The cold December air stung, whipping in swirling gusts around the quidditch pitch. George Weasley thought he was going deaf as the Gryffindor-Slytherin match reached a climax. The shouting of the crowd rose, Gryffindor fans cheering wildly, as Angelina Johnson scored another goal through the Slytherin post. They were up by forty points now, finally breaking the back and forth cycle of the game thus far.
Ice shards hung from George's ginger hair, cutting his cheek slightly, as he circled back to the Gryffindor defence line. His fingers clenched his bat tighter. A lingering pain ghosted down his arm while his leg throbbed from his minor fall earlier. That was not even the worst of it. Katie Bell had a fat lip, Oliver Wood wore a shiny black eye, and their seeker, Harry Potter, dealt with the aftermath of a broken nose. Injuries were the cost of goals in a game like this.
He bashed a bludger in the direction of the Slytherin chaser who was approaching their goal post, effectively interrupting their play, and he heard the crowd cheer. George's veins froze from the chill, despite the heating charm placed on the field, and he slowed his pace slightly. This was the last match before the winter holidays and it was a good one. Fast-paced and deadly.
To his right he caught the glimspe of shocking red hair identical to his own. His twin brother, Fred, flew over the crowd, moving up towards the centre line to intercept the quaffle and toss it to Ginny Weasley. The youngest Weasley was flilling in for Alicia Spinnet, who took a hard fall mid game, but his sister's youth did not hinder her talent. Effortlessly, Ginny moved the play up field, passing the ball to Katie.
The crowd broke into a thunderous roar, electrifying the air, making him jittery with anticipation, and George knew that Harry had his sights on the snitch. Even as Gryffindor fans boomed with celebration, the pleasure of this win was dulled by the sensation burning through him. As if an impending doom hovered overhead, halting his joy ever so slightly.
George had opted for coffee with his breakfast, instead of his usual pumpkin juice, and was suddenly regretting that decision. He was alert, wired, and his motions were becoming rickety with the excess caffeine streaming through the veins. Nevertheless, they had won. Harry circled the pitch in a lap, the snitch firmly placed in his hand, and George smiled widely.
It was then it happened.
The shout from across the pitch was George's only warning. He felt the bludger just narrowly miss his head, whizzing past him with such speed. Turning back, he saw Slytherin captain, Marcus Flint, hovering by the centre line. A smirk on his lips and a beater's bat in his girp.
Then, he heard the silence. The hush lulling the crowd into quiet murmurs, as a whistle shrieked. George was shocked that such an obviously dirty strike even attempted. Slytherins' plays were always very subtle. Just as dirty, but subtle nonetheless.
He was about to go and confront the captain when a cry for help interrupted him.
George stared down Flint, watching the chaser's eyes widen in realization, before turning towards the stands. A spectator was injured. Not something unheard of, after all accidents happen, but, after such a move, Slytherin would be one chaser short. Five game suspension, minimum.
He got there first, landing hard on the wooden bench, and began clearing students from the crumpled form. A Gryffindor fan. Her school robes embossed the Gryffindor crest, her crimson and gold gloves poked out from under the sleeves, and her scarf draped around her neck loosely. Brown messy curls, tied in a plait, were contained by a crimson toque, falling to the side of her head.
Wait. Brown messy curls. Brown messy curls!
George felt his stomach clench, bricks weighing down, as he fell to his knees next to her. His leg, still sore, cramped as he leaned forward and turned her over. Hermione Granger. She was lying on the floor before him. Unconcious. George paled as he took note of the blood dripping for her forehead.
