Rolanda Hooch

Lifting her glass of mead as she settled next to James, the half-harpy lifted her glass in quiet salute. "Bah, pox on those leprechauns. Why in the bloody hell is Britain so shite. I'd prefer a Britain showing," she quipped lightly, taking a swig of her own, "Though, no matter where my loyalties fall, quidditch is quidditch."

The blonde found herself giving her a small shrug, because most of the brilliant fliers that had come and gone had found their way under her tutelage. Some, however, wouldn't even consider it a career option, which utterly flabbergasted the woman. Because it was flight. "Now that is a feeling I'm well accustomed to. I do miss attacking an opponents' hoops. You're never quite prepared for the rush," she said after a beat, finally shrugging slightly, "Ooh, go easy on the sentimentality. I'm fragile...and would hate to ruin what little makeup I know how to use."

"Can't say I disagree with that. If I ever get caught at a desk in an office, please take me out back and put me out of my misery," she muttered darkly, a shudder moving down her spine at the thought as her lip curled in distaste, "The most paperwork I do is scrawling down someone's pass or fail, or recording Quidditch results. An office sounds like a unique form of torture." Pausing for a beat, the golden eyed woman found herself smiling wryly and giving a vague gesture around. "Me? Well, after the first couple months of teaching, I just wait around with baited breath for a Quidditch match...or a student to realize that I can give extra tutelage. And please, for the love of Merlin, its Rolanda or Ro. Hooch works as well. The Madame part just makes me feel old...and responsible."

it was universally known that the only thing holding the wixen world together — if one could even say it was being held together, which in itself was highly debatable — was the pretence of high society and decency, which was precisely why amaline found herself taking a solitary stroll through carkitt market, taking in the steadily growing crowds. she couldn't complain, she always enjoyed people watching and taking in the things that still excited those on the outskirts of the war — if it meant she did her husband's image a favour, and tried to overhear a conversation or two… well. amaline selwyn ( née vance ) was nothing if not a practical woman. while she made no purchases, she walked and perused different shops, hummed and ahed at whatever seemed pretty, offered polite smiles at the people behind the counters, and waved at babbling babies. all in all, she could've done quite a lot worse, and she was almost satisfied with her friday when a familiar face forced her hand — it would hardly be polite to not approach them, after all, and so she did. "the shops are quite quaint, aren't they? i've done the rounds twice by now, i believe."

So she'd raided her trunk and forwent every robe she possibly owned for pure muggle styles and had apparated her fine self to London. She felt, more than saw, someone approach as the hair on the back of her neck lifted while she went through some of the bits and baubles, turning to shoot a small smile at the company she'd gotten. "Always. But sometimes a woman just needs some knickknacks, you know," she said wryly, a smile quirking the corners of her lips as she focused her yellow eyes on the other blonde, "Its good for one's mental health."

Happy birthday to the queen aka Cate Blanchett 🖤

James sunk in his bed letting the words sync in. No more Quidditch, not like he wanted to play, not like they needed him to play at the pro level. He thought he had time, he thought that something like this could happen to anyone, but he always imagined that it would be after he got to the major leagues, to actually play for a few years before something made him stop. This was too soon.

“That’s the game, it isn’t on you.” he swallowed hard, because he didn’t want to break there and then, Madame Hooch felt guilty and he didn’t want to make her fell worse with him breaking and crying, “W-would I...” he cleared his throat trying to compose himself, “Would it heal for next match?” even if he couldn’t play professionally, he didn’t want to leave without one last game, the one where he would say goodbye to Quidditch properly, like he always wanted, with the House Cup and playing with all his might with his friend. “Just enough that I can play that one.”

Rolanda watched him, sympathy clear on her features and more than her fair share of compassion for his position. Unlike herself, he would never get the opportunity to play professionally, and that was even harder in her opinion than having a career cut short in the middle of it. But a small part of her mind, the more analytical and Slytherin portion of her psyche, couldn't help but point out that he was a Potter and a pureblood; one door had closed for him, but many remained open for his future.

Cut off early? So Rolanda expected to share a drink or two more? Lily made a sound between a wheeze and a laugh at the thought, looking up at Ro with a considering nod. Lily had to admit, she did feel pretty safe around her. It did sound like fun.

Maybe it was her inhibitions lifting from the spirits, or maybe Lily was starting to feel less and less like she was speaking with a professor, but as they walked outside, and Rolanda finished giving her advice, Lily couldn’t help but take up her wisdom almost immediately.

“Well in that case,” Lily started, running a hand through her hair as she debated whether or not she should really ask. “Do you like discos?”

If anyone was a master of being sloshed in public without ending up in an alley looking like some sort of sad clown hooker as they purged everything they'd ever consumed in their life, it would probably be one Rolanda Hooch. Sure, maybe a high alcohol tolerance had something to do with not being fully human, honestly, a magizoologist would likely know more, but she wasn't about to look a gift unicorn in the mouth.

