Hogwarts: The Legacy

(c)2005 by Josh Cohen. May not be reprinted, except for personal use. The Potterverse was created by JK Rowling, and remains her property. I\'m just borrowing it for a little while.

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FOUR: THE FIRST MATCH

Warning: contains exciting scenes of Quidditch.

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In the last two weeks leading up to the first match, the Ravenclaw team practiced every evening at eight on the main pitch. Hufflepuff was on the training pitch behind Hagrid’s hut – Colwyn had gotten to Mr Weasley first, and was rewarded with the main pitch for this week’s practices. It was, according to Fabian – who was rapidly becoming a good friend of Jason’s – the way that Madam Hooch had done things, and since Mr Weasley had played Quidditch under Madam Hooch’s aegis, that’s the way he did things as well.

Between Quidditch and classes, though, Jason had forgotten about nearly everything else in his life. He barely had enough time to finish his homework – far more than he’d ever received in second year – and he tended to spend more time memorizing the plays from the Ravenclaw playbook than anything else. Many nights, long after Alison, Dina, and Christopher had left their alcove at the top of the Ravenclaw tower, Jason would still be up there, eyes closed, vacillating between sleep and mental drills.

And then there had been the injuries. Fabian, who was quite a powerful individual, had knocked into Jason on more than one occasion – he was known for rather-physical blocks when it came to preventing scores.

“Get used to it, Goldman,” Lisa DeMarco had shouted as Jason worked to right himself. “Even the Hufflepuffs won’t hesitate to knock you out!”



Halloween came on a Wednesday night, and the Great Hall was decked out for the Halloween Feast. Andrew Colwyn had declared a reprieve from practice, so after Double DADA, Jason managed to get back to the dormitories for an hour and a half of extra sleep before the feast was to begin.

Most of the professors were wearing some sort of costume; even Professor Snape had on a pair of devil’s horns. Professor Granger continued to poke fun at him over it – Jason could hear it even over the clatter and chatter of the feasting students. There was very little homework – if any – given out on feast nights, to ensure that everyone had the chance to celebrate.

After the feast, the long house tables had been transfigured into small round ones and the center of the Great Hall was remade into a dance floor. Professor Morrigan, despite being exceedingly strict and prone to favoring Slytherins above all other students, was nonetheless and excellent witch, and had done an amazing job.

Would that Jason had seen it. But he had gone off with the playbook. The common room was out of the question – there was a party in there that showed no signs of ending. His own room was also off-limits, as he could never study there. It was just some sort of mental block.

Dina Patil came across Jason as she walked down one of the more-disused halls in Hogwarts, the one that led to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. She’d been at the dance with Alison; they’d been critically eyeing most of the boys there – in all fairness, Alison was doing the eyeing and criticizing, and Dina was nodding and making little noises of assent while she tried to figure out where Jason and Christopher had gotten off to.

“Jason?”

He looked up at her; he was sitting with his back against the wall, the playbook balanced on his knees. “What’s up?”

Dina slid down the wall to sit beside him. “I was under the impression that tonight was for celebrations, not for studying.”

Jason shrugged. “I guess,” he said. When Dina looked at him up-close, she could see that his eyes were bleary. “I’ve just got so much to do. I can’t think about celebrating, not until after Saturday’s match.”

Dina tugged the playbook out of Jason’s hands. He made a token protest, but decided better against it, leaning his head back against the rough stone wall. He closed his eyes.

“Jason,” Dina said, “you’re overextending yourself. This cannot be healthy.”

He just shrugged again. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could always resign from Quidditch.”

Jason’s eyes snapped open and he stared at Dina in shock. “You must be joking. Not only is the rest of the team just starting to accept me, but I think I’m finally starting to get the plays down. If I quit now, what’s going to happen, besides that the team will need to train another chaser in such a short period of time that they’re going to be guaranteed a loss! I can’t do that to them.”

Dina recoiled, her hands folding in her lap – it was something that Jason, Christopher, and Alison had all noticed that she did whenever she thought she’d done or said something wrong. “I’m... I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m just concerned, that’s all.”

Jason pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand. Dina took it and he effortlessly pulled her to her feet. “It’s all right. I appreciate that you’re concerned. I really do. But I have to do this.”

“Just tell me you’ll take better care of yourself.”

Jason realized that Dina had not withdrawn her hand; her fingers were slim and cool against his palm. “I will. Our next match isn’t until January anyway. Andrew said we should be able to back off a bit until we get back from holidays.”

