Invisible String | TVD x WIZARDING WORLD

TRY OUTS

"Rise and shine, sweetheart."
Bastards. Absolute bastards.
"Get the hell outta here, George!"
It wasn't even five in the bloody morning and these demons had taken it upon themselves to rattle every poor Gryffindor awake like it was Christmas and they were Santa's disappointment twins.
"It's Quidditch try-outs day, sweetheart," Fred whispered, way too close to my ear.
I swatted at him blindly. "Stop whispering in Dolby Atmos, Fred."
I can hear you from six miles away. Vamp hearing, remember? Pain in the as—ears.
Fred and George, being the absolute nightmares they are, strolled in just as Hermione emerged from the bathroom in a towel—hair wrapped, skin glowing, and probably already halfway through a muggle novel with complex female characters and a satisfying enemies-to-lovers arc.
Of course she was up. Of course she had bathed.
She probably solved a murder mystery in the shower and submitted a thesis to the Ministry before sunrise.
I, on the other hand, resembled something between a corpse and a curse.
"Merlin's pants," Hermione muttered, tightening her towel. "Do you ever knock?"
"Now where's the fun in that?" George grinned.
"You're both insufferable," I said, face smushed into my pillow.
Fred leaned in again, sing-songing, "But we're your insufferables."
"Yeah? Well your insufferables are about to get hit with a hairbrush if they don't get out in the next ten seconds."
"Is that a threat or a promise, Salvatore?"
"Out!"
They bolted—laughing, naturally. Chaos was their love language.
I groaned, dragging the blanket over my head like it could shield me from the trials of the day ahead.
Quidditch try-outs.
Running. Yelling. Sweating.
And probably Theodore Nott, judging silently like a Victorian ghost.
Ugh.
I buried my face in the pillow again. "I hate Hogwarts."
No one responded. Probably because they all knew the truth.
I loved it here.
Even if it was crawling with idiots in red and gold.
~~~~~~~

"I don't even wanna be part of the team," I groaned, fingers tangled in my hair like it was cursed by a vengeful ghost from the dungeons.
I yanked at a strand, hissed, then glared at my reflection like it had personally offended me.
My hair—my beloved menace—refused to behave. Sticking out in weird directions, frizzing at the crown, and waving at gravity like it didn't believe in rules.
"You look great," came Sophie Kim's voice from across the room.
Sophie, our wide-eyed first-year roommate who had the energy of three sugar quills and a cat that's just seen a ghost.
She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, still in pajamas, chin propped on her knees like she was watching the final act of a very dramatic play.
"Oh, come on," she added brightly. "They seemed so eager to have you in, D."
I paused, hairbrush mid-air. "That's the problem, Soph. People getting eager. People getting ideas."
Sophie blinked. "But... you're really good?"
I groaned again, flopping backwards onto the bed like my entire soul had left my body. "Exactly. They saw me fly once, and now suddenly I'm Gryffindor's last hope, golden girl, Quidditch savior. I just wanted to get to the Astronomy Tower faster, not lead the team to glory."
Sophie giggled. "You do look very cool when you fly."
"I look like I'm being chased by a banshee," I muttered. "Which, ironically, is also how I feel every time Fred yells 'SCORE IT OR DIE' from across the pitch."
From the bathroom, Hermione called, "Well, at least you're not in charge of organizing every single person's broom preferences and snack requirements."
I tilted my head back and yelled, "Hermione, love, if you were in charge of Quidditch, the entire school would have signed liability waivers by now."
She popped her head out of the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel. "Exactly. And no one would be flying with a loose shoelace ever again."
I sighed, dramatically. "I hate being good at things."
Sophie, bless her optimistic little soul, just grinned. "You'll do amazing."
I rolled my eyes. "Great. Now I'm cursed with your faith too."
~~~~~~~~

By the time we made it down to the pitch, the stands were buzzing. Apparently, Gryffindor tryouts had become the social event of the week.
Why? Because Fred and George had bribed a few Hufflepuffs into passing out muffins and inviting "special guests."
That's right.
People had come to watch.
Hermione grumbled something about unnecessary attention and organizational failure. I just narrowed my eyes at Fred, who was doing dramatic stretches like he was warming up for a Quidditch ballet.
"You made posters," I muttered. "For tryouts."
"Correction," he said, pointing both thumbs at his chest, "George made the posters. I made the muffins. Chocolate and glory flavored."
"You put glitter in them, Fred."
"It's edible!"
I was halfway through rolling my eyes when I caught a figure near the edge of the stands. Leaning against the railing, arms folded, face perfectly unreadable.
Theodore Nott.
Because of course he was here.
Because the gods clearly woke up this morning and chose my inconvenience.
"Don't let Nott distract you," Hermione whispered as she adjusted her clipboard. "He's just loitering like the petty prince of lurking."
"Didn't know he was into sports."
"Probably isn't. He's into judging."
I swung my leg over the broom, fingers tightening around the handle. The sunlight glanced off the pitch like it was daring me to try.
Fred blew the whistle.
"LET'S GO, LIONS!"
And we were off.
The wind tore into my hair, the chill morning air biting against my cheeks. But up here—above the shouting, above the glitter-muffins and Nott's brooding—it was just me and the sky.
I leaned forward, angled into a dive, then pulled up at the last second with a sharp twist, sending a gust of air straight into Fred's face.
"SHOW-OFF!" he yelled, laughing.
"SHUT-UP!" I yelled back.
The Bludgers were flying wild, but I weaved through them like I was made for it. Somewhere below, I heard gasps, then cheers.
Then silence.
Because apparently, I had just caught the practice Snitch. Mid-air. One hand. Eyes closed.
(Okay, eyes mostly closed.)
I hovered in place, chest rising and falling, heart a drum in my ears.
And when I glanced down—just briefly—I caught Theo Nott still leaning on the railing.
Expression unreadable.
But he was watching.
Really watching.
This suck man.