Untitled Ravenclaw Story

(c)2005 by Josh Cohen. May not be reprinted except for personal use. The Potterverse is owned by JK Rowling. I\'m just here to play around a bit.

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YEAR THREE: QUIDDITCH II

Warning: Contains exciting scenes of Quidditch. The next chapter will contain more sexual material, so if you\'d prefer that, skip ahead.

For the next two-and-a-half weeks, all I remember is a series of Quidditch practices. Full contact. Full speed. And still Roger kept pushing us.

“Remember,” he’d shout as he hit Bludgers at the rest of us – including the Beaters – “just because we lost doesn’t mean we’re out of it!”

“Remember,” he’d moan as one of us body-checked him, “just because Gryffindor lost to Hufflepuff doesn’t mean they’re pushovers!”

“Remember,” he said dizzily after taking a Quaffle to the head – and I’m convinced Karen hit him with it just to shut him up, “the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog!”

My grades were suffering. None of the professors were willing to cut any of us any slack, not even Flitwick, our Head of House. He did do his best to make sure we had plenty of time on the Pitch, but it did mean we were getting up at half-past-four in the morning. Every morning. Including weekends.

Padma found me sleeping in our alcove two days before the match. After practice on Thursday, Roger had said we’d just have a team meeting on Friday afternoon after dinner, and so I’d dragged myself through Arithmancy and Transfiguration and Herbology with the help of judicious elbows from Hermione in the first class and Terry in the other two. I barely made it through dinner – fortunately, there were sandwiches available that night or I might’ve had mashed potatoes or something all over my face – and I still don’t know why I pulled myself up two flights of stairs and a long ladder just to sit on a couch.

I was probably delirious.

“David?” Her voice was soft, as if she wasn’t sure I was asleep. But I’m a light sleeper. “David? Are you all right?”

“What?” I sat up straight and scrubbed the shoulder of my robe over my face. “What is it? Is it time for the match?”

She smiled guiltily and sat down next to me. “No, David. It’s still Thursday.”

“Oh.” I leaned back, my heart pounding. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry.”

I felt my eyes drifting shut.

“David?”

“Mm?”

“Are you nervous?”

“Mm-mm.”

“Why not?”

I opened one eye to look at her. “Because Gryffindor plays fair. They won’t hit Bludgers at your head.”

“Yeah.” She shuddered a little. I barely noticed. “Those two beasts on Slytherin’s team nearly took your head off.”

“Mmhmm.”

A moment of silence.

“David?”

“Mm?”

“Um… nevermind.”

I suppose I heard Padma leave, but I was already out cold.

Friday was relaxing in that Faust wasn’t banging on the dormitory door trying to wake me up at 4:30. Oh, I still had to get up at seven, jog around the Pitch a couple of times to make sure my muscles didn’t lose their looseness, get back upstairs, shower, dress, eat breakfast, sit through Double Potions in the morning and Double Defense Against the Dark Arts in the afternoon, work on basic dueling spells in the practical half of the lesson, get nailed by more Stunning spells than I’d care to admit, and get through dinner, but it was still all right.

At the meeting – in Flitwick’s office again – Roger laid out the plan. “Playing against Gryffindor will be the hardest thing you two will ever do,” he said to me and Faust. “It’s like playing against four Chasers, three Beaters, and the fastest Seeker you’ll ever see. Wood’s an excellent Keeper, but an even-better strategist.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Karen said, trying to lighten the mood.

Roger silenced her with a look. “The Gryffindors will never intentionally hit a Bludger at your head, but the Weasley brothers will go for your arms or your legs, especially if you’re carrying the Quaffle. So David, you and Karen make sure to be careful.”

I wanted to say something along the lines of, “you’ve been hitting Bludgers at our heads all week, I think we’ll be all right,” but discretion was the better part of valor.

“As for Fiona and Andrew… aim for the Chasers not carrying the Quaffle. Gryffindor’s Chasers know exactly when to pass, so if you can stop them from completing those passes, we should gain an advantage.”

“Got it,” Andrew said. Fiona merely nodded, her brown eyes solemn.

“Faust, just block as many goals as you can. We’ll try to help you.”

“I’m not worried,” he said.

“Worry,” Roger shot back.

Then he turned his face to Cho, who had her hands between her knees. “Which leaves our Seeker.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Catch the snitch before Potter.”

“Remember,” Roger cautioned, “he’s got that new broom, so he’ll probably be faster. Do whatever you have to to keep him away from the Snitch. Foul him if you must, but try not to. They’re too good on penalty shots for that.”

“I’ll mark him. It’ll probably make things easier.”

“We’ll see.”

Roger closed the playbook. “We’re one-and-one, team. But so are they. This is our last game of the season. If we win it, we have a good shot at taking the cup, provided Gryffindor defeats Slytherin. But we need to win this match before we even think about that. So let’s go out there and do what we need to do.”

There was a gleam in the icy blue of his eyes. “Let’s win this thing.”