“That’s good.” Dina passed Jason the playbook, and he tucked it under his arm.

The two third years started walking back toward the main staircases, which would take them back to Ravenclaw tower. “Um. Dina?”

“Yes?”

“You do know we’re holding hands, right?”

Dina blushed – her skin was dark enough to be exotic, but light enough to change when she was embarrassed or angry. She didn’t let go, though.

“It’s all right. I rather like it.”

Jason blushed as well as he smiled at Dina.

Saturday – Game Day – arrived faster than Jason could ever have expected it. He had arrows and symbols buzzing around in his head as he slowly made his way through two bagels and a hard-boiled egg at breakfast. But soon it was nine o’clock, an hour before the match was to begin, and it was time to go down to the Ravenclaw lockerroom and pull on the dark-blue robes of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team.

Jason was nervous, no doubt about it, but he was at least slightly buoyed by the sight of “GOLDMAN” above the number nine, blue with white piping, on the back of the Quidditch robe. It had been his father’s number as well.

The team huddled up for one last bit of strategy. “Listen,” Andrew said, “we’re going to play this just as if we were playing last year, with John here.” John Doverline had been the seventh year chaser last year who was now an apprentice Auror. “Francesca and I will keep the bludgers away from Wesley and Jason; Lisa and Marianne, you’ll just have to avoid them as best you can.”

Lisa, as the most senior chaser, took up the strategy line. “Marianne, try to make as many shots as you can. I’ll work on distracting them. Jason, you do your best not to get in the way, especially if you don’t know what plays are being called, but if you see a shot, take it.”

Jason’s face flushed. “I’ll remember the plays.”

“You’d better,” Andrew said. “I want to get us off to a good start, and I definitely don’t want us to have to come from behind like we did last year.” The previous season, Ravenclaw had lost a hard-fought game to Gryffindor, although had they won their first game – against Slytherin – they wouldn’t have needed to worry. “And Fabian, I think you know what to do.”

“Of course,” the keeper said, his voice quiet but the energy underneath quite palpable.

“All right, then.” Andrew put his hand into the center of the huddle; we all followed suit. “Let’s go Ravenclaw!”

There was a cheer. Jason joined in, glad to finally be part of the group.



Professor Granger, up in the staff box, had rarely seen a Quidditch game go on this long. The players had been on their brooms for almost two hours; many of the students and most of the staff had left the stands at some point to use the loo. Their legs had to be asleep – especially the new Ravenclaw chaser, Jason Goldman, one of Hermione’s best students. He had an unorthodox style of broom-riding, where he rested his weight on his left side. She recalled that his father had ridden a broom the same way.

Ravenclaw was ahead, 540 to 400, when Hermione felt a tap on her left shoulder. She turned around, but no one was there. Instead, she felt familiar lips touch her right cheek.

She flushed. “Draco, what are you doing?”

He dropped into the empty seat beside her; as Professor Flitwick’s house team was playing, he was in the front row, with the announcer and the scorer and Professor Sprout. Normally, Filius would sit beside her at matches. “I was bored. And as a professor, it’s incumbent upon you to attend the Quidditch matches even if you’re not much into the sport.”

Hermione offered Draco a half-grin. “It’s not my fault I missed your winning goal in seventh year.”

“Not really. But I do have Falcons season tickets; I would think you’d come with me at least once.”

She kissed his cheek, then slid her arm around his waist. “Not my thing. But thanks for coming nonetheless.”

Draco rested his hand on Hermione’s knee. “Now that I have an excuse to come to the Hogwarts games, did you really think I’d miss any of them?”



Neither Wesley nor Christine Keeler, the Hufflepuff Seeker, had been able to catch the snitch. It had been a near thing with Keeler at one point, but in desperation, Marianne had flung the quaffle at her just before she caught it. Ravenclaw was assessed a penalty – and Fabian blocked Richard Savant’s free shot – but Andrew had assured us in practice that it was better to risk ten points than to risk the game.

Jason was more than holding his own in the game; although Lisa had made thirty of Ravenclaw’s fifty-three goals, Jason had contributed ten more of his own, and several dozen assists to both Lisa and Marianne. He’d also noticed that whenever he was slated to take the shot, Lisa would fly cover for him, along with Francesca to ward off the bludgers, in an attempt to distract Oliver Wilson, the Hufflepuff keeper.

