Eternal Patience

The Vault Portrait

Ismelda brought him back to the common room and they talked late into the night, the last ones to head to bed that evening. She confessed to having a crush on him since third year, how that crush had grown into something like love, but that she'd been afraid to tell him about her feelings, because she'd been so horrible to him in the past. 

"Emily Tyler read a love letter I'd written about you to everyone in the courtyard after the quidditch match. Spellman was there, and she convinced me to tell you how I felt. She said it'd be better knowing how you felt about me rather than continuing to wonder. I suppose she was right." Ismelda put her head down. Her curtain of black hair cast a shadow across her face. "But it still doesn't feel good, since it's obvious you don't feel the same way about me."

"I'm sorry," he said. He always hated this part. "It's not that you're not...uh, nice..."

"You just have feelings for someone else."

Barnaby gazed into the fire. In the Slytherin commonroom, the flames gave off an eerie green glow. "I guess so," he admitted. 

Ismelda nodded. Standing up, she said, "Well, I'm sorry you've got such poor taste."

Barnaby smiled. This was more like the Ismelda he'd grown used to over the years. 

She stuck her hand out. "Friends?"

He shook it. "Sure."

She sniffed, then turned and headed into the girl's dormitory. Barnaby stayed staring into the fire for a moment, unbidden thoughts about his future milling about in his mind. All the possibilities seemed equally terrifying. 

*****************

Barnaby's brain always performed better when it only focused on one thing, so he was glad when Sinclair ordered more and more quidditch practices, and defeating Ravenclaw was the only thing he had to think about. 

Sinclair wanted to destroy Ravenclaw nearly as badly as Gryffindor. "They stole the cup from us last year!" he said over and over. "If Rath hadn't taken out half our team with her bloody bludgers, we'd have slaughtered them and Gryffindor!"

The Beaters were worked especially hard. They were under strict orders from Sinclair to take Rath out of the game, or die trying. 

The morning of the match dawned cold and misty. It was nearly time for the Christmas holidays, and the castle had become chilly. 

Barnaby met his teammates in the changing rooms on Saturday morning, eager to get going. There was no big speech from Sinclair today; he just growled at them to win or else, and they all took of, streaming out of the tunnel as they were announced by the commentator. 

The match began. Barnaby circled the pitch, searching for bludgers to send toward the players in blue robes. He had little trouble. Erika Rath was already sending them flying with such speed, they blurred past like comets. Barnaby hardly had time to pick a target to redirect the bludgers at; it was all he could do knock bludgers away from his teammates. 

Michael focused on keeping Rath distracted, whether that was pelting bludgers back at her or simply flying in front of her to block her vision, while Barnaby zoomed around the pitch, protecting the Slytherin players. 

"Another goal for Slytherin!" he heard the commentator call into the microphone. "They lead by ninety points in the first ten minutes! No doubt thanks to the impeccable defense on their beaters' part. Barnaby Lee hasn't let a single bludger touch one of his teammates!"

Barnaby heard loud cheering from the Slytherin stands, but he forced himself not to focus on anything else accept the bludgers and his teammates. Rath was finally slowing. Barnaby was able to beat a bludger straight at her, whacking it against the bat with all his strength. Rath saw the danger at the last second. She was able to deflect the bludger from hitting her in the gut and possibly knocking her off the broom, but it glanced off her bat and hit her on the side of the head anyway.