@snakepitnet halloween challenge: friday the thirteenth
any fool can have bad luck; the art consists in knowing how to exploit it.
-- frank wedekind
this is late but why should i care. for my quidditch love @puddifoot
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‘Oh fuck,’ Cassius interjected inelegantly; he spilled his goblet of pumpkin juice over the table as he reached for the scrambled eggs, and it only narrowly missed the dark green wool of his Quidditch uniform.
‘Hey, what’s up, butterfingers,’ Peregrine smirked as he walked past, clipping Cassius on the back of his head, albeit in a friendly fashion. Cassius glared at him as he hastily smoothed down his hair. Peregrine’s own black hair was standing up and sticking out from every angle -- a little more unkempt than usual.
‘What is it, Derrick, the game don’t matter to you enough to clean up a little?’ Lucian commented, himself as pristine as ever, his robes sharply pressed and not a single strand of his blonde hair outside of its carefully choreographed nonchalance.
Peregrine shrugged as he took a seat and picked up a slice of toast. ‘It’s just a game, Luce; and against Gryffindor, no less,’ Peregrine pointed towards the Gryffindor table, rowdy and prematurely celebratory after some particularly rousing speech by Wood. ‘Do they look like they give a shit about how they’re looking? See, their uniforms are all crumpled as if they haven’t ever been folded after a vigorous scourgify.’
Lucian passed his eyes over Peregrine’s robes, unimpressed. ‘It’s not like yours are much better anyway,’ he pointed out.
Hastily, Peregrine spread strawberry jam over his toast, and held it up to his mouth. ‘Just let it go, won’t you. You’re acting like my mum again. And besides, it’s not like we’re going to the Quidditch pitch to look for a date,’ he lowered his voice and muttered, ‘Unless your name is Flint.’
Marcus’ head snapped up from his sunny eggs. ‘Did someone say my name?’ he demanded crossly, looking at Peregrine’s direction. Lucian shot Peregrine a look that read, You should have known better, but before he could respond someone bumped into his shoulder, causing Peregrine to drop his toast and jam, which smeared across his left shin-guard and boot before hitting the stone floor. Lucian shot a scourgify at them, and Peregrine flinched as if the cleaning spell physically ruffled him. Lucian sneered in triumph.
In a huff that might have seemed dramatic and excessive to a boy of a different temperament and bearing, Oliver Wood furiously strode past the Slytherin table, his collision with poor Peregrine not slowing his raging course towards Marcus.
‘Flint, what is the meaning of this!’ Wood near-shouted, his face flushed with anger and his bushy eyebrows almost vertical in their inclination. In his hands he held a red notebook marked ‘Quidditch Training’ in his own handwriting, completely warped and blotchy from prolonged exposure to water. Marcus was glaring daggers at Wood, and although the Slytherins knew that their captain would never do such a thing, Marcus was not helping his own case very well.
‘It weren’t me,’ Marcus said evenly, simply, as he forked eggs into his mouth. He was still glaring at Wood, who was still glaring at him, because it seemed that any moment the two of them were in sight of one another, that’s what they did. Sometimes the Slytherins wished that that was all they did, and that they did not have to listen to Marcus’ long rants and rambles about nearly everything Oliver Wood did. Sometimes it felt like the level of his unnecessary commentary rivaled that of Lee Jordan.
Wood scoffed. ‘As if one could take the word of a snake,’ he sneered through his anger. Peregrine wondered if Wood’s hair could catch on fire, seeing how furious he was. Which seemed out of proportion even for Wood -- after all, it was just a notebook, and they were all teenagers, for Merlin’s sake, not professional Quidditch players; how top secrets could those plans be, anyway? Though, Flint and Wood were always known to overreact around one another, the fucking idiots.
