Chasing the Chaser - Molly and Arthur

1

Molly Prewett stood alone over the sink in the locker room of the Hogwarts quidditch field house, muttering to herself as she pulled her hair up in a short pouf of a ponytail.

"I belong out there," she said, tilting her head to check her hair in the mirror. "I have been a starting chaser on this team for three years. We have won two house cups. I am a senior player. I am fast. I am fit. I am captain of this team because there is no one better. I am NOT an imposter."

"Not to mention you're brilliant," someone added from behind her.

Molly spun around, one fist raised, already snarling, "Who's sneaking up on me?"

A tall, lanky redhead stood in the doorway, kitted up in ratty, mismatched quidditch gear. He was backing away, both of his hands held up and his palms out, as if in submission. "Sorry, didn't mean to give you a fright," he was saying. "It's just that your smarts are what really set you apart as a top player. Your head for strategy, it's – "

"Weasley, isn't it?" she interrupted, lowering her fist.

He was grinning. "You know my name?"

She scoffed. "How could I fail to? We must have been living in the same tower for, what is it, seven years now?"

"Only six," he said. "My aunt kept me home for first year, getting over a Muggle disease. Chicken pox it's called. It's not too hard on Muggles but it worked me over. So you feel like my senior – and I respect that so much – "

"Then knock it off, Weasley," she said, realizing she'd need to interrupt him to get him to stop talking. She hiked her ponytail up before flicking a fastening spell over it. "It's awkward enough that you sneaked in and caught me hyping myself up to run tryouts without you kissing up to me like this."

At this, poor Weasley fell into a hopeless fit of stammering and choking, blushing beneath his freckles. "Kissing up – well I wouldn't say – I would hardly – unless – I mean..."

Molly took pity on him, rolling her eyes and speaking over his noisy efforts to find something to say. "Look if you're here for quidditch tryouts, I'll see you on the pitch in just a minute, yeah?"

She slung her broom over her shoulder. It was short to suit her frame, about the size of the first broom Arthur Weasley had ever owned, when he was ten years old. He eyed it as she strode toward him, following the broomstick's line to her face, looking her in the eye.

Weasley – yes, she knew who he was. The one with his hand raised in Muggle studies class all the time. He didn't have much to do with the girls in seventh year – or the boys either, come to think of it. Kind of a lonely boy. She took her first careful look at him. His eyes were blue, and not in that fishy way. They were somehow warm, or at least unembarrassed.

"Thank you for the compliments, but once we're out there," she told him, "I won't be filling the team roster based on flattery. It's all about skills and sportsmanship."

"And smarts," Weasley added, his warm blue eyes blinking rapidly as she came closer.

He still hadn't moved, still stood in the doorway smiling down at her from his truly ridiculous height. She took one fast forceful step toward him, like a border collie herding a big ox.

"Don't listen to them," Weasley said as he stepped out of her way. "Everyone who says you'll be a rubbish player now that your brothers have graduated and won't be protecting you from the bludgers anymore. The ones who say Molly Prewett has another thing coming, now she'll be answering to bludgers for the first time."

She stamped her foot. "Will you shut it, Weasley. Where do you get off – "

"Because they're wrong," he forged on in a quiet voice, as if they were sharing a secret. "Anyone who says that is wrong. You're Molly Prewett, a perfect chaser all on your own. Deep down, everyone knows it, and that's what they're afraid of."