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Thread: Turnips Take Over the Pitch!

  1. #61
    All right! Here's our QWC story! I'm afraid that I had to break it into two posts because my computer wouldn't let me post it all at once *gives a dirty glare to the computer*

    "I smell muddiness of their blood, Aleksandar Ivanovich!" Transylvanian Chaser Emilian Ionescu sneered in bad English, to his fellow Beater over their empty Firewhisky bottles. "Stench can be smelling even on whole bar; like dead animal in road."

    His other drinking companion nudged him, shooting a warning glare over Emilian’s shoulder. "Ionescuvich, my friend," Chaser Dragomir Pavel warned.

    “Pavel,” replied Ionescu nonchalantly, turning to see what the problem was.

    Standing behind him was a tall, seething Scotsman. “Take. It. Back. Now!” snapped Ian McCormack. His equally furious teammates gathered around, and knuckles cracked in preparation for the imminent fight.

    Emilian Ionescu felt not even a twinge of fear as he sized up the eight Scots before him; a team of snivelling Mudbloods and blood-traitors, and their opponents in the Quidditch World Cup. He turned his back on them, the lot of them a waste of his time. He looked at Gustav Krum, captain and Keeper of their team, and grinned into his ale.


    Chaos exploded when McCormack slammed his fist into Ionescu’s head, sending him forwards and into his grouped teammates. Fists and curses began to fly.

    McCormack reached through the tumult to grab a small redheaded girl.

    "Come on, you don't want to get involved in this," he whispered to the girl.

    "Thanks," she replied, her cheeks colouring a bright red. Ian cleared his throat nervously and asked, "So, are you looking forward to the game tomorrow?"

    “Of course. But it will be a hard match,” Sorina replied. “As we can see.” She nodded towards the scuffling teams.

    “I’m sure you’ll do well.”

    Sorina blushed even more and looked away, to the brawl.

    There was a crash as Ionescu was thrown onto a table.

    “Okay, break it up!” called a voice from the back of the room.

    The bartender had finally realised what was going on, and was seemingly trying to end the fight.

    “If you have any problems among yourselves, go solve them somewhere else – but not in my bar,” the bartender said, approaching them, wearing a dark-blue apron and holding a big glass in one hand.

    “Oh, we’ll solve these problems,” Ionescu said. “Tomorrow, in the pitch. You’ll see!”

    “Let’s see just how good you are tomorrow,” Linus MacDonald, Beater for the Scottish team, taunted. “You may be mean, but we’re meaner.”

    “That’s what we’ll see,” Lucian Moldovan, one the Transylvanian Chasers said, surprisingly calm.

    He took a long hard look at the opposing team, pausing on Mathilda O’Connor, giving her a once over. Then he and his teammates turned and walked out the door of the pub and into the balmy night. They made it back to the camp before the worry set in.

    “Vat if he found out?” asked Andrei Dumitrescu, voicing the concern of many players.

    “Dumitrescuvich, all is vell, if he did find out he vould only commend our loyalty to the greater good,” said Krum, with an unwavering faith in his voice.

    “But, Grindelvald…”

    “If Krum believes, ve all do.”

    The entire Transylvanian team turned to see who had spoken, and were surprised to see their Seeker, Josef Wronski, usually silent and reserved. He wiped blood off his chin. “Do you not trust our captain? He says it is good thing, then it is good thing.”


    Back at the pub, the Scots triaged their injuries. None was serious enough to keep them from playing the match. They trudged up the stairs to their cramped, dank rooms above the pub.

    “I’ll bet the bloody Targoviste Dragons aren’t sleeping in a hovel like this,” complained Peter O’Tool, the small Scottish Seeker.

    "Silence," commanded Captain Jocunda Sykes, "or you'll be sleeping outside.” Peter glanced away; he had always been slightly intimidated by the captain.

    "Sorry," he said sheepishly.

