Chapter Text
Bright lights. Cheering fans. Garish merchandise. Painted bellies. Mascots levitating all over the pitch. Random tickling spells. Dr. Filibuster products in the stands. Cursing. Shouting. Broken broomsticks. Rogue bludgers. Broken ribs. Broken noses. Concussions. Mid-air tussles. Mortally insulted referees. Reckless (and unsuccessful) attempts at the Wronsky feint. Mediwizards on strike.
Or, as Francis’ editor in chief at Seeker Weekly would call it – nothing new.
Her Quick-Quotes Quill hovered mid-air uselessly, twitching into motion whenever a thought formulated itself in her head before going limp again. On the pitch, Puddlemere and Falmouth were locked in a vicious scramble for the quaffel, the chasers on both sides not giving a single inch. The match was well into its third hour, and nowhere near finished.
Maybe political tension had a way of bleeding into sports. Francis grimaced while Falmouth’s Horton clashed into Puddlemere’s keeper in a full-on dash. Of all the twelve seasons she’d covered by now, this one was by far the most brutal. Six matchdays in and already first-string players were being treated for injuries that had her shuddering in disgust. The widespread hazard also resulted in quite a few first-time opportunities for the players keeping the reserve bank warm with their pert behinds.
“Ay, that must smart, laddie,” Parsons from the Prophet let out a string of colourful curses next to her. “Ye see that, Cadogan? That’s what ye get for being frugal. They should’ve got Mohammed for the bench when he was up for grabs in the summer…”
Francis rolled her eyes at him, but her quill had started scribbling away. Why not do an angle on bench-warmers and newbies? There was a total of five players flying their first match of the season tonight, it was a good enough starting point for her damned article. She glanced through the copied line-ups in her folder, tapping the parchment with her wand until the relevant names glowed red.
Basara, Walid (33)
Flint, Marcus (19)
Pool, Proteus (22)
Silva, Alejandro (20)
Wood, Oliver (18)
Proteus Pool was a beater on Puddlemere’s side, all of twenty-two years old, a giant Welshman. Walid Basara, a veteran seeker of the United Arabic Leagues, had come to England for his last years playing professional. Quidditch in the UK was, according to him, “a nice, relaxing affair”. A puzzling choice. Maybe Puddlemere appreciated his laid-back attitude, though Francis was betting on the low transfer sum.
Casting a look upwards, she caught a glimpse of Basara looping around the goal hoops, looking for all of the world like he was enjoying a ride into the sunset while his teammates were locked in a frenzied, teeth-rattling battle for every point. Francis shrugged at his nonchalance, then groaned along with the rest of the audience when a Falmouth chaser bludgeoned his way through the opposing beaters, sending them both spiralling. He didn’t stop to check, but passed the quaffel along with a brilliant twist – SCORE!
The stadium speaker, Ambrose Aargile, was having a field day with the match: “And that’s some risky play we’re seeing tonight from Flint! 560 to 490 for Falmouth. Holdsworth – Puddlemere’s got the quaffel, ow, dropped it! Flint again, Merlin’s beard, that was quick – Flint to Silva! Silva’s going in for the - Ah, brilliant save by Wood. Return pass to Wadcock –“
Francis tapped her wand again, Quick-Quotes Quill going off in a frenzy. Alejandro Silva, a Brazilian national who’d been scouted by the Falcons on account of his speed. The scoring-type, started off as a seeker but changed position once he grew two feet in height. Apparently didn’t speak a word of English.
The match was briefly interrupted when a Puddlemere supporter launched himself off the stands on what appeared to be a badly transformed broom. “Is that Archie Aymslowe again?” She asked in the general direction of her fellow Quidditch journalists crowding the press booth, garnering a few bored sounds that indicated the affirmative.
“He almost got arrested at the World Cup last year, wore some irregular muggle clothing and left his underwear at home, the old fart,” Prophet Parsons said. A few people let out weak laughs, but mostly everyone cringed. The 1994 Quidditch World Cup had been such a bloody clusterfuck, Francis didn’t even know where to start. The masked rioters, the dark mark appearing for the first time in thirteen years, the tormented muggle family…
And now, rumours and whispers after a tragic death that had occurred during the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts.