Cassius heard sniggering and craned his neck to look around. His attention honed in on the Ravenclaw table; their Quidditch team was trying hard to hide their ill-meaning mirth as they watched the newest confrontation between Flint and Wood. Cassius suddenly remembered that just two weeks ago, Ravenclaw suffered an embarrassing defeat at the hands of Gryffindor; however that was to be expected, as although Cassius was loath to admit it, Wood was thrice the Quidditch captain that Davies was. Whenever Davies was out chasing after skirts, Wood was drilling his team to the ground with practice. He was only narrowly worse than Marcus as a captain, of course.
Tugging on Graham’s sleeve, Cassius redirected Graham’s attention away from his roasted potatoes to the Ravenclaw table. Graham nodded and turned to Peregrine, motioning for him to get the attention of Wood. Already in a bad mood for the loss of his toast, Peregrine glared at Graham and Cassius as he yanked at Wood’s sleeve roughly.
‘What is it!’ Wood yelled as he turned around to face Peregrine, who was looking back at him placidly, his eyebrows flat and unimpressed, although annoyance still burned within his chest for that unexpected collision.
Peregrine pointed at Graham. ‘Montague has something to tell you. Monty, tell him.’
Graham rolled his eyes and hissed at Wood. ‘Can’t you maybe look around first before pinning everything on us?’ he rolled his hazel eyes in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, and Wood’s eyes snapped towards them, finally seeing the Ravenclaw team. His stuck-out ears reddened even more in embarrassment.
Wood turned back towards Flint, crimson robes flapping behind him. It was an eyesore, Lucian decided, for he was not much a fan of the colour red. It often made someone look too overworked and exhausting, since it turned people’s complexions too ruddy and all that.
‘This is not the end of this,’ Wood assured Flint, vaguely but firmly.
Marcus glared back. ‘Don’t come for me every time something inconvenient happens to you,’ he smirked. ‘If you have anything against me, don’t hide it behind a false accusation against me; come at me directly and we’ll. Talk,’ he suggested mildly as he cracked his knuckles. Demonstratively.
‘I’ll see you on the pitch,’ Wood said with an air of finality, as he narrowed his eyes at Marcus. Marcus narrowed his eyes back, and the rest of the Slytherin team watched boredly as the two of them kept glaring at one another until Wood had disappeared back to the Gryffindor table.
Marcus picked up his goblet of water, raising it in the air. ‘We’re going to crush them today,’ he predicted, although it sounded much more like an order.
Miles looked at Marcus amusedly. ‘What’s this, time for a speech?’
Marcus scowled. ‘No, we don’t have time to cloud ourselves with useless optimism like a speech,’ he decided. He put his goblet to his lips and chugged. Emptying the goblet, he slammed it down on the table and turned around. ‘Lads, let’s roll.’
There was a shuffling noise as the Slytherin finished the last of their breakfast as quickly as they could, and hastily stood up to walk towards the pitch. Marcus marched towards the exit, and the Slytherin team began to fall into formation -- the other Chasers by Marcus’ side, and behind them Terence and Miles, and Lucian after … leaving Peregrine last, just as he was last to arrive at breakfast. He shoved some toast into his mouth, stood up and took a step --
-- And promptly stepped on the first slice of toast he dropped; slipped, and fell flat on his face.
The entire Great Hall roared with laughter, and Peregrine could hear Lucian and Cassius shouting in alarm, and their footfalls thundering in his ears.
‘Perry! You alright?’ Lucian asked as he helped Peregrine up.
Grimacing, Peregrine righted himself and dusted off his uniform. The mean laughter of the other Houses rang in his ears, and much to his own chagrin he felt embarrassed. ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he replied, although he still ached from falling hard against Hogwarts’ stone flooring.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ Cassius said, throwing an arm around Peregrine’s shoulders. The three of them shuffled out of the Great Hall, but before they walked out, Peregrine turned around and flipped off the Hall. They only laughed louder.
As Professor Hooch had them shake hands with the Gryffindors, Miles couldn't help but feel a little off. He would call it anxious, although it wasn't quite so severe. It was more of a niggling premonition that something was about to go wrong … he passed his eyes slowly down the Gryffindor lineup -- and extra slowly over the Weasley twins -- but could not find anything in their expressions. Some of them looked grim and nervous as usual, but others were still looking at Peregrine, snickering. He shook hands with Wood, and the two teams sauntered over to their own halves of the pitch.
