Chapter 15: First Game

“Nervous?”

Rick turned his head to look at Frank, who stood silently beside him, exuding a calm confidence that contrasted Rick’s more introspective air. Both wore brilliant red robes trimmed with shimmering gold, the Gryffindor lion emblazoned proudly over their hearts, and clutched their brooms tightly, Nimbus 1000s gleaming under the morning sun. They waited just out of sight behind the towering entrance arch to the pitch, where the deafening roar of the crowd pulsed like a heartbeat. But Rick’s focus wasn’t on the game.

His mind was adrift, tangled in thoughts of the intricate magical map he had been quietly crafting for weeks. He stood unnaturally still, spine straight, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, brows slightly furrowed in deep concentration. To the casual observer, the image he presented might’ve screamed stage fright, nervous energy bottled beneath rigid posture and silence, but in truth, it was not fear that held him frozen. It was calculation, and a stubborn refusal to let excitement override reason.

“Nervous? Not, really no.” he answered his upperclassman.

“You sure? There is no shame if you are.”

“I’m sure, yes. It’s flying, Longbottom and I’m good at that. No reason for me to be nervous about it.” Rick replied, making Frank smirk.

“True but your opponent is-”

“An opponent like all others. He has the advantage in height and reach but that’s it. He’s dumb as a flobberworm and has no skill. I’ll manage.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Everyone on the team turned their heads sharply as the rustle of fabric signaled the arrival of Professor McGonagall, standing to the side with her arms crossed and an expression that could turn a cauldron to ice. Her emerald robes billowed faintly in the breeze, a picture of stern elegance, and her hawk like eyes scanned each player as though she were about to personally hex anyone who doubted Gryffindor’s victory. Her presence alone commanded attention like a general surveying her troops before battle.

“Professor.” the players greeted.

“Remember, quidditch is a game of skills before being a game of physique. Do keep in mind Slytherin's unlawful tactics though. You will win if you do.”

““Yes, Professor.””

“Despite the team being relatively new, I have faith that you’d do well.”

“Oh, we will Professor. We may not have been a team long but our team work is good. I’m confident we’re going to win this game.” Frank said.

“Then I will stop hoping and start expecting.”

She gave a rare, approving nod at Frank’s confident declaration, a glimmer of pride flickering in her usually unreadable eyes.

“Good luck,” she said crisply, her voice firm yet tinged with something almost maternal.

With that, she turned on her heel and strode off, her cloak billowing behind her like a war banner. The team, left in her wake, buzzed with nervous excitement and adrenaline, each player locking in with renewed focus as they psyched themselves up for the storm ahead.

Up in the stands, Marlene and Lily had snagged prime seats with an unobstructed view of the pitch, hearts already thudding in anticipation. Rather than subject themselves to the rowdy chaos of their dorm mates, who were loudly arguing about broom models and betting on who’d fall off first, they had sought out Amelia Bones, a calm and composed presence among the Hufflepuffs. Amelia, welcomed them without hesitation. The trio settled in together, ready to witness either triumph or calamity unfold in vivid technicolor below.

“Lily, you’re going to eat your fingers at this rate.”

Marlene couldn’t help the amused grin tugging at her lips as she watched her redheaded friend gnawing nervously at her nails, eyes locked on the pitch as if she could will it into submission. The only other time she had seen Lily this wound up was during their final exams the previous year, when a botched potion had nearly set her desk on fire.

Caught red handed, Lily quickly dropped her hands into her lap, but the restless tapping of her fingers betrayed her inner turmoil, her whole body thrumming with barely contained anxiety.

“What if-”

“He’s not going to die, Rick is going to be fine.” were the words of reassurance from Amelia on Lily’s left.

“You don’t know that! Everything can happen!”

Neither Marlene nor Amelia could give her an answer as they glanced between Lily and the pitch. The mounting tension in the stands crackled like static before a storm, and the chattering crowd fell into a hush as the grand introduction of the players commenced. Gryffindor emerged first to raucous applause, the red and gold clad team exuding determination. Rick, as seeker, was introduced last per long standing tradition, his name drawing a roar from the stands and a proud little fist pump from Lily. Then came Slytherin. The energy shifted instantly. The applause turned to uneasy murmurs as hulking figures marched out in green and silver. Something was off. And it didn’t take long to see why.

“Merlin’s beard! The rumors about the Bulstrode having troll blood are true!” they heard through the speakers.

“Miss Goldstein!” the disapproving voice of Minerva McGonagall echoed.

“I’m sorry, Professor but Aticus Bulstrode is at least one head taller than everyone else on the pitch! Almost three if we compare him to Wald! That poor Gryffindor is going to get squashed like a bug!”