    "Now, I want you all to have a good night's sleep. I'll let you sleep in, but just make sure it's not too long.” Jocunda looked at the rest of the team. “I will also leave some Sober-Up potions out for you, because I know most of you have been drinking.” She glared particularly at McCormack. “What are you waiting for? Go to bed, team!”

    The team quickly hurried off to their appropriate rooms.


    The next morning came and with it a chill in the air. Several hundred feet above the Scottish Quidditch team, the Pride of Portree, were thousands of screaming, jeering, half-crazed fans.

    “You reckon a single one of them is cheering for us?” asked Cambeul Llyal, Chaser for the Prides. “To win, I mean.”

    His teammates peered out into a towering sea of almost animalistic faces; a mix of Russians, Germans, and Bulgarians. Not a single familiar feature amongst them.

    “No. They want our blood, and that is all,” replied Jamilyn Channing, Keeper for the Prides.

    The trepidation set in.

    They couldn’t help but admire the place it was set in, though. Although it was cold – much more cold than they were used to – it was still beautiful.

    Ian McCormack remembered how dreamy-eyed the girls had all been when they saw the thick, white layer of snow covering the entire grounds.

    They were going to play in a big Quidditch field near where Nurmengard was being built. Nurmengard was basically a prison for anyone who strayed out of Grindelwald's desires.

    “Hey, snap out of it,” he heard Sorina say. “You’re getting nervous, aren’t you?”

    “Of course not,” stated Ian with as much confidence as he could. But Sorina wasn’t fooled. She gave his hand a quick squeeze before following the rest of the team.

    Suddenly, a loud voice spoke out in German, the Scottish team all heard their names called out by the booming voice of the commentator. Taunts and boos followed their introduction, and the team cringed at the foul-mouthed spectators. All except Jocunda. She held her head high and strode towards the middle of the pitch. Then the rest of the team watched in awe as she faced the Transylvanian team defiantly.

    The walk across the frozen pitch seemed to take an eternity; the jeering and screaming intensifying with every step. Finally, they stood face-to-face with the Targoviste Dragons, a smirk covering each face.

    “I don’t suppose one of them just told a terribly funny joke, d’you?” Mathilda said between her teeth, hoping to break the tension.

    The entire team relaxed for just a moment before hearing, "A bunch of Mudbloods, blood-traitors, and filth!" Krum continued. "Is there a single decent vizard amongst you?"

    The Prides gasped collectively; Mathilda and Peter blanched at the words, their eyes blazing.

    “Now, listen here,” Ian said, his voice colder than they had ever heard him get before. “You will respect our team. Blood doesn’t really matter in Quidditch.”

    “Again, I say, we will see,” Ionescu said. “Our team is entirely made up of pure bloods – yours is not. When we win, you’ll finally see that pure blood is unbeatable.”

    “You will be proven wrong,” Mathilda said, finally speaking up. “I’m a Muggle-born – I’m not afraid to admit it either. I bet I’m better than your Chasers.”

    Lucian Moldovan gave her a long, hard look. Who did she think she was?

    “That’s enough,” said a loud voice from a few meters away. “Save it for the Quidditch match.” The two teams turned and saw that it was the referee who had spoken. He was a small man, but had a determined look in his eyes. “Now, captains, shake hands,” he continued.

    Jocunda and Krum stepped forward, Jocunda holding out her hand. Krum looked down at it with disgust and suddenly spat on it.

    “Blood-traitor,” he growled. Jocunda stared him down, unblinking, and turned back to her team, Krum’s saliva shining on her hand. She did not even bother wiping it off.

    Krum now looked over at the referee and gave him a small nod. When the man returned the gesture, his face broke into a wide grin. There was no way his team could lose now.

    He mounted his broom and the entire team lifted into the air in unison, each positioning themselves across from the Prides of Portree, awaiting the release of the balls and the beginning of the game.