There was a roar from the crowd, and Jason looked over toward Wesley, who was in pursuit of the snitch, low to his broom. Keeler was gaining on him.

Taggart, one of the Hufflepuff Chasers, attempted to pass the quaffle to Antonovich, but Lisa swooped in at the last moment and stole it away, then flung it to Jason. Marianne swung around and caught up to Jason easily, and he tossed the quaffle to her. I heard Lisa call out a play behind me, and I ducked, knowing that Marianne would throw the quaffle right where he was flying. Lisa caught it – there was a distinctive grunt that Lisa made when she spurred her broom onward – and she made for the goals. Marianne circled around behind the hoops – only a shot through the front of the goals would count anyway – and Lisa tossed the quaffle back to Jason. He flung it as hard as he could to Marianne, who threw it through the upper goal. Lisa caught it and shot a goal through the lowest post.

There were cheers. 550-400.

“I remember that maneuver,” Draco said lazily as Hermione’s fingertips teased at his hip. “I remember our keeper falling for the same trick three years running.”

Hermione’s breathing was coming quick – Draco’s hand was under her robe, and he’d pushed her skirt up so his own fingertips could caress the soft inner flesh of her right thigh. “Ravenclaw always did have some excellent plays,” she murmured, trying to concentrate on the game.

“So did you.”

Hermione blushed hard, thankful that she was sitting at the end of the staff box, so no one on her left could see her squirm.

Taggart took the quaffle and, in a move that none of the Ravenclaws expected at his size, dove for the pitch, Marianne and Lisa in pursuit. Jason flipped around and shot forward, trying to decide where the ball would go – to Antonovich or to Savant. A bludger flew past his head, and he saw Banner, one of the Hufflepuff beaters, wave.

Training, rather than instinct, made Jason drop ten feet straight down as Bryson, the other beater, hit the bludger back to him by way of Jason’s head.

“Goldman!” shouted Francesca. “Chase!” She sent a bludger in Taggart’s direction and he wheeled around, right into Francesca. She held onto her broom through a supreme act of will – spinning like a top – but managed to knock the ball from Taggart’s hands. Jason caught it and pulled a barrel roll, leveling out, heading straight for the hoops.

There was another surge of cheers; out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw Keeler and Wesley neck and neck, the snitch just ahead of them. Lisa was below him; he dropped the quaffle to her and scooted over, trying to bump Keeler. She rolled around him, pushing him with her right arm as she veered to the left, and Jason spent a dizzying moment trying to regain control of his broom.

Once he had control, he sped off to the Hufflepuff goal.

“Strike 58!” shouted Lisa. “Strike 58!”

Jason searched him memory for that play, but it wasn’t there. He had no idea what to do. But he had no time to argue; Lisa flung him the quaffle, and he tossed it to Marianne as he yelled “Blue 42!” That was the signal that the play was broken, that something was wrong, and Lisa responded with “Strike 40!”

That one Jason knew.

Marianne passed the quaffle back to Jason, who was watching the Hufflepuff keeper as he tried to predict Jason’s movements. He drew back his arm to throw–

–and dropped the quaffle right into Lisa’s hands.

She took the shot.

We all watched it. Her aim was perfect. Wilson had no chance.

The quaffle flew through the hoops.

The whistle blew.

There was a chorus of cheers.

Lisa, Marianne, and I wheeled around on our brooms, trying to see who had grabbed the snitch to end the game – that was what it had to be.

From the expression on Wesley’s face, it was obvious.

Keeler had beaten Wesley to the snitch.

But it didn’t matter. Lisa’s shot had been perfect.

Ravenclaw victory, 560 to 550.

Wesley was disconsolate, despite the win. He was sitting on one of the benches in the locker room, punching his right fist into his left hand. Fabian was attempting to make him realize that they’d won, that it hadn’t mattered, and that Wesley had done the best he could. Even Andrew had admitted that it was only luck that the snitch had skipped sideways, right into Keeler’s outstretched hand.

But it was a matter of pride for Wesley, and he just sat there, hitting his own palm with his own fist, replaying the game in his head.

Jason, on the other hand, had pulled off the heavy Quidditch robe as soon as he could and was sitting on another bench, taking liberal pulls from a large bottle of ice water, still wearing the light flak-jacket style of armor around his chest and the pads on his wrists. His left glove was on, but the right one was on the floor, next to the bristles of his broom, which was leaning against his leg.

