The Theory of Magic (Book 1)

17 // Quidditch & Curses

Fi had never seen a Quidditch game before.

As a witch born and bred in the highlands who spent much of her time twiddling her thumbs in the wild country, she had seen brooms in use once or twice, but never as anything more than a tool for transportation or boyhood fun. Her friend Calvin Butterman had once bribed her after one too many servings of Ogden's to get on one of the wretched things, and she had lasted perhaps two or three minutes before careening headlong into a chimney and breaking her back on the way down.

Suffice it to say, Fi very much preferred having both feet firmly on the ground like any good, respectable hedge witch would.

So she was surprised when Minerva knocked on her door just after the first week of November and poked her head in. "Delphinia, aren't you going to the game?"

"Game?" Fi blinked like a befuddled owl for a moment, hunched over a large pile of essays in desperate need of marking. "What game?"

"What do you mean by what game? The Quidditch game! Gryffindor versus Slytherin!"

"Oh," was all Fi said. She couldn't recall if Ilvermony played Quidditch and thus if she was meant to know about it, so she settled on a polite remark. "Was that today?"

"Yes." Minerva's eyes—keen and shrewd, enough to put a bit of steel in Fi's spine despite the hedge witch being four times the age of the other woman—flashed about the office and settled on Fi. "I've come to induce you into cheering for Gryffindor."

"Should I not be rooting for Slytherin?"

"Severus would undoubtedly say so." At that, Minerva's lips quirked in a cat-like grin of mischief that Fi couldn't help but mimic. The Transfiguration professor enjoyed tweaking Snape's nerves just as much as Fi did. Something of his misanthropic and intolerant character begged to be tested, to be tried. Ever and the other members of the coven's now long dead council would say Fi just liked seeing how far she could cross the line before she got hurled back over it. She was the textbook definition of a woman who would take a mile if you gave her an inch.

"Ah, well, how could I resist?" Fi shuffled her marked papers and set the stack aside, returning the quill to its stand. "Let me grab my cloak."

Ten minutes later, they were hurrying into the tide of excited students running pell-mell across the grounds toward the distant pitch. Pomona and Filius joined them, the latter having to jog to the keep up with the long-legged stride of Gryffindor's Head, and Fi felt for his plight, being a bit winded herself once they reached the end of the sloping hill. Her breath escaped in thin white plumes.

"It'd be a fine day for a match," Pomona said, eying the clear and cloudless sky above as she drew the corners of her cloak closer. "If it weren't so bloody cold." She then proceeded to fish a flask out of a pocket filled with seeds and took a long draft. "Ahh, that's better."

Minerva flashed the pleasant woman a reproving look. She missed Fi's lagging stride when the hedge witch slowed and wheedled a drink of her own off Pomona's flask.

The stands surrounding the pitch were an amalgamation of red, yellow, green, and blue, great festoons of mascot flags, students jostling each other for seats as they thundered with excitement and general noise. Fi felt a general sense of alarm at all this: she'd never done particularly well in mob-like settings, disliking the crush of large Muggle cities, the roaring of rallies or protests or busy days in Diagon Alley. The calamity of it all needled with a poignant feeling of weakness and inability.

It was an odd thing to think of while at a sporting event.

By the time Fi settled herself in the staffing section of the stands, high enough for the ground to seem very, very far away, her desire to rib the Potions Master had subsided. She settled onto the wood bench at Snape's side, the only Slytherin in a sea of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors and a smattering of Hufflepuffs. Minerva sidled into a front row seat by the student announcer—Jordan, Fi thought his name was—and Pomona sat somewhere behind Fi with Filius and Septima. Fi kept adjusting herself, rising and sitting, crossing and uncrossing her legs, until Pomona bumped her shoulder and handed her the flask again.