** Fic: If At First You Don't Succeed, Fly, Fly Again ** for snorkackcatcher
Title: If At First You Don't Succeed, Fly, Fly Again
Author: briony_tallis
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5000
Character(s): Michael Corner, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein, and various other Ravenclaw cameos
Summary: Michael Corner is going to be on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team this year. Even if it kills him.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: First time writing the Ravenclaw crew, hope you enjoy this fic!
*****
"I'm going to be on the Quidditch team this year," Michael Corner announced proudly, sitting up straight in his seat. "I've waited long enough, don't you think? And I've spent the whole summer practicing. This is finally it. The wait is over."
Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot exchanged a glance before turning their eyes back to Michael. "Yeah, sure, mate," said Terry. "I'm glad to hear it."
"Bang on," Anthony added, with a smile that looked as though he were struggling not to vomit. "Quidditch all the way."
Michael glared at his two closest friends. "I know what you're doing," he said. "But I mean it this time. It's going to happen. Davies can't deny me this year."
"You know," Terry said slowly, holding his hands out in front of him, in preparation for an attack, "there may, in fact, be a reason you haven't been on the Quidditch team before, Corner."
"Yes, there was," Michael replied aggressively, leaning forward. "It's because there were older guys on the team. Now that people have finished school, it's finally my turn to play."
"Have you considered becoming a cheerleader?" Anthony asked, grinning wryly. Michael threw a sofa cushion at him.
"Well, good luck," said Terry, after stifling his laughter with an explosion of poorly-faked coughs. "If you need any help practicing, just let us know."
"Yes, do, and we'll know to hide under our covers," Anthony added.
"Sod off," Michael snapped, snatching a book at random off a nearby table. He opened the cover forcefully and propped the book up in front of his face. "I'll show the both of you who's Quidditch captain next season."
"I'm worried about him," Anthony said in an undertone, as he and Terry delicately took their leave. "He's going to be miserable when he doesn't make the cut."
"I'm more worried about his physical health," Terry countered, crossing his arms over his chest. "You remember what happened in third year, I suppose."
"Ooh, let's take bets on what he breaks this time." Anthony fished in his pockets for coins. "Ten sickles says he manages to get both arms this year." Terry gave him a withering look. "All right, five," Anthony amended.
"I can hear you," Michael shouted from across the room. Terry and Anthony snorted and hurried up the stairs to their beds.
*****
Michael set his broom down on the grass and stared down at it. It looked so innocent and useless, nothing but a twisted brown stick lying helplessly on the ground. It didn't look complicated or dangerous at all. Still, it held a mystery to it, a magical beauty that drew Michael in and made him want it more than anything. Sure, he valued all of his school subjects. He was in Ravenclaw, after all; they had a tendency to appreciate most avenues of thought. But things like Transfiguration and Potions were nothing but science to Michael Corner. He only had to follow directions, and the results would come, the same for anyone else. Flying, however, and playing Quidditch, that was where the magic was. That took more than simple dedication. It took skill, and it took ability. Michael wanted that ability.
He took a deep breath and held his hand over the ground. "Up!" The broom quivered slightly before jumping up into his hand. The slap of the wood against his palm sent a jolt through his heart, releasing a stream of adrenaline through his nerves. Michael grinned. This was certainly an improvement over previous years, in which his broomstick would roll around on the grass instead of rising to meet him.
Mounting the broom, however, still caused some trouble. Michael stumbled over the stick, which bounced slightly underneath him, jostling him off the other side so that he landed hard on the ground. "Calm down," he admonished it, climbing carefully back on. The broom took off before he was ready, soaring up into the air much too fast, and he once again found himself sliding off the side and thumping down onto the grass. "Stop that!"
The Comet he'd borrowed from the Hogwarts Quidditch rooms was not very loyal to Michael. It did not listen to him at all, in fact, and continued floating away from him. "Oi! Get back here!" Michael jumped up and down with his arms outstretched, but it was no use. Finally, he managed to get his wand out and Accio the broom back to him.
"Stupid piece of wood," he muttered. He was not going to give up just because of a stubborn stick. Breathing slowly, Michael seated himself once again upon the broom, holding on tight and praying it wouldn't move just yet. "All right," he said proudly, once he was steadily on board. "Let's do this!"
He floated around the Quidditch pitch several times, going slowly until he was used to the feel of the broom between his legs. He had practiced over the summer, he hadn't lied to his friends. Still, he had never seemed to get very far flying, and not owning any Quidditch balls hadn't really helped. Michael leaned forward, gripping the front of the broom so tightly his hands ached, and began to gain speed. "Yes, yes, yes," he chanted, as the wind whipped his hair back, as he finally felt the glorious freedom he'd been hoping for.
"Corner!" There was a sudden loud shout, which came as quite a shock to Michael. The Comet didn't seem to like it, either; it stopped abruptly in mid-air.
Michael gasped and tumbled head over foot over the front of the broom, spinning through the air and landing very heavily on the grass below. "Oomph," he wheezed, holding his stomach. His vision was swimming; he could barely see the broom still hovering in the air above. "What is wrong with you? I could have been killed, you know," Michael said angrily, sitting up slowly and rubbing the back of his head.
"You realize you were only flying five feet off the ground," said Terry, standing over him with his arms crossed over his chest.
"Yes," Michael snorted, though his face flushed a bright shade of red. He allowed Terry to help him up off the ground. "It still hurts, you know. What are you doing out here, anyway? Completely ruining my concentration."
"It's getting late," Terry replied simply, shrugging his shoulders. "Thought you might want to come to bed before you killed yourself, rather than after."
"You're a regular comedian," Michael replied. "I've only barely started out here, Boot. It's hardly past sunset. I think you're just trying to ridicule me."
"If I were," Terry said with a smile, "I'd have Anthony with me. So be grateful."
"Yeah, yeah, thanks a lot," Michael said sarcastically. "I am getting better at flying, you know."
"Of course you are," said Terry, as they walked back up to the castle together. "You know what they say. Practice makes perfect."
"Exactly."
"And in your case, you can use all the practice you can get."
"Terry, I swear to Merlin, I am going to learn seven new jinxes this week, for the sole purpose of trying them out on you."
