There's a Girl in the Corner

1

He recalled that he had never seen a day so bright or warm in Scotland. All his memories of being at the Quidditch Pitch, either above it or in the stands, it was never so beautiful. The air that came off the Black Lake was fragrant with flowers and water plants, and when it hit his face, he would close his eyes and think of it as some sweet natural caress.

The stands were packed for the Cup final between Gryffindor and Slytherin, and he wore a green and silver ribbon on the lapel of his coat. Banners and pennants of the House colors flapped and ripped the air, but the players sliced the sky in a heated match between the ancient rivals. Streaks of green, streaks of red, and the roar of cheering voices, it made him almost think that he was up there. He had only been a fair player, he knew, and toward the end of his school years, there was never time to really play seriously. Still, he watched his son, playing the same position he had, but was far, far superior.

Scorpius' hair gleamed like a silvery beacon high above the pitch, and he wore tinted goggles to scan the pitch in the bright light. His son was like a gliding hawk, ready to swoop and take the prize. He watched Scorpius, hands on his hips, sometimes glancing to the Gryffindor Seeker across the pitch and lower, also searching. However, Scorpius would watch the Gryffindor Chaser with the wild curls gusting out behind her like dried blood. Rose Granger-Weasley, like Scorpius, made it on their House teams so early, all on their own merits.

The scoring of a goal for Gryffindor was met with a scream of elation as Granger-Weasley scored, again. He smirked, glancing down the stand to the family below him in the VIP section, curls bouncing, flags waving, a confetti gun shooting off from one of the ginger haired men, George, he recalled.

"Go, Rosie!" a child's voice shouted, strawberry blond curls swaying in the breeze. The boy was just short of going to Hogwarts himself, he figured, the brother of Rose. He had never really had a proper look at the child, but in the sunlight, he noticed freckles on the boy's nose, but he seemed finer boned, almost delicate. The pudginess of babyhood was barely beginning to shed off him, and he imagined that when it did go, the boy would be quite a striking man. And when the boy turned, responding to Headmistress McGonagall's shout of 'mind the Bludger, Potter!', he saw that the boy's eyes were not light brown like his mother's nor blue like his father's. They were silvery gray. Odd.

When the boy noticed his survey, he gave him a small smile. Hugo, the boy's name was Hugo.

He nodded to the boy and turned his eyes back to Scorpius who had leaned forward and began floating a wide arc down into the fray. He pressed his lips, and then, Scorpius shot forward, spinning, barrel rolling, and nearly had his head knocked off by the encroaching Gryffindor Seeker, both reaching for the Snitch. His breath caught, his chest seized, and then both Seekers broke off as the Snitch zipped one way and then the other and was lost. He lifted a hand to his mouth, and sighed. Gryffindor was up fifty points, but Slytherin could take it all with the Snitch.

In a lull, he looked around the stand again, noting that Harry Potter was sitting below him with his wife and daughter. Albus Potter was in the stands with his House, but Potter's eldest was captain, flying next to his cousin. A lot of the Teams were made of children of their Year. He smirked at that, the nepotism that surely tinged everything. Of course, he was not like his father, he did not get the Slytherins new brooms, though Scorpius had asked once.

Potter and Ginny Weasley's daughter was sitting next to Hugo, pointing to his sister. Then there was Granger, sitting just below him, her back to him, dressed in a gauzy white, sleeveless shirt, fanning herself with a paper fan, making her curls lift and fall with every wave. He could see silver in her hair, catching the sunlight. She looked, from the back, almost pale, her brown skin having a strange translucence. Even her reddish chestnut curls were lank, not so much as rat's nest, but just beaten down. When she would turn her head to speak to her son, he could see that her cheek was not nearly so full as he recalled, but she wore a dark color on her full lips. He had not seen her face full on, not even when she spoke to open the match.