Backfire • Cedric Diggory [✓]

• ELEVEN •

The sky was painted orange, the sun bidding its farewell as stars began to form in the sky. Holland sighed as she eyed the quilted sheet she was on, appreciating its different patterns from red polka dots, small, yellow vertical lines, and other random designs that Holland had assumed to have been from socks. She had decided to spend an afternoon to herself, sitting on the grass and enjoying the silence. She also packed a bunch of grapes, thinking it would be nice to treat herself. The Quidditch pitch was surprisingly one of the less occupied places in Hogwarts during free periods. Maybe because it was a bit of a long walk from the castle, but Holland needed her privacy, anyway. She decided on a place that wasn't the Astronomy tower for once, and now there she was, happily humming to herself and enjoying the silence accompanied with the occasional buzzing of bees and whistling wind. She sat on a random patch of grass, the hand-stitched quilt beneath her that she'd managed to borrow from the kitchen elves, the girl trying to free her mind, express herself, and just enjoy her own company while she scribbled and doodled all over her notebook. She looked up, observing the tall goalposts of the Quidditch pitch. Holland had always dreamed of being a Quidditch player. But with her parents being overprotective, they just couldn't risk the thought of their probably talented athlete of a daughter putting herself out in the spotlight, to be easily hunted by relatives of azkaban detainees. Holland remembered just how much she idolized Oliver Wood. She remembered how badly she wanted to try out for his team when she thought she'd be sorted in Gryffindor. She'd really adored the boy, she felt as if she were his number one fan, wanting nothing but to hug him and tell him that it was alright when they'd lost to Hufflepuff last year. It was a very rainy game, that was. One of the nastiest games Harry Potter's ever played. But come to think of it, Holland had never remembered Harry Potter to ever play Quidditch without being targeted by some sort of evil. She remembered their first year, Harry's first game. Quirrell had cursed his broom, the boy being jerked here and there like a rag-doll. It was crazy just how much it seemed like it was Snape when Harry and the others explained, but who would have thought that it was actually their stuttering Defense Against the Dark Arts professor behind all that dark sabotaging? Holland wasn't friends with the Gryffindors yet then, but she knew something was wrong. It was only their second year when Harry had explained everything to Holland, having to explain as he'd whined about not being able to play Quidditch without having someone attack him he had just been in the infirmary once more. Dobby had apparently wanted Harry out of Hogwarts, thinking that a cursed Bludger would do the trick, he enchanted it to stop at nothing until it's crushed Harry Potter. Then, their third year, it had been when Hogwarts was flooded by dementors, guarding and roaming around in search of Sirius Black. During their game, Harry had been attacked by a dementor, losing his senses and falling over a hundred feet. He had been so close to the snitch, too. After he'd fallen, Hufflepuff's seeker caught the snitch, instead. And funnily enough, Hufflepuff's seeker was Cedric Diggory. Holland remembered snorting at the boy who'd begged for a rematch despite catching the snitch fair and square. Holland then began to wonder what it would have been like to play for her house. Holland couldn't grasp the idea of playing with such people. She loved her housemates, but Holland really found the victory of simply being better than the competition much sweeter than winning from foul play. It was common knowledge that her house's Quidditch team were very nasty players. And Holland was against their form of skullduggery in sports. Such complex planning and trickery could be used for other, more important matters.

    "Holland!" She groans as somebody had managed to find her, disturbing her train of reminiscence. She made sure not to tell anybody where she'd be that afternoon. She turns to the direction she'd heard the voice call from to see no other than the Hufflepuff seeker himself, running towards her from under the 30 feet stands of the Quidditch pitch. Holland sat up straighter, wondering what the boy wanted to see her for.