Marcus kicked off first, quickly followed by Wood, who never liked being far behind. As soon as the ‘pleasantries’ were done, any fooling around immediately ceased; even the Gryffindor jesters, the Weasley twins, put on a serious expression --
‘Whoo! Haha,’ Peregrine laughed as he somersaulted through the air, his previous mishap seemingly all but gone in his mind. The October air was characteristically crisp and dry; it was the best weather for flying. Peregrine felt elation trickle through his veins, and he felt light with thrill.
‘Having a good time?’ smirked Terence as he zoomed past on his broom, his hair floating in a cloud behind him.
‘Oh, it’s only going to get better,’ Peregrine replied, giving his bat a few experimental swings, grinning. Lucian soared by and high-fived both Peregrine and Terence, before settling in his usual spot, by the righthand-side of Miles.
‘Oi! It’s no time for chit chat, the match is about to begin,’ Marcus turned back and scowled at his teammates. Peregrine grinned wider and flipped him off, but Marcus didn’t see him; his attention was turned towards Madam Hooch, who just blew the whistle and let out all the balls.
As soon as the Snitch was released from the chest, Terence zipped away from Peregrine’s sight, his eyes struggling to spot the elusive glimmer of gold across the wide pitch. Harry Potter darted over, closely tailing Terence.
Lucian managed to wrest one of the Bludgers from the Gryffindors, and batted it towards Peregrine. With a satisfying smack, Peregrine passed it back to Lucian, and the two of them continued to volley the Bludger between them, getting used to the weight and strain of the ball again.
Flying in formation with Marcus in the lead, the three Slytherin Chasers dove after the Quaffle, with the Gryffindors approaching it from the other side; Miles watched them closely, knowing that he should never keep his eye off the Quaffle, should it come hurtling towards his hoops. The Gryffindor girls were a hair closer to the falling Quaffle than the Slytherins, and Miles felt a bead of sweat break out against his forehead -- but at this time Cassius kicked the ball lower, so that it was falling faster, and Marcus dove straight under like some swooping raptor, and it came to rest against the small of his back. Before the Gryffindors could make a grab for it, Adrian kicked it up from Marcus’ back, into the Cassius’ waiting hands. Immediately Cassius zoomed towards the Gryffindor hoops, and not missing a beat, Marcus and Adrian flanked him.
Seeing that the Slytherin hoops were not in immediate danger, Peregrine and Lucian also headed towards the Gryffindor side of the pitch -- they were going to have to cover their three Chasers as they attempt to score a goal. As they continued to pass their Bludger between them, Peregrine and Lucian also kept an eye on the Bludger currently in possession of the Weasley twins.
It wasn’t long before one of the twins smacked their Bludger towards Cassius, who was slightly ahead of the rest of the Slytherin company; Marcus boosted forward to cover Cassius, and Peregrine moved in tandem with Marcus, bat raised at the ready.
The large, heavy ball whizzed towards the Slytherins, and Peregrine threw out his arms, catching the Bludger right in the sweet spot of his bat with a satisfying crack, and it went flying off again -- except that the crack was not actually a wonderful sound at all, since it appeared that the force of the impact had actually split the wood of Peregrine’s bat, and the bat broke in half in his hands, the top falling below him to the pitch.
Peregrine looked at his broken bat in befuddled annoyance. ‘What the actual fuck,’ he muttered, dropping the other half to the ground, and sliding his wand out of his sleeve. ‘Accio bat!’ he said under his breath.
There was a giggling sound and he furrowed his brows. Now, it weren’t his fault if his bat happened to break; bats break all the time. They’re expendable tools, and if you played as roughly as Slytherin you go through them quite quickly. However, that had been a relatively new bat, and Gryffindor Beaters had never been great sluggers -- they had to choose between being accurate or being powerful; if they wanted to hit hard then their aim would be off; if they wanted to be precise, then their force would be too weak. This was an aimed attack, and it felt like nothing to Peregrine as he batted it away. So why would his bat break?