The morning of the match dawned clear and cool. There was a light breeze, not enough to affect my outside shooting, although Cho speculated to me that it might be enough to push the Snitch in an unpredictable fashion. That would favor her, since her reflexes were quicker than Potter’s – she remembered that from their last match.

I went to the loo before I got into my gear, and as I was on the way out of the bathroom, Fiona motioned me over.

“What’s up?”

She smiled at me, a quicksilver flash of teeth. “Win or lose, watch tonight.”

I started to ask her why, but then she did something completely unexpected.

She kissed me.

Faust found me about five minutes later. “You know, Roger’s going to turn you into a newt if you don’t get your arse in there and get ready.”

I ambled after him. “I’ll get better,” I said.

Obviously, Faust wasn’t a fan of muggle cinema. Terry would’ve gotten the joke.

On the way out of the locker-room, Terry and Padma stopped me. “Just wanted to wish you the best, mate,” Terry said. “You’ll need it out there.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said, grinning.

“Be careful, David,” Padma offered. “I know you’ll do well.”

“See, Terry, you could learn something from this one.”

Padma blushed, and then – it seemed impulsive on her part – leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, just a brief brush of lips, before the two of them moved away, heading for the stands.

“C’mon,” Roger said as he passed me. “Let’s get moving.”

I walked with the team to the Pitch, listening as Lee Jordan, a fifth-year Gryffindor, announced his team. We shouldered our brooms and got in line.

“And now, introducing the Ravenclaw Quidditch team:

“Number 54, at Keeper, Faust Fyreton!

“Number 37, at Beater, Fiona Fyreton!

“Number 12, at Beater, Andrew Cornjual!

“Number 4, at Seeker, Cho Chang!

“Number 16, at Chaser, Karen DeMarco!

“Number 9, at Chaser, David Goldman!

“And the Ravenclaw Team Captain, Number 6, at Chaser, Roger Davies!”

I was gratified to hear that the cheers were just as loud for us as they’d been for the Gryffindors. Up in our section of the stands, I saw Luna Lovegood set off what couldn’t possibly be a Patronus, but certainly looked like one – a gigantic, shining blue raven bloomed out over our section, followed by another cheer.

The girl certainly could Charm.

We walked to the center of the Pitch, and Wood and Roger shook hands before we all mounted our brooms and kicked off. Madam Hooch released the Bludgers and the Snitch; the former hung above the field, and the latter zoomed off to parts unknown. Then, carrying the Quaffle, she rode her broom up to the center circle, tossed it into the air, and blew her whistle.

The game was on.

“The game’s a disaster!” fumed Roger as we huddled under our goal. “Eighty bloody points to nothing! What are you people doing out there?”

“Roger,” Andrew said sharply, “we’re doing our best!”

“Do better!” he grumbled. “Let’s build up that score. And Cho, keep following Potter. I don’t think he’s picked up on what you’re doing yet.”

“Got it.”

“David, up to taking some shots?”

“What, me?” I adjusted the position of my broom. “I guess so.”

“Not from the outside,” he said. “Dive in. Make Wood get out of your way.”

“Slam-dunk,” Faust said.

“What?”

“Slam-dunk,” he repeated. “Muggle basketball. Get as close as you can and throw it through hard.”

I nodded. “Sounds good.”

“All right, then,” Roger said. “Let’s do it!”

We rose back into the air and spread out into our positions; Madam Hooch released the Bludgers and the Snitch – she had a Quidditch Refereeing Spell that held them in place during time-outs – and blew her whistle.

Karen caught the Quaffle and flung it to me; I was already on my way up, over the towers that buttressed the Pitch. Katie Bell, the Gryffindor Chaser who’d scored first – and who’d scored fifty of Gryffindor’s eighty points – zipped up after me. I passed back to Karen and took a dive toward the Gryffindor upper goalpost.

Wood ignored it. He barely noticed when I grabbed the Quaffle – Karen had faked a shot, spinning it so it would curve upward – and dunked it into the goal, then wheeled around to the sound of Ravenclaw cheering.

We needed that goal. We needed to draw together. One of the Weasleys – Fred, I think; I didn’t catch the number on his robes – whacked a Bludger toward Roger, and he ducked under it. Angelina Johnson had the Quaffle; Fiona and Andrew sent Bludgers toward her, and she ducked straight into Karen, who snatched the Quaffle back and sent it up to Roger.

Roger sent it to me, and I dropped it back to Karen. The three of us – and Fiona, riding flank guard – drove toward the goal. Wood sat at the center hoop, waiting, ready.

He didn’t think we’d try the same thing again. But when Roger shot his false goal, Wood missed it again as it spun down to me and I dunked it for another ten points.

We moved up and down the field for another ten minutes, Faust making some spectacular saves. I managed to toss in a blind shot – Bell had retrieved the Quaffle after Roger had scored, and Karen and I spun around her as Andrew sent in a Bludger. She avoided all three of us, but the Bludger knocked out the Quaffle. I had been planning to pass it, but Karen just yelled, “shoot!” and we had fifty points now.

