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November, as usual, is filled with hard frosts and biting air that nips at my cheekbones and the very tip of my nose. I can practically feel my eyes drying up from the harsh wind that's whipping my hair about, but the weather could hardly dampen my morale.
The team and I stand near the middle of the pitch, filled with excited and anxious energy that has my bones practically vibrating and heating me up. I glance up at the sky—a pearly white-grey color—and squint at the harsh white sun that flares back down to me.
And then I glance to my right at Montague who's adjusting the silver crown-shaped badge on his chest, making me grin slightly. He glances up at me and gives me a cheeky grin back.
"Nice touch, these badges," he says, shifting so that the sun reflects off of it and nearly blinds me.
"I got the entire House to wear 'em," I say smugly, though I'm scowling a bit internally as I glance up at the stands where the students are dressed in green and silver, knowing fully well that there's one specific girl in those crowds that isn't wearing it because, and I quote, Silver doesn't look good on my skin.
"Think it'll throw the Weasel off?" Warrington guffaws from beside him, running a dragon-leather gloves hand through his hair. "The song?"
"Think?" I scoff, squinting as I see a small mass of red approaching from the other side of the pitch. "Did you see how pale he was this morning? It'll do the trick."
As the Gryffindor team stops before us, I let Potter catch my eye. He's wearing a slight scowl on my face, and it only deepens when I smirk at him and tap the crown badge on my chest—just in case he hasn't already seen it. He looks like he might hex me, but then Madame Hooch has our captains shake hands. It's hard not to snort as the Gryffindor captain, Angelina, steps up in front of Montague, who has to be at least three times the size of her and probably crushing her fingers.
And then, mounting our brooms, the whistle blows and the balls are released...
I set off on a wide lap of the pitch, feeling my muscles relax as the sharp and icy wind blows my Quidditch robes back and stings at my face. My eyes sweep this way and that, looking for just the slightest hint of gold as Bletchley swoops up to our goal hoops.
Angelina Johnson has the Quaffle. I listen to Lee Jordan—the Gryffindor with the very obvious bias in his commentating, though despite all the complaints from the other houses, McGonagall does nothing more than snap at him—while I look around for the snitch. Fuck, she's ducked Warrington, passed Montague, and—ah. There we go, hit with a blusher by Crabbe.
Didn't think he had it in him.
Adrenaline scourging my veins, I press myself closer to my broom to speed up, rushing past the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs in the stands as I approach the Slytherins.