"Let's hope you're as good as those as you are at Quidditch, then."
"Is Anthony hiding behind that tree or something?"
"All right, all right, I'm sorry."
*****
"Okay, so here's what we're going to do," Michael said seriously, gripping his broomstick in his left hand and trying to stand up as straight as he could. "When I say go, you release the Snitch, and I'll go Seek it."
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Padma Patil eyed the golden ball in her hand before giving Michael a worried look. "I don't know if you're ready for this."
"Will you stop complaining and just go along with it? You said you would help me practice."
"Yeah, but that was before I noticed Terry and Anthony snickering in the corner."
Michael scowled at her. "They're only trying to get a rise out of us, Patil. Now are you going to release the Snitch or what?"
Padma shrugged. "All right," she said. "But I'm a terrible flier, Corner, so don't expect me to come up there and bail you out if you get into trouble." She cocked her head at him. "Why didn't you ask Roger Davies or somebody who actually flies to help you?"
"Roger Davies does not yet respect my tenacity for flight," Michael replied.
"So he'd be snickering with the others, then."
"Shut up and let the ball go."
Padma opened her hand and watched the glittering Snitch dart up into the sky. It vanished in a golden blur faster than their eyes could follow, but Michael jumped up on his broom and soared up into the sky, holding a hand over his eyes to block out the sun as he searched for it.
"Careful," Padma called up to him, as he wobbled on his broom slightly, and Michael lowered his hand to hold on with both palms.
He took a deep breath and flew in wide, crooked circles, his eyes scanning the sky for any sign of a flying ball. The broom rose higher and higher beneath him, and Michael felt his heart hammering in his chest. He wasn't used to being so high up, and he could barely look down. He shifted downward slightly, trying not to topple over, getting himself back down to a manageable height, where he wouldn't be killed if he did fall. He worried he would never see the Snitch from so low, but he had to start where he could.
But there! The Snitch glittered at him from across the pitch, and Michael leaned in low over his broom, darting over in an attempt to catch it. He tentatively reached an arm out, following the Snitch in a zigzag line, the broom trembling between his legs. "Please, please hold," Michael begged it, as he watched the Snitch come closer and closer to him. He was almost there...he was going to do this...they'd all be sorry they'd laughed at him....
The Snitch banked a hard left, and Michael, following it, smashed into the sidelines, having misjudged the turn horribly. The golden Snitch continued on its flight, as Michael slid slowly down to the ground, where Padma Patil was waiting with her hands over her mouth in horror.
"Oh, oh, hold still," she shrieked, rushing over and collapsing onto the ground beside him. "Are you all right? Can you walk? We need to get you to the Hospital Wing immediately."
"No, I'm fine," Michael groaned, shaking his arms gently to get some feeling back into them. "Stupid Snitch got away from me."
"I really think we should go to Madam Pomfrey, just in case," Padma said, as she helped Michael to his feet.
"Girls and their incessant worrying," Michael said, wincing as he touched his aching nose. "I'm barely hurt at all."
"I don't know, your nose looks a little off," said Padma. "You know, I don't think you're a very good flier, Michael."
"Will you lay off?" He pushed himself away from her, limping slowly off the pitch. "I'll go to Hospital, if it means so much to you. But it's not because I'm a bad flier. I'm just not meant to be a Seeker, is all. I'll try for Chaser instead."
"Good luck," said Padma, her brow furrowed as she watched him go. "Are you sure you don't need help?"
"Of course I'm sure," he snapped back at her. "I'll get the feeling back any second now."
"Boys," said Padma, rolling her eyes. "I don't even know why I agreed to this. I'm going back to our tower, Michael. You have a lovely evening."
"I sure will," he said firmly, as Padma brushed past him. And he would, as soon as he got someone to put his face back together.
*****
"Corner, you look terrible," Anthony said. "Are you sure you should be doing this to yourself?"
"It'll all be worth it, believe me," Michael replied with a nod. They were floating about six feet above the ground, and Anthony was tossing a Quaffle up and down repeatedly. Michael hadn't wanted to ask Goldstein for help, but he was a much better flier than Terry, who didn't seem to share Michael's enthusiasm for learning the skill. "Let's start."
"I want it known up front that I wasn't planning on killing you," Anthony said. "You know, in the case of any legal problems later. No matter how much money I've got on you failing, I don't want that to factor into my motivations in the slightest." Michael glared at him. "Just so we're clear."
"Oh, we're so clear, Goldstein. Throw the stupid Quaffle already!" Michael promptly took a Quaffle to the face, re-injuring the nose he'd just had fixed not a week earlier. "Damn it, Anthony, I wasn't ready!"
"Pardon me," Anthony replied dryly, ducking down to catch the fumbled ball. "Surely I heard you wrong when you told me to throw. My sincerest apologies."
"All right," Michael said sourly. "I'm going to fly past and you throw it to me."
"Oh, are we skipping the actual learning of to catch a large red ball? Seems like you ought to master the basics before we start getting complicated with actual flying."
"I knew I should have asked Terry."
"So did I, mate. Are you ready to sustain injury again? Because I've got this frighteningly enormous Quaffle all loaded up for you."
"Of course I'm ready." The ball soared neatly over Michael's head and headed straight back down to the ground below.
"Merlin, Corner, are you even trying?" Anthony took off to retrieve the Quaffle again.
"I most certainly am trying," Michael insisted, though he hadn't really gone diving for the catch. He was still worried he was going to fall off his broom, and didn't know if he could handle making any sudden moves. But he certainly wasn't going to tell Anthony Goldstein that. "The sun was in my eyes, is all."
"Oh, of course, the blinding light of the setting sun. I must be imagining those rays in my face, because surely you're the one facing the light there." Anthony threw the Quaffle harder, purposely aiming for Michael's chest that time. It hit its mark, and Michael slid off his broom with a loud "Oomph," smacking into the grass.
"You're sabotaging me," Michael said miserably from his spot below, shaking a fist up at the sky.
"You have all the coordination of a frustrated child," Anthony called down to his so-called friend. "Who's lacking his appendages."
"Oi, don't go attacking my limbs," Michael cried. "They've done nothing wrong."
"Except gotten themselves attached to a git," Anthony replied.
