Jack clenched his teeth to contain his nerves as they changed into their scarlet and gold uniforms. His palms were slick with sweat under his gloves.
"Remember," Henry reminded him as they mounted up, "Hufflepuff likes to attack in tight formation. We'll break their rhythm early."
They zoomed out to thunderous cheers, the stands a sea of house colors. Jack caught a glimpse of blonde hair in the front part of the Ravenclaw section, but his attention was completely on the game.
His Quodpot habits betrayed him almost immediately despite all the practice. The Quaffle felt wrong in his hands—too light, too large. He kept hesitating an extra second, muscle memory waiting for an explosion that wouldn't come.
Jack's first pass to Henry went wide, his second too hard, skipping off Algy's hands.
He pounded his fist into his leg and cursed like a Muggle sailor.
"Steady on!" Henry called as they reset to defend.
Hufflepuff’s lead Chaser, Malcolm MacMillan, got on a breakaway. Jack's instincts kicked in. You couldn't just let someone score if you could help it. He tucked in his elbows, tightened his grip on his broom, and accelerated. There wasn't a good angle to get in front of him, the deflection was too high and the Hufflepuff was too fast. Instead Jack shot straight for MacMillan...
WHAM!
The impact sent a painful jolt up Jack’s shoulder. Malcolm spun off course, broom pinwheeling as the Quaffle tumbled free. A second later, the stadium erupted into boos:
“FOUL!”
"Can't do that, Yank!"
"This isn't your bloody Yankee rugger!"
"Ship ‘im back!"
Jack barely had time to process the uproar before a shrill whistle split the air. He turned just as the referee – a wiry wizard with a permanent scowl – descended on him, brandishing a large yellow card that flapped in the air like a furious canary. The card’s animated eyes narrowed at him in anger.
"Have you ever play Quidditch before, boy?" the ref barked.
Jack felt himself flush from toes to ears, the jeers of the crowd rang in his ears. "Yes sir! Just... Quodpot, too."
"This is not bloody Quodpot! No tackling! Next time, it's a red card and you're out!"
“Sorry sir,” Jack winced and raised his hands in apology. "I’m sorry!" he called toward the irate Hufflepuff players. "I forgot you couldn't do that!"
He barely had time to catch his breath before Algy shot over, his scar livid against his red face.
"You dense damn Yank!" he snapped, grabbing a fistful of Jack's robe and pulling him close. "Pull that again and you’re on the bench!"
“Yes sir!” Jack replied, thoroughly chastened.
When play resumed, he forced himself to slow down and think.
But it wasn’t easy.
His instincts screamed at him to brace for impact, to charge forward, to smash through the defense. Twice, he almost lunged for a tackle before yanking himself back at the last second.
Play smart, he told himself. Don’t be freaking stupid.
Instead of powering through, he started using quick direction changes, cutting left when they expected right, twisting into sudden dives that forced the Hufflepuff Chasers to scramble. The first time, he overcompensated, nearly losing his grip and fumbling the Quaffle, but he gradually found his rhythm as the game went on .
It worked. The Hufflepuff defense didn't quite know how to react to his movements. He wove between their formations, breaking up their practiced plays. When they adjusted to cover him, it left Henry and Algy free to score.
"That's more like it!" Henry shouted as they pulled ahead 50-40.
Now that they were winning, Jack started enjoying himself. He pulled a tight spiral around the Hufflepuff goalposts, baiting their Keeper just enough for Henry to slip the Quaffle through the left hoop. The Gryffindor stands burst into cheers.
Teddy's Bludger work was keeping the talented opposing Seeker Lot Abrams from getting any clean looks at the Snitch. Oliver, solid as ever at Keeper, was keeping them in the game.
"Yanks can fly after all!" someone shouted from the Slytherin section. Jack grinned as he banked hard, intercepting a Hufflepuff pass.
Henry flew past, sandy hair whipping in the wind. "Time enough to show off later, Semmes!"
"Just getting warmed up," he called back, lunging after a pass meant for the Hufflepuff Captain.
The next hour was a blur of motion and sound.
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Then the crowd’s roar changed.
It was different. Louder, and more urgent.
It took Jack a few seconds to realize why.
A flash of gold near the grandstand. Then twin red and yellow streaks slashed across his vision.
Their little cockney third-year Seeker Todd Brock was locked in a dead sprint with his Hufflepuff counterpart. The crowd's cheers swelled as the two raced neck-and-neck, broom bristles scraping.
The Snitch shot straight for the wooden grandstand. The two Seekers hurtled toward the wall, neither flinching.
"Pull up Lofty! You mad bastard!" Teddy bellowed, but Brock held his nerve.
At the last second, the Snitch darted straight up.
Brock zipped after it like he had been pulled by a string.
The Hufflepuff Seeker couldn’t. He hit the wall at full speed. A loud WHOOOMP split the air, followed by a splintery explosion.
"OHHH!" the crowd winced as one.
Jack flinched in sympathy — and promptly lost the Quaffle to a Hufflepuff Chaser because he wasn't paying attention.
It didn't matter.
Five seconds later, Brock was holding the Snitch aloft, laughing like a maniac.
280-90.
That’s the ball game.
