above, the low growl of thunder that seemed to reverberate within his bones. And of course, the fact that they were going to the World Cup. . . .