    Time slowed for the Prides, breath solidifying when it hit air, hearts pounding in fear and elation, sweat forming on brows.

    They were about to be eaten alive, without mercy.


    Aleksander Ivanov watched the Scottish captain hurtle towards her team’s offensive line, Beater’s bat in hand. Ivanov gripped his own bat and decided to follow her. He had to admit that the blood-traitor captain was a good flyer, but, nonetheless, she was a blood-traitor. And she needed to pay.

    The other players zoomed around him, but his eyes were only set on the blood-traitor.

    “Ivanov!” yelled the angry voice of Emilian Ionescu, Chaser for the Dragons. “Keep your eye on the game! Ve can deal vith the blood-traitor after ve embarrass them in front of a whole stadium of spectators!”

    Ivanov gave a short grunt of acknowledgment, but didn’t really say anything else. It wasn’t as though he was feeling insecure about the outcome of the match – the results were pretty much obvious – but blood-traitors with so much confidence and without really caring about what others thought of them annoyed him.

    He looked down and saw the referee heading towards a big box in the middle of the field. The balls were going to be released. Good.

    He tried to focus on the match, but to no avail.

    “Focus, Ivanov,” Emilian Ionescu growled. “You’ve been more distracted than anyone else.”

    The referee blew his whistle and three balls flew into the air. Ionescu caught the Quaffle thrown almost at him, and headed towards the goal posts.

    Ivanov swung his left arm forwards, sending a Bludger through the air straight at that little blood-traitor captain. His stomached clenched in elation when it made contact with the tail end of her broom, causing her to spin towards the earth.

    His delight was cut short when Jocunda rose in front of him, the match swirling around them she said in a low voice, “ Do it again, and see what happens, you snake!”

    Ivanov started when he heard the captain’s voice, but he quickly recovered himself.

    “No,” he said, “you are the one that needs to watch out. I didn’t go against the rules.” He grinned at her before speeding off after the Bludger he had just hit.


    Jocunda watched him in frustration. She hated to admit it, but Ivanov really hadn’t gone against the rules. Taking a deep breath, she got a hold of herself – losing her cool this early would be a disaster. And without another thought, she zoomed to the other end of the pitch, towards the second Bludger.


    Meanwhile, the six Chasers out in the field all tried to grab the Quaffle and take it to opposite sides. Sorina, Cambeul and Mathilda speeded across the field, trying to stop the Transylvanian Chasers from getting too close to Jamilyn’s position.

    Jamilyn, in the meantime, took the moment to get nervous. Ionescu, Moldovan and Pavel were obviously dangerous, and would not object to the idea of hurting her to score.

    This is progressing too fast, she thought. They shouldn’t be nearing me so quickly.

    Ionescu, who was still holding the Quaffle, passed it to Pavel.

    Pavel caught the Quaffle, beady eyes boring into Jamilyn, tearing her confidence to pieces. She watched the Quaffle change hands once more, back to Ionescu and then get passed to Moldovan.

    She blinked, and the Quaffle was hurling towards the lowest goal post, the post she was farthest from; she dived, but not in time.

    “Score! Ten to zero - Transylvania!” yelled the announcer in German.

    A cloud of despair hung over the Scottish team members as reality set in; they would be lucky to get out of this alive, and it would take a miracle to win.

    Only Jocunda felt hopeful.

    She had seen this sort of team before. They would completely take over the game until one thing went wrong for them. They would then lose confidence and start to fail.


    Mathilda had the Quaffle. She burst off in the direction of the goal, and quickly passed to Sorina. Sorina was gaining on the goal posts; she locked eyes with Krum, who was hovering in front of the middle post. Suddenly, something rammed into her and she went flying sideways. Gripping her broom tightly, she looked furiously at the referee. That had to be a foul!

