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Lady Snape · 08-14-2005, 05:03 PM

A/N: My first Ron/Hermione fic that I’ve actually finished! To be perfectly honest, I have started many but lost interest half-way through. This particular one all started with a vision I had one night as I lay awake, unable to fall sleep because I was ridiculously afraid a bug would crawl in and lay eggs in my ears (I still sleep with the covers over my head). I had about a five-second movie clip play in my head where Hermione was Seeker and did something rather unusual in order to get the Snitch. Then I asked myself, “well, how would something like that come about?”

Thus, this fanfiction was born.

Initially, I had a very rough but very long plot laid out in my head and intended to make this a full-fledged, multi-chapter adventure. But I got lazy and I really, really just wanted to sit down and write this Quidditch match—which, by the way, is just about the most fun thing I’ve ever written in my life.

Hope you enjoy, and please leave a review if you feel at all inclined. You really have no idea how much I appreciate to hear your thoughts. If anything, I would at least just like to know whether you enjoyed it or not. Please, feel free to express your true opinion :)

And also, if you just want to read the actual game itself and have no interest what-so-ever in the back-story, you may just skip down to the three *** and read from there. I understand.

“Gryffindor Pride”

It was raining that day, as Gryffindor and Slytherin both made their way onto the soggy Quidditch pitch. The weather was very suiting to Hermione, in the sense that it reflected exactly the feeling that she had welling up beneath her quivering red and gold uniform. It was a feeling of foreboding. She had known this was a bad idea from the very beginning!

And yet here she was.

But there was no sense in feeling regret now, she told herself. It was her own fault—her own stubbornness, that had lead to the unfortunate predicament she now found herself in. As newly appointed Gryffindor Seeker in the final game against Slytherin for the Quidditch Cup, Hermione could do nothing but blame herself.

True, Malfoy had baited her into it, but it had been her choice to rise to the challenge. And why shouldn’t I have? she thought loftily. He has been a prat to me far too many times to count, and I refuse to keep letting him walk all over me.

Besides, she knew that even if she didn’t win any respect from him, she was sure to win some from her classmates. And to be quite honest with herself, it wasn’t as much about the respect as it was about that image she kept running through her head. That image of Malfoy’s face as she, Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor Mudblood, zoomed past with the Snitch clutched firmly in her fist. The Snitch that she had just swiped clean from right beneath his twitchy little ferret nose.

The entire affair had all started with nothing more than an insult. And funny enough, it hadn’t even been an insult directed at her—but initially at Harry, for giving up Quidditch so near the end of the season. Of course, the reason for this was that Harry's secret lessons with members of the Order was now taking up basically every possible free moment he had. “Auror training,” he liked to call it, but Hermione knew it was more preparation than anything.

Malfoy, not knowing the true reason, seemed to think it was all very funny.

“What’s your pathetic team going to do now Potty? Have the Mudblood fly in your stead? Even that little Creevey twit can get off the ground! Granger here, can’t even call her own broo—”

That was when Ron had hit him. Hermione, beyond caring about rules, had been nothing but flattered when Malfoy emerged from the fight with a bloody nose and Ron saying that Hermione could fly a whole lot better than a prissy-boy git whose mother couldn’t even stand the sight of him. This was, of course, a lie (Malfoy was mostly right when he said she couldn’t fly) but still flattering all the same. Well, to Hermione anyway. It wasn’t all that flattering to Malfoy.

But as always, the unfortunate being that was Professor Severus Snape, had been prowling around at the time, and aside from twenty-five points from Gryffindor, Ron had also received a ban from the next Quidditch match.

Hermione had been flushed with anger then, instead of embarrassment.

Mere hours later found the three of them sitting alone in the Gryffindor common room, still seething. It was then, with fury still burning brightly in her chest, that Hermione had ground out, “I want to do it, Harry. I want to play Seeker for you.”

Then that was that. Hermione had started taking up practices with the team, staying hours afterwards and practicing with Ron by wand light. It was even during one of these moonlit practices that she and Ron had finally shared their first kiss. Sure it was awkward at first, but a fat long time she had been waiting for it! Finally, she and Ron were officially in the open about their feelings, and nothing could have made her happier.

When told, Harry seemed torn between amusement and delight. In the end he expressed both by hugging them with a roaring laugh.

He was right, of course. They had been stupid.

So, along with having a new boy-friend, Hermione steadily began to improve her flying skills. But she had only just mastered the battered Clean-Sweep Seven that actually belonged to the school and was just about as slow as a broom could get, when something terrible happened; Harry’s Firebolt went missing.

Harry’s Firebolt, that Hermione was supposed to ride in the final match.