The game resumed after orderlies restrained a singing Archie, floating him off the pitch while trying and failing to put a silencing charm on the sod. Francis shook off the unpleasant thoughts and refocused, scanning the back and forth until she spotted her next candidate. Marcus Flint, a young lad of nineteen, spent last season on the bench for the Montrose Magpies before being transferred for a sizable sum. Ruthless flyer and a wicked shot, she noted. He fit the Falmouth criteria down to a tee, the sneer on his bruised face included.
He could be one to watch.
Aargile, meanwhile, was filling the stadium with his booming voice: “Puddlemere is calling foul! Where’s the referee? Passey, old pal, where ye’ at?” The Puddlemere home crowd booed and whistled, hurling creative insults with gusto. Flint had apparently collided with Puddlemere’s keeper, Wood, and the two of them were screaming their heads off while their respective teammates crowded them, yelling and pointing accusing fingers. Pal Passey, the unfortunate referee, took a while to elbow his way between them, bald head glowing with perspiration.
“Interesting,” Francis said out loud, tapping her parchment again. Oliver Wood, eighteen, graduated Hogwarts the same year as Flint did. Sparing a look at his player profile she found herself quite charmed by the boy smiling up at her from the photograph. Handsome lad, Wood was. She would have to catch him after the match for a few pictures – no matter what anyone said, looks did sell, even with niche publications like hers.
Unsurprisingly, Falmouth ended up winning, opening up an eight-point lead at the top of the table. Puddlemere had to swallow their second defeat in four matches, placing tenth over all. Francis apparated down to the edge of the pitch, darting her way through the towering athletes congratulating one another, chugging water and stripping out of their robes. She found Oliver Wood still perched on his broom in mid-air, looking like someone very close to him had only just died a rather grisly death. Ah, the young ones always took it too hard.
“Francis Cadogan, Seeker Weekly,” she stuck up a hand at him and flashed her bright blue press badge all in one motion, trying for a winning smile. The boy seemed utterly perplexed, though he didn’t fly off in a screaming terror. That was a good enough start. “May I speak to you for a short interview?”
Green camera smoke was already billowing over from where the Prophet was photographing Marcus Flint. Damn them, Flint was supposed to be her story tonight! She turned back to Wood, quill perched at the ready: “Mr. Wood, how was your first ever league game?”
“Uh, it was fine, I suppose. Though of course we’d set out to win –“ The lad glanced down at her scribbling quill, eyebrows knitting together. Francis took the chance and whipped out her own camera for a shot. “Tell me, Mr. Wood, an unprecedented total of five new players debuted tonight, what do you think of their performance?”
“We were too slow in our defence, the right flank left a gaping hole wide open and Silva’s always been known for his speed - ” Wood stopped himself, cheeks aglow. “Uh, I mean. I mean everyone played very well, of course…”
Francis took pity on him and moved her scrambling quill slightly to the side. The poor lamb clearly hadn’t received any training for public appearances. Puddlemere, fiscally conservative since 1163, held true to their motto and never did spend money on anything besides the bare necessities.
From the corner of her eye, she spied Flint walking away from where Prophet Parsons was gesticulating wildly while his photographer huffed and puffed. “Mr. Flint! May I – Francis Cadogan, Seeker Weekly, I was only just speaking to Oliver Wood here. What did you think of Mr. Wood’s performance this evening?”
Flint stopped, giving her a hostile look. His left eye was almost swollen shut, lip split and bleeding sluggishly down his chin. Wood slid off his broom, eyes darting this way and that, looking quite spooked. Heavy silence settled over the three of them. Francis glanced from one to the other, noting the way both were staring into different directions with intent. Wood, the darling boy, was flushed even redder than before, peering fixedly onto the ground.
“You were in school together, is that right?” Francis raised her camera, capturing the awkward tableau they made with a heavy gust of magenta smoke. “Mr. Flint, can you tell us about the situation after your collision?”
Marcus Flint glowered at her, scowl in place. “No, thanks.”
Francis barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. It was easy to forget that she was dealing with utter children when said infants towered over six feet and packed enough muscles to kill a hippogriff. Wood, obviously the more pleasant one, gave her a forced smile: “We were both captains of our house teams.” His eyes darted towards Flint’s bruised faced before quickly turning towards the catacombs leading to the Puddlemere changing rooms. “Er, excuse me, we’ve a post-match team meeting.”
