The Order of the Phoenix - Harry Potter Male Reader Insert

33: Snitch Catching And Snitching

"Catch it, Ron!"

There was a loud, aggravated groan from the crowd in the stands below as the Quaffle zoomed past Ron's half-hearted lunge for the fourteenth time, which was almost drowned under the explosive cheers from the Hufflepuff side of the stands, and of course, the Slytherins singing.

"Weasley cannot save a thing,
He cannot block a single ring,
That's why Slytherins all sing:
Weasley is our King..."

"And that's another goal from Cadwallader!" came Lee Jordan's thundering voice, a little more dejected than a regular, unbiased commentator should have been but ultimately fair nonetheless. Lee, being a Gryffindor was putting up a good fight to resist groaning every time Ron missed a save.

Y/N had never understood the magical mechanics of a broomstick before, having never bothered to research them. But he saw how very different brooms were from each other now. Each had had a different response to his guidance, and this one certainly wasn't giving him a good time.

Using Harry's Firebolt was, of course, out of the question as it had been securely locked away in Umbridge's office. She had adamantly (and gleefully) refused to allow Y/N to use it for the match against Hufflepuff. And so, Y/N was stuck with Ron's old broom, a crusty Cleansweep Nine that was like comparing Mr Wesley's forest-weathered Ford Anglia to a speedy McLaren formula car.

But, it was better than the alternative, which was playing on a rickety school broomstick that was mainly used for training beginners on the essentials of flight.

Y/N cursed as the Cleansweep did another uncommanded lurch as he swerved around the pitch. After this match, he thought furiously, I'm going straight to the Owlery and ordering myself a Nimbus Two Thousand and One.

He glanced down at the stands. Harry was watching the match with absolutely no hope left in his face. When Y/N stopped to consider the current scores, he could hardly blame him.

Hufflepuff was winning two hundred and thirty to eighty. It was hopeless, even if the snitch was caught at this point it'd only mean a draw. The three Gryffindor chasers, even the Captain, were all so dejected by their Keeper and Beaters abysmal play that they couldn't find it in them to score anymore.

And the worst part was that the match had been going on for barely twenty minutes.

Curse. This. Infernal. Broom! thought Y/N miserably. Many times he had seen the Snitch already, and many times he hadn't been able to get to it because the broom was too damn slow.

It was no secret that when both his feet were firmly on the ground, Y/N really couldn't care less about Quidditch. A few scores, points and numbers were hardly going to affect his happiness in any way. But also was no secret was that once Y/N got engaged in the sport, he really got engaged. And that's why Jack Sloper, one of Gryffindor's new and useless Beaters, was almost on the verge of pissing himself when he accidentally missed the Bludger but hit Angelina in the mouth with his bat, and Kirke, the other Beater, shrieked, falling backwards off his broom as Zacharias Smith zoomed at him carrying the Quaffle.

"Smith weaves past the Gryffindor Beaters, eh? Kirke has fallen off his broom! And score from Zacharias Smith! "Two hundred and forty to eighty for Hufflepuff!"

"WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,
HE CANNOT BLOCK A SINGLE RING..."

"Damn!" muttered Y/N, dejectedly watching Smith eagerly circle around on his broom and making rude gestures to the Gryffindors in the stands, who weren't even riled up enough to respond and instead sat miserably, waiting for the match to end. Ron looked like he'd like nothing more than to plummet headfirst off his broom to his death.