LUNAR (A Harry Potter Universe Fanfiction)

Seventeen. Seeds.

Marlowe hated match days. It sucked, not getting to play. Elliot had been sending home a letter a day all about the Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff game the following weekend and how excited he was to play in his first ever real match. Marlowe had written him back with well wishes and some "professional" advice, but if he was being honest with himself, he was jealous.

He missed playing quidditch. Actually playing. Whacking a bludger as hard as he could wasn't nearly as much fun when he wasn't trying to thwart someone else getting the snitch or throwing the quaffle.

He and the other reserves sat together watching the team walk out onto the field. It was only a few days until the full moon and he was already starting to feel shaky and feverish, but he would have gladly fought through it to have been out there. The fact that he'd probably never play a game this whole season made him feel purposeless.

The other guys were joking and making bets about the outcome of the match (most of them in favor of the other team because they'd been around long enough to be realists). A few were stretching or hopping around, keeping warm in case they had to go in.

The announcer called out the names of the players on the opposing team — they were playing the Kenmare Kestrals today, the team Marlowe had supported since he was a kid — and they soared up into the air to a larger burst of applause than any of the Chudley Cannons ever got, even though they were playing at their home field today.

Still, the announcer built up the suspense for the home team like they had a jam-packed stadium and an unbeatable record. "And now, your very own... Chudley CANNONS," he said, magically amplified voice booming over the half empty crowd. "On the field today, we've got our chasers Damon MACKEY, Eoghan MAGUIRE, and Brennan LYNCH." The three chasers swooped into the air, circling the field once before coming to their starting positions.

Marlowe smiled to himself at the announcer's odd cadence.

"What are you chuckling about?" asked Patrick, looking ready to heckle Marlowe for whatever dirt he could get on him.

Something about being drawn into their gameday world made Marlowe decide to stop feeling sorry for himself. He let his smile grow. "I was just thinking," he said, "how that guy talks like someone electrocutes him every time he says a last name."

The others guys listened as the announcer called out beaters Brian MCSORLEY and Eddie WATERS. They started to smile. By the time keeper Sterling CRAWFORD and seeker Aaron SUTTON had been announced, every was laughing outright, a few of them with tears in their eyes.

"And down in the reserve box, itching for a chance to dust off their brooms," Marlowe started, whipping out his best impression, "It's Patrick DONNELY, Liam O'REILLY, and Mick FULLER." This had the other guys practically falling off the benches with laughter so Marlowe kept going, announcing every one of his fellow seconds and reserves with increasing drama. He amped it up until he was really acting like he was being electrocuted every time he reached a last name.

"Stop," gasped Mick. "I can't breathe." He was buckled over his knees, swiping tears out of his eyes and laughing so hard he was almost wheezing.

"I've been— on this team— eight years— and never thought of it like that," choked out Liam. "I swear to god, he's done it the same way every time, too."

And they were all reduced to fits of laughter again, most of them beyond the point of sound. Marlowe's cheeks ached from smiling so hard. He hadn't in such a long time. It felt good to be joking around again, making people laugh. It was what he had always done, and sometimes, now, it felt like he'd forgotten how.

"Goddamn it, I love this fucking team," said Patrick when he had finally begun to recover himself. "That's the thing about playing for a team that never wins. We get to have fun."