Emily Potter-Book 3-Prisoner of Azkaban

Chapter 8

"10 points to Gryffindor!"

Only slightly irritated at the announcement of having her team not score any points for a long while, Emily stubbornly, and all too rashly, turned her broom around the flew right into the blasting current of wind that spun everyone out of control. Everyone else had been trying to fly against the current, but she finally gave in to it and decided it was perhaps more helpful for her as a seeker to use the wind to her advantage seeing that it was now easier for her to manoeuvre herself on her broom.

Cold, harsh gusts of wind and rain splattered against the waterproof goggles she had on that protected her glasses, making her feel like a passenger in a car on a horrid stormy day. Though their uniforms wicked off any sort of moisture, it still didn't prevent rainwater from soaking their necks and any and all bits of exposed skin, shocking them with the numbing cold.

"10 points to Slytherin!" Lee Jordan cheerily announced through the microphone, prompting the house to cheer madly for the first goal to have been won in the last thirty minutes. Gosh, finally. Emily amped up her speed in search of the golden snitch. She wasn't sure if her training would help her now in the present circumstances since she only trained for two weeks in the blissfully warm and sunny skies, she wasn't sure either what was to be done if she couldn't catch the snitch, would be just be stuck in the air until someone forfeits? Is forfeiting even allowed? I don't think I know enough about quidditch to be participating in a match.

As if answering her pleas, a golden nugget zoomed thru the notch of her ear and zipped across her face, startling her beyond belief, smacking the little thing with the back of her hand before she even knew what had flown by her. Was...Was that the snitch? Emily leaned in forward on her broom and indeed saw the golden snitch flying tauntingly before her, bloody hell – she tailed the snitch on top speed, the fastest she had ever been in the air, the droplets of water flying off of her goggles and face as she continued to fully exhaust her broom of its capabilities.

"A chase has occurred! Seems like the Potter twins have spotted the snitch, a race has now started for house victory!" Emily frowned at the term Potters, instinctively she looked over her shoulder and spotted a red-clad figure flying on her tail. Harry.

Just then, a rogue black umbrella fled past Harry's head, nearly knocking him off his broom at the speed it was going. Emily held her own against the wind and reached her brother to push him back on steadily on his broom before continuing their race. She picked up where she had left off, maintaining her erratic speed in pursuit of the golden snitch, her arm already outstretched in the teeth-grinding anticipation of swiping a victory for Slytherin.

A bolt of lightning cracked behind her, singeing the tail-end of her broom, the smell of burnt wood wafting in the air between her and her brother who had held behind in surprise at the bolt nearly hitting them. Emily's heart soared from top to toe, her adrenaline at its peak from the ungodly shock she had received. It's official, I don't like being a seeker. Desperate to end the game, she headed straight to the snitch, slightly lifting herself from the seat of her broom while her feet steadied her on the metal rests near the tail-end, all or nothing.

Thunder clapped in the Potter twins' ears, silencing the cheers of the crowd and the rough pelting rain, making them only hear the diluted screams of a man and woman. Emily was tossed forward on her broom, unable to secure her hand on the handle in time to save herself. Harry, being significantly lower than she had been, made a bee-line to catch her, his eyes steady on her free-falling body and the black-cloaked figure that loomed dangerously close by them.

Emily felt a broom handle smack her along her spine, her free hand grabbing at whatever she could to stop her from meeting her early end. She looked up and saw the ghostly face of her brother, his eyes pale and seeming to disintegrate from his face like grains of sand in a storm. A dementor had begun to feast on his soul, traces of colours shifting in the wind towards the gruesome shadows behind the tattered hood.