It was the match of the century. England versus Ireland, a grudge match to beat no other. Ever since the match of 1492, when an Irish beater cursed a bludger to fly at the English spectators, every match had been about blood.
No pressure, Mallet thought. The recently recruited British seeker knew the stakes. Perhaps that was why Higgins, team captain, had recruited her, a girl with no sense of rules and a thirst for revenge. The team was in the locker room, listening to the cheers of the crowd. Higgins turned to Mallet now, and her heart flipped.
Her face was a pasty white colour, and her shoulder length red hair was tied back uncharacteristically. He was so used to seeing it fly free as she searched for the Snitch, her gleaming white smile blinding the competitors as she bared her teeth in a fierce attempt to secure the little golden ball.
“Of course not, Higgins. Of course not.”
“Worried about the new rules?”
She breathed slowly in and out. “It’s okay, really. It’s not like my hair’s really going to make that much of a difference, right?”