Surviving in Harmony

Chapter Fifty-Eight | Montrose, Scotland, July 2020

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Montrose, Scotland July 2020

A high wind gusted over the moors, sending Ella Bowen's short curls and cloak into the air. She walked with purpose, holding her broom in one hand and her bag in the other. Climbing the hill, Ella repeated the same phrase over and over.

This is it, this is it, this your chance. This is what you have wanted all your life. Her feet pounded the words into the earth, and she strayed from the worn path as she branched over the top. Beneath her sprawled the Montrose Magpies headquarters and Quidditch pitch.

Descending the slope, Ella breathed in the wet, early morning air. This was her life now, what she had been dreaming of for years and years.

"Welcome!" a voice called. It was Phil McCormick, the coach. "Bowen, good to see you again."

Dropping her bag, Ella shook his hand. "You, too sir."

He chuckled. "No need to call me sir, Phil or Coach is fine."

"Yes sir - um, Coach." Ella had been there two moments and was already blushing.

"Don't be nervous Bowen, you're brilliant. I hope you don't mind, but a reporter is here to cover the first day of practice since the break. You don't mind speaking to him, do yeh?"

Ella pasted on a smile. "Of course, no problem."

"Great! Come meet the team."

They entered the building, low and long. In the foyer the six other team members were crowded around a game table. It was a miniature version of the pitch.

"I'm telling you," one guy was saying. "If you fly to the left they won't even see you coming -"

"And all I'm saying is that flying left is a darned stupid decision!" another said haughtily.

Someone else butted in. "Guys, c'mon, straight is the way to go."

"Ahem." Phil cleared his throat. They guys straightened up, turning to him. "Team, this is our new chaser, Ella Bowen."

"She's young." The one arguing for going left exclaimed. He looked half Korean maybe, tall and thin.

"Yes, Nguyen, but she can outfly you by a considerable amount." Snapped Phil.

The guy sheepishly stepped forward, holding out his hand. "I'm Terrance." He mumbled.

The others introduced themselves, one by one. Lastly stepped up another tall, lithe guy: he was the shade of milky coffee, and when he smiled Ella did not feel judged. "I'm Jonathan, the seeker." He said, offering his hand.

Shaking it, Ella could only nod. Unlike most players and herself he had smooth hands. Before she knew it they were changed into their practice clothes and on the pitch, flying laps. For a while, Ella forgot her nerves.

As Phil had anticipated, she was the fastest on the team. Landing, hair a disaster from the wind, he whooped with joy.

"You're BRILLIANT!" he crowed, punching the air. "You know I did a hell of a lot to win you over, Bowen."

"I know." She said breathlessly, beaming. The Scottish air filled her lungs, and though all red and sweaty from exertion she felt amazing. Even as Phil directed her to go speak to the journalist for a few minutes before they met about the practice schedule.

"Hullo," the journalist was older, with a pompous air to him. "I'm Wilbur Carr, from Quidditch Monthly."

"Ella Bowen, hi." They shook hands, and Wilbur went on to ask her a few questions. It wasn't as bad as she'd worried, until he mentioned something she hadn't thought of.