The giggling grew closer, for some reason, and Peregrine felt unease tickle up his neck like a caterpillar. Across from him, Cassius’ eyes widened. ‘Look out!’
The Slytherins managed to just dodged in time as a large swarm of bats soared over their heads, screeching and laughing, despite being in broad daylight. ‘What the actual fuck,’ Peregrine repeated himself.
Madam Hooch’s sonorused voice echoed across the pitch. ‘SHOO!’ And screaming, the bats tore off the pitch. Terence flew by, looking pissed.
‘I was so close,’ he said, ‘The gold was so easy to spot in the black. Goddammit, Hooch,’ and he zapped away from Peregrine, Cassius, and Marcus.
‘Stupid,’ Peregrine muttered to himself as he cast another accio. ‘Accio Quidditch bat!’ and a brand new, gleamingly polished ebony bat flew into Peregrine’s hands. He weighed and inspected the bat carefully; it really wasn’t a good idea to begin a match with a new bat, whose unique weight and feel he needed to get used to. Alas, there wasn’t much of a choice.
‘Quit fooling around, snakes,’ Alicia Spinnet laugh-snarled. ‘Some of us here are trying to play a game!’
Angelina Johnson scoffed. ‘They weren’t fooling around. Derrick is really dumb enough summon bats instead of a Beater’s bat.’
Before Peregrine could shoot something cruel back, Marcus yelled, ‘Oi!’ Peregrine turned to see him furious, fire in his black eyes. No one insulted his team and got away with it. He looked like he was about to throw down, but of course, punching to girls in the air was a sure way to get a suspension for the rest of the game. He bit back his anger, but venom dripped off his teeth as he seethed, ‘Watch who you’re talking about. Everyone makes mistakes. Or have you forgotten that time you burnt the bottom of your cauldron because you used Chili Extract instead of Chilly Extract?’
Angelina glared back at him. A taste of your own medicine isn’t that fun now, is it? Cassius took this chance to zoom up to the hoops and shoot; Oliver Wood, who had said nothing since the game started -- he was always silently focused on the game -- made a move to catch it, but suddenly Adrian Pucey appeared from above, and used his foot to kick the Quaffle higher, so that it soared above Wood’s head, straight into the hoop.
‘Slytherin scores ten points! With sly and underhanded teamwork, as usual --’ Lee Jordan began spouting his nonsense again. Whenever it was Gryffindor who scored, he’d say something about their astonishing teamwork and probable mind-reading abilities, but whenever it was Slytherin, that’s impossible, they must have been playing some mean trick because Slytherin could never score against Gryffindor.
Katie Bell was waiting under the hoops, in usual Gryffindor formation, so she caught the Quaffle, and the Gryffindor Chasers coalesced around her and began making their way towards the Slytherin hoops. Miles Bletchley trained his eyes onto the Gryffindors -- now that Slytherin was in the lead, he wasn’t going to let it fall from that position.
Cassius whistled lowly as he flew by, and high-fived Adrian. The two of them flew towards the Slytherin half of the field, flanking the Gryffindors and slowly closing in on them. They would try to wrest the Quaffle from them before it even got to Miles.
It felt good to be in the lead, it was the Gryffindors who were dumb, after all; they let themselves be distracted by a crowd of bats and insulting Peregrine, and didn’t see Adrian Pucey, coming from above. Victory felt good; Peregrine found a wild laugh thrumming within his chest, but of course he couldn’t let it out now; Marcus would yell at him for not being serious about the game. So he only grinned, a predator’s sneer -- it would have been handsome otherwise, but on the pitch it was terrifying, hungry, and something you didn’t want to look at for too long.