Flint didn’t even bother to give her another look. He was already walking away to where most of his team was standing. As it often was with an all-male squad, congratulations were offered in the way of gruff posturing and a few friendly jostles. Francis wrinkled her nose at the stench of testosterone. She apparated out of the stadium and straight to the office, mood soured despite the story that was already writing itself on her cluttered desk.
“How was it, then?” Jones asked from his side of the office. The idiot was decked out in his Chudley Cannons fan gear, the orange so bright it hurt Francis to look at him. He was probably going to write another glowing article on the Cannons seeker. What utter rubbish. But the editor in chief liked him, preferred his concise writing.
She sometimes seriously asked herself why she’d picked this particular line of work. She could’ve trained to be a mediwizard, or worked for Gringotts, or something. Witches made up only fifteen percent of the British and Irish Quidditch League, and most of those numbers were covered by the Holyhead Harpies. At the Seeker Weekly office, she had remained the sole witch for the past ten years or so.
Jones was doing his usual spiel now, the horny wanker: “Have a pint with me at the Leaky, Cadogan, come on now! Loosen up some.”
“Oh, Merlin, shut it!” She glared at him before casting a privacy spell around her desk. The bleeding imbecile, still hitting on her after a million and one rejections. She gave him the finger and turned her full attention to the article, quill already scratching away.
*
Something was sounding with an alarming intensity. Much like the hooting of an owl, but strangely mechanic, a maddening, repetitive melody. Oliver sat up in bed, disoriented in the half-light, heart beating out of synch with the last tendrils of a garishly intense dream.
He cast the shielding charm he’d forgotten the previous night, blocking out the tedious noise the paper-thin walls of his tiny apartment afforded him. Finally, the electronic clock of his neighbour went silent. Outside his window a car honked, weaving into the tapestry of strange sounds that signalled muggle Bristol coming to life.
It was his first official day off in over a month, he remembered, mood blackening within seconds.
Adrenaline spiked into his veins as last night’s match rushed back into his consciousness with the force of a bludger. The first three saves he hadn’t made. Horton’s bluff that’d put him on the wrong goal hoop. Silva’s triple score. The reporter who’d ambushed him. Ambrose Aargile, legendary stadium speaker, calling him “brilliant” that once. The way the crowd had booed and yelled. Archie Aymslowe speeding onto the field with his trousers off. Basara failing to catch the snitch four bleeding times.
And of-fucking-course, there was Marcus bloody Flint.
Flint, who’d gotten an unforgivable six goals past him. Who hadn’t at all hesitated to crash into Oliver with full speed, telling him to get out of the way. Fucking Marcus Flint, who’d not even deigned to look him in the face after the whole ordeal.
Losing matches in general made Oliver upset enough to seriously consider suicide by broom. This particular match? His first ever league game for Puddlemere with Marcus Flint on the opposing team? That had been enough for him to cry involuntary tears of undiluted anger all through his hour long shower.
Lying in bed, tense as a board, Oliver bit his lip until he tasted blood. He’d made so many fucking mistakes yesterday, misjudged so many damned situations in the split-seconds he’d had. After a year on the bench, he’d wanted nothing more than the chance to play one single match, to prove himself and show wizarding Britain what he could do. Now he felt foolish - all he’d obviously proven was his lack of preparedness.
Something tapped against the rickety window to his right. Oliver turned in bed and saw Fletcher, his owl, settling on the windowsill while a large barn owl with the Daily Prophet tied to its leg hovered with its wings spread. He flicked the window open with his wand, the movement jerky and forceful with anger. The glass panes banged open against the wall, shattering and covering half the room with shards.
The owls both screeched in a reproachful cacophony while Oliver cursed a blue streak.
He was still picking out glass from the side of his face half an hour later, dabbing dittany on the cuts while smearing half the bathroom with blood. The letter Fletcher brought was from his mum, announcing an impromptu visit. The daily prophet had Harry Potter’s face printed on its cover alongside a scornful article on his credibility, while the sport’s section featured a large photograph of Flint tearing through the air, quaffle tucked beneath his left arm.
“A NEW BROADMOOR ON THE RISE FOR FALCONS”, read the titel.
He was still staring at the feature article on Flint when his mum flooed in carrying a breakfast casserole. “Lad, you look a fright,” she tutted at him. “I’ll put on the kettle, ay?”
“This makes no sense! The Broadmoors were beaters, the comparison is absolute rubbish.”