    The referee was looking over his shoulder, perusing the other end of the field, obviously ignoring what had just happened. Sorina flew near Mathilda, and Cambeul Llyal, the other Scottish Chaser, and took out her anger in a rant. "Did you see that dirty ref? He won't call any fouls against us, so we’re going to have to match their goals, and we’re already behind. We've got to break Krum, or the ref, otherwise we’ll never score. Come on!" Mathilda and Cambeul nodded and sped down the field to interfere with the Transylvanian’s hopes for another ten points.

    The Quaffle was in the possession of the three Transylvanian Chasers once again. Jamilyn was more nervous than she had been before, because she’d already gotten a taste of how they worked together, and it wasn’t something she could easily compete with.

    As soon as Pavel passed the Quaffle to Moldovan, Cambeul sped up and interposed himself between them, catching the Quaffle and passing it to Sorina, who was waiting in the middle of the field.

    Mathilda, meanwhile, had already flown over next to Krum and was waiting for Sorina to pass her the Quaffle.

    Real team work, she thought.

    Sorina was flying towards the goals, but this time she passed to Mathilda, who quickly lined up and threw the Quaffle to the middle goal post. She watched it soar through the air, but Krum was also watching. He appeared out of nowhere and caught the Quaffle with his fingertips.

    Mathilda gaped at the Transylvanian captain. Not only was he a cheat, but a really talented Keeper, too.

    Moldovan now had the Quaffle and passed it off to Pavel, who sped towards the goals. Jamilyn watched their progress carefully. They were not going to catch her by surprise this time.

    She felt the determination well up inside, felt it coat her spirit in faux-courage. She positioned herself on her broom, ready to strike.

    Pavel passed the Quaffle back to Moldovan, who handed it off to Ionescu. He weighed the ball in his hand as if debating where to throw. Jamilyn met his eyes and saw the hate buried there, but she also saw fear.

    Fear of what? she thought. Before she could contemplate it any longer, the Quaffle was flying through the air towards the goal posts. Jamilyn hurtled after it, arms stretched in front of her, fingers splayed …

    Just as her fingertips brushed the Quaffle, Ionescu ‘accidentally’ bumped her. She couldn’t get a good grip, deflecting the ball only marginally. It hit the top of the goal ring and rolled down the side, finally dropping through. So close, thought Jamilyn. “Ionescu, you son of a --!" Her outward belligerence gave away none of her thoughts, which were calm and determined.

    So they’re not playing fair. Cheating’s not going to help me. I need to find their weak spot… Her eyes followed the Transylvanian Chasers, and lit upon Moldovan. His flying had stuttered when he passed the Quaffle.


    Meanwhile, Peter O’Tool was circling the Quidditch Pitch, eyes scanning for a sign of the Golden Snitch. A flash of gold near the Transylvanian goal post distracted him, but he tore his eyes away from it when the Transylvanian Seeker, Josef Wronski, went streaking past. He must have seen the Snitch! thought Peter as he quickly raced off , the flash he had seen forgotten.

    Wronski went into a dive, and Peter followed, eyes scanning for some sight of the Snitch. Where was it? Peter gripped his broom tightly. They were going too fast!

    Peter pulled up as hard as he could on his broom handle, but it wasn’t soon enough. He and his broom went bouncing across the frozen ground of the pitch, like a rock skipping on water. Peter could hear the fans screaming over the sound of his bones breaking. By the time he stopped, he knew there was no way he could finish this game. He lay bleeding on the ground while the Medi-Wizards took their time walking to check him out.

    Sorina circled above him, worried . Behind her came a voice, “Vorried ’bout the Mudblood, are ya, girlie?”

    Sorina turned around, gripping her broom tightly. It was Emilian Ionescu, of course. The stupid man couldn’t seem to remain quiet enough. He’d disturbed them all enough when they had been at the bar, and he seemed determined to disturb them all again.

    “Don’t call him that,” she said loudly, seemingly not bothered by his presence near her.

    “Vhy? My parents taught to alvays tell the truth.”