The Gryffindor common room was pandemonium. Cases of ginger beer acquired from the kitchens and bottles of butterbeer illicitly brought back from Hogsmeade were opened with loud pops!, sending frothy liquid fizzing over the tops. The high-ceilinged room rang with laughter, shouted conversations, and the warmth of packed bodies.
Jack and Teddy had taken it upon themselves to lead a raucous and increasingly bawdy victory song that Jack had brought over from Ilvermorny:
We are We are We are We are wizards frisky risky
We can We can We can We can demolish all the whiskey
Drink up Drink up Drink up all day and come along with us, cuz
We don't give a damn for any old man, who don't give a damn for us!
Teddy started improvising a new verse that tried rhymed “trumpet” with “strumpet” but Algy shut him down by waving his arms and shouting that the first-years were still awake.
Jack was still laughing when a voice spoke at his elbow.
"Wonderful flying out there!"
He turned. Lavinia Lloyd stood beside him, blue eyes sparkling. A floppy Gryffindor tam o’shanter was perched at a jaunty angle atop her hair.
Jack felt his cheeks warm, and not just from the heat of the crowded room.
Holy smokes…she looks kinda cool–
"Thanks," he said, pushing his thoughts down so as to not get tongue tied. "Still getting used to uh...proper Brit sports, but it’s growing on me."
"We'll refine you yet, Yank!" Henry popped up between them and slung an arm around Jack’s shoulders. "Hey! You should see our Lavinia on a broom." He poked Jack in the ribs. "Lloyd here broke five minutes on the southern cliffs circuit!"
"Is that, uh, good?" Jack asked cluelessly.
"The record is 5:06," Henry grinned. A small firecracker shot towards the ceiling and burst into a lion shape with the smell of gunpowder.
Jack looked past him at Lavinia, impressed. "Seriously?"
“It’s only an unofficial time,” she waved the complement off, "Just a bit of fun on weekends."
The wireless crackled and the unmistakable opening of "Rum and Coca-Cola" by the Andrew Sisters filled the common room. Someone let out a cheer, and a group of fourth-years linked arms, starting a line dance that wove its way between chairs and tables like an enormous python. More and more students joined in, laughing and stumbling as they tried to match the steps.
Jack found himself swept into the chain between Teddy and Arabella. The room blurred as they twisted and turned, following the leaders in their looping path. Ahead of him, Lavinia’s hair swung as she spun, her laughter lost in the commotion.
The dance broke into smaller circles as the song changed. Jack stumbled into a group with several others, now attempting a Scottish folk dance that involved clapping, stomping, and rapid partner changes.
"Left foot, then right!" Mina called, trying vainly to direct traffic.
"No, Marshy, your other left! Confound it!" Oliver roared.
"These northern dances are barmy," Teddy declared as he dragged Jack straight into another group. Somebody yelped as a toe was stepped on.
The party spun on, a whirl of dancing, a blend of Muggle and wizarding songs, and the endless popping of bottles.
"Another round, Semmes," Henry grinned, sticking a freshly opened ginger beer under Jack’s nose. "You're dehydrated."
Jack was caught off guard. He had been lost in wondering if Cassandra had been watching him from the stands.
He shook the thought away and grinned. No time for Ravenclaws right now.
"Why not?" he took a long, spicy swig from the bottle. "We earned it today."
Across the room, Pal, Mel, and Wiggy were dramatically reenacting their favorite plays to the delight of a growing audience. Pal sprinting into Wiggy at full speed in imitation of Jack tackling MacMillan was a particular favorite.
Even the portraits joined in. The Wing Co had appeared in Georgie’s frame, leading to a debate between the periwigged redcoat wizard and the baffled Muggle RAF officer that Jack strolled over to eavesdrop on.
"See here, old bean," the Wing Co began, stroking his mustache and leaning on the painted edge of the frame. "Sounds an awful fuss being made over flying basketball with three hoops, wot-wot?"
"It is nothing of the sort, Colonel," Georgie drew himself up with all the hauteur of a captain addressing a well-meaning but idiotic subaltern, "Quidditch is a distinguished pursuit, requiring discipline, strategy, and a mastery of the manly virtues: courage and an unswerving loyalty to Ministry and Country!"
"Oh, capital fun," the Wing Co said breezily. "And what the devil’s a Bludger?"
"Enchanted iron balls set loose upon the pitch," Georgie said gravely, resting his hand on his wand’s hilt like it was a saber. "Their singular purpose to dash a man from his broom and send him plummeting to earth, where he shall suffer the ignominious fate of the unmounted infantry!"
"Ha!” The Wing Co gave an appreciative whistle. "Flying basketball with bloody great cannonballs zooming about like a bad day over Dunkirk! Jolly good!”
Georgie’s lip curled. "That is an unforgivably crude summation, sir. Quidditch is not a pastime for the common rrrabble! It is a contest of skill and breeding, a gentleman’s engagement! One does not simply play one’s way to victory like a common sellwand. One must triumph with "
"Quite right," the Wing Co mused diplomatically, twirling his mustachios. "So how does one win? Throw the ball through the other lot's hoop more than the other, eh?"
"Good God, man!" Georgie recoiled as if struck. "No! There is still the matter of the Golden Snitch!"