Every Little Thing, James Potter.

02. A Friendly Scrimmage

Quidditch trials seemed to have gone over nicely, Gwen figured, as team captain Grant Wood had not drafted her for any help choosing new members this year. Last term had seen their undoubtedly most memorable chaser gone; Theodore Smith had been the most competitive chaser in all of Hogwarts' history, Gwen thought. He'd once fallen off his own broom because he'd been yelling at her too much to focus on flying.

     Grant gathered the old players in the Ravenclaw common room prior to the first scrimmage of the year, just to give them a bit of a "heads-up", he'd said. Gwen and the Ravenclaw keeper Jacqueline shared a glance—this couldn't've been a good sign. Maybe she should've offered him help picking a new chaser.

     "Right, team," he said, in a bit of a hushed voice, and with a glance over his shoulder. "I've got our new chaser. He's a bit.. um, over-the-top. You all know him by now, whether you like it or not. What I mean to say is—he may take a day or two—or forty—to get used to, but just promise me you won't go too harsh on him. He's only a second-year. Right?"

     "You're making me nervous, Wood," said Gwen, echoed by hums of agreement from Jackie and the third-year beater whose name Gwen could never remember. "Just tell us who it is, mate."

"Gilderoy," Wood blurted, his face scrunching up. "Lockhart. The.. lad with curly hair."

There came a synchronous groan from the team.

Wood sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, you lot. He was the only tolerable try-out. Nearly blew my head off... But still, loads better than any of the others. All he needs is a little practice."

     "And truth-telling serum," added Jackie, shaking her head.

"New uniform fits!" As if on cue, Gilderoy appeared at the top of the stairs to the second-year boys' dormitory. He wore a wonky-fitted uniform, which was draped over his shoulders incorrectly and tied poorly. He beamed down at the rest of them. "How do I look, team?"

     Gwen offered a wavering smile, as nobody else had. "Like.. a star, Lockhart." She turned back to Wood, so Gilderoy couldn't see her lips, and said "I'm running trials next year."

"Everyone on their best today, right?" Wood's signature pre-game speech was twinged with a faint tone of apprehension, his nerves seeping through his feigned confidence. "We can't lose to them again. You hear me, Jones? I don't want to see what happened last year."

"Merlin, Grant, it's only a scrimmage," said Gwen, eyebrows high on her head. She hummed for a moment, then looked to their keeper, as well, and frowned slightly. "Though last year really was awful, Jackie."

"Could everyone forget about last year?" Jacqueline scowled, shaking her head. She tightened her elbow strap with more force than needed. "Sirius and I'd only just broken up. I lost my temper."

"Right," said Grant, "and frankly, I don't care. Just so long as it doesn't happen again. Now," he said, turning to the rest of the team, "we're down a chaser, so Edwards and Lockhart have got to cover O'Brien. O'Brien," he said, and the injured chaser sat up straight—Wood grimaced. "How did you already manage to fall down the stairs within two days?"

"Accident," muttered Walker O'Brien, clearly embarrassed.

"We're on it," said Lockhart immediately, and she saluted Grant. "You can count on us, boss. You know, Walker, I'm actually quite adept at healing—"

"Yeah," laughed Walker, and he mocked Lockhart's salute. "Sure, boss."

"Myself and Maxwell, we've got a plan." Grant palmed the shoulder of the third-year beater whose name always slipped out of Gwen's mind (she repeatedly thought Maxwell Maxwell Maxwell over and over until it stuck, though she knew it never would), and Grant even smiled. "I think this could be it, you lot. Really. Play as hard as you can."