    Sorina clenched her teeth. Don’t get mad, don’t get mad, she chanted over and over in her head.

    "Break it up, guys," came a voice. Sorina whirled. It was Linus, glaring at Ionescu.
    ~~Captain DinoCat Azhure~~

  2. #62
    And here's our second half!


    Josef Wronski’s broom was out of control. He could hear the Mudblood hurtling to the ground behind him. At least some good would come of this crash, he thought desperately.

    Wronski watched as the ground came closer and closer and a sense of unreality washed over him. So this is how I’m going to die… he pondered. But, suddenly, he was thrown to the side. He went spinning off to the right, but managed to right himself. What had just happened?

    He looked up and caught the eye of the Scottish captain. The blood-traitor had saved his life!

    He didn’t know what to think as he flew to circle the pitch higher than any other player.
    Wronski watched as plays resumed full force, while the Medi-Wizards walked slowly to the bleeding Mudblood. Thank Merlin that wasn’t me, he thought as the testy Scot who started the fight was substituted in. He watched, and said nothing as Aleksander Ivanov mercilessly aimed a Bludger at Jocunda.

    The Bludger missed her by a hair’s breath, Ivanov glowered at her and shot after the Bludger to give it another go ‘round.

    All the while, Wronski circled the pitch, watching for the Snitch.


    Ian McCormack, the alternate Seeker who actually preferred to play as a Keeper, wasn’t the least bit worried about Wronski’s previous behaviour. He kept on circling the pitch, trying to find even a small hint that would indicate the Snitch’s position to him.

    He watched the game occur all around him. He noticed everything and everyone. He saw what all his teammates were doing.

    What he failed to notice, though, was the Bludger heading right to him.

    “Ian, watch out!” Linus screamed.

    Ian turned around and saw the Bludger heading right at him.

    Jocunda came out of nowhere and she hit the Bludger hard with her bat. The black ball went careening away towards Dragomir Pavel, a burly Transylvanian Chaser. Pavel quickly jerked to the right in order to avoid it.

    “Thanks,” called Ian to the captain.

    “No problem.” She gave him a grin before flying off in pursuit of the Bludger.

    Sorina watched as Ian shook himself and flew upwards so he could begin he search for the Snitch, her heart slowing down in relief that he had not been hurt. That had been too close for her liking. Way too close.

    “Sorina!” Mathilda called out. “Get your head in the game.”

    Sorina caught the Quaffle tossed to her. She shot forwards; weaving in and out of the other players, her slight frame making it easier to spin between the two angry Transylvanian Beaters headed her way. At the other end of the pitch, a few yards from the goal posts, flew Cambeul. Sorina threw the Quaffle at him, and he snatched it out of the air.

    Cambeul headed straight at Krum, hoping his face was a mask of concentration and not fear. He sent the Quaffle flying towards the left hoop.

    At the same moment, Sorina flew straight at Krum, flying figure eights between and around him and his goal posts. He was momentarily distracted by the purple blur of her robes, and the Quaffle flew straight past his outstretched fingertips, through the hoop.

    Sorina high-fived Cambeul on her way past him, and they flew a victory lap, with Mathilda catching up and flying alongside them. "Good work, guys!" Jocunda called. "We need to see more of that."

    But it didn't happen.

    The Dragons were enraged, and used the adrenaline from the anger to score three unstoppable goals.

    Moldovan had the Quaffle, and he went soaring down the middle of the pitch. Mathilda was right behind him. If only she could get close enough and grab the Quaffle… Aleksandar Ivanov came out of nowhere and slammed into Mathilda. Her broom spun out of control, leaving Moldovan free to pass to Ionescu. But instead of following the other Chaser, Moldovan turned around and watched as Mathilda righted herself, with the help of Cambeul. She seemed fine; just a bloody nose. Lucian turned back and watched as Ionescu scored another goal. Why was he worried about the Mudblood Chaser?