When they found out, Harry had been confounded, Ron livid, and Hermione absolutely terrified. How was she supposed to catch a Snitch with a Clean-sweep when Malfoy was zipping around on his own new Firebolt?

Her friends were not much help in this, however.

Pre-occupied with his “Auror training” Harry didn’t seem too concerned, saying that surely it would turn up before the match. He said that if one of the students had taken it, McGonagall was sure to weasel out who in no time. Ron, on the other hand, reassured her that even if it didn’t turn up, she was good enough to face an army of Malfoys on Firebolts. Hermione had thought that sweet, but scolded him for lying.

And as she had predicted, both of them turned out to be outstandingly wrong.

The Firebolt did not turn up (much to everyone’s vexation), and even if it had, there was still no way she would ever be good enough to face an army of Malfoys on Firebolts. Not even one Malfoy on one Firebolt.

So here she was; entering into the final Quidditch match of the year as a temporary Seeker with no real-game experience and only a rotting old Clean-sweep to ride, that quite frankly, would have looked more at home sweeping her front porch than flying her around a Quidditch pitch. Not to mention the fact that she had the entire fate of the Gryffindor House pride riding on her shoulders. That was the scariest thing of all.

How did Harry do it every time?

***

The crowd roared as the two teams took the field. Someone gave her a quick pat on the back, and she had the very vague impression that it was Ron, but by that time she had forgotten even her own name and so wasn’t quite sure. She was so terrified that her entire body seemed to vibrate and the broom in her hand twitched, as though to sympathize with her nerves. Hermione swallowed back the lump in her throat and tried hard not to thing about throwing up.

She knuckled the rain water out of her eyes as Madam Hooch raised her hand and they all mounted up. Hermione’s heart beat a frantic tandem against her chest. She swung her leg over the broom’s handle and got ready to kick off.

It was then that she began to realize just how stupid all of this was. She suddenly forgot why she was even there in the first place. What good in the world could come from this? she thought. But then she saw Malfoy’s face—his jaw slack and eyes bugging out, as he caught sight of her in Quidditch robes, and she remembered exactly why she was there.

Then there was no more time for thought because the whistle blew, and the game began!

If it was in any way possible for the crowd to be more excited about the match, Hermione couldn’t see how. Even the announcer was gasping, cheering, and booing right along with them. The players whizzed around the field, mere blurs of gold and red and green and silver, the Quaffle bouncing between them almost like it had a mind and wings of its own.

Malfoy zoomed by occasionally to shout insults and other such nonsense at her, but most of his taunts were lost in the thunder.

Of course it didn’t really matter that his jeering didn’t reach her, for in all honesty, he was making enough of a fool out of her already. It was quite obvious that Hermione and her broom were ridiculously outstripped. He was literally flying circles around her—not to mention screaming “Mudblood” at the top of his lungs after every pass. Intimidated despite herself, Hermione had to spend every ounce of her concentration on just keeping her balance, let alone attempt a come-back.

Hermione at last decided that she either needed the Snitch to fly right in to her hand (which was highly unlikely) or she needed to find someway to make her broom faster. And do this without the use of a spell, as it was highly illegal. She would rather lose hopelessly to Malfoy than be disqualified because of cheating.

Finally, when it was an hour into the game and Gryffindor was down by twenty points, and when Hermione had all but lost hope of catching sight of the Snitch, her rain-lashed hair weighing her down almost as much as her sodden dreams, that it happened;

Malfoy dived.

“Oh!” bellowed the announcer through the howling wind. “It looks like Malfoy has seen the Snitch—and off he goes! But Granger’s close behind—or at least she was, but Merlin, that Clean-sweep is no match for a Firebolt! Weasley hits a hard Bludger in Malfoy’s direction—looks like it’ll go right past Granger—oh, no wait—I can’t really see but...Holy Mother of Merlin!—Granger has grabbed onto the Bludger and seems to be using it to tow her along! I don’t believe it—I think—I think it’s working! She’s actually gaining on Malfoy! Never in my life have I—(gasp) they’re going to hit!—No—Malfoy ducks—the Bludger misses—Granger makes a grab for the Snitch...Did she catch it?”

As one, the entire crowd held their breath.

“Yes! Yes, she’s caught the—Oooh!”

The crowd groaned.

“Granger takes a hard hit to the head from the Bludger as it turns around for another go at Malfoy—Ouch, I could hear that crack from here! That was a pretty hard hit, and I think she’s—yes—she’s off the broom now...She’s falling—falling—fall—” THUD. “Good Lord, someone get Madam Pomfrey down there right away! I hope she’s alright, but wow—what a catch! Gryffindor wins the Quidditch Cup three-hundred sixty to one-hundred and ten!”