“Miss Goldstein, enough!”

The fifth year Ravenclaw doing the commentary wasn’t exaggerating, if anything, she was being polite. Aticus Bulstrode was less a student and more a sentient stone tower in green and silver. At seventeen, he stood at a staggering two meters tall, possibly more, and was built like someone who wrestled trolls for sport. His broad shoulders strained the seams of his Slytherin robes, and his arms looked capable of uprooting a Whomping Willow. Standing across from him, Rick’s 165 centimeters, tall for a second year, suddenly seemed childlike, like a paper kite next to a thundercloud. There were long standing, dubious whispers that the Bulstrode lineage had some troll blood mixed in, and frankly, looking at Aticus, one couldn’t help but wonder if the family tree occasionally threw in boulders instead of branches. Combine that with a famously lacking reputation in the intelligence department, and the rumors practically wrote themselves.

Marlene and Amelia had to react quickly, each grabbing one of Lily’s arms and tugging her back down into her seat before she could launch herself onto the pitch like a bludger. The wild look in Lily’s eyes left no doubt, she was ready to storm the field, drag Rick off his broom by force, and lecture him for being a reckless idiot. Her loyalty was fierce, her protective instinct strong, and in that moment, it had completely overruled her sense of decorum, safety, and reality.

“He’s going to get himself killed!” she protested.

“Lily.” Marlene said in a tone which indicated she was done with her friend’s bullshit. “There is nothing on this earth that will stop Rick from participating in this game. Sit down and bear with it.”

The blonde witch reached over and grabbed Lily’s trembling hand, giving it a firm squeeze that conveyed more reassurance than words ever could. Though outwardly composed, Marlene’s stomach churned with dread, Bulstrode looked like he could snap Rick in half like a twig, and his tree trunk arms were grotesquely oversized compared to Rick’s lithe frame. Fear clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to stay grounded and be the anchor Lily needed. She said nothing, just tightened her grip and kept her friend in place. What steadied her nerves even slightly was the sight of Amelia, seated on Lily’s other side, calm and statuesque. Her eyes burned with intensity, but her expression remained confident, like a general watching a battle she already knew the outcome of.

Fifteen minutes into the match, Gryffindor was dominating with a 40-0 lead, thanks entirely to Eva Johnson, who blazed through Slytherin’s defense and sent the Quaffle soaring through their hoops four times with effortless grace. Her experience as a chaser made her the obvious threat, and the Slytherin team, in typical fashion, pounced on that fact. Their beaters and chasers doubled their efforts to block and batter her, committing so hard to stopping Eva that they ignored the quieter danger. It was exactly what Frank had planned. Hidden behind Eva’s dazzling offense was a calculated misdirection: Wallace and White, rookie players in name only, had played together since childhood, their synergy almost telepathic. The two weaved through the chaos with swift, coordinated passes and daring feints, slipping past the distracted Slytherins like specters. Before their opponents realized the trap they’d walked into, the score had ballooned to 110-20, and the green and silver side was left scrambling to recalibrate their tactics.

“And the snitch has been spotted!”

Everyone in the stands craned their necks as Rick and Aticus streaked across the sky, twin comets slicing through the air toward the Slytherin goalposts. They were neck and neck, the tension so thick it crackled in the October air. Aticus, true to form, nudged Rick aggressively, just subtle enough to dodge the referee’s scrutiny, but enough to jostle Rick's balance. As they neared the poles, the snitch made a sudden drop, and both Seekers dived in a heart stopping plummet. Rick’s eyes caught the faintest deviation in the snitch’s descent, a subtle tilt, an angled path, something others would have missed. Trusting his instincts, he yanked his broom upward, veering into a perfect diagonal intercept course while Aticus continued down. For a few glorious seconds, Rick had the lead.

Then came the cheating. Aticus, his faster, newer broom eating up the distance, lunged just enough to grab the tail of Rick’s Nimbus 1000 and haul him back mid air. The illegal move disrupted Rick’s flight path, and in that moment, a bludger, sent with precision, slammed into Rick’s arm. The crowd gasped in unison as Rick spiraled, body twisting in the air like a broken marionette before crashing onto the pitch with a sickening thud, rolling more than ten feet before coming to a halt.