    One hour and a half later, Cambeul was getting desperate. The score had gone from 50-10, in favour of Transylvania; to 160-130, still in favour of Transylvania.

    The only thing that could get them to beat Transylvania now was the Snitch, but Ian didn’t seem to be making any progress. How a Snitch could fly around for hours and never be seen was a mystery to Cambeul, but then again, he wasn’t a Seeker either.

    Sorina passed him the Quaffle and he quickly flew over to the Transylvanian hoops. He launched the Quaffle and, unsurprisingly, Krum let it in.

    The Transylvanians were losing their cool.

    Jocunda flew close to the goal posts and gave Jamilyn a bit of advice that made her grin evilly. Jocunda then passed the plan on to the rest of her team, and they all began smirking. The message had been, "Let's take it up a notch, guys."

    Linus and Jocunda took off flying in tandem, intent on getting the Bludgers to mount their attack. Mathilda, Cambeul, and Sorina wove a veritable tapestry of twists and manoeuvres, drawing the eyes of everyone, including the Dragons, who took off in an attempt to keep up.

    We have got to win, Krum thought to himself. There was no other option. While he believed everything Grindelwald said, knew the truth rang in his words, Krum was unsure how the other man would react if the team he was backing lost to a bunch of Mudbloods and blood-traitors.

    He felt his skin prickle in fear and a feverish rage built up inside; he would not be defeated. Transylvania must win! He was at the brink of mania. In his urge to get there faster he was missing Quaffles. The Prides scored three more goals in just fifteen minutes.


    Calm yourself, thought Jamilyn as she watched the Transylvanian Chasers flying towards her, passing the Quaffle between them. You can do this! Her heart pumped violently and she felt a cold sweat trickle down her brow, but Jamilyn didn’t move. Her eyes followed the Chasers closely.

    Pavel had the Quaffle, and Jamilyn fixed her eyes on him. Any second now he would release it… The Quaffle arced in the air and came down towards the goal post to her right. She turned and swerved in front of the goal. She stretched and caught the Quaffle smoothly.

    She had done it!

    “What?!” Pavel yelled, enraged. He didn’t believe it. How was it possible that that Muggle-lover had defended his shot?

    “What’s the matter with you?” Moldovan yelled. “Don’t you know how to throw anymore?”

    “I … Of course I do... I just-“

    “Save it. Just try to get it in next time,” Moldovan said before flying away from him.

    Pavel took a deep breath. They were losing. They’d started out so smoothly, scoring and keeping the Scottish Chasers from scoring … And now this happened?

    “Pavel!” Moldovan yelled from the centre of the field. “Get a move on, will you?”


    Jamilyn was excited that she’d finally blocked a Quaffle, but she didn’t let it go to her head. Instead, she readied herself for another even more furious attack. The action was taking place at the other end of the pitch; she watched in delight as Sorina and Mathilda took turns passing the Quaffle over and under the other players. When they score another goal, she thought, We might actually win this. The thought tingled up and down her spine, exciting every nerve ending.

    Her eyes narrowed as Pavel, Moldovan and Ionescu head towards her like rockets from the underworld.

    Suddenly, a Bludger came soaring out of nowhere and went rushing towards the Transylvanian Chasers. They scattered quickly and Pavel, panicked, dropped the Quaffle right into Mathilda’s hands. Jamilyn watched as the Transylvanians swore loudly and hurtled after Mathilda. Someone was going to have to pay for that incident.


    Mathilda was shocked to suddenly find the Quaffle in her hands, but it didn’t take long for her to hurtle towards the opposite goals. The other Chasers weren’t in sight and Mathilda started to panic. Where were they? A shrill whistle sounded and Mathilda stopped and turned to face the referee.

    She saw Cambeul, Sorina, Ionescu, Moldovan and Pavel slowly approaching the referee. Mathilda, Quaffle in hand, flew over to them too.