Tossing her head in an effort to shift her white hair from her face without going through the effort of actually reaching up to manually do so, Rolanda took a deep breath of the outside air and let the wind wash over her. "Discos? I must admit, I may be muggle raised, but I don't know a thing about them," she said lightly, giving her a crooked smile and shrug of a shoulder, "I did my best to make myself appear to be wizard raised, and the time I spent in the muggle world has not necessarily been in populated areas."

Pausing thoughtfully, the flying instructor pieced together the bits and pieces she's overheard over the years as she shifted her gold eyes back over to the redhead. "Considering its somewhere to dance...muggles may be in danger. I may be graceful in the air, but I'm all left feet on the ground," she quipped lightly, falling easily into mildly self-deprecating humor.

"Darling Rolanda," Rita started, her voice velvety and playful, as though their shared past was a private joke only they were privy to. "You always did have a knack for cutting straight to the chase."

She observed Rolanda for a moment longer, her eyes taking in the way her ex-girlfriend held herself, the familiar flash in her eyes. The years had changed them, certainly, but there were parts of Rolanda that were untouched by time. The fierce determination, the unyielding spirit, the untamed passion for Quidditch.

"Can't a woman simply take interest in an old flame who's made such a... vibrant mark on the Quidditch world?" Rita queried, her words teasing, her voice laced with a hint of genuine curiosity. She briefly gestured towards the exhibition surrounding them, her eyes glinting with a mix of playfulness and reminiscence.

"And, to be fair, my dear, the sight of you amid this symphony of Quidditch history struck me as... poignant," Rita admitted, her tone momentarily shifting, betraying a rare glimpse of sincerity. A strange, wistful feeling curled in her stomach. This wasn't just any subject or story. This was Rolanda - a fiery chapter from her own past.

"But rest assured," she was quick to add, recapturing her usual self-assured demeanour, her eyes sparkling with characteristic mischief. "I won't bite. Unless you want me to, of course. So - how are you?" The brief stop suggested that Rita had meant to say something else, before slipping into the uppermost layer of private territory.

There was a time and place, and the blonde woman was acutely aware that this time and place was not the right one. She knew she had things to say; righteous indignation to vent (again) and a point to prove. But age had tempered her somewhat, and distrust ran rampant through her being.

"Conversation doesn't tend to flow when that broomstick burns," she said simply, thumb rubbing along the pads of her fingertips as she idly chased the pins and needles feeling, "The firebolt doesn't hold the same memories it once did."

Her eyes snapped back over to the writer, never more hawkish and avian than they were at that particular moment as her mind latched onto that particular sentence. "If you're chasing a quote...for you my answer is 'no comment,'" she said stiffly, chin rising slightly, "I'm not here to contribute to any articles...questions can be directed to Hogwarts."

Watching her for another moment, Rolanda's eyes narrowed for a beat before she looked away again, lips turning down at the corners as she looked down at the exhibit. "I'm fine. As I always am," she finally ground out, the words sounding false to her ears as she kept herself on a tight leash. It was becoming abundantly clear to her that she hadn't spent nearly enough time around her Slytherin peers in the last several years to manage the casual tone in spite of the situation. A play of intrigue and masks were not the forte of her educational peers, nor were they in the skillset of her former teammates. It was a miracle that she'd not stuffed anything up yet.

Where: Quidditch exhibition

Rita Skeeter had always been one for seeking out the most exclusive stories and the most tantalising whispers. Today, she found herself at the grand opening of a temporary Quidditch exhibition in Diagon Alley, a place where the history of the sport would be celebrated and revered. Who better to cover the event than Rita herself, the queen of the written word? The event was bustling with notable attendees from the wizarding world, but there was one person in particular that Rita couldn't help but notice among the crowd: Rolanda Hooch, the former Quidditch star and now a flying instructor at Hogwarts.

Their past was a whirlwind of passion and stormy emotions, a relationship that had burned bright and fast. Neither of them had been particularly skilled in the art of maintaining a healthy relationship, but the intensity they'd shared had left a lasting impression, one way or another.

Rita sipped her champagne, her eyes following Rolanda as she mingled and laughed with the other guests. There was a certain magnetic charm about the former Quidditch star that Rita couldn't deny, even after all these years. It was only a matter of time before their paths would cross again, and Rita was eager to see how their reunion would unfold.

As Rolanda approached the exhibit showcasing the history of the Firebolt broomstick, Rita seized the opportunity to casually stroll up beside her. With a sultry smile and a glint in her eye, Rita spoke, her voice a melodious purr.

"Miss Hooch, fancy seeing you here," she began, her tone dripping with charm. "I must say, the years have been kind to you. One could almost mistake you for a bewitched portrait rather than the real deal." Rita glanced at the Firebolt exhibit, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Ah, the Firebolt, a classic. Do you remember that thrilling match you played on one of these, darling? Your performance was simply unforgettable."

Standing in a space surrounded by not only other quidditch enthusiasts, but also surrounded by some of the most well known quidditch exhibits and equipment in history was definitely a place she loved to be. So she found and got into her debates, shook hands with other quidditch stars both past and present.