Lily gasped, her breath catching sharply as Rick crashed to the ground, her fingers tightening around Marlene’s with a grip that could’ve cracked bone. Her heart slammed against her ribs as if trying to escape, and she clamped her eyes shut, too afraid to watch what might come next. She whispered frantic prayers under her breath, willing the world to rewind and erase what she’d just seen. In that moment of pure dread, she missed the most important thing, Rick rising. Gritting his teeth, face pale but determined, he staggered upright with a limp, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side in a way that screamed 'broken.' But he didn’t hesitate. He mounted his Nimbus 1000 with practiced ease, pain etched across his face but purpose in every movement, and kicked off the ground once more. As he took to the air, high above the pitch, Eva Johnson capitalized on the chaos and coolly scored another goal from the penalty awarded for Bulstrode’s foul, while the crowd roared in disbelief and awe.

“Wait! How come the match is not over? Bulstrode was free to catch the snitch.” Marlene asked Amelia.

“Battista hit him in the back with a bludger.”

“Good.” commented Lily with venom in her voice.

The game devolved further as Slytherin, already known for bending the rules, began outright snapping them. Their style shifted from aggressive to brutal, bodies colliding mid air and fouls tossed like confetti at a wedding. Gryffindor, undeterred, pushed forward with grim determination, the score climbing steadily to 180-90. Then, precisely seventeen minutes after their last dramatic pursuit, both Seekers locked onto the snitch again.

This time, however, Aticus Bulstrode abandoned any pretense of fairness. He closed the distance to Rick and, without hesitation, drove his fist into Rick’s already broken arm. The scream that tore from Rick’s throat echoed across the pitch, raw and pained, as his broom careened wildly off course. But karma wasn’t far behind. In an instant, a bludger slammed into Bulstrode’s hip, spinning him sideways, only to be immediately followed by another bludger cracking into his shoulder. The brutal impact halted his momentum and gave the snitch a clean escape, vanishing once again into the sky.

Marlene had officially abandoned any pretense of decorum. On her feet, eyes blazing and voice like a curse hurling hurricane, she unleashed a string of expletives so creative and venomous that nearby fourth years looked scandalized and a passing Ravenclaw actually took notes. If profanity were a magical art, Marlene would’ve earned an Outstanding on the spot, her invective weaving together anatomical impossibilities and linguistic acrobatics in a way that would’ve left even the saltiest sailor blinking in awe and wondering if he’d just been outclassed by a teenage witch.

“That’s enough! He should stop playing!” said Lily.

“You know Rick doesn’t give up.”

Ignoring Amelia’s comment, Lily’s gaze never wavered from Rick, who hovered in the air with controlled precision, circling like a hawk surveying its prey. The Nimbus 1000’s stationary flight feature gave him unmatched steadiness, a design advantage that made it ideal for a Seeker’s strategic patience. Her heart nearly stopped when Rick suddenly nosedived toward the pitch in a blur of red and gold. The crowd barely had time to react.

Bulstrode, caught flat footed and sluggish to respond, gave chase a few beats too late. He thundered behind Rick on his Cleansweep Five, but the narrower design and older handling tech made quick lateral movement a struggle. Rick weaved left and right, boxing Bulstrode in with tight, erratic motions that denied any attempt to flank or overtake despite a faster broom. Desperate to reclaim the lead, Bulstrode forced his broom forward with brute power, finally surging past Rick, just as the Gryffindor snapped his broom upward with razor sharp reflexes.

The smirk spreading across Bulstrode’s face curdled into sheer terror as the earth rushed up to greet him. A heartbeat later, the Slytherin collided with the pitch in an explosion of limbs and turf, a collective gasp echoing across the stadium like a thunderclap.

“YESSSS!” Marlene and lots of watchers exclaimed as they saw Bulstronde hit the ground at too fast a speed. “Get up from that, you jerk!” she yelled and began to do a victory dance.

“Marlene! That’s inappropriate! Sure he deserved it but-”

“What are you talking about?! We won, Lily!”

“What?”

“There is no way Bulstrode is going back to the game after that!”

“If he wakes up at all.” interjected Amelia.

“Since Slytherin has no more seeker, Rick is free to catch the snitch whenever he wants without any opposition but the bludgers!”

“Doesn’t Slytherin have a replacement?” the muggle born asked.

“There is no replacement during a game. If a player is out, they are out and the team has to play with one less player. Rick’s tactic, while risky, was very clever.” Amelia explained.

“That was one of the best Wronski Feints I’ve ever seen!”

“What’s a Wronski Feint?”

“One of the most difficult feints in quidditch, Lily!” Marlene exclaimed as she kept dancing. That didn’t explain anything to the redhead though.

“It’s a feint where a seeker makes the other seeker believe they spotted the snitch towards the ground when they did not. The objective of the feint is to make the other seeker crash on the ground and take him out of the game. You need really good timing and lots of guts to do that because if you fail you’re the one crashing down.”