The Slytherin Beaters moved forward to sandwich the Gryffindor Chasers as well -- Peregrine hovered above them like some bird of prey, whereas Lucian flew under them, a crocodile ready to strike anytime. ‘Per!’ Lucian called as he hit the Bludger upwards, and it buzzed close to Alicia Spinnet, who leaned towards her teammates to avoid it. Peregrine caught it on his bat, and sent it searing across the air in the other direction, so that Angelina Johnson in turn leaned the other way to avoid it, and poor Katie Bell, who was flying between Johnson and Spinnet, dropped the Quaffle in the disturbance, and the swift Slytherin Chaser, Adrian Pucey, caught the Quaffle, and minnow-like in his movements, made his way towards the Gryffindor hoops again.
Marcus, who had been trailing behind so he could see everything in front of him, turned back and whirled around Adrian, covering him as they made their way towards the hoops. Wood turned towards Adrian, who was in possession of the Quaffle and moving towards the central hoop, but at the last moment Adrian passed the Quaffle to Marcus, who made to shoot the hoop on Wood’s right.
However, something buzzed straight across Marcus, and he let go of the Quaffle with a yelp. Terence and Potter then barreled over in front of Marcus -- it was the Snitch. The Gryffindor Chasers saw this chance and Angelina Johnson picked up the Quaffle and the Gryffindors were once again in possession.
‘Fuck off!’ Peregrine cursed, moving in front of Miles. The Weasley Beaters soared over to Peregrine, lobbing their Bludger at him, hoping to knock him out of the way so Miles would have no cover. Not one to flinch, Peregrine engaged the Bludger with his own bat, sending it buzzing away from him and Miles -- however the Bludger was too close to him and too fast, and he didn’t make a good hit. The trajectory of the Bludger was out of his control, and it glanced off his bat towards Cassius; the black ball whizzed by the tail of his broom, breaking several of the twigs at the end of it -- but worse, knocking Cassius off his broom with the force.
‘Fuck,’ Peregrine tossed his bat to Adrian -- who shouted, ‘What the fuck am I supposed to do with a bat!’ and flattened himself against his broom, diving downwards and reaching for Cassius. Fortunately his Comet was true to its name, and it caught up in no time; however the drag of Cassius’ weight hanging from his arm made Peregrine wince -- the rest of the game wouldn’t be fun. As soon as Cassius caught his breath, he cast an accio for his broom, and performed a quick reparo.
‘Derrick, you don’t have to hit each Bludger, you know,’ Marcus barked above them, ‘You gotta learn to let some balls go.’
Peregrine gritted his teeth and flashed Marcus a confirmatory thumbs-up. ‘Gotcha, captain.’ Annoyance burned within his chest -- it just wasn’t his game today. Which was strange; not that he was more arrogant than your average teenage Quidditch player, but Peregrine Derrick never had an off-game. He always knew what the odds were, and how to turn them in his favour. What was going on today?
Although one of the Slytherin Chasers suffered a hit, Adrian took this chance to toss Peregrine’s bat back to him and snatch the Quaffle back from the distracted Gryffindors. At a break-neck speed, he flew over to the Gryffindor side of the pitch, and, biding his timing, shot the Quaffle as Potter and Terence passed between him and Wood; it was a tricky shot as he was not yet close enough, but he wouldn’t get this cover from wood again. The Quaffle just barely made it in, scraping by the central hoop at a slanted angle, and brushing against the rim of the hoop on both entrance and exit.
‘Another 10 points to Slytherin,’ they all heard Lee Jordan’s disappointed voice, and tuned out the rest.
‘Good shot,’ Lucian said, clapping Adrian on the back as they passed one another.
Now the cool autumn air started feeling aching and tiring; Miles rubbed his ears; they had gone numb from the merciless winds at the top of the Quidditch pitch. He quietly hoped that the game would be over soon, as it was looking to get even colder throughout the day -- however, it really wasn’t their game today, and he’d expect a stern lecture from Marcus in the locker room.
Alicia Spinnet caught the Quaffle after Marcus tried to scuffle with her to get it back -- surprisingly not earning a single whistle during the entire ordeal, although they all suspected that perhaps Marcus played fairly on accident; both Bludgers were in the Weasleys’ possession, and the Slytherin Beaters had a difficult time fending them off completely, between the too-close angles and Peregrine’s injured arm. Marcus had to dodge some of them himself, and as a result had to give up his resolve to possess the Quaffle.
