Paisley Higgs | (Sirius Black)

Chapter 7- Border Collie Stare

I sort of wish I had gone to the stupid dress shop.

Sports stores are always such a bore.

I know. I know what you're thinking. "But Paisley, don't you love Quodpot?! Didn't you steal a broom and get yourself pecked by a bunch of psychotic bluejays all because you wanted to fly?"

And you, of course, have brought up two excellent points.

But here's the thing you need to understand about all that... I only stole the broom because I wanted to be like Clemy. She was my big sister— my super cool, talented, awesome, big sister. Who wouldn't want to be like her?

I'd grown up hearing stories about how she was a natural athlete— from the second she rode her first broom at the tender age of three. I'd watched, nestled in my mother's thunderbird blanket in the roaring stands as she soared through the sky at her school games, golden hair flying behind her, zooming past the opposing team to dunk the game winning Quod in the pot just as the buzzer blared. I'd seen the looks of pride on my parents faces when she'd run onto the field with her sparkling white smile and misty blue eyes.

A look of pride I'd never been able to inspire.

My parents had the good sense to keep me as far away from flying objects as possible growing up; I was as accident prone as kids came— but part of me always wondered... if they had let me fly when I was younger, like they had with Clemy, maybe I would have been good at it too.

But we all know how that plan worked out.

With me. In a tree. Being pecked to death by angry pink bluejays until a confused, but kind little boy wearing patched up overalls, climbed off his bike and up said tree to save me.

Matty hadn't stopped saving me ever since.

Which brings us back to why I love Quodpot. I love it because Matty loves it. It's really as simple as that. It's also the reason I got into comics— because Matty was obsessed with them.

But the name of that shop I was stuck in wasn't Quality Quodpot Supplies... it was Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Quidditch. A stupid, complicated game with no explosions, which I had absolutely no emotional investment in, nor any desire to understand.

I kept my opinion of the sport to myself, however, as I walked in Sirius's shadow through the rows and rows of broom detailing kits, protective equipment, and memorabilia. No need to needlessly drum up any enemies.

After what felt like hours (but was probably more like forty-five minutes), Sirius finally decided what he was going to get. He set a round, metal contraption— which he had explained was a compass of sorts— and a pair of expensive, top-of-the-line, specialty, dragon-hide gloves on the old wooden counter.

The store clerk, a stout boy, a little older than us with brown hair, a crooked nose kind of like Matty's, and tons of freckles like me, eyed the items for a moment then looked up. "Black..." he said, picking up the gloves trying to hand them back. "These are chasers gloves."

(Oh, the clerk was also Scottish. Forgot to mention that part.)

Sirius seemed like he was trying very hard not to smile. "Excellent observation, Wood."

"No, didn't ye hear me? You've got chasers gloves here—"

"Exactly."

"No—but they won't—" Wood caught the mischievous glint in Sirius's eyes the same time I did, though it must've made more sense to him. "Och! You've got to be kiddin' me!" He threw the gloves back on to the counter. "No! No, you've got to be barmy if you think I'm sellin' you chasers gloves!"