United

Tŵø: Lainey

God, I regret signing up for Quidditch. They just had to make me a Seeker—me, a scrawny little Second Year! I hate my house. I hate myself for being so damn stupid.
The game was as mediocre as I thought for most of the time, though I was ready to jump off my broom when I heard the shout of '190-30 to Ravenclaw'. Our team is comprised of burly seniors, all guys with a lazy attitude and no common sense, but apparently I was accepted because Flint lost a dare. What idiots I'm stuck with.

I'd been trailing that Ravenclaw seeker for a while, though not as discreetly as I planned because she tried to talk to me a couple of times. I wasn't bothered to listen but at least her tone sounded friendly. When our chase began, I was so disorientated and confused; I couldn't hear what she was saying and each dive took my crappy broom too long to manoeuvre. I don't even remember catching the Snitch. All I remember is the thud of the Ravenclaw's broom and the sharp pain in the back of my head like a million scalding needles.

And here I am, lying helplessly in a comfortable bed with the blankets tucked up to my chin. I would wake up, only... the rest of my Quidditch team seems to have congregated around my bed and are talking loudly about my 'punishment'. I ignore the dull pain of my head on the pillow and listen intently to their conversation.
"It ain't your fault, Jackdaw. She caught it 'fore you even 'ad a chance to score." That's definitely Flint's stupid accent. Jackdaw's a Chaser and they all think he's the 'Star Player' and that the game must go on long enough for him to have the chance to score.
"Irritating little weakling. Why'd you put her on the team? She only drags us down, Marcus," replies Jackdaw's deep voice. I can hear the others mumbling in agreement.
"Ya know why, Jackdaw. I don't need ta explain it agin. As for you lot— losing ta the Smart-Arses is not nearly as bad as losing ta them arrogant morons of Gryffindor. We need ta win this time." I bite the inside of my lip to stop myself from laughing: it seems like everyone in Slytherin shares the same opinion of those stuck-up Gryffindor pricks.
"You should practise breaking Wood-Head's hand at the start so he can't play, Flint. That handshake with Davies wasn't as brutal as we all know you can do,"puts in Theseus Selwyn, one of the Beaters. He's as wide as he is tall, with even greasier hair than the others.
God, I can't control myself. My eyelid flickers as I hold my breath from laughing and of course, eagle-eyed Nelson Bulstrode has to notice.

"She's awake,"he says slowly. The mutterings all stop and my eyes spring open instinctively. Wow, they're standing much closer than I thought—two at each side of my bed and leaning in like poisonous, twisted trees. This is oddly terrifying. Flint is at the foot of my bed next to Jackdaw, their ugly expressions the most threatening of all. He grabs my foot and squeezes so hard, I wince at the pain and clench my teeth. I musn't make a noise: I have to be tough, not the Second Year weakling they all think I am.
"You must be so proud of ya self, aren't ya? Didn't even give Jackdaw the time ta score 'fore you caught the bleedin' Snitch and ended the game. Why'd you do that, huh?"
I scowl fiercely at them, propping myself up on my elbows despite the pain in my head. "To save us, from losing by even more, Captain Flint. In case you didn't notice, the Ravenclaw Seeker was about to catch it. Then we'd be in even worse embarrassment, wouldn't we?"
"I agree," says a voice suddenly from out of the circle. I crane my neck to see around the stout shoulder of Selwyn but my team is already parting to give way to... Madam Pomfrey. And behind her, someone I really think I should know.
Those narrow, judging grey eyes. That half-smile half-scowl. The scraped-back ponytail that erupts in (greasy) dark curls at the back. It's the Ravenclaw seeker, of course. Why on earth does she want to see me?

"You've spent enough time gawked at her, boys," says Madam Pomfrey mildly. She's eyeing the floor beneath me which I can only imagine is pooled in mud from my lovely teammates' boots. They're so respectful. "Please do wipe your feet before you come in next time."
"There won't be a next time," spits Jackdaw, before leading the rest of the team towards the door (I can't call it walking—more like sloping). Madam Pomfrey sighs agitatedly as she watches the door slam behind them. "Remember, Miss Mason, not too long. Miss Fitzgerald must be exhausted, healing broken bones is tiring business." And with that, she wanders off leaving Phoebe standing at my bedside quietly. I would say awkwardly but she seems like the sort of girl who's never really awkward. Unlike me.

"Hey," she smiles warmly, though traces of a scowl still linger on her lips. "I just wanted to check, you know, if you were okay. Are you?"
"Oh, right," I reply after a pause. "Yeah, I'm fine. The, um, visit by my team was more harmful than the injury I think."
I still can't believe she's volunteering to actually speak to me. Me. I'm a Slytherin, a loner, a scrawny little shrimp and I'm lying in a hospital wing after causing my house's defeat in Quidditch. She's not popular like some girls are but she has friends, good grades, Quidditch talent and more. Apart from her off-putting willowy-ness, I'd say she is what I'd always hoped to be.
"I don't think we ever introduced ourselves on the pitch. I'm Phoebe. Phoebe Mason."
"I don't think we had time to," I snap back without thinking. At this point, most people would recoil from me but Phoebe just laughs. I hastily add, "I'm Lainey. Sorry, it's just that most people will have ran in the other direction at this point in the conversation."

"I don't fancy running on that, do you?" Phoebe replies playfully, gesturing to the watery mud splattered across the floor that Madam Pomfrey is cleaning. Now I can't help laughing, even though my chest hurts. This might be the first time I've ever laughed properly at Hogwarts. "Maybe I should convince my teammates to walk in their muddy boots across the exits of all the people I meet. Then I'll have way more friends." She nods wisely, her eyes catching the light.
"Secrets of a Slytherin. You don't seem to be on great terms with them, though."
"I'm not but—"

"Girls, that's the end of visiting hours," interrupts Madam Pomfrey, wielding her mop as she passes by. "Miss Mason, do you think you could jump over the puddles? I'd cast a spell to clean it up but Miss Fitzgerald needs her draught."
"Sure, Madam Pomfrey. Lainey, see, I've found a way around your—".
She stops as I reach out and grab her arm instinctively. "Meet me, on Monday, on the Seventh Floor at lunch. Please?" I have to try to keep hold of the one blossoming friend I have. Phoebe nods, another smile crossing her face like a shadow, before she turns and leaps away.
"A good friend, that one," says Madam Pomfrey, handing me a goblet then flicking her wand at the puddles. "She always visits her friends here as much as possible." I take a long gulp of the draught and my tongue seems to melt at the taste of it. It's like tar mixed with fish oil, plus a strangely lukewarm temperature. Yuck.
"I-I-I'm not really her friend yet," I reply, silently trying to regain feeling in my mouth. The head of the Hospital Wing turns to me with a queer look in her eye.

"Then you'd do well to make her one."