Year 5 - Stockholm

Chapter 11

Necessary Roughness

Hermione Granger climbed atop the wooden stands, seemingly abandoned in the absence of a Quidditch match. It was cold. Colder than cold. She chose a seat toward the center of the stand, out of direct wind, and charmed it with a warming charm. Still, her butt froze only a minute after sitting.

The grassy length of the Pitch was long. Blades moved with the wind as it whipped across the fields into the beyond of the grounds. A sharp whistle came with each gust. The hoops of the Goalposts were the most likely culprit. They sang higher than a siren as the force of nature pushed air through their center.

She'd sat along the side of this Quidditch Pitch many times throughout the years. Harry played first year. Ronald started on the team, too. Fred and George played as Beaters on the Gryffindor, so they were cheered for as well. So many times in the stands. Alone. She watched her best friends endure so many injuries that she could have prevented. Or prevented all together if they didn't play.

They all thought she hated the game which was not a fair assumption. She liked it. She attended the matches and cheered on from the stands as they battled their opponents. Just because she didn't solely focus her existence as school entirely on a sport and speak of it incessantly didn't mean she was incapable of enjoying said sport.

The truth was, Quidditch made her queasy. Her hands and feet tingled when she watched people dangle from their brooms so high in the sky. She hated flying. Brooms were her enemy. Heights made her deathly afraid.

Her mouth watered and thoughts spun when they'd zoom up higher than the clouds. It was usually Harry. He always blindly did dangerous things. It was going to be the death of him. And her.

She crossed her ankles, pressed her thighs firmly together and tensed her entire body against the wind. The hope of a short practice on her mind.

Members of the Slytherin House team filtered onto the grass from the locker room below. Their bodies were small against the enormity of the Pitch. Five hundred feet long and one hundred eighty feet wide, the team were less threatening little blemishes atop the shiny grass. School uniforms were only required for formal matches. Draco wore solid black. His porcelain hair was a giveaway. Otherwise the players blended in.

As the practice started, nevertheless, she recognized two lumpy figures last to the pitch. One was shorter than the other. Both were built like boulders. They swung their legs over their brooms rather lazily and flew upward where the rest of the team awaited them. She chuckled as Crabbe huffed. His fingers fumbled with his beaters bat in hand. It was tough to switch hands with him clung so tight to the broomstick.

A sharp voice boomed out over the pitch. Words were lost in the distance. Still, the way Crabbe reacted, it needed no translation.

Goyle and Crabbe were the team's newest members. Their beater bats were short and blunt pieces of wood that hanged off their arms with a great weight. It took Crabbe a good hop to swing the instrument around to have it worthy of using. Then when a push of wind came, his cape helped pull away from his stance. It took him an entire minute to ready himself again.

Crabbe's cape was a problem for Goyle. It whipped in his line of vision as he watched his teammates demonstrate techniques. He exclaimed something of a colorful variety and pushed his friend away.

Green capes fluttered higher as Crabbe and Goyle's instruction continued. The other players tossed a Quaffle around in a playful game of catch.

During a match, the Slytherin team was a ruthless competitor who stopped at nothing, even slight cheating, to win. Hermione observed a different side of them. They practiced like childish boys.