On the way back down the field, I saw Cho and Potter diving for what had to be the Snitch. Both their hands were out. Roger yelled “starboard jump!” and, without even thinking, Cho rolled around Potter’s broom and forced him to change course.

“Holy crap!” yelled Spinnet, and in that moment of shock, Roger grabbed the Quaffle out of her arms and made for the opposite goal. I formed up behind him with Fiona, and Karen flew above and behind us, watching. I could see her shadow.

Roger sent the Quaffle to me; I backward-rolled, hard-braking all of my momentum and sending it into the tail of my broom. The Quaffle soared, and Karen sent a slap shot to the bottom hoop.

Wood intercepted it and tossed it over to Johnson again.

She barely caught it. “Look!” she yelled, pointing downward.

We had plans for this. Whomever had made the last goal would look; the other two would give chase. Around Hogwarts, you never knew when something would interrupt a game of Quidditch.

“Dementor!” I yelled back. Johnson tucked the Quaffle under her right arm and veered away; Roger stayed with her, while Karen and I shifted position, sliding our wands out of our holsters – Karen preferred an ankle holster, and I had mine against my right forearm.

“Potter!” Wood shouted. “Look out!”

Potter saw the Dementor and drew his own wand.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A huge silver blast that vaguely looked like a stag bloomed outward, knocking the Dementor back onto the turf.

“Cho! Snitch!” Roger called.

The Snitch was just ahead of Potter. Cho would never catch up. Andrew sent a Bludger his way, but it was futile. He grabbed the Snitch and the Bludger dropped to the ground.

And our season was over. 230-50.

The post-game chatter in our locker-room was almost nonexistent. But as the captain, Roger had to say something.

“Next year. We’ll get them next year.”

“It was a good season,” Karen said. “We will be a force to be reckoned with come next season.”

There was a knock on the door. Roger opened it, and then stiffened. “Wood,” he said… well… woodenly.

“Davies. May I come in?”

“Why?” But Roger was already yielding ground, and Oliver Wood stepped into our locker-room.

“I just wanted to congratulate you all.” Wood was already wearing street clothes. “It was a good match, and if those Slytherin hadn’t come onto the field, it might have been closer.”

“Slytherin?” Faust got to his feet, forgetting for the moment that all he was wearing was a pair of shorts. “What the hell do you mean, Slytherin?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?” Now I was standing as well. “What happened?”

Wood tried not to laugh. “Malfoy and a couple of his Slytherin friends tried to knock out Potter by dressing up as a Dementor. Snape’s liable to have them drawn and quartered.”

“Small comfort.” Karen DeMarco was wearing a long t-shirt and little else as she walked out of the girls’ shower area, rubbing a towel in her curly blond hair. “Won’t get us the match.”

Wood swallowed hard. But the rest of us just accepted Karen’s attire – we all knew that Lauren Maxwell-Thorne had laid a claim to our fellow Chaser, and we were fine just looking at her legs and wondering what the two of them – Lauren and Karen, not Karen’s legs – got up to. Or, at least, most of them were. I know Roger and I knew.

“I’m sorry. But still, good game.”

Roger nodded, and Wood left the room.

“Supercilious wanker,” Andrew opined.

“Too right.” I shrugged. “But like he said, next year. We’ll all be here.”

Roger nodded again, and pulled a flask out of his bag. He uncapped it and raised it. “To next year,” he intoned, and then took a sip. It went to Karen, then Andrew, then Fiona, then Faust, then Cho – who was still quite upset that she’d missed the Snitch twice in a month after nabbing it two-of-three last year – and finally to me.

“Holy hell!” I sputtered, coughing. “What is this?”

“Firewhisky. You’ve never had it before?”

“No.” I went to one of the sinks and scooped water into my mouth. “But I understand why they call it that now.”

“Each their own,” Roger said, shrugging. I capped the flask and tossed it to him, then went to my locker to pull on a pair of pants and a shirt, and cram the rest of my Quidditch gear back into the bag it came in. I preferred to shower in the dorms.

On the way out, Madam Hooch took our bags from us and sent them into their assigned cabinets – the school let teams use its Quidditch equipment, and although it was permissible to bring it from home, the only equipment allowed in the game was Hogwarts equipment. Not that it was such a hardship; every year, Madam Hooch would inspect the equipment and replace anything that seemed unsafe.

I hoped my gear would survive the next few months; I rather liked the way it felt. I did not want to break in new armor and pads.

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\"How do you know she\'s a witch?\" \'She turned me into a newt!\' \"She turned you into a newt?\" \'I got better.\'

I guess it\'s a contradiction that Faust doesn\'t know Monty Python but knows basketball. Must have something to do with his primary schooling.

This will be the last Quidditch until Year Five, unless the mood strikes me to throw something in.

Next chapter will have sex. Promise.