Albus Potter and the Elder Wand

Chapter 7: Quidditch and Treacle Tart

That afternoon, everyone had a word of congratulations for Al. Some congratulated him so energetically that he understood they were still trying to make him feel better. He had a last minute tea with Hagrid, which he enjoyed immensely. While some students didn't bother to hide their scowls and whispered in the corners about "favoritism," by the evening, Al's spirits had been significantly boosted. His roommates had a small celebration in their dormitory, and Fred Weasley even gave Al some treats from his dad's shop to change their hair different colors and make loud noises come out of their ears.

And so the weeks once again flew by. School was picking up, and Al found himself struggling to keep up with even the sheer amount of work he received. And then there was, of course, quidditch practice to consider. Kristy drove them hard, with three long practices a week. But still, life once again found a routine.

Which scared Al. 

How could it have become a routine to wake up every morning and have to check the Prophet for news about his dad?

How could it have become a routine to see his brother, the one who always had a smile on his face, come to breakfast with puffy red eyes to mirror his own?

A full month passed with no news. The aurors were still reportedly trying their hardest, but there hadn't been a trace of evidence as to the whereabouts of Al's father. But as Al's mum constantly reminded him in letters, this was something to let the adults handle.

Al knew she was right. What could he, an eleven-year-old boy with two months of magic instruction, do that a highly-trained team of aurors couldn't? But a nagging feeling deep inside of him kept saying that he should be doing something.

November came with the first quidditch match of the season. The night had left a thick blanket of snow over Hogwarts, and the unusually early snow was still flurrying to the ground when Al walked down with Lydia and the rest of the team that evening

"Slytherin," Lydia snorted. "They're terrible this year. They haven't won the cup in ten years. We'll flatten them."

"Don't jinx it," Al warned uneasily.

Lydia ignored him and kept talking. "And the captain, Davie Groven Have you seen his hair? How can he win with hair like that, it'll probably get tangled in his broom or something." Davie Groven's famously long hair was always magically dyed a different color of the rainbow, and shot out from his head in a huge afro.

Al was beginning to regret ever trying out for the quidditch team, and his stomach was twisting itself into knots, even though he had opted out of dinner. Lydia continued her chatter, commenting on the possibilities of turning Davie's hair the scarlet and gold of Gryffindor. To shut her up, Al kicked a pile of snow at Lydia, and laughing, she skimmed off the top of the nearest snow bank with her mitten and blew it into his face. 

"All right you two," Kristy intervened. "Let's focus on the game ahead. There will be plenty of time to have a snowball fight after the match."

Lydia and Al instantly dropped their snow and fell back into silent procession. Nobody on the team treated Al and Lydia as little kids, but they still took every opportunity to prove that they were just as mature and responsible as the rest. Kristy was only five years Al's senior, but she somehow had complete control over the team. She could lead without coming off as bossy or rude. Al remembered meeting her dad, Oliver Wood, at one of his professional matches. Kristy was certainly following in his footsteps.

The remainder of the walk passed by in a blur, and in seemingly no time at all, Al was standing next to Lydia on the pitch, broom in one hand, bat in the other. Miss Cole, the referee, blew the whistle, the balls were released, and they were off.