Hermione lay on her back, her breath coming in short, hitched gasps as big, fat raindrops pattered on her up-turned face. With eyes closed tight against the over-whelming waves of pain that seemed to be crashing like tidal waves through her entire body, the only tie she had to the world around her was the sound of the roaring crowd. It should have made her happy, but all she could think about was how much everything hurt. Why had she done that? It was so stupid! And she didn’t even get to see Malfoy’s face.

Hermione could vaguely feel the Snitch fluttering and tugging on her tightly clenched fist, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t tell her hand to let it go. In fact, she couldn’t make her fingers move at all. Her whole body seemed detached to her. A wave, this time of panic, washed over her. What if she had caused some sort of permanent damage?

Hermione tried desperately not to think about that possibility and tried instead to focus on the crowd that was still roaring, stamping, and hooting in a thunderous applause. Then, as her hearing buzzed, fading in and out as though with the beat of her heart, she began to pick out separate voices from the crowd—familiar voices.

“Someone get Madam Pomfrey!” a person yelled quite nearby. Hermione noted dimly that some of the crowd seemed to have made their way onto the field.

“I don’t think she’s here—I haven’t seen her all game,” said another person to Hermione’s left.

“Well then someone run to the hospital wing and get her!”

“She’s not at Hogwarts at all!” squeaked someone else. “She’s at St. Mungo’s!”

There was a sudden burst of muttering at this, circling around and around Hermione’s head until she felt even dizzier than before—which was saying something. She wished they would stop yelling. Her head really hurt.

“But I don’t know how to heal this!” continued the first person, who Hermione was pretty sure she knew, but couldn’t quite place. “And Dumbledore’s away too! Who’s going to help—?”

Hermione had the vague impression of a soft, familiar voice cutting through the noise of the crowd as someone kneeled beside her in the grass.

“I have returned, Miss Weasley. Please calm...”

But Hermione didn’t hear any more, because grateful darkness finally leapt up with its great jaws wide open, and swallowed her.

She didn’t wake again for a very long time.

....................................

Consciousness came back to Hermione very slowly, and in different stages of awareness. First, the only thing she could feel was a dull ache on the left side of her head, just above her temple where the Bludger had hit. But the pain wasn’t terrible, and was certainly a big improvement on what she had been feeling when it first happened. Next, she noticed that the surface beneath her back was not wet grass, but instead, the crisp starched sheets that she always recognized as belonging to beds in the Hospital Wing. Her hearing started to come back after that, but the only thing it revealed was that there was a window open somewhere, and a bird had settled somewhere near it, chirping happily.

The final feeling that came to her, just before Hermione opened her eyes, was that there was an oddly heavy sort of weight pressing on the back of her right hand—the one that had once held a fluttering Snitch.

Oh, right, I caught the Snitch!

With that exhilarating thought, Hermione finally found the strength to lift her heavy eyelids and at last take in her surroundings. Upon her first momentary inspection of the ceiling, Hermione realized that she was indeed in the Hospital Wing, and by the light, it appeared to be sometime in the early morning. Then she looked down and realized with a start, exactly what the oddly heavy weight on her hand was.

It was a head.

A head that sported fiery red hair and a freckle smattered face—whose cheek was pushed up against her knuckles and was drooling slightly on her beige bed cover.

A quick glance around the room also revealed another head, but this one with a tangle of messy black hair and resting so far over the back of its chair that its mouth had fallen open and its glasses were askew, balancing precariously on its forehead, just above a pair of dark, raised eyebrows.

Both were snoring soundly.

Cute, Hermione thought. A sudden rush of warmth flowed through her, and she smiled happily, knowing that all would be right again in no time. Her last thought was something along the lines of, Those two, and then she took one last, fond look at the friends by her side before closing her tired, aching eyes and promptly falling right back to sleep.

Fin

A/N: Thank you for your time, I hope you enjoyed it. And once again, comments are greatly appreciated.

hpNERD · 08-15-2005, 04:56 AM

as i was short on time, i only read the game...but i thought the idea of using the bludger was brilliant. I also think your writing is superb...it's very discriptive (I especially liked when you described the quaffle as seeming to have a mind and wings of its own.)

Elevationist · 08-15-2005, 05:06 AM

Your writing style is amongst some of the best I've come across in fanfic, and I'm extremely judgemental when it comes to this sort of thing.

Way to go... Keep writing! Your work is a joy to read.

Lady Snape · 08-15-2005, 07:15 PM

Two very flattering reviews--thank you so much!

hpNERD: Although you were short on time, thank you for sparing what you did to read my work (and review too!) I like to know that my descriptions are well received. They are a big part of my style it seems.

Elavationist: Among the best? Really? Alright! Thanks

And I'm very happy to hear that you found enjoyment in reading my humble work.