I wrote Harry Potter het...unexpected
Title: A year in the life of Cormac McLaggen
Author: kuteki
Pairing: Romilda Vane/Cormac McLaggen
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~4000
Summary: This was Cormac's last year at Hogwarts, his final chance to make his parents proud and he had no friends to speak of.
A/N: For lauds ♥ Many thanks to fluffyllama for the truly fantastic beta, if this fic is any good, it's all because of her.
Romilda as a 6th year and some of the events during Slughorn's Christmas Party are taken from the film, all other events are book canon. Cormac and Romilda are JKR's examples of bad Gryffindors, I thought it would be fun to play with their portrayal a little...
The unusually muggy September morning was made even worse by the crowds on the platform; heat and smoke and noise made Cormac feel like he’d stepped through to hell as soon as he’d passed the barrier. As far as his eyes could see, loving parents were waving goodbye, or giving last minute advice, and friends were reuniting after a summer apart. Cormac eyed the carriage door on the far side of the platform and then, with a sigh, the path towards it - one littered with people in various stages of embrace - and began the harrowing, winding walk, with only the weight of his trunk to assist him. He didn’t like to keep his trunk shrunk, or at least not on the platform, where the heavy luggage made it easier to clear a path, as people were more inclined to move when a trampled toe was a possibility than in response to a mumbled ‘excuse me’.
The bustling joyfulness of the scene was wasted on Cormac, whose mother had left him the traditional note with his breakfast, the very same words that plagued him for seven years now, reminding him to make her proud. The house elf who had served it to him had bowed and told him that the mistress was suffering from a headache and couldn’t see him down - yet another fine family tradition. His response had been only to shrug; he was in no need for useless parental advice, even if it had occurred to his mother to offer some.
Cormac’s journey to the train was surprisingly pain-free for all involved (he suspected his newly gained height was to thank for that) and it was only when he settled into a still empty compartment, that he felt at a loss. He was used to arriving alone, so it was easy to ignore the frantic waving and farewell calls, but in previous years Matilda would have found him by now. She was his closest friend, only real friend, and he had been shocked to receive her harried owl about a week ago, a brief letter which informed him that her parents were transferring her to Beauxbatons. This was his last year at Hogwarts, his final chance to make his parents proud and he had no friends to speak of.
The invitation to Professor Slughorn’s carriage arrived just as Cormac was feeling particularly sorry for himself and he took it as a sign of good fortune to come. Cormac had heard about the professor and the importance of making his acquaintance during one of his uncle’s visits. His uncle was not a bad man, but he was an important one, and didn’t let you forget it. He had no sons and in a flight of fancy had taken an interest in Cormac’s upbringing. He had told Cormac’s mother, in a conversation Cormac supposed he was not meant to hear, that a growing boy needed a sane man’s influence. As a result, a number of fishing trips followed. Cormac quickly came to realise that he hated fishing, but in an attempt to make a good impression on Slughorn, said what he hoped was expected of him.
Slightly exaggerated tales of outings with ministry officials aside, Cormac had been mostly left to his own devices during the summer. He had spent most of it practising for the Quidditch tryouts. He had flown for hours, worked until his entire body was sore, and only rested when he could no longer remain in the air. His father had watched from his tower room and as a reward for this dedication, had asked his mother to buy him a new broomstick. It was his most prized possession; just thinking about it lifted his spirits immensely.
The Slug Club may have been an added bonus, but Quidditch was his one path towards success. Cormac may not be all that good with words or people, but he could fly. He loved to fly. He never felt awkward whilst flying and it was one of the few activities where he was confident about his skills.
Not that this confidence made itself known prior to flying. The morning before tryouts, Cormac stared at his breakfast feeling queasy, before giving up on it. He spent the remaining time hyperventilating in the bathroom, while trying not to think of how it felt to spend last year’s tryout in the medical wing instead of on the pitch, nor of the Howler he had received the next day. No, nothing would go wrong this time.
His tryout started off well enough. As soon as his feet lifted off the ground Cormac felt confident and the Quaffle was easy enough to block. And then something happened. He felt dizzy and confused and unable to control his own body. A paralysing fear embraced him and Cormac watched the Quaffle fly past his face. A minute later he felt fine, but by then it was too late. He couldn’t explain it to himself - perhaps it was a moment of madness. Despite his father’s occasional lucid protestations, his greatest fear was that he would become like him one day. Fear coiled deep in his belly, making it difficult to breathe. Cormac fought the urge to throw up as he begged Harry Potter for a second chance. He may have used a little too much force, but he was first to admit that he was desperate. This was his final chance and something out of his control, he was sure, had ruined it for him. Something wasn’t right, though he couldn’t say what.
Potter’s denial was cruel and final.
After that failure, the Slug Club dinners was the one good thing that Cormac had to look forward to. He had a ridiculously huge crush on Hermione Granger, dating back to the previous year, when he had developed a habit of doing his homework late at night as to avoid people. Often, he saw her studying - her hair in a messy bun, her notes colour coded to perfection. Cormac had never spoken to her and doubted she had ever noticed him curled up in his favourite corner, but now, with his skin cleared up and his body strengthened by the Quidditch, perhaps he stood a chance. Cormac suspected he had hidden charm somewhere, and hoped that it would emerge when he spoke to her. It didn’t quite work out, as his tongue was as tied as a sailor’s knot and all he gained for his efforts was the occasional disgusted look she threw his way.
When Granger asked him to the Christmas party, Cormac couldn’t believe his luck. He spent days planning his outfit and thinking up potential topics of conversation, so as to be able to show her the real Cormac and win her heart. He was at once terrified (he had a knack at screwing up such things) and confident, (why would she ask him, if she didn’t like him already?) which resulted in him talking entirely too much, he feared, but he hated awkward silences and she answered all his questions with monosyllabic grunts. She seemed distracted the entire night and though he tried his best to charm her, she appeared to want to get away. In fact she did get away and Cormac ended up humiliating himself, losing Hermione, getting kicked out of the Slug Club and getting a month’s detention.
It was the worst night of his life, and he was never going to live it down.
His Christmas holiday was a silent affair. His mother had gone to Paris and left Cormac to take care of his father, who was deep within one of his episodes, and his one present was a book on etiquette.
Upon his return to Hogwarts, with more spare time on his hands, Cormac spent long hours in the library, reading up on Quidditch strategy. He was a reserve Keeper after all, it was possible that he would have his chance to play and he wanted to be prepared. The terrible memory of losing control of his own body during the tryouts still plagued his nightmares and the only way to ensure it did not return was to be in control, fully in control, at all times.
Cormac was not happy when Ron Weasley was hospitalised, but he was glad of the chance that gave him - finally he would get to play a Quidditch game. The circumstances surrounding that were wrapped in a veneer of mystery, like everything else that constantly happened around Harry Potter, but Cormac had heard through Eloise Midgen, who had been told by Terry Boot that Romilda Vane was somehow involved. Cormac didn’t really know Romilda, but he gave her a grateful smile the next time he saw her.
In order to ensure that there would be no repeat of the tryout, he went to see Madam Pomphrey for a potion which was supposed to help him keep his concentration and increase his confidence. She had been reluctant to give him such a big dose, but his parents were well connected and had insisted and in the end she had sighed, shaken her head with clear disapproval, but given him the container.
“Make sure you drink only a tablespoon of this before each practice, perhaps two if you are feeling especially anxious, but no more.”
Cormac had quickly nodded, and up until the match itself had mostly followed the dosage. The night before the game, however, Cormac couldn’t sleep. He went to breakfast feeling weak and scared and poured half a cup of the potion, topped it up coffee and downed it, trying not to grimace at the sharp and bitter taste.
At first he felt great, more powerful and in control than ever before, but the combination of the coffee and the potion quickly got the better of him and his one chance turned to his greatest disaster. It was ghastly. Cormac felt that his skill was greater than that of the rest of his team, that they needed his superior wisdom. Busy telling everyone what to do in his drugged up state, he kept missing the Quaffle, not to mention that he Bludgered Harry Potter in the head.
After making sure that Potter was going to live, Cormac hid in the shower until the changing room was silent and the last effects of the potion left his drained body, making him feel weak and tired. He wanted nothing more than to drown his sorrows, but had no access to the alcohol he knew had been sneaked in, in preparation for the possible victory celebration. The rest of the team were going to have a conciliatory drink anyway, he suspected, but he had no intention of spending any more time with them, even if his company had been welcomed.
The evening was unusually warm for March and Cormac sat himself underneath the Quidditch stands, hugged his knees close to him and sighed. His life was pretty much over.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” A voice cut through the silence, its owner silhouetted against the darkening sky. It was only when she stepped closer that Cormac could identify her.
“I could ask you the same question,” he said, with a tone he hoped was off-putting. He rather liked wallowing in self pity. Having company would defeat the point.
However Romilda Vane only laughed and sat beside him. “I like it out here after a game, before it’s cleaned. There is something beautiful in the littered grass, don’t you think?”
Cormac, who had used magic to clean the little square of grass he was currently sitting on, really didn’t, but he found himself nodding anyway.
“You’re not usually the quiet type,” she pressed on. “In fact, had you been quieter we might be celebrating a victory right now,” she laughed and he looked up sharply, making eye contact for the first time.
“Are you enjoying tormenting me? Don’t you have better things to do, people to poison?” he replied, voice measured. Cormac wanted to hurt her, for no other reason that she was there, and in all honesty he expected a slap for that. He deserved it.
She surprised him again by laughing and shaking her head. “Now silly, that isn’t a way to talk to a lady! I only thought you would want some of this.” She waved what was most certainly a flask filled with something alcoholic in front of his nose, before cruelly taking it away. “But, seeing as you don’t, I should be going.” She started to get up.
“Wait, I, uh, please?” He really needed to work on this talking to girls business. Being snarky when he couldn’t see her face had been one thing, but the way she was standing, the moonlight lit her just so, making her skin glow beautifully, her hair a dark halo.
She cocked her head and examined him closely; he must have passed whatever it is that she was looking for, because she then nodded with a toss of her hair. “All right, come with me.”
He wanted to ask where, but as she grabbed his hand and pulled him up, he realised he really didn’t care at all. Anywhere else would be better, and having company might not be too terrible.
She took him to a place by the lake, where the grass was clean and soft and a few bushes hid the castle from view.
They shared the flask of what turned out to be rather good fire whiskey. Romilda only smiled mysteriously and tapped her nose when he asked her where she got it from and as the burn and pleasant warmth found their way into his belly, Cormac felt the shame slip away only to be replaced with both comfort and fear. He was getting drunk with a girl, a girl who was rather beautiful. He tried not to think about it. The more he thought, the more everything messed up.
“If I didn’t know you were in love with Harry Potter, I would have thought you were trying to get me drunk and have your wicked way with me,” he said after it was his turn to drink. Cormac had taken a rather large gulp and his eyes were stinging up, so he had to look away. It made it easier to speak, besides.
She put a warm hand on his elbow and when he looked at her, her eyes were sparkling. “My dear, who has been filling your head with such ideas? I am certainly not in love with Harry Potter.”
He stayed quiet, but his raised eyebrow spoke volumes.
“I thought he was interesting, is all,” she said after a pause and looked away. “I saw a lot of potential, plus, fame could be fun.”
“And me?”
“You can be fun as well.”
He wanted to kiss her that night, but every time he tried to move closer she looked away or passed him the flask and so he laid back on the grass looking at the stars above instead.
He woke up just before dawn, disturbed by the too loud chirping of birds, feeling cold and stiff all over. She was gone. Cormac cranked his neck experimentally, vowing to never drink again, and somehow managed to get to the Gryffindor dorms without running into anyone. The first thing he did was to pour the rest of the potion down the loo. His grand gesture was a little negated by the fact that there was barely a single dose remaining, but it was the principle of the thing. A long hot shower and a hearty breakfast later, he felt much more alive. No one was talking to him, but that was not entirely unusual and Romilda gave him a little wave from amidst her gaggle of girls.
After that, Romilda became a friend, a good one, and they would stay and talk late into the night. She was funny and sharp, and nothing was easier than talking to her. Cormac never had to be careful when he spoke; never worried he would inadvertently offend her. She was the one that said the most outrageous things and made him blush. She was also adventurous and bold and they sneaked out at night to explore the castle or have feasts in the kitchens. He always felt exhausted the next morning and often missed breakfast, but falling asleep in class was a small price to pay.
He listened to her talk about Harry Potter with awe, and soon he realised that her flippant remarks on that first night were far from reality, and so he tried to be a friend, as much as he could. He offered her friendly advice, feeling like a hypocrite and a saint at once.
Cormac tried to tell her once that the obsession was not healthy. Potter was an idiot to not want her, but after the love potion fiasco, it was close to impossible that he would ever trust her enough or even talk to her, so that was pretty much a lost cause. But it didn’t go quite as planned and Romilda threw some pumpkin juice on him, so there was that. Cormac bit his tongue and tried to support her.
That year, Cormac’s birthday was on a Monday and a rainy one to boot. It started with a double Potions and two birthday cards - from his parents and Matilda. While he was always happy to hear from Matilda, Romilda was not at breakfast and looking up at each new arrival made it hard to fully concentrate on the latest tale of the Beauxbatons girls’ antics.
He didn’t see Romilda the entire day, and was about to sneak out on a solitary trip to the kitchens - he couldn’t go without cake on his birthday - when she burst into the common room. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair flying behind her, and she grinned as soon as she spotted him, making his heart beat faster.
The dejected feeling that had been following him around all day was gone in the space between that smile and her hug, a tight, if too brief an embrace.
“Hey,” she said, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Happy birthday!”
He grinned back. She hadn’t forgotten.
“I have a surprise for you. Meet me here after curfew, dress warmly.”
Cormac did dress warmly, and by the time he returned to the now dark common room, Romilda was waiting for him. A huge red scarf was wrapped around her neck and her hands were hidden behind her back.
“Happy birthday, Cormac,” she said again, leaning in to kiss his cheek and when she stepped back, she was brandishing an object in front of his face.
A broom - one shrunk to fit in the palm of her hand.
Cormac looked at the broom and then up to her smiling face, his brows furrowed.
“Um, you do know, that is my broom, right?”
“Uh huh, I also know that you haven’t flown it in months. We are going flying, surprise!”
“We are?”
Cormac hadn’t flown in months - not since his first and last Quidditch match. He wasn’t sure if he would ever fly again, but looking at her outstretched palm and the now faltering grin, he felt a sudden craving for the wind in his hair and the lightness that came with flight.
She took him by the hand and led him through the maze of silent hallways. It wasn’t until they were standing side by side in an empty classroom, with cold gusts of wind coming in through the open window, that he felt the familiar rush of excitement.
He was going to fly again.
Romilda was still holding his hand, and feeling her shiver was enough to break through his euphoria.
“You sure you want to do this? I thought you hated flying,” he asked, looking at her with concern.
She nodded, a little pale, but determined, “I’m sure. I flew for Harry Potter, I can fly with you. I trust you.”
He knew of her fear of flying; knew how she hated the lack of ground beneath her feet, and yet hated that fear even more.
This present was as much for her as for him.
She held on tightly - her fingers digging into his sides - as he soared through the window and into open air. He started off carefully, long gentle loops, which allowed them both time to adjust. Just as his desire to let go was about to take over, Romilda whispered her encouragement. He stopped being careful and simply flew.
They hadn’t bothered with a warming charm, and it was a cold night. It was no longer raining, but the stars were well hidden behind a thick layer of cloud, and the new moon provided little light.
“That’s good, we don’t want to be spotted from the castle,” Romilda had said.
He had flown at night a few times, but never in Hogwarts and always alone. The warmth of her body against his back and the tight hold of her arms made this an entirely new experience. In the cold, quiet darkness, her touch felt like the only real thing in the world.
They flew without speaking until Cormac could feel her shivers more than he could feel his hands. They returned to the History of Magic classroom - landing on a desk with less finesse than Cormac would have liked.
Flushed with adrenaline, they couldn’t silence their giggles. If it hadn’t been for some swift thinking and a well placed statue, they would have ended up right in Filch’s hands.
That night, he dreamed of her brown curls, of her dark eyes, of her long fingers.
He didn’t watch the final Quidditch match; he had almost made peace with his failure, but couldn’t quite stomach the sight of his red and gold clad team mates. He couldn’t exactly avoid the victory party, was there just in time to witness Potter and the Weasley girl’s passionate embrace.
He found Romilda underneath the Quidditch pitch, leaning her head on her knees. She had never seemed anything but strong before, but now she looked very small and he balled his hands into fists, wanting to touch her.
“Hey, what are you doing here?”
He thought that she was crying, but when she looked up, her eyes were dry. She smiled a little. “I could ask you the same question,” she parroted.
He knelt behind her, and hugged her tightly, until he could feel a little of the tension leaving her body.
“You are going to be okay.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, it’s… it’s stupid really. It’s just, I’m used to getting what I want, and seeing him kiss her like that, felt strange, but not…” She paused and looked him in the eye. “I realised I didn’t want to be in her place.”
Before he could reply, she carried on speaking.
“I feel ridiculous, for being so stupid. Just…give me a couple of days, okay? It’s Hogsmeade weekend, and we can go together, if…if you want?” She hesitated. “It will be fun.”
And it was.
He was under the mistaken impression that they would go to Madam Puddyfoot’s, however she had other plans and much to his relief they couldn’t be farther from the horrid crowds of the teashop. He’d always wanted to explore the Shrieking Shack. There, under the crumbling roof, amongst giant cobwebs and dust mites, is where they shared their first kiss.
Or at least that’s how she liked to tell the story.
In reality, she started coughing and they raced outside, feeling breathless and giddy. She had a cobweb caught in her hair and as he moved to remove it, their eyes met and his breath hitched. Cormac could hear his heart beat as she moved closer. Their noses bumped and she laughed and he gripped her shoulders too hard and she accidentally scratched his cheek.
He remembered it as being perfect.
It made everything that followed it - the Deatheater attack, Dumbledore’s death, leaving Hogwarts, telling his parents he was turning down that ministry job in order to see the world and figure out what is it that he wanted to do - that much easier to cope with.
Author: kuteki
Pairing: Romilda Vane/Cormac McLaggen
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~4000
Summary: This was Cormac's last year at Hogwarts, his final chance to make his parents proud and he had no friends to speak of.
A/N: For lauds ♥ Many thanks to fluffyllama for the truly fantastic beta, if this fic is any good, it's all because of her.
Romilda as a 6th year and some of the events during Slughorn's Christmas Party are taken from the film, all other events are book canon. Cormac and Romilda are JKR's examples of bad Gryffindors, I thought it would be fun to play with their portrayal a little...
The unusually muggy September morning was made even worse by the crowds on the platform; heat and smoke and noise made Cormac feel like he’d stepped through to hell as soon as he’d passed the barrier. As far as his eyes could see, loving parents were waving goodbye, or giving last minute advice, and friends were reuniting after a summer apart. Cormac eyed the carriage door on the far side of the platform and then, with a sigh, the path towards it - one littered with people in various stages of embrace - and began the harrowing, winding walk, with only the weight of his trunk to assist him. He didn’t like to keep his trunk shrunk, or at least not on the platform, where the heavy luggage made it easier to clear a path, as people were more inclined to move when a trampled toe was a possibility than in response to a mumbled ‘excuse me’.
The bustling joyfulness of the scene was wasted on Cormac, whose mother had left him the traditional note with his breakfast, the very same words that plagued him for seven years now, reminding him to make her proud. The house elf who had served it to him had bowed and told him that the mistress was suffering from a headache and couldn’t see him down - yet another fine family tradition. His response had been only to shrug; he was in no need for useless parental advice, even if it had occurred to his mother to offer some.
Cormac’s journey to the train was surprisingly pain-free for all involved (he suspected his newly gained height was to thank for that) and it was only when he settled into a still empty compartment, that he felt at a loss. He was used to arriving alone, so it was easy to ignore the frantic waving and farewell calls, but in previous years Matilda would have found him by now. She was his closest friend, only real friend, and he had been shocked to receive her harried owl about a week ago, a brief letter which informed him that her parents were transferring her to Beauxbatons. This was his last year at Hogwarts, his final chance to make his parents proud and he had no friends to speak of.
The invitation to Professor Slughorn’s carriage arrived just as Cormac was feeling particularly sorry for himself and he took it as a sