#warwounds

Louis hopes he’s telling the truth. He holds his grin in place even as it wants to slide off his face, and the first of the journalists is allowed to rush in and take their seat. Soon he and the other four who’ve been dragged to the press conference are facing a bristling forest of up-thrust arms. Team captain Reiner Urquhart squares his shoulders and calls for the first question.

“Louis, are the rumours about a potential transfer to the Appleby Arrows true?”

Louis resists the urge to duck his head. Xander sits back and lays a lazy arm over the back of Louis’ chair, a subtle show of support. Louis has been given the seat at the end of the row, in the vain hope it will remind this roomful of hyenas that other people on this team are worth paying attention to, but he can still feel the sullen irritation of Barnes and Robbins, first-choice Seeker and first-choice Beater, who have never got over Louis’ popularity.

He clears his throat. “Not true at all.”

The journalists persists. “You’ve been linked with them recently.”

“He’s linked with five teams a week, Dorian, give him a break,” parries Xander, fingers tapping. “It’ll be the fucking French next.”

“He is half-French, to be fair,” interrupts Urquhart, and points out another journalist. “Next question.”

“Louis, have you reconciled with your parents yet?”

There’s a hiss of disgust from either Barnes or Robbins. Louis swallows and remembers what Xander said: ​fake it until you believe it.

“I’d rather not talk about it. Now, Urquhart’s mother, on the other hand—” And he turns, grinning, as Urquhart hollers down the table for him to shut up. That provokes laughter, a subtle easing of tension, and Louis thinks that maybe he’ll get away with it.

“Right, another question,” calls Urquhart over the hubbub, “and ask us something about the team, you arseholes.”

More laughter, and obligingly a young reporter from the Prophet stands up and enquires, “How are the renovations on the training ground going?”

As more questions begin to fly, Louis lets himself breathe out. He gets a few more, but the others jump in for him as often as not, and as soon as it’s obvious that he’s not going to be drawn out on anything personal, they start firing questions at Xander too, their usual favourite subject.

Afterwards, Xander and Urquhart drag him to a quiet pub they like for a debrief.

“Will they fucking give it up,” Louis grouses into his pint, “Jesus. My personal life has nothing to do with them.”

“It’s because they think you’re hiding something.” Xander is drinking a sparkling water, a far cry from the party boy he likes to be in front of the press. “You gotta be an open book like me if you want them to stop prying.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” says Louis untruthfully, and takes another big swallow. “And, anyway, you sure are hiding something. I know about that fifteen-year-old at Hogwarts, remember.”

Xander scowls. “She told me she was seventeen. The amount of make-up she was wearing, good god. How was I supposed to know? How did you even find out?”

“My cousin’s friends with her,” says Louis, and then shuts that train of thought down before it can go any further.

“Lily Potter, right? Jeez. There’s one I wouldn’t mind causing trouble with.”

Even Urquhart nods in solidarity, and Louis has to be very careful not to let his knuckles tighten around his glass.

“That’s my cousin, man.”

Urquhart shrugs, his Guinness halfway to his mouth. “Sure you can still see she’s fit, come on. Like sixty percent of my parents’ friends are married to their cousins. Purebloods, huh?”

“Muggles, too.” Xander sits back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his abs. “My father’s sister married a first cousin. Keep all that wealth in the family.”

“Muggle ​peers,​ ” sneers Urquhart, teasing, and Louis bangs his glass down before Xander can take umbrage. He’s funny about his family, Xander, happy enough to remind anyone that he’s the son of a ​lord,​ thank you ​so much​, but a real shit when he feels like people are being rude about it.

“Anyway,” Louis says loudly, “that first question – do you think someone sneaked? About the new team?”

“Keep your voice down.” Urquhart is instantly serious, leaning in. “Shit, Weasley, be careful. None of us are out of contract for another year. If the Tornadoes get wind of it—”

“They won’t.” Xander is still lolling, indolent and sure. “The only people that know so far are the ones who stand to benefit. Dobbing us in will leave them worse off than keeping the secret.”

“Nobody’s ever done anything like this before,” agrees Louis, “they’ll never see it coming. It’s been the same thirteen teams since 1674, it’d be suicide to set up a fourteenth.”

“Our kind of suicide.” Xander grins ferally. “Three hundred and fifty years is enough of the same thing. They’ve stagnated, hey? Poaching players off each other, nobody caring enough to think long-term.”

“The Tornadoes Academy—” starts Urquhart, to a snort of derision from Xander.

“Lip-service to the idea, and only because you and I raised such a stink about it. I’m serious. If they want British Quidditch to stay competitive on the world stage, we have to start developing kids. Developing them properly, I mean, not just depending on that particular house at Hogwarts having a decent captain to give them some piecemeal training. Look at Weasley, come on.”

Urquhart does, and Louis frowns back at him. “What about me?”

“I mean, kid, come on, you’re the superstar, but you were not the right choice for a team captain.”

Louis has asked Xander to stop calling him kid a hundred times, and it has not worked yet, but he still gives him the finger. Xander’s only twenty-five, after all, hardly eons older than him.

“Xander, be nice,” says Urquhart, but Louis waves him down.

“Nah, he’s right. I hated being captain. I don’t like being responsible for training or decisions or anything. I just want to be out there flying.”

“And that’s what makes you the best Keeper in two hundred years.” Xander nods sagely. “But that’s the shit thing, isn’t it? Best player means captain at Hogwarts, so you got kids that could be great with development just stagnating because a good player doesn’t necessarily make a good captain, and they miss out on their shot at joining a team – one of thirteen teams, I mean, shit! Where’s the scope for expansion?”

“’Stagnating’ your word of the week or something, Hawkley?” Urquhart asks, and Xander just sighs.

“It’s the right thing. We’re doing the right thing.”

“I’d feel a lot better about it if we were out of contract already. Those lawyers absolutely fucking terrify me.” Louis gives a not-entirely-theatrical shudder. “Thank god for Ben.”

Ben, his sort-of-brother-in-law, who managed to get welcomed to the family despite knocking Victoire up after dating for a single month by making the most of the chaos when Louis quit school out of nowhere to join the Tutshill Tornadoes six months before the end of his final year at Hogwarts. Louis has never regretted the decision, but he regrets the bewildered disappointment it produced in his parents, who will never understand why he couldn’t just finish those final short months before leaving.

How can he ever explain it to them, when the real reason is one he will never even allow himself to think about?

“Is he still going over the contracts?” Urquhart is swirling the dregs of his Guinness around the bottom of the glass. “I’m slightly terrified of what he’ll find.”

“Yeah. He said he’d ring when he’s sure how it’s going to go down.” 

“So much paperwork.”

“Well, if we got a backer like I keep saying—” starts Urquhart, and Xander and Louis both lean in.

“We can’t.”

“No, Urquhart, shit,” says Xander over Louis, “come on. You were worried about leaks with just us and Elsa Templar on the in, you want to add some slob-mouthed businessman to the mix?”

“We’re going to need the funding soon.”

“No.” Louis puts both hands down. “My career’s barely started and I’m putting it all on the line for this. We do it safe as we can.”

Xander scoffs. “Your career’s a safe bet, Weasley. You could fuck up beyond all recognition and any team would still commit murder to have you. Us replaceable Chasers, mind—”

“Ah, fuck off.” Urquhart rolls his eyes. “You’re a flashy little bastard but anyone can see how good you are. It’ll be me that takes the rap if this goes wrong, and we all know it. I’m twenty-nine, that’s practically ancient for Quidditch, and there’s rumours of a set of hard-ass little Beaters coming up through Hogwarts right now. But it’s fine.” He holds a hand up to forestall Xander and Louis’ protests. “I made my peace with that when we first started talking about it. That’s why I’m doing it, because I want to leave more of a legacy than just being a decent Tornadoes captain. I want to build something. This is that something.”

“We will do it,” promises Louis, wide-eyed and zealous. “You watch. We’ll smash it. The League’ll never keep us out, not with me and Xander and Templar playing. If they try, if they want us to go and join other teams, then I’ll go play for France and—”

“—I’ll go back to playing polo for my old man,” finishes Xander, grinning. “And we’ll see how well England do without us.”

Urquhart shakes his head at both of them, but he’s smiling, benevolent, proud of these young men he’s built out of nothing.

“Death or glory, then, boys,” he says, and lifts his empty glass. They chink their drinks together, all laughing, and Louis downs the rest of his pint. This is what he joined the Tornadoes for; this is what he listened for when Xander first drew him aside and said, “Right, look, Weasley—”