"I am never helping you with your Potions homework again," Michael declared, rolling over and grunting as he climbed to his feet.
"Woe is me," said Anthony. He flew down to the ground, holding Michael's broom out towards him with a wide grin. "Ready for another round?"
"Yes," said Michael, and let out another "Oomph" as the Quaffle once again smacked him upside the head. "Damn it, Goldstein!"
"I'd like to remind you of my earlier declaration," Anthony choked out through his raucous laughter. "I swear on Merlin's wand itself I am not doing this on purpose."
Michael picked up the Quaffle and aimed it at his friend. "We'll see who's laughing," he shouted, and threw the ball as hard as he could.
The red ball soared high in a crooked arc, missing Anthony by about a mile. "Ooh, my spleen," said Goldstein, as he rocketed back to fetch the sphere. "You're an amazing Chaser, Corner, I don't know how the opposing team could ever keep up with you."
"That's it," Michael said, beaming as he rubbed his arm. "I'll Keep! Anthony, you're brilliant."
"Well, I won't deny that," said Anthony. "But are you sure Keeping is quite right? You weren't so hot with the catching, there. You do know how the game of Quidditch works?"
"Oh, go stuff yourself," Michael replied. "I'm going to be the best Keeper that Hogwarts has ever seen."
"That makes sense, seeing as the castle has no eyes," Anthony joked.
*****
The Quaffle was coming straight at him! Michael twisted and dived, holding his arms out to make the catch, and the crowd roared as he saved the critical shot in the Quidditch final, bringing absolute victory to Ravenclaw house. Girls swarmed him once he'd touched back down to earth, peppering him with kisses and invitations to dates.
"Michael," said Terry sternly, "are you listening to me? How do you expect to get all of these essays done if you're just going to sit around daydreaming all afternoon?"
"What?" Michael lifted his head from his stack of textbooks with a dazed expression on his face. When he realized how frustrated Terry was with him, he leaped into action, shuffling his parchment around on the table. "Oh, yeah, yeah. Look, Terry, I'm on it. Don't worry so much. I could do this stuff with my eyes jinxed shut."
"How's Quidditch practice coming?" Anthony asked, from his place lounging on the sofa. "Tryouts are next weekend already. You wouldn't want to miss your chance to shine. Or, you know, provide some comic relief for the spectators."
"It's going fine." Michael tapped his stack of papers on the table a couple of times. "But I don't think Keeper is my position, after all."
"So you missed every shot, then," Terry said.
"That's beside the point," Michael replied. "I want something more exciting. I managed to convince last year's Hufflepuff Beaters to teach me a trick or two about their position. We're scheduled to take the field after lunch tomorrow."
Terry and Anthony exchanged a terrified glance. "Oh, no, no, no," Terry said, grabbing Michael's arm. "Michael, seriously, no."
"What? Girls fancy Beaters. It's a proven scientific fact." He rummaged through his robes. "I must have the figures in here somewhere."
"Look, it was all fun and games when you were just falling off brooms and missing catches," said Anthony, sitting upright. "But we can't have you getting yourself killed, mate."
"I beg you not to go anywhere near a Bludger," said Terry. "Please, for all our sakes."
"Yeah, who'd do my Potions homework if you weren't around?" Anthony asked with a grin. Terry glared at him.
Michael huffed and slammed his parchment down onto the table. "Why do you two keep ruining my fun? I'm trying to learn here. We're Ravenclaws, remember? We're supposed to love learning? How are you going to dare take away the thing I want to learn most of all?"
"Michael, it's not always possible to learn everything," Terry said. "There are some things we just can't master."
Michael sighed. "I know," he said dejectedly. "I'm starting to think I'm just not cut out for Quidditch."
"Well, Merlin lives, he's figured it out," said Anthony.
"But you've got to let me try out, at least," Michael said. "I won't rest until I've tried out." He brightened. "They might let me on the reserves!"
Terry and Anthony looked at one another with the same resigned expression on their faces.
*****
"All right," said Roger Davies, clapping his hands together. "We all know why we're here, so I'm not going to give some grand speech about it. Line up according to position, please. Chasers first, followed by Keepers, Beaters, and Seekers."
Michael shifted from one foot to another as he waited in line, beats of sweat dripping down his back as his turn came nearer and nearer. He'd been practicing his flying every evening for the last two weeks. It felt as though he'd been practicing for this moment for his entire life. It seemed like each person who went before him flew better than the last, and Michael was finding it harder and harder to breathe. Finally, it was his turn.
"Oh, great," said Davies, as he noticed Michael stumble onto the field. "You again. Don't think I've forgotten what happened last time you tried out for the team."
"Hey, give me some credit," Michael choked out, mustering up a big, fake grin of confidence. "That was two years ago, remember? I'm much older and wiser now."
"Well, let's see what you've got." Roger blew his whistle and tossed Michael a Quaffle. Luckily for everyone, Michael caught it easily. "Get up there."
Michael swung a leg over his broom and soared quickly up into the air. He felt a bubble of joy burst in his chest as he realized that he'd finally managed to control his broom in exactly the way he wanted. It seemed all those hours practicing had paid off, after all. He could only hope the rest would follow suit.
"Now, are you a Keeper or a Chaser?" Roger asked, hovering beside him in midair. "I seem to remember you trying for Chaser last time, only you're in the Keeper line now."
Michael glanced down at the box of Quidditch supplies sitting on the ground beneath him. In it, the two Bludgers were pulling madly at their restraints. "Er, yeah, think I'll stick with Keeper," Michael said with a hard swallow. Terry and Anthony were right about one thing, at least. He did not want to face one of those things.
Davies sighed. "Let's get this over with, then." A pause, in which nothing at all happened. "Corner, give me that Quaffle and get over to your goal posts," Roger said angrily.
"Oh, yeah." Michael tossed the red ball and flew carefully over to the three goals, which stood menacingly before him. There were three of them, and they were just spaced so far apart. How could anyone possibly keep up?
Roger Davies was on him before he could even prepare himself, soaring in quick and tossing the Quaffle straight through the hole on the left. "Think quickly, Corner, get over there!" He shouted, diving to catch his own ball and coming around again for another go.
Michael steeled himself for it this time, gripping his broomstick tightly and waiting patiently. Yes, he could do this, he could definitely - Davies scored on him again. "Okay, I'm ready this time!" Michael called out with a wave of his hand. "Can we start over?"
"Two to zero," Davies called back as he came up for another shot.
This time, Michael darted over and managed to make the save, gasping as the Quaffle smacked him in the shoulder. He nearly fell off his broom, but he was ecstatic. "Haha, victory!"
"Two to one," said Roger. "Let's give Bradley a go."
Bradley was even quicker than his Captain, but Michael still somehow stopped one of his two shots, again with a shout of mixed pain and excitement. "You see, I can do this!"
"Three to two," said Roger. "One more and then we'll see how the others fare."
"Okay," said Michael. He was feeling better than he ever had. Getting top marks in his school essays, casting powerful spells with a flick of the wand, that was nothing, it was child's play. But this, being up in the air, catching Quaffles off his arms and legs, struggling madly to stay afloat when his broom wanted so badly to dump him to the ground far below? This was real living.
Bradley came in quick, zigzagging down the field with a manic grin. Michael swooped back and forth, desperately trying to guess which goal he would aim for, desperately hoping to prove himself. Finally, after all of these years, all this time, he was going to prove them all wrong.
Bradley made the throw, and Michael dived for it, missing spectacularly and losing the battle against gravity. The Quaffle sailed neatly through the right post, and Michael fell to the left, shouting as his broom spun away from him in a crazed arc. "Give me another try!" He shouted, before he even realized what exactly had happened. The ground rushed up to meet him, and he didn't even have enough time to panic before everything went black.
*****
"You see," said Anthony's voice in the dark. He sounded triumphant. "I told you he'd get them both this year."
Michael opened his eyes to a bright world of pain. His arms and legs were numb, and his head felt as though ten Bludgers had beaten him into submission. He was in a bed in the Hospital Wing, and his two best mates were sitting beside him. "Hey, Terry," he said weakly. "Anthony. What happened?"
"What do you think happened?" Terry asked. "You tried out for Quidditch."
"Oh, yeah." The memory came back to him in a rush, and Michael felt a fresh burst of adrenaline release in his veins. "Did I make the team?"
His friends stared at him. "Is that a serious question?" Terry asked.
"I think we'll need to conjure up a mirror for him," said Anthony. "Check out your limbs, Corner."
Michael looked to his left and right. Each of his arms and legs looked bruised and shriveled, and were being held in some kind of frozen state; he was unable to move them. "I broke them all this year, didn't I," he said miserably.
"I'm afraid so," Terry replied.
"Man, I really wish Terry'd taken the bet," Anthony said. "I could have won ten sickles!"
"Now, now, everybody out!" Madam Pomfrey had burst into the room, waving her arms anxiously at Terry and Anthony. "The boy needs his rest." She gave Michael a stern look. "Don't try to move your limbs, Mr. Corner. I did manage to set the bones, but they need to be kept still overnight for proper healing. And you'd best get to sleep. You'll need all the rest you can get."
"But did I make the team?" Michael demanded, as his friends got up to leave. "I saved three out of five!"
"Michael, I really am sorry, but you didn't make the cut," said Terry.
"Davies rather prefers people who can actually stay on their brooms," Anthony added. "Better luck next year, mate."
Michael closed his eyes and sighed heavily. Quidditch was the worst thing in the entire world. He thought that already, and he hadn't even spent the entire night yet with a terrible itch on his arm he couldn't scratch.
*****
Bright sunlight spilled into the room, and Michael slid sleepily out of bed. "Morning, boys," he said, and proceeded to nearly trip over the pile of presents on the floor. "Oh, holy Merlin, it's Christmas!"
"Welcome to reality," came Anthony's voice from behind the bed curtains to his left. "You want us to remind you of where you are, too?"
"Oh, hush up," Michael replied. He lifted the first wrapped gift and shook it lightly. "Wonder what this one is."
"Wonder how you could find out," Anthony said sarcastically.
"So testy in the mornings," Michael said teasingly. He tore the paper off the present. "A new Astronomy book! Thanks, Terry." No response. "Aw, our little slumber bear."
"I am awake to hear that," Terry said with a grunt.
Michael tore through his gifts as quickly as he could, exclaiming with delight at every one. "Hey, Anthony, this is great," he said, thumbing through the Quidditch book Anthony had given him.
"I figured, since you'd given up on playing, you might prefer to simply watch, like the rest of us earthbound humans," Anthony said as he emerged from his bed.
"Yeah, this is much better," Michael agreed, as he watched the Wimbourne Wasps practice in a photograph on page fifty-seven. "I'm never trying out for Quidditch again, believe me. It only takes six broken bones to convince me. I'm much happier watching. And it turns out, despite not playing Quidditch, I can still date Quidditch girls! Who would have guessed?" He shifted, and the pile of gifts moved beneath him, dislodging the one sitting at the very bottom of the bunch, which rolled out into the middle of the room.
"What's that?" Anthony asked, pointing to said gift with an odd expression on his face.
Michael picked up the present. It was long, thin, and firm, which gave him a sinking feeling. Tearing open the paper, it was exactly as he'd feared. A gloriously beautiful Nimbus broomstick sat heavily in his hands.
"There's a note," said Anthony, picking the card up off the floor. "Dear Michael, we remembered how excited you were about trying out for Quidditch this year. Hope this broom helps you soar to new heights! Love, Mum and Dad." He looked up at Michael with his eyes wide. His lips twitched, and then Anthony burst into laughter. "Are you parents Masters of Irony or what?"
"Wow," said Michael, weighing the broom in his hands. "A Nimbus."
"Yeah," said Anthony, moving in closer to examine the gift. "So, since you've given up Quidditch, can I buy that off you? I'll give you a seriously good deal."
"Are you kidding? This golden stick is getting me onto a Quidditch team!" Michael leaped to his feet, brandishing his new broom in the air. "A Nimbus is sure to improve my flying, and Davies will have to let me on the reserves! I'll see you boys later, I'm off to join the ranks of men!" He dashed out of the room.
Terry poked his head out of his curtains. "Did I really just hear what I think I did?"
Anthony shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid so."
"Another Christmas scraping our friend out of the dirt," Terry said.
"It's heartbreaking, really." Anthony grinned. "I'll bet you a Galleon he breaks his arms again."
Author: briony_tallis
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5000
Character(s): Michael Corner, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein, and various other Ravenclaw cameos
Summary: Michael Corner is going to be on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team this year. Even if it kills him.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: First time writing the Ravenclaw crew, hope you enjoy this fic!
*****
"I'm going to be on the Quidditch team this year," Michael Corner announced proudly, sitting up straight in his seat. "I've waited long enough, don't you think? And I've spent the whole summer practicing. This is finally it. The wait is over."
Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot exchanged a glance before turning their eyes back to Michael. "Yeah, sure, mate," said Terry. "I'm glad to hear it."
"Bang on," Anthony added, with a smile that looked as though he were struggling not to vomit. "Quidditch all the way."
Michael glared at his two closest friends. "I know what you're doing," he said. "But I mean it this time. It's going to happen. Davies can't deny me this year."
"You know," Terry said slowly, holding his hands out in front of him, in preparation for an attack, "there may, in fact, be a reason you haven't been on the Quidditch team before, Corner."
"Yes, there was," Michael replied aggressively, leaning forward. "It's because there were older guys on the team. Now that people have finished school, it's finally my turn to play."
"Have you considered becoming a cheerleader?" Anthony asked, grinning wryly. Michael threw a sofa cushion at him.
"Well, good luck," said Terry, after stifling his laughter with an explosion of poorly-faked coughs. "If you need any help practicing, just let us know."
"Yes, do, and we'll know to hide under our covers," Anthony added.
"Sod off," Michael snapped, snatching a book at random off a nearby table. He opened the cover forcefully and propped the book up in front of his face. "I'll show the both of you who's Quidditch captain next season."
"I'm worried about him," Anthony said in an undertone, as he and Terry delicately took their leave. "He's going to be miserable when he doesn't make the cut."
"I'm more worried about his physical health," Terry countered, crossing his arms over his chest. "You remember what happened in third year, I suppose."
"Ooh, let's take bets on what he breaks this time." Anthony fished in his pockets for coins. "Ten sickles says he manages to get both arms this year." Terry gave him a withering look. "All right, five," Anthony amended.
"I can hear you," Michael shouted from across the room. Terry and Anthony snorted and hurried up the stairs to their beds.
*****
Michael set his broom down on the grass and stared down at it. It looked so innocent and useless, nothing but a twisted brown stick lying helplessly on the ground. It didn't look complicated or dangerous at all. Still, it held a mystery to it, a magical beauty that drew Michael in and made him want it more than anything. Sure, he valued all of his school subjects. He was in Ravenclaw, after all; they had a tendency to appreciate most avenues of thought. But things like Transfiguration and Potions were nothing but science to Michael Corner. He only had to follow directions, and the results would come, the same for anyone else. Flying, however, and playing Quidditch, that was where the magic was. That took more than simple dedication. It took skill, and it took ability. Michael wanted that ability.
He took a deep breath and held his hand over the ground. "Up!" The broom quivered slightly before jumping up into his hand. The slap of the wood against his palm sent a jolt through his heart, releasing a stream of adrenaline through his nerves. Michael grinned. This was certainly an improvement over previous years, in which his broomstick would roll around on the grass instead of rising to meet him.
Mounting the broom, however, still caused some trouble. Michael stumbled over the stick, which bounced slightly underneath him, jostling him off the other side so that he landed hard on the ground. "Calm down," he admonished it, climbing carefully back on. The broom took off before he was ready, soaring up into the air much too fast, and he once again found himself sliding off the side and thumping down onto the grass. "Stop that!"
The Comet he'd borrowed from the Hogwarts Quidditch rooms was not very loyal to Michael. It did not listen to him at all, in fact, and continued floating away from him. "Oi! Get back here!" Michael jumped up and down with his arms outstretched, but it was no use. Finally, he managed to get his wand out and Accio the broom back to him.
"Stupid piece of wood," he muttered. He was not going to give up just because of a stubborn stick. Breathing slowly, Michael seated himself once again upon the broom, holding on tight and praying it wouldn't move just yet. "All right," he said proudly, once he was steadily on board. "Let's do this!"
He floated around the Quidditch pitch several times, going slowly until he was used to the feel of the broom between his legs. He had practiced over the summer, he hadn't lied to his friends. Still, he had never seemed to get very far flying, and not owning any Quidditch balls hadn't really helped. Michael leaned forward, gripping the front of the broom so tightly his hands ached, and began to gain speed. "Yes, yes, yes," he chanted, as the wind whipped his hair back, as he finally felt the glorious freedom he'd been hoping for.
"Corner!" There was a sudden loud shout, which came as quite a shock to Michael. The Comet didn't seem to like it, either; it stopped abruptly in mid-air.
Michael gasped and tumbled head over foot over the front of the broom, spinning through the air and landing very heavily on the grass below. "Oomph," he wheezed, holding his stomach. His vision was swimming; he could barely see the broom still hovering in the air above. "What is wrong with you? I could have been killed, you know," Michael said angrily, sitting up slowly and rubbing the back of his head.
"You realize you were only flying five feet off the ground," said Terry, standing over him with his arms crossed over his chest.
"Yes," Michael snorted, though his face flushed a bright shade of red. He allowed Terry to help him up off the ground. "It still hurts, you know. What are you doing out here, anyway? Completely ruining my concentration."
"It's getting late," Terry replied simply, shrugging his shoulders. "Thought you might want to come to bed before you killed yourself, rather than after."
"You're a regular comedian," Michael replied. "I've only barely started out here, Boot. It's hardly past sunset. I think you're just trying to ridicule me."
"If I were," Terry said with a smile, "I'd have Anthony with me. So be grateful."
"Yeah, yeah, thanks a lot," Michael said sarcastically. "I am getting better at flying, you know."
"Of course you are," said Terry, as they walked back up to the castle together. "You know what they say. Practice makes perfect."
"Exactly."
"And in your case, you can use all the practice you can get."
"Terry, I swear to Merlin, I am going to learn seven new jinxes this week, for the sole purpose of trying them out on you."
"Let's hope you're as good as those as you are at Quidditch, then."
"Is Anthony hiding behind that tree or something?"