“So,” Fabian said, plunking down next to me as he tugged off his gauntlets, “what’d you think?” I glanced over at Wesley, and saw that Marianne, who was now wearing only trousers and a halter-top, was rubbing Wesley’s shoulders.

Jason was still catching his breath, but he managed to choke out, “better… than… expected…”

“It always is.” Fabian pulled his flak jacket over his head and dropped it on the floor, then nearly tore off his shirt. I passed him the bottle of ice water, and he poured it over his head. “Even better when we win, though.”

“I... just bet...”

It had been the hardest time of Jason’s life. And the most exciting.

Jason remembered his dad telling him that he hadn’t even been a fan of Quidditch before being basically blackmailed into joining the team. His father hadn’t gone into detail on that point, but he did say that once he’d played the first match, even though Ravenclaw had lost that one, he’d been hooked.

Jason, on the other hand, had always been a fan, most notably of the Appleby Arrows and the Sun City Force of the American Quidditch League. But it was nothing like playing. Playing was truly an experience.

After the match ended, the staff had dispersed. Filius and Pomona had shaken hands at the conclusion of the match, and Filius had gone down to meet the team on their way out of the locker room, to congratulate them. Hermione and Draco had been able to slip away relatively unnoticed; Draco had flown in on his broom, and although Hermione despised flying, preferring to Floo or Apparate, she’d clung to Draco’s back and shoulders, riding pillon-style behind him, as he made the short flight from the pitch to her suite.

“I can’t believe you still don’t like to fly. It’s not like I’d ever let you fall, and it’s not like you couldn’t cast some sort of cushioning spell, or even Apparate, if we weren’t on the Hogwarts grounds.”

“It’s just one of those things,” Hermione said as she pulled off her robe, leaving her in a long-sleeved blouse and knee-length shirt. “Must come from being raised by muggles.”

“Whatever you say, dear.” Draco leaned his broom against the wall and closed the window, then crossed the room to collapse artfully onto one of Hermione’s sofas. It was amazing to her, even after all these years, how graceful he was in everything he did.

Hermione slipped off her soft-soled shoes and joined Draco on the couch, tucking herself under his arm. He was just over six feet tall, and at five-foot-five, she fit neatly against him. His warmth filled her body as he rested his long-fingered hand on her shoulder. “You know, Draco, I’ve been thinking quite a lot about Caroline lately.”

She felt her husband stiffen beside her. “In what way?” he asked carefully.

“Nothing too terribly specific. Just that I’ve been wondering what she’s been doing with her life.”

Draco shrugged. “We agreed to stay out of her life, you and I. Her mother was less than pleased that she had become pregnant, and thoroughly furious when she found out there was no way to...” He picked his words gently. “To end things before they got too far.”

Hermione’s pulse sped up; Draco could feel her heart beating as she pressed her chest against his side, her arms around his waist. “I know, Draco. But I’ve always wanted children, and after what Voldemort did to me...”

Draco felt the fine shaking in Hermione’s shoulders and shifted so he could hold her closer, burying his face in her hair. “It’s all right, love. It never bothered me. Better to spend the rest of my life with the witch I love. I’d rather leave the Malfoy fortunes to a worthy cause when I’m gone. Maybe take the tarnish off the family name.”

“But Draco...” Hermione looked up at him, tears in her caramel eyes.

He placed a fingertip against her lips. “No buts. It’s nothing we need to worry about. Nothing you need to worry about.” His thumb brushed away a couple of tears before he leaned down to kiss her with more tenderness than, twenty years ago, she would ever have thought he could possess.

It didn’t change things, though. Even as Hermione surrendered to Draco’s gentle touches and allowed herself to relax in his embrace, her mind continued flashing back on Caroline.

Draco Malfoy’s daughter.


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Notes:

Yes, I really have come up with names, jersey numbers, and positions for every player on all four House teams. I hate leaving things to chance when it comes to even a one-off mention of a character. I\'ve also sharpened the Quidditch scoring system, as you\'ll see later; the way Third Year ended, when Harry had to wait to catch the snitch... that made no sense to me. It needed more explaining.

Also, this will be the final chapter of my first posting. Updates will come at least once per week... that is, until I run out of things to write about or I catch up to myself. But I usually have enough time to knock out at least 25% of a chapter each day.

Now\'s your chance to leave me reviews or send me e-mails. I welcome them.