Since both Bludgers were in Weasley possession -- they had also taken advantage of the earlier commotion of Cassius falling off his broom -- this made defending the Gryffindor’s attack extremely difficult. As the Slytherins were not in possession of the Quaffle, the Weasleys focused their attack on Terence instead -- which was quite a gamble for them, as they could hit their teammate Potter as well -- and instead of trying to stop the Gryffindors from scoring with the Quaffle, Lucian and Peregrine had to make sure that their Seeker did not get quashed by two Bludgers.
The Slytherin Chasers encircled the Gryffindor Chasers like sharks, flying almost shoulder to shoulder to them, constantly popping out before them or making snatching movements in order to startle them into dropping the Quaffle or passing it to another Gryffindor Chaser -- chances that the Slytherins could use to dive in and possess the Quaffle again. However, the Gryffindor girls were very much known to be unflappable players, and the Slytherins had no such luck.
Miles squared up and loosened up his limbs, ready to defend his hoops. He was the tallest member of the Slytherin team, looming at nearly two metres high, with long limbs that were unexpectedly elegant rather than lanky. He had unusually broad shoulders for his build, but it gave him an advantage on the Quidditch pitch -- more power and momentum in his turns and shifts.
The Gryffindors neared the Slytherin hoops and, resigned to their fate, Adrian and Cassius slunk into the space beneath their hoops, so that they may catch the Quaffle should it go through one of Miles’ hoops.
Spinnet made to score, raising the Quaffle over her head whilst trying to evade Marcus, who still tried to snap at the Quaffle -- after all he was never known to be one to give up on anything, despite what he had just told Derrick not five minutes ago.
Spinnet pushed past Marcus, and shot -- but Marcus, being the taller one out of them, managed to touch the Quaffle in his last attempt to intercept it. However, Bell was right by their side, and as Marcus slapped down the Quaffle she boosted it with her foot again -- muddying its trajectory for Miles to stop.
For a moment it seemed as if Miles couldn’t quite make out the angle in time, and he’d just have to choose to lean a particular way; but at this moment Peregrine and Lucian burst before him, and Lucian’s bat got caught on his broomstick, and dragged him along. As Miles was about to put his hands back down onto his broom, in an attempt to balance himself, his hand ended up catching the Quaffle, and pushing it below the hoops. There was a deafening roar from Slytherin as Adrian Pucey dove to catch it, and the Slytherins were once again in possession.
‘Almost! If the Slytherins hadn’t accidentally reverse-sabotaged themselves,’ Lee Jordan commented, trying to rise above the din of Slytherin cheers.
But now Slytherin was in possession of the Quaffle, the Weasley Beaters turned their attention back on Marcus, Adrian, and Cassius. Lucian and Peregrine flew before the Weasleys, shadowing their positions. Lucian and Peregrine managed to evenly match the Weasleys’ volleys, and for a moment it seemed less like the Weasleys were trying to take out scoring members of the Slytherin team and more like they were just playing an intense game of Bludger-tennis with the Slytherin Beaters -- until Lee Jordan’s blasted voice cut through the air.
‘And Harry’s spotted the Snitch! Terence Higgs follows close by ...’
And all attention whipped to the two Seekers darting through the pitch, shoulder to shoulder; the Weasleys took their Bludgers and zipped towards the Seekers again -- they could afford to let Adrian score 10 points with a Quaffle, but they could not let Terence score, for it would end the game and Slytherin would win.
Harry was slightly smaller than Terence and had the advantage of a faster broom. He zipped through the Weasleys’ Bludgers easily, which weren’t meant for him anyway. Meanwhile, Peregrine and Lucian could only beat so many off of Terence, as they didn’t want to bump into Terence and cause him to lose sight of the Snitch, and Peregrine was injured besides; so Terence had to dodge the odd Bludger or two, falling behind the Gryffindor Seeker as he did so.
Marcus grit his teeth as he watched this unfold. Of course he couldn’t blame any of them -- most of the blunders in today’s game were just bad luck; his team still played alright, and they were, thankfully, in the lead anyway. However, this would decide the fate of the game ...
Wood floated right above him, glaring down as Marcus flew up to the Gryffindor hoops. Goddammit, why did he always treat a game with Marcus as some sort of personal battle? Like they were mortal enemies and every game was a final showdown between them? Marcus was beyond childrens’ games like this, he was tired of always fighting Wood -- did it always have to be that way? Well, after this game he won’t have to see Wood on the pitch for the rest of the year --
Adrian tossed the Quaffle towards Marcus, who caught it and, somersaulting on this broom through the air, hoped to increase its velocity -- and shot it at Wood. It was a new technique that they had been working on; and thank goodness Marcus was just acrobatic enough to make it. It flew forwards through the air, and Wood dove to catch it -- only to catch it with his face.
There was an unmistakeable crack and suddenly half of Wood’s face was red. Oh great. They’ve broken his nose.
‘Mister Wood! Please come down for treatment!’ Madam Hooch yelled below them.
‘Unnecessary!’ Wood declared, and pulled out his wand. He muttered a heavy episkey through the blood in his nose, and the cartilage fused back together.
‘You know you’re not supposed to do that! Detention, Mister Wood!’ There were strict rules about injured students healing themselves on the pitch -- mostly, it was dangerous to perform spells like that in midair, when the body is less balanced and, of course, ungrounded.
Wood sneered and it was a terrible but enthralling sight. ‘Worth it.’ If Marcus were less of an insane Quidditch player, he would have looked at Wood in some version of admiration.
But that wasn’t Marcus.
Whilst Wood was fixing his nose, Marcus picked up the Quaffle again, and as soon as Wood was done and looked up, Marcus threw the Quaffle through the hoop to his right.
There was a war between the cheers and the boos in the audience stands as Lee Jordan struggled to announce that Slytherin was once again in the lead, with thirty points.
Marcus let the disgruntled Gryffindor Chasers have the Quaffle. He needed to watch his Seeker. Now Terence was a broom’s length behind Harry, who was weaving through the pitch after the Snitch. Despite the fact that he was a Gryffindor, and an insufferably proud one to boot, Potter was a remarkable Seeker. Especially when one considered how difficult it must be to see through those glasses, and that hair. Really, that hair.
He passed the two Seekers as the Slytherin Chasers tailed after the Gryffindor Chasers, seeking to help defend Miles from the Gryffindor’s forward attack. They quickly outstripped the Gryffindors and lined up in a defensive formation in front of Miles. But still they looped around, increasing their coverage in the air.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Terence muttered to himself as he urged on his broom, a relatively modest Nimbus 1700 to Potter’s Firebolt. It almost seemed unfair that rich kids were allowed to compete in Quidditch with superior brooms -- they should all be issued a uniform broom to make it more fair, Terence thought to himself as he struggled to catch up.
Sweat dripped off of Lucian’s brow as he hit another Bludger away from Terence. His golden hair was no longer neat; it was plastered to his head in some parts, and sticking up in the air in others. But at least it wasn’t the total disaster perched at the top of Peregrine’s head. Out of the team, only Marcus looked unruffled, with his shaven head. They all looked a mess. The Gryffindors usually looked a mess anyway, so there wasn’t any significant change to them. Despite the Slytherin’s higher score -- to Gryffindor’s none -- it felt like they were losing their touch, getting tired, and losing the game.
Terence tried to flatten himself against his broom even more, although it was difficult, as he was already leaning pretty closely against it. ‘Come on, come on,’ he whispered, hearing the wind and Bludgers whizz by his ears. Slowly, he was catching up to Potter, but he wasn’t sure if he’d make it -- even though the Snitch was still flitting around quite far ahead.
