lion teeth

He redistributed roles and sent them off again with another cautionary word— on the surface he was quite annoyed with them, but upon reevaluation found that he was actually relieved. Not that anyone had been likely to push Frank or Sirius off the team, but it looked like last year’s line-up was completely safe. These kids would go home and practice, and maybe next year or the year after that they wouldn’t totally embarrass themselves on the pitch— Caradoc hoped, since he was the one who was going to have to stay and deal with them next fall. 

“Next time I’m really desperate for a bedmate, I’ll just tell you that you’re having a good hair day, since evidently it’s about that easy.”

“Yeah, I suppose there are a couple of people around here with bearable faces, and a couple might even tolerate me— thanks for the vote of confidence, Frankie— but I know I’ll never love anyone the way Marlene loves Minnie, so what’s the point?”

Emma considered him for a moment, mildly amused at his distress. “Last I recall reading, the Soap Blizzard was, in fact, an accident that was later thought to be part of a political movement against the muggle church. I think it was a group of healers trying to find a cure for the Black Plague that would work on muggles and it, quite literally, exploded. But I could be wrong. Professor Binns tends to mumble at times, and the 14th century is not my favorite.” History of Magic, however, was one of her better subjects. “When have you last slept? You’re Caradoc, yes? Keeper on the Gryffindor team, I think?”

“Uh... Yes. And you’re Emma.” Her presence was both alarming and surprisingly polite. He took down a couple notes based on what she had said, and then looked up again. “Captain of the Slytherin team. Thanks.”

With that, he released one of them and hoped for the best. ‘Dear Merlin, someone is going to end up in the hospital wing.’

The first Beater to jump for the ball hit it right at the starting Chaser, who dodged it clumsily and nearly dropped the Quaffle. The Bludger whizzed towards a small group of students with the second Beater racing madly after it and brandishing their bat. Meanwhile, the Chaser was speeding for the goalposts with a Beater weaving around them and glancing back at their partner quite worriedly. It was starting to look like Doc was the last line of defense; the Bludger was busy wreaking havoc among the watchers.

“Oh, by all means, carry on. I was merely passing by. Only….I don’t believe I’ve ever seen research be quite so….destructive before. What is it you are researching?”

“I’ve got a History of Magic paper due and I can’t find nearly enough information on the events that led up to the Soap Blizzard of 1378 or how the Wizards’ Council of that year dealt with it. I didn’t even know people used soap in the fourteenth century. I’m following footnotes, but you know they fucking multiply like rabbits...”

“Nicely done,” James muttered as Caradoc flew back. “All right, Smith out of the goals. We’re gonna run some drills for you Beater hopefuls now.” Not that there was much of a chance. Frank had his position locked, and Sirius would if he ever decided to show up. James flew over to grab the Quaffle and called, “Dearborn, look alive,” before tossing the red ball to the Keeper. “We’re gonna run a basic sweep while the Bludgers are going and see if we can’t keep everyone from being knocked off their brooms.”

The Beaters up first were clutching their bats nervously, and Doc knew right then and there that someone was going to have to get carried to the hospital wing with a concussion, and not even a well-earned one. (Quidditch injuries were impressive only if a dire and thrilling story came with them. ‘A thirteen-year-old with a loose grip on their bat smacked their fellow Beater in the skull’ didn’t count.) As long as it wasn’t him, he didn’t much care. He hovered in front of the goal posts, suppressing the nervous urge to weave back and forth, and waited for the play to start,

“—I rather hope you’ve a reasonable explanation for this, because quite frankly… well, I must say I’m impressed you rather managed all that.”

He glanced around at the mess of open books, loose papers, and broken quills covering the entire table. “What? I’m doing research. Do you need me to move something or are you just sightseeing?”

“Aww c’mon, Doc, m’teasin’ ya.” He reached over and brushed his hand through the other boy’s hair, ruffling it gently. “Nah. You wanna wait, I think it’s great. Better than bein’ a slag like me. Dunno what you mean with desperate, though. Anyone’d be lucky to have you.”

“And for the record, you’re an incredibly fit slag.”

“Time for what? It’s sex. Can take all night or five minutes. Very stress relieving, y’know. You could always keep studyin’ while someone bones you, but I never pegged ya for the multi-taskin’ sort.”

“Okay, for the record, I’m great at multi-tasking. I just don’t prefer it. Will you hop off my dick? We get it. You can have sex whenever you want, while the rest of us plebs wait for— for— some desperate dowager to come along and sweep us off our feet with her tragic backstory and inflated treasury.”

“C”mon, Doc, I have radar.”

“That’s not a real answer. It was Frank, wasn’t it? Damn it! —Anyway, it’s not like I have time for that, what with classes and Quidditch and such...”

“—So I hear you’re in the market for getting laid~”

“That’s not technically untrue— wait, who told you that?”

“Ah, the mystery behind the stretches is revealed. James suggested it was to improve your Quidditch but we were all like ‘nah’. What’s the Our Father? That—that does not sound fun. What kind of things do you say, then? Considering you can’t really talk about class and Quidditch, even though you’re a player and a major study bunny—ha, stud bunny! Muggles have prefects too, right? You compared me to an angel who fell—an angel who fell? Didn’t he have wings? I must be a much better flier than him.”

“No, it’s not— it’s a metaphor, you— you know what? Never mind. I don’t really think it’s worth getting into. The whole thing can get a little boring and confusing, and it’d probably just make you mad. And don’t start calling me stud bunny, I swear to God, McKinnon— ”

“Why’re you asking, Frankie? You offering? Anyway, miserable and single aren’t synonymous, but technically you could say I’m both.”

But he didn’t seem ready to James, who sped at him anyway. He feinted to the left and threw right, one of the most common tricks used by Chasers. The Quaffle sailed through the hoop and James flew to the back of the line, pressing his lips together. Hmm.

There was plenty of time before his turn to take a shot on goal, especially because the Quaffle kept evading the grasps of his fellow players. In the meantime, Doc stripped off his gloves and rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers, and then strapped them back on more tightly than before. He cracked his knuckles and waited until the Quaffle was tossed to him, then sucked in a deep breath and stuck his tongue in his cheek. No biggie. No sweat. He flew towards the left goal hoop, watching Smith the whole time for the moment he made his definitive move in that direction, and then switched direction and aimed for the center goalpost. The Quaffle was weighing heavy in his arm, but he pitched it forward with all his strength and then crossed his fingers that Smith would be too slow on the uptake to stop it. It wasn’t an incredibly difficult shot to block, especially since it was heading for the center of the hoop instead of the edges, but the Keeper hadn’t proven himself to be all that quick on his feet (or broom, rather).