"All right, all right, I'm sorry."
*****
"Okay, so here's what we're going to do," Michael said seriously, gripping his broomstick in his left hand and trying to stand up as straight as he could. "When I say go, you release the Snitch, and I'll go Seek it."
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Padma Patil eyed the golden ball in her hand before giving Michael a worried look. "I don't know if you're ready for this."
"Will you stop complaining and just go along with it? You said you would help me practice."
"Yeah, but that was before I noticed Terry and Anthony snickering in the corner."
Michael scowled at her. "They're only trying to get a rise out of us, Patil. Now are you going to release the Snitch or what?"
Padma shrugged. "All right," she said. "But I'm a terrible flier, Corner, so don't expect me to come up there and bail you out if you get into trouble." She cocked her head at him. "Why didn't you ask Roger Davies or somebody who actually flies to help you?"
"Roger Davies does not yet respect my tenacity for flight," Michael replied.
"So he'd be snickering with the others, then."
"Shut up and let the ball go."
Padma opened her hand and watched the glittering Snitch dart up into the sky. It vanished in a golden blur faster than their eyes could follow, but Michael jumped up on his broom and soared up into the sky, holding a hand over his eyes to block out the sun as he searched for it.
"Careful," Padma called up to him, as he wobbled on his broom slightly, and Michael lowered his hand to hold on with both palms.
He took a deep breath and flew in wide, crooked circles, his eyes scanning the sky for any sign of a flying ball. The broom rose higher and higher beneath him, and Michael felt his heart hammering in his chest. He wasn't used to being so high up, and he could barely look down. He shifted downward slightly, trying not to topple over, getting himself back down to a manageable height, where he wouldn't be killed if he did fall. He worried he would never see the Snitch from so low, but he had to start where he could.
But there! The Snitch glittered at him from across the pitch, and Michael leaned in low over his broom, darting over in an attempt to catch it. He tentatively reached an arm out, following the Snitch in a zigzag line, the broom trembling between his legs. "Please, please hold," Michael begged it, as he watched the Snitch come closer and closer to him. He was almost there...he was going to do this...they'd all be sorry they'd laughed at him....
The Snitch banked a hard left, and Michael, following it, smashed into the sidelines, having misjudged the turn horribly. The golden Snitch continued on its flight, as Michael slid slowly down to the ground, where Padma Patil was waiting with her hands over her mouth in horror.
"Oh, oh, hold still," she shrieked, rushing over and collapsing onto the ground beside him. "Are you all right? Can you walk? We need to get you to the Hospital Wing immediately."
"No, I'm fine," Michael groaned, shaking his arms gently to get some feeling back into them. "Stupid Snitch got away from me."
"I really think we should go to Madam Pomfrey, just in case," Padma said, as she helped Michael to his feet.
"Girls and their incessant worrying," Michael said, wincing as he touched his aching nose. "I'm barely hurt at all."
"I don't know, your nose looks a little off," said Padma. "You know, I don't think you're a very good flier, Michael."
"Will you lay off?" He pushed himself away from her, limping slowly off the pitch. "I'll go to Hospital, if it means so much to you. But it's not because I'm a bad flier. I'm just not meant to be a Seeker, is all. I'll try for Chaser instead."
"Good luck," said Padma, her brow furrowed as she watched him go. "Are you sure you don't need help?"
"Of course I'm sure," he snapped back at her. "I'll get the feeling back any second now."
"Boys," said Padma, rolling her eyes. "I don't even know why I agreed to this. I'm going back to our tower, Michael. You have a lovely evening."
"I sure will," he said firmly, as Padma brushed past him. And he would, as soon as he got someone to put his face back together.
*****
"Corner, you look terrible," Anthony said. "Are you sure you should be doing this to yourself?"
"It'll all be worth it, believe me," Michael replied with a nod. They were floating about six feet above the ground, and Anthony was tossing a Quaffle up and down repeatedly. Michael hadn't wanted to ask Goldstein for help, but he was a much better flier than Terry, who didn't seem to share Michael's enthusiasm for learning the skill. "Let's start."
"I want it known up front that I wasn't planning on killing you," Anthony said. "You know, in the case of any legal problems later. No matter how much money I've got on you failing, I don't want that to factor into my motivations in the slightest." Michael glared at him. "Just so we're clear."
"Oh, we're so clear, Goldstein. Throw the stupid Quaffle already!" Michael promptly took a Quaffle to the face, re-injuring the nose he'd just had fixed not a week earlier. "Damn it, Anthony, I wasn't ready!"
"Pardon me," Anthony replied dryly, ducking down to catch the fumbled ball. "Surely I heard you wrong when you told me to throw. My sincerest apologies."
"All right," Michael said sourly. "I'm going to fly past and you throw it to me."
"Oh, are we skipping the actual learning of to catch a large red ball? Seems like you ought to master the basics before we start getting complicated with actual flying."
"I knew I should have asked Terry."
"So did I, mate. Are you ready to sustain injury again? Because I've got this frighteningly enormous Quaffle all loaded up for you."
"Of course I'm ready." The ball soared neatly over Michael's head and headed straight back down to the ground below.
"Merlin, Corner, are you even trying?" Anthony took off to retrieve the Quaffle again.
"I most certainly am trying," Michael insisted, though he hadn't really gone diving for the catch. He was still worried he was going to fall off his broom, and didn't know if he could handle making any sudden moves. But he certainly wasn't going to tell Anthony Goldstein that. "The sun was in my eyes, is all."
"Oh, of course, the blinding light of the setting sun. I must be imagining those rays in my face, because surely you're the one facing the light there." Anthony threw the Quaffle harder, purposely aiming for Michael's chest that time. It hit its mark, and Michael slid off his broom with a loud "Oomph," smacking into the grass.
"You're sabotaging me," Michael said miserably from his spot below, shaking a fist up at the sky.
"You have all the coordination of a frustrated child," Anthony called down to his so-called friend. "Who's lacking his appendages."
"Oi, don't go attacking my limbs," Michael cried. "They've done nothing wrong."
"Except gotten themselves attached to a git," Anthony replied.
"I am never helping you with your Potions homework again," Michael declared, rolling over and grunting as he climbed to his feet.