    “What happened?” she asked.

    “That vas what the referee vas trying to explain us,” Moldovan said coolly, “before you showed up and interrupted him.”

    Mathilda glared at him but blushed anyway. He was right.

    “You have committed a foul!” the referee shouted. “The Quaffle is only in Scottish hands because of the treachery you Scottish used!”

    “Treachery?” Sorina asked, perplexed. “We did nothing like that!”

    The referee ignored her. “The Quaffle is now in possession of the Transylvanian team! And there will be two penalty shots awarded as well.”

    It was decided that Pavel would take the shots, as he had been the one ‘fouled‘, much to the Scots' dismay. He flew to the other end of the pitch, ball in hand. He looked at the blood-traitor flying there, defying him and his countrymen. Then he searched the stands momentarily, his eyes finding Grindelwald. The man they all looked up to. And there in the stands; he looked as if he didn’t care at all.

    Pavel focused on the game, looking for the best shot.

    His eyes narrowed in concentration, glaring at the Scottish Keeper who was hovering in front of the middle hoop. She was looking back at him confidently, waiting for him to make the first move.

    He started flying forwards, the Quaffle tucked safely under his arm. Jamilyn seemed to unknowingly move a little to the right. A costly mistake, Pavel thought to himself, a sneer spreading across his face.

    He sped straight at Jamilyn and lifted the Quaffle, preparing to shoot through the middle hoop. At the last moment, he twisted his body sharply, and threw the Quaffle to the left.

    Jamilyn watched as the Quaffle arced in the air towards the goal post. In desperation, she stretched out as far as she could on her broom. But she was too slow. The Quaffle sailed past her fingers and into the hoop.

    A cheer erupted around the stadium and Jamilyn felt her confidence fade.


    There was still another penalty left. Pavel was once again positioned in front of the goal post, Quaffle in hand. Her heart sped up and her hands became slick with sweat. Suddenly, Pavel threw the Quaffle to the right. Jamilyn swerved into its path.

    Her heart skipped a beat as her hands closed tightly around the Quaffle. She had done it.

    “Jamilyn Channing catches the Quaffle!” the commentator called in German. “The score is still 180-170, with the Scottish team in the lead!”

    Pavel glared at her, but Jamilyn didn’t care. She was happy – so happy.

    “Don’t relax now,” Jocunda called to her. “We still have a lot to score and Ian there still has a Snitch to catch.”

    Jamilyn laughed slightly and positioned herself in front of the middle hoop. The game was on again, and she was not about to lose.


    Jocunda watched the game unfold around her. Her heart soared as each time Mathilda, Sorina, and Cambeul made multiple goals, seven in total. Ian raced after what he must have thought was the Snitch, only to return to circling, unsuccessful. The Transylvanian players grew more and more enraged as the game went on, helped along by the Bludgers she and Linus batted their way.

    The angrier the Transylvanians became, the more goals they missed, making and saving. The more goals they missed, the worse their taunts became, insulting the nature of each of the Prides’ mothers in turn. Jocunda only smiled.


    Krum hissed angrily when he saw the smile on Jocunda’s face. What did the blood-traitor have to smile about? She associated with the lowest of all creatures; the Mudbloods on her team were hardly worthy to step onto the pitch. It would hardly matter if they won the game – if vermin beat pure bloods, it was obviously a fluke.

    But one glance in Grindelwald’s direction told him that if he should lose the match, the results would be disastrous. He had always considered himself to be one of Grindelwald’s friends, but really, he was just as disposable as anyone else.


    Time passed by quickly, and both teams were becoming desperate. Transylvania was falling behind, much to Krum’s disgust. But he wasn’t going to give up hope, not while they could still win if Wronski caught the Snitch.

    The spectators’ cheers were roaring in Krum’s ears, egging the Transylvanians on, and taunting the Scots. This made Krum pleased. Soon the Scots would no doubt succumb to the pressure. They had to.