It was nearly euphoric, being in that environment and feeling like they weren't seeing her blood first, or any other thing. But her accolades and achievements in the field. It was a little like coming home, and a feeling she'd been chasing since it was snatched away.

She found herself staring at the Firebolt exhibit, mouth tightening slightly as a memory surfaced of the last time she flew one. As if in an echo, a sharp tingling pain twinged down her left arm causing her to close her hand into a fist to hide the twitch of her fingertips. The memory of the pain just radiating along her back and along her arm.

A voice at her side startled her out of her internal musings, causing her to give a start, head turning to let her yellow eyes land on the blonde standing next to her. And in the next beat, she felt herself throw up her mental defenses as she concentrated hard on keeping her face from giving away her thoughts.

Diagon Alley was partially a home, partially a territory that felt so beyond unfamiliar and yet every now and then she found herself drawn to the alley basked in light rather than the one she called her true home, cast in the shadows of Knockturn Alley. Her eyes went scanning, shop window after window, carts in front of the stores and soon enough she was carrying a few bags with the most necessary supplies. Every now and then she simply had to replenish her potions ingredients or get a new book. What would the world be without the wonderment of new stories; or something far more sinister. The witch let out a chuckle at the thought before she turned around a corner, stopping for a moment when she noticed a familiar figure in the distance.

But that also didn't mean she wasn't about to flash a smile, pose for some photos and get a bottle of something good at a hefty discount. She wasn't an idiot. She was about to start her way down toward Quality Quidditch when she heard her name called, hand briefly patting the shrunken bottle of booze in her pocket as she turned her gold eyes to scan the passing people before they honed in on the approaching brunette. "Funny you should mention that," she said dryly, "That was my next stop. But I had to get some memory potion first. How are you, Miss Vance?"

Lily looked up at Rolanda, flattered that she would offer Lily her hand. “Thank you-” Lily said, a little color rising in her cheeks. With a heart hardening breath, Lily stood- you knew you were tipsy if you were surprised or even proud of the fact that you could stand up without wavering balance.

“Oh yea.” Lily chuckled, stepping away from the table. Why did you always feel more drunk once you stood? “I bet you could drink me under the table.”

Lily squeezed Rolanda’s hand before letting go, a little physical gesture of thankfulness, before turning to head outside. The briskness of the air was refreshing, sobering. Lily smiled over to Rolanda, taking in a big breath of cold air. “This has been so nice.” Lily said, her voice softer now that it wasn’t so loud. “It’s been harder to just enjoy… nights. Like what you’d think a 21 year old’s night would be like, you know? Those smaller things have felt so impossible.”

Rolanda carefully assisted the redhead to her feet, giving her a small, wry smile as she did. Her grip tightened slightly once she was on her feet and upright, watching her with an appraising eye as she helped steady her if the alcohol decided to try and knock her right over. "Not a problem. Can't have you getting cut off so early," she pointed out, voice taking on a bland, dry note for the following, "Its like rule number three to being drunk in public."

The blonde opted not to respond to her statement, simply settling for a small, crooked smile as she lifted a shoulder in the one way she knew how to remain humble and not paint herself in a bad light. All too often people saw only the glitz and glamor of professional quidditch players, but they either didn't know or overlooked the darker side of being in the limelight. The alcohol, the parties, the politics.

Stepping out behind her, Rolanda arched her back, feeling the satisfying pop somewhere in the small of her back as she took a deep breath of the outdoor air. "I think I probably understand more than you know. At 21, my life was on the opposite end of the spectrum. Honestly, I'm surprised I survived," she admitted, turning to look at her with a reassuring smile, "Bit of sage advice from someone who was in her 20's not too long ago? Quit trying to live up to the ideal. Don't have the stereotypical life, because everyone has that. Break the mold and live your life, wherever it leads."

James blinked as he watched Hooch, he liked the Professor, they had become some sort of friends when they talked about Quidditch, because James wasn’t just a fan, he actually cared on her input and advice. She was the first one he told about his acceptance into the Professional League and accepted any notes she deemed worthy of sharing.

However, even if they weren’t exactly strange to one another, it was odd to see her there after a match, usually it would be the team, or his friends, or even his girlfriend, so something was up and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

He groaned at the sharp pain that came and went from his back and then listened carefully to the words Rolanda was saying. Wood was fine, that was all that really mattered, the match was important too but it wouldn’t matter if Wood was severely injured. To hear he was okay and they won made him instantly happy, like a great weight had been taken from his back.

Yet the next news felt like a cold shower in the middle of a harsh winter. It took the wind out of his lungs and it made his head spin, even though that might have been the concussion, “No more Quidditch?” he asked, like a small boy who understood that Santa wasn’t real.

Rolanda bowed her head, feeling wholly responsible for the position they were now in regardless of the fact that she'd done everything she could have to prevent it. Sometimes unfortunate things just happened, and there wasn't anything to be done by anyone, she was proof enough of that. Magic could fix a lot of things, but not everything, and now that was a lesson James would get to learn same as she did.