"Woe is me," said Anthony. He flew down to the ground, holding Michael's broom out towards him with a wide grin. "Ready for another round?"
"Yes," said Michael, and let out another "Oomph" as the Quaffle once again smacked him upside the head. "Damn it, Goldstein!"
"I'd like to remind you of my earlier declaration," Anthony choked out through his raucous laughter. "I swear on Merlin's wand itself I am not doing this on purpose."
Michael picked up the Quaffle and aimed it at his friend. "We'll see who's laughing," he shouted, and threw the ball as hard as he could.
The red ball soared high in a crooked arc, missing Anthony by about a mile. "Ooh, my spleen," said Goldstein, as he rocketed back to fetch the sphere. "You're an amazing Chaser, Corner, I don't know how the opposing team could ever keep up with you."
"That's it," Michael said, beaming as he rubbed his arm. "I'll Keep! Anthony, you're brilliant."
"Well, I won't deny that," said Anthony. "But are you sure Keeping is quite right? You weren't so hot with the catching, there. You do know how the game of Quidditch works?"
"Oh, go stuff yourself," Michael replied. "I'm going to be the best Keeper that Hogwarts has ever seen."
"That makes sense, seeing as the castle has no eyes," Anthony joked.
*****
The Quaffle was coming straight at him! Michael twisted and dived, holding his arms out to make the catch, and the crowd roared as he saved the critical shot in the Quidditch final, bringing absolute victory to Ravenclaw house. Girls swarmed him once he'd touched back down to earth, peppering him with kisses and invitations to dates.
"Michael," said Terry sternly, "are you listening to me? How do you expect to get all of these essays done if you're just going to sit around daydreaming all afternoon?"
"What?" Michael lifted his head from his stack of textbooks with a dazed expression on his face. When he realized how frustrated Terry was with him, he leaped into action, shuffling his parchment around on the table. "Oh, yeah, yeah. Look, Terry, I'm on it. Don't worry so much. I could do this stuff with my eyes jinxed shut."
"How's Quidditch practice coming?" Anthony asked, from his place lounging on the sofa. "Tryouts are next weekend already. You wouldn't want to miss your chance to shine. Or, you know, provide some comic relief for the spectators."
"It's going fine." Michael tapped his stack of papers on the table a couple of times. "But I don't think Keeper is my position, after all."
"So you missed every shot, then," Terry said.
"That's beside the point," Michael replied. "I want something more exciting. I managed to convince last year's Hufflepuff Beaters to teach me a trick or two about their position. We're scheduled to take the field after lunch tomorrow."
Terry and Anthony exchanged a terrified glance. "Oh, no, no, no," Terry said, grabbing Michael's arm. "Michael, seriously, no."
"What? Girls fancy Beaters. It's a proven scientific fact." He rummaged through his robes. "I must have the figures in here somewhere."
"Look, it was all fun and games when you were just falling off brooms and missing catches," said Anthony, sitting upright. "But we can't have you getting yourself killed, mate."
"I beg you not to go anywhere near a Bludger," said Terry. "Please, for all our sakes."
"Yeah, who'd do my Potions homework if you weren't around?" Anthony asked with a grin. Terry glared at him.
Michael huffed and slammed his parchment down onto the table. "Why do you two keep ruining my fun? I'm trying to learn here. We're Ravenclaws, remember? We're supposed to love learning? How are you going to dare take away the thing I want to learn most of all?"
"Michael, it's not always possible to learn everything," Terry said. "There are some things we just can't master."
Michael sighed. "I know," he said dejectedly. "I'm starting to think I'm just not cut out for Quidditch."
"Well, Merlin lives, he's figured it out," said Anthony.
"But you've got to let me try out, at least," Michael said. "I won't rest until I've tried out." He brightened. "They might let me on the reserves!"
Terry and Anthony looked at one another with the same resigned expression on their faces.
*****
"All right," said Roger Davies, clapping his hands together. "We all know why we're here, so I'm not going to give some grand speech about it. Line up according to position, please. Chasers first, followed by Keepers, Beaters, and Seekers."
Michael shifted from one foot to another as he waited in line, beats of sweat dripping down his back as his turn came nearer and nearer. He'd been practicing his flying every evening for the last two weeks. It felt as though he'd been practicing for this moment for his entire life. It seemed like each person who went before him flew better than the last, and Michael was finding it harder and harder to breathe. Finally, it was his turn.
"Oh, great," said Davies, as he noticed Michael stumble onto the field. "You again. Don't think I've forgotten what happened last time you tried out for the team."
"Hey, give me some credit," Michael choked out, mustering up a big, fake grin of confidence. "That was two years ago, remember? I'm much older and wiser now."
"Well, let's see what you've got." Roger blew his whistle and tossed Michael a Quaffle. Luckily for everyone, Michael caught it easily. "Get up there."
Michael swung a leg over his broom and soared quickly up into the air. He felt a bubble of joy burst in his chest as he realized that he'd finally managed to control his broom in exactly the way he wanted. It seemed all those hours practicing had paid off, after all. He could only hope the rest would follow suit.
"Now, are you a Keeper or a Chaser?" Roger asked, hovering beside him in midair. "I seem to remember you trying for Chaser last time, only you're in the Keeper line now."
Michael glanced down at the box of Quidditch supplies sitting on the ground beneath him. In it, the two Bludgers were pulling madly at their restraints. "Er, yeah, think I'll stick with Keeper," Michael said with a hard swallow. Terry and Anthony were right about one thing, at least. He did not want to face one of those things.
Davies sighed. "Let's get this over with, then." A pause, in which nothing at all happened. "Corner, give me that Quaffle and get over to your goal posts," Roger said angrily.
"Oh, yeah." Michael tossed the red ball and flew carefully over to the three goals, which stood menacingly before him. There were three of them, and they were just spaced so far apart. How could anyone possibly keep up?
Roger Davies was on him before he could even prepare himself, soaring in quick and tossing the Quaffle straight through the hole on the left. "Think quickly, Corner, get over there!" He shouted, diving to catch his own ball and coming around again for another go.
Michael steeled himself for it this time, gripping his broomstick tightly and waiting patiently. Yes, he could do this, he could definitely - Davies scored on him again. "Okay, I'm ready this time!" Michael called out with a wave of his hand. "Can we start over?"