Then the sound of Bludgers disappeared, and it was just the harsh autumn wind tearing at his poor ears. Why? The Weasleys flew in an arc before them, and suddenly Potter lifted up; and Peregrine was yelling something suddenly, and the Weasleys sent a Bludger whirring towards Terence --
He stopped on his tracks, sitting up suddenly and feeling his eyes black out from the abrupt change in position -- all the blood was draining out of his brain -- and he heard a sharp crack as a bat hit the Bludger. Quickly, Terence shook his head, and saw that it was Lucian who made the save -- and in that moment he saw a glimmer of gold.
Before it could fly away again, Terence kicked himself from his broom, and dove forward to catch the Snitch in his hands. It was smooth and cold, burning against his bare fingers, and its wildly flapping wings matched the thrumming pace of his own heart; and then he fell.
‘Goddammit, not again,’ Peregrine swore, and dove. He managed to grab Terence by the scruff, and with great difficulty -- but no hurry, as the golden Snitch in Terence’s hand signified that the game was already won -- lifted Terence to his own broom.
‘Thanks Per,’ Terence said as he hauled himself back onto his Nimbus.
Peregrine grimaced and windmilled his arm. ‘You owe me,’ he grumbled, but not ill-naturedly. Of course, how could he be? A sea of green was roiling in a corner of the Quidditch pitch, screaming at them, whilst Lee Jordan, as quietly has he could possibly manage, declared that Slytherin had caught the Snitch, and the game was over, with one-hundred and eighty points to Slytherin, and none to Gryffindor.
Marcus was grinning so widely that it looked eerie. Marcus Flint, smiling? A rare and terrible sight, only to be witnessed at a victorious Quidditch game. Clapping Terence on the back, they all flew down to the bottom of the pitch. The Gryffindors looked angrily at the Slytherins and themselves -- despite the Slytherins’ bad luck, nothing the Gryffindors did ended up working, and their direct Bludger attack on Terence, in fact, accidentally brought the Snitch closer to him, since it was caught against the Bludger as it sped forward.
Cassius and Adrian were roaring and laughing, trying to climb onto Miles’ back to ruffle his black hair. Lucian was impatiently herding them into the locker room, hoping to get there before the Gryffindor fans started pelting them with half-chewed, nastily-flavoured Bertie Botts; but his face was radiant with the joy of triumph, golden and soft, but forceful.
Peregrine had already torn off his robes and his jersey, and was waving them above his head and hooting like a madman. Whatever arm pain he was complaining about seemed to be there no longer. His stiff dark hair was sticking straight up, he was laughing so hard that there were dimples in his smile, despite his hollow cheeks.
‘Good game, boys!’ Graham yelled as the reserve team came up to greet them, and all laughing and cheering and hooting, the Slytherins retreated to the locker room.
‘Couldn’t believe that luck,’ Lucian remarked, leaning lazily against Peregrine and Miles.
Miles laughed. ‘I can’t even figure out if it was good or bad luck.’
Peregrine wrinkled his nose. ‘Either way, I didn’t like it. Too many unpredictabilities.’ He sighed. ‘Give me a straightforward game next time ...’
Terence slapped Peregrine on the shoulder. ‘You know, Perry, they’re going to call you Batty Derrick for months now ...’
‘Oh, please no,’ Peregrine groaned, and all the other boys laughed in sympathy.
Indeed it seemed to Marcus that today’s game was strangely not in their favour. All the mistakes and faults had been at their cost, and even the victory was won on a mistake, and not on their team’s true ability. Why had it been so?
As he walked to the showers, the daily calendar hanging on the wall caught his eye. In neat, block letters, it read: FRIDAY, and beneath that, OCT 13.
Marcus smiled to himself a little. He was never a superstitious person, nor did he believe in things like this; but it was a little odd, and a little amusing. If bad luck favoured anyone, why shouldn’t it be the down and dirty, scheming and sly Slytherins? Two negatives multiplied makes a positive ...
He rubbed his hand over his smooth head, and wondered what the Gryffindors were saying. Slytherin, winning? Only by sheer luck, of course ...