    The score was 240 – 330; Scotland in the lead. That was nothing! If Wronski caught the Snitch soon, the Transylvanians could still safely gloat in their opponents’ humiliating slaughter.

    Krum watched in fascination as Wronski dove to the ground. The farther he plummeted, the higher Krum's heart soared. They were going to win, they were going to beat this misfit team of Mudbloods and blood-traitors. The Scots would know that they were not fit to play in the same pitch, let alone on the same country as them. When Wronski inverted his dive, hand empty, Krum couldn’t believe his disappointment.

    Just then he saw a movement in the corner of his eye. In all the commotion, Mathilda had captured the Quaffle and was racing for the goal posts. She threw…

    The crowd jeered as the Quaffle went soaring through the hoop. Mathilda grinned, and shot after Pavel, who had gained possession of the Quaffle. They could pull this off yet.

    A well-aimed Bludger knocked Pavel sideways, and he soon lost the Quaffle to the Prides. Mathilda scored twice in thirty seconds, growing more confused each time. What was the matter with Krum? He seemed distracted. Every time the Prides scored, he glanced not so subtly towards the stands, where Mathilda knew Grindewald was seated.

    Then it hit her. If the Prides won, it would mean trouble for the Dragons.

    Krum clenched his teeth. It was going to be fine. Wronski just had to catch the Snitch... He glanced up at the Seeker who was once again looking for the golden ball. Involuntarily, Krum once again glanced at Grindelwald, who was in the stands, watching the match with a stony face. If the Dragons lost, their lives would be on the line.

    Out of nowhere, the Quaffle went soaring past his head, going through the hoop. He had to concentrate! The score was now 240 – 370. He growled in frustration, but was distracted by something. The Seekers had seen the Snitch!


    Sorina caught the Quaffle as it headed to the ground, quickly scoring yet another goal. It was like playing against a rag doll. Mathilda caught the Quaffle next, and Sorina looked around to see what had distracted Krum so thoroughly. At the other end of the pitch Ian and Wronski were neck and neck in a race for the Snitch. Her heart soared, knowing Ian would find a way to catch it.

    Sorina focused back on the Quaffle. Mathilda had made a goal and was aiming for another. She threw, Cambeul caught and tossed into the lowest hoop.


    Ian stretched his arm forward, reaching for the Snitch. He was slightly ahead of Wronski, and he could almost feel the cool metal in his hand. It was his! He was going to catch it, he could tell. Unfortunately, he was far too concentrated on the single ball, and he had forgotten about the Bludgers.

    A Bludger hit him in the side, and he crashed sideways away from the Snitch, spiralling downwards. He hit the ground, and the wind was completely knocked out of him. He groaned and rolled over, only to see Wronski hovering above him holding the Snitch.

    Wronski had caught it, but Scotland had won the game. The teams hung in the air, too shocked to move. Then, suddenly, the Scotts screamed out in joy. Sorina flew over to Ian, hoping that he was all right. But when she landed, she saw that he was smiling.

    “We won!” he screamed. Sorina flung herself into his arms. Yes, they had won!

    Krum’s eyes were drawn to Grindelwald. The wizard was standing and looking down at the team with disdain, and Krum knew that the Transylvanians were going to pay for this defeat. But hopefully they would survive.

    The remaining members of both teams descended toward the field, Krum watched Grindelwald stoically leave the arena as he lowered, knowing awful things were in store.

    With no referee present neither team knew how to react. But then Wronski stepped up to Ian and shook his hand.

    “You played very well.”

    Silence met Wronski’s declaration but then to everyone’s amazement the Prides and the Dragons began exchanging handshakes, encouragement and a few tips. Some lingered longer than others, like Mathilda and Lucian Moldovan. And still others, like Sorina and Ian, snuck off the field as soon as they could.

    Rah-Rah Ravenclaw!!!

    ~~Captain Azhure~~

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