"Two to zero," Davies called back as he came up for another shot.
This time, Michael darted over and managed to make the save, gasping as the Quaffle smacked him in the shoulder. He nearly fell off his broom, but he was ecstatic. "Haha, victory!"
"Two to one," said Roger. "Let's give Bradley a go."
Bradley was even quicker than his Captain, but Michael still somehow stopped one of his two shots, again with a shout of mixed pain and excitement. "You see, I can do this!"
"Three to two," said Roger. "One more and then we'll see how the others fare."
"Okay," said Michael. He was feeling better than he ever had. Getting top marks in his school essays, casting powerful spells with a flick of the wand, that was nothing, it was child's play. But this, being up in the air, catching Quaffles off his arms and legs, struggling madly to stay afloat when his broom wanted so badly to dump him to the ground far below? This was real living.
Bradley came in quick, zigzagging down the field with a manic grin. Michael swooped back and forth, desperately trying to guess which goal he would aim for, desperately hoping to prove himself. Finally, after all of these years, all this time, he was going to prove them all wrong.
Bradley made the throw, and Michael dived for it, missing spectacularly and losing the battle against gravity. The Quaffle sailed neatly through the right post, and Michael fell to the left, shouting as his broom spun away from him in a crazed arc. "Give me another try!" He shouted, before he even realized what exactly had happened. The ground rushed up to meet him, and he didn't even have enough time to panic before everything went black.
*****
"You see," said Anthony's voice in the dark. He sounded triumphant. "I told you he'd get them both this year."
Michael opened his eyes to a bright world of pain. His arms and legs were numb, and his head felt as though ten Bludgers had beaten him into submission. He was in a bed in the Hospital Wing, and his two best mates were sitting beside him. "Hey, Terry," he said weakly. "Anthony. What happened?"
"What do you think happened?" Terry asked. "You tried out for Quidditch."
"Oh, yeah." The memory came back to him in a rush, and Michael felt a fresh burst of adrenaline release in his veins. "Did I make the team?"
His friends stared at him. "Is that a serious question?" Terry asked.
"I think we'll need to conjure up a mirror for him," said Anthony. "Check out your limbs, Corner."
Michael looked to his left and right. Each of his arms and legs looked bruised and shriveled, and were being held in some kind of frozen state; he was unable to move them. "I broke them all this year, didn't I," he said miserably.
"I'm afraid so," Terry replied.
"Man, I really wish Terry'd taken the bet," Anthony said. "I could have won ten sickles!"
"Now, now, everybody out!" Madam Pomfrey had burst into the room, waving her arms anxiously at Terry and Anthony. "The boy needs his rest." She gave Michael a stern look. "Don't try to move your limbs, Mr. Corner. I did manage to set the bones, but they need to be kept still overnight for proper healing. And you'd best get to sleep. You'll need all the rest you can get."
"But did I make the team?" Michael demanded, as his friends got up to leave. "I saved three out of five!"
"Michael, I really am sorry, but you didn't make the cut," said Terry.
"Davies rather prefers people who can actually stay on their brooms," Anthony added. "Better luck next year, mate."
Michael closed his eyes and sighed heavily. Quidditch was the worst thing in the entire world. He thought that already, and he hadn't even spent the entire night yet with a terrible itch on his arm he couldn't scratch.
*****
Bright sunlight spilled into the room, and Michael slid sleepily out of bed. "Morning, boys," he said, and proceeded to nearly trip over the pile of presents on the floor. "Oh, holy Merlin, it's Christmas!"
"Welcome to reality," came Anthony's voice from behind the bed curtains to his left. "You want us to remind you of where you are, too?"
"Oh, hush up," Michael replied. He lifted the first wrapped gift and shook it lightly. "Wonder what this one is."
"Wonder how you could find out," Anthony said sarcastically.
"So testy in the mornings," Michael said teasingly. He tore the paper off the present. "A new Astronomy book! Thanks, Terry." No response. "Aw, our little slumber bear."
"I am awake to hear that," Terry said with a grunt.
Michael tore through his gifts as quickly as he could, exclaiming with delight at every one. "Hey, Anthony, this is great," he said, thumbing through the Quidditch book Anthony had given him.
"I figured, since you'd given up on playing, you might prefer to simply watch, like the rest of us earthbound humans," Anthony said as he emerged from his bed.
"Yeah, this is much better," Michael agreed, as he watched the Wimbourne Wasps practice in a photograph on page fifty-seven. "I'm never trying out for Quidditch again, believe me. It only takes six broken bones to convince me. I'm much happier watching. And it turns out, despite not playing Quidditch, I can still date Quidditch girls! Who would have guessed?" He shifted, and the pile of gifts moved beneath him, dislodging the one sitting at the very bottom of the bunch, which rolled out into the middle of the room.
"What's that?" Anthony asked, pointing to said gift with an odd expression on his face.
Michael picked up the present. It was long, thin, and firm, which gave him a sinking feeling. Tearing open the paper, it was exactly as he'd feared. A gloriously beautiful Nimbus broomstick sat heavily in his hands.
"There's a note," said Anthony, picking the card up off the floor. "Dear Michael, we remembered how excited you were about trying out for Quidditch this year. Hope this broom helps you soar to new heights! Love, Mum and Dad." He looked up at Michael with his eyes wide. His lips twitched, and then Anthony burst into laughter. "Are you parents Masters of Irony or what?"
"Wow," said Michael, weighing the broom in his hands. "A Nimbus."
"Yeah," said Anthony, moving in closer to examine the gift. "So, since you've given up Quidditch, can I buy that off you? I'll give you a seriously good deal."
"Are you kidding? This golden stick is getting me onto a Quidditch team!" Michael leaped to his feet, brandishing his new broom in the air. "A Nimbus is sure to improve my flying, and Davies will have to let me on the reserves! I'll see you boys later, I'm off to join the ranks of men!" He dashed out of the room.
Terry poked his head out of his curtains. "Did I really just hear what I think I did?"
Anthony shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid so."
"Another Christmas scraping our friend out of the dirt," Terry said.
"It's heartbreaking, really." Anthony grinned. "I'll bet you a Galleon he breaks his arms again."