Both pureblood witches exchanged a knowing glance but kept one grim detail to themselves. They knew that revealing the darker history of the Wronski Feint, that it had, on multiple occasions, ended in the death of Seekers, would either send Lily into a full blown meltdown or cause her to faint right there on the spot. Some truths, they decided, were better left unspoken, at least until after the party.

Bulstrode was carted off the pitch on a stretcher, limbs askew and unmoving, a clear sign that his injuries were far from minor. With their Seeker out of commission and no substitution allowed mid match, Slytherin found themselves cornered, and they responded the only way they knew how: by doubling down on brutality. Their beaters shifted into a ruthless formation, targeting Rick with singular, vicious intent. Every bludger was aimed at taking him out before he could finish the job and end the game.

But their strategy, crude and transparent, played right into Gryffindor’s hands. Battista and Rhiannon Dee quickly flanked Rick like loyal sentinels. Dee, though a third year with less brute strength, had deadly accuracy that made her bat feel enchanted. The two formed a near impenetrable wall, intercepting each bludger with a crack that echoed like cannon fire. With Rick protected, Johnson, Wallace, and White found themselves operating in open air, unpressured and grinning as they racked up goal after goal.

Slytherin's chasers, desperate and increasingly unhinged, resorted to flagrant fouls, jersey pulls, broom checks, even a few shoves that earned them howling reprimands from Madam Hooch. But their desperation only opened them up further. Battista and Dee, now on the offensive, wielded their bats like warhammers, raining legal retribution on any green and silver jersey within reach. Slytherin wasn’t just outplayed, they were outmaneuvered, outgunned, and slowly coming apart at the seams.

After an exhausting three hours of nonstop play and with no sign of Bulstrode returning, Frank finally gave the order: Rick was to catch the snitch at the next opportunity. The scoreboard read 800 to 170 in Gryffindor’s favor, more than enough to secure a dominant position in the race for the Quidditch Cup. Frank would’ve loved to push the score higher, to bury Slytherin in numbers alone, but reality had other plans. During a brief pause for a penalty, Battista quietly confided in him: Rick was hanging on by sheer willpower. His broken arm was taking a brutal toll, and his face had long since drained of color. Rick had fought like a demon in the sky, but his limits were in sight. Frank wasn’t going to let it go any further, not when one more hit could knock Rick unconscious and force them to continue without him. The choice was clear. The next time the snitch appeared, Rick would end it, for his team, and for his own battered body.

At 890 - 200, Rick snatched the snitch in a dazzling dive just feet above the turf near Gryffindor’s goalposts, ending the game in a landslide score of 1040 - 200. Cheers erupted like a tidal wave across the stadium. Rick, despite the pain, managed a low, triumphant victory lap, his Nimbus skimming the grass, his fist raised high with the golden snitch glittering in his grasp. Then his strength gave out. His eyes fluttered shut and he slumped forward, losing consciousness mid flight. Thankfully, Eva and Frank had anticipated this; they were already in motion. Eva caught the falling broom with practiced ease, while Frank caught Rick himself, cradling him as if he'd done it a hundred times. Without a word, Frank turned to carry him toward the castle, but was swiftly intercepted by Professor McGonagall. With a flick of her wand, Rick’s limp body levitated gently beside her. The stern lines of her face battled valiantly against the triumphant gleam in her eyes, and the tiniest twitch of a smirk betrayed the pride simmering just beneath her usual composure.

“I’ll take it from here, Longbottom.” she said and made sure that Rick was comfortable. “Good game. The team exceeded every expectation I had.”

“All thanks to him, Professor. Pulling a Wronski Feint in his state? I nearly dropped from my broom at how bold that was.” the Gryffindor answered with a smile from ear to ear.

“Bold indeed. Now go on. I’m sure you’re all exhausted after such a victory.”

“Professor-”

“Don’t overdo it with the celebration.” she interjected, knowing what he was about to ask. “Remember you all will be cleaning the common room.”

“I was going to ask if we could also party tomorrow. It’d be a shame if Wald missed it when he almost gave us the cup. I doubt Madam Promfrey will let him out before tonight.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Frank joined the other team members in the locker room, where celebration was already in full swing, laughter echoing, cheers bouncing off the walls, and Butterbeer being passed around like liquid gold. Meanwhile, Marlene, Lily, and Amelia had made a beeline straight from the stands to the infirmary, worrying about propelling them faster than any broomstick ever could. When they arrived, the mood shifted instantly. The bright energy of victory dulled under the sterile white glow of the hospital wing. There, standing quietly to the side with her arms crossed, was Professor McGonagall, her sharp gaze fixed on the scene before her. Madam Pomfrey hovered beside Rick’s bed, gently coaxing a thick, steaming dose of skele gro between the lips of an unconscious and pale faced Rick. He lay still, wrapped in blankets, his injured arm propped in an enchanted sling that glowed faintly as it worked to mend the shattered bone. The image struck them silent, triumph had never looked so fragile.