“Well, the Prophet has been absolute rubbish ever since July this year, darling.”
They had a hearty meal together, Oliver attempting his best at a cheerful facade. The truth, however, was this: he had no time whatsoever for his cousin’s Hogwarts farewell dinner; he had no interest in knowing about the gnomes skipping gardens and attacking Mrs. Paterson’s cat; there was scarcely a thing he could imagine that interested him less than Witch Weekly’s candidates for the Most Charming Smile Awards. Oliver loved his mum with all his being, bless her heart, but he heaved out a great sigh of relief once she finally flooed back to Scotland after dusting under his landlord’s squeaky leather couch.
Despite all his limbs protesting with aching pain, Oliver picked out his best muggle outfit and went for a punishing run.
This was one of the things he’d learned early on during his first year of going professional: endure the pain. And Merlin, there was no shortage of it, even without being part of the starting line-up for a single match. The supposedly back-breaking practice schedules he’d enforced during his time as Gryffindor captain seemed laughably mild in comparison.
His thighs throbbed with a dull stab, though that was barely noticeable against the sharp sting in his left shoulder blade. The exact shoulder blade Flint had charged into during last night’s match. The referee had refrained from calling foul, and wasn’t that something - Flint’s sneaky Slytherin tactics carrying over into his professional career.
It was noon by the time he returned to his flat, nodding a congenial how do you doto his muggle neighbour Mrs. Jenkins before stealthily apparating up four flights of stairs. He fed Fletcher, tidied up in the kitchen some more, straightened out his bedding and endured a cold shower before collapsing onto the couch. There it was again, the Prophet article on Flint, newcomer and rising star.
A NEW BROADMOOR ON THE RISE FOR FALCONS
by Algernon Parsons
Last season’s champions, the Falmouth Falcons, met Puddlemere United in a spirited match on Saturday evening. Falmouth’s captain Andy Horton opened with two consecutive goals, leading his team towards a whopping 760 - 590 win.
Two new faces in Falmouth’s lineup proved a thorough success for Falcon’s head coach Aeolus Munn. Alejandro Silva (20) and Marcus Flint (19) -
Oliver stopped reading. He’d gone through the article a dozen times already, there wasn’t a single bit of information he’d left undigested. Still, gazing at Flint’s black and white form flitting in and out of the photograph stirred up a riot of emotions, tangled up and knotted in a chaotic heap. There was no telling where the anger ended and the humiliation began.
Yes, he could admit to himself that he was thoroughly miserable. Maybe living the dream wasn’t such a pleasant affair after all. Pushing through with two seasoned keepers ahead of you. The constant pressure to perform, no matter how mundane the task. Having no time for anything but flying. Merlin’s beard, the last one all but did him in - even on his single free day of the month, quidditch was all he could think about. It accompanied every waking and sleeping second of his life. What used to feel natural as breathing now seemed stifling.
And fucking Marcus Flint.
Oliver had written him a total of three letters, because he was a hopeless idiot with no self-respect. The first one consisted of a few scrawling sentences: Made reserve keeper for Puddlemere, see you on the pitch, or something exuberant and cocky along those lines. The second one he’d sent during his first injury, six weeks into the season. He’d written it on a fever-high, hopped up on potions while his broken leg healed within a night. He didn’t properly remember the contents, and of that he was glad. The shame would’ve been too much to handle. The third letter he’d sent this summer after Flint’s transfer to Falmouth, a few casual sentences on being right after all. He had regretted sending it immediately after chucking Fletcher out the window.
Flint hadn’t deigned to answer, not even once.
Yet another owl found him lying on the couch, deep in his dismal thoughts. The autumn day was still bright outside, the trees in his muggle neighbourhood a riot of warm colours. He recognized the mean looking long eared owl immediately. It’s owner was none other than Proteus Pool. Asking him to have supper at the local pub, most likely.
He jotted down an affirmative answer, even though seeing people was the last thing on his wish list.
Percy’s screech owl Hermes completed the unholy owl bombardment while he was changing into respectable robes, dropping off a heavy envelope that turned out to be filled with ministry brochures on new quidditch regulations that were still pending. He leafed through them with mild exasperation before turning on the spot, pushing back a wave of unpleasant thoughts.
“Alright there, Wood?”
The familiar, faint waft of tangy butterbeer filled the air. Oliver blinked against the customary gloom that filled the Hatchet Inn, a scant few floating candles and the glow of the fireplace the only sources of light. He glanced up at his newest teammate, standing up at the bar with a massive jug in hand, the whole two metres of him blocking the rest of the room from view.
“Alright, Pool,” he greeted back, reaching up to clasp a meaty shoulder.
“Ah, such a long face, Wood. You’re the type that takes losing personally, I gather.” Pool took a healthy gulp before signalling for the matron. Oliver scowled at him briefly before letting out a mighty sigh, plopping down at the bar.
They had large helpings of shepherd’s pie with buttered parsnips, the inn filling gradually once the evening crowd trickled in. Every now and then someone would greet them with the unmistakable look of a disgruntled Puddlemere fan, Archie Aymslowe came over to dish out advice on formations once or twice and a stooped little witch asked to get her top hat signed, but all in all it remained a quiet evening.
“It was a good first match, I reckon.” Proteus stretched out his arms after inhaling his third portion. “Both did alright for ourselves.”
“Honestly? It was a disaster.” Oliver pushed the rest of his mash around his plate, stomach clenching with frustration once again. “Flint scored –“ he stopped himself, falling silent abruptly as a wave of self-hatred rose up.
“Mate, I sense that a lengthy stroll is in order,” Proteus had swished out a handful of sickles, dropping them on the bar with a flick of his surprisingly delicate wand. “What’d’you say, ey?”
Defeated once again by Pool’s good-natured kindness, Oliver let himself be tugged along, headed towards the riverside. Dusk was falling, and in the half-light they talked back and forth, keeping away from any jogging muggles. Even after more than a year out of Hogwarts Oliver still wasn’t used to Bristol, the mundane quaintness of it all, the utterly non-magical surroundings.
“Quidditch aside – “ Pool joined him in a brief chuckle, his low baritone vibrating in the air, “No, I mean it, man. I’m curious, what do you think of all that tosh the Prophet’s been writing?” He kept his voice light, but Oliver glanced up and imagined that he’d seen a crease between Pool’s thick-set brows.
“It’s exactly what you said, isn’t it? Complete tosh.” He remembered what his mother had said that morning and repeated it with some more conviction: “The Prophet has been rubbish since July.”
“You believe him, then? Harry Potter – and Dumbledore, as well?”
Oliver stopped walking, properly turning to look at Proteus Pool, whose face was now cast in shadows. He sensed, all of a sudden, that the question was more serious than the beater had let on at first. “Yes, I do. I believe Harry.”
He felt the truth of the words once they had left his mouth. It also occurred to him that it was the first time anyone had asked his opinion on the matter. Professional quidditch, he thought bitterly, made people rather isolated. The outside world only existed through a haze; the problems of the world seemed quite intangible compared to the very real concern of playing a good attacking formation. It took him a second to look up once again and realize that Pool had been watching him closely.
“That’s grand. Good we agree on this, mate. Voldemort being back and all.”
They both jumped a little, but it was Oliver who stumbled and very nearly fell over a park bench. He caught himself, heart rabbiting away in his chest: “Why would you say – I mean…”
“It’s what Potter says. And Dumbledore.”
“Yes, I suppose – you’re right, but you needn’t say the name!” Oliver spluttered. He rightened himself and immediately felt foolish, though something inside him sparked with curiosity. He hadn’t pegged Pool for the type, the type that discussed politics and said You-Know-Who’s name out loud.
“I suppose saying the name makes it all more real to me, y’know? Makes me realize that he’s out there, and that we have to be prepared. For what’s comin’.” Pool kept his voice low, but he turned his head, so the orange glint of the muggle streetlamps illuminated the side of his face. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Oliver stared at him, heart thundering away once again. “Yes. I’d agree.”
All of a sudden, Pool let out a large guffaw, clapping his meaty paw onto the nape of Oliver’s neck. “That’s grand, that’s grand. Good to know we’re on the same parchment here.”
And just like that, they were back to discussing reverse passes and Transylvanian tackles. Oliver barely had time to recover from the whiplash, but then Pool was already bidding him goodnight, citing their first training session at six in the bloody morning. They both apparated back home after a casual farewell, though Oliver imagined the handshake had been much firmer than usual.
Lying in bed at a quarter to ten like a good little athlete, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d passed a test he hadn’t known about.