“He’s going to be alright, Miss Evans.” the head of house said, noticing the utter look of worry on the young witch's face.

“That he will. Unlike Bulstrode, he will walk out of here on his own two feet by tomorrow.” the medi witch said.

“Oh, yeah, what happened to that cheat?” Marlene inquired. It was asked more out of curiosity than concern.

“Mister Bulstrode was sent to St. Mungos. His injuries are extensive and critical. I don’t think he’s ever going to ride a broom again.” curtly answered Madam Pomfrey. “If he lives.” she muttered which was caught by Marlene and Amelia but not by Lily who was too far and talking with McGonagall.

The two witches exchanged a loaded look, the kind that carried entire conversations in silence, equal parts concern and grim understanding. But instead of dwelling on what they couldn't change, Marlene flashed a mischievous grin and nudged Amelia with her elbow. Her voice took on a playfully sing song lilt, clearly attempting to lighten the heavy air in the room. If worry had settled over them like a fog, Marlene was determined to cut through it with cheek and charm.

“Soooo. Scared about your game against Rick?”

“You’re kidding? I’m looking forward to it even more.”

“Well, good luck. After what he did today, you’re in for a difficult match. Think Hufflepuff can still win the cup?”

“Honestly? No. A 1040 points headstart in one game is way too difficult to match. It’s possible, chances and opportunities are there but I’m under no delusion that such a miracle could happen. It doesn’t mean I can’t beat him.”

With Rick stabilized and quietly sleeping under the watchful care of Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall exited the infirmary with the girls following close behind, her usual brisk stride tempered by an unspoken air of reassurance. Lily, torn between duty and friendship, had been ready to retrieve her books and keep vigil by Rick’s side all night, unwilling to let him recover alone. But Marlene gently dissuaded her, reminding her that Rick was in good hands and that he wouldn't awaken until morning at the earliest. There was little sense in burning herself out watching someone who wouldn’t stir. Their Head of House had concurred, subtly encouraging them to join the roaring celebration that had overtaken Gryffindor Tower. Amelia, meanwhile, had parted ways at the staircase, her steps purposeful as she made her way back to the Hufflepuff dormitories. The spectacle Gryffindor had put on today had left an impression, and Amelia knew her team needed a serious conversation if they hoped to stay competitive this season.

Minerva was enjoying a quiet, richly deserved moment of celebration in her office, the amber hue of aged scotch swirling in her glass as she sat by the window, the firelight casting warm reflections across the shelves of books and trophies. The room smelled faintly of oak and parchment, grounding her in a rare moment of personal satisfaction. Her solitude was interrupted by a polite knock, and moments later, the diminutive figure of Filius Flitwick stepped inside. She welcomed him with a gracious nod, gesturing to the chair across from her. He offered his congratulations with a bright, genuine smile, his voice tinged with the admiration of a colleague who recognized both effort and excellence. The air between them was one of camaraderie, softened by the shared history of countless House Cups and school wide spectacles.

“I suppose the cup is yours this year.” the tiny man said, taking a sip of the drink Minerva served him.

“Nothing is set in stone yet.”

“As if. My eagles had no change in their roster and I know perfectly well how good they are. Perhaps Pomona's badgers have a chance. Anyway, any word on Bulstrode?”

“It’s bad. If he survives, I don’t think he'll be back before at least the end of the year.”

“A shame but not undeserving. I hope he makes it, if not for only Wald’s peace of mind. Being responsible for someone’s death is never easy, especially when one is so young.”

Flitwick spoke from experience, his years as an accomplished duellist had shown him the darker side of victory more than once. He had witnessed firsthand the emotional toll a fatal duel could exact on the winner, the burden of survival turning triumph into lifelong trauma. Minerva, though a passionate supporter of Quidditch, understood the weight of such outcomes just as well. She had seen talented players crumble under the guilt of an opponent’s fatal injury, their love for the game forever marred by one devastating moment. Yet, in her view, those who bore that weight and continued to play, who honored the fallen by pressing forward with courage and integrity, were the truest champions, not just of the sport, but of character.

“I’m more worried about Slytherin.”

“You think they will do something to him?” wondered Fillius.

“Don’t you?” she asked with a brow raise clearly indicating her surprise.

“... They probably will. It’s up to us to be vigilant.”

Minerva nodded and finished her drink, thinking on how to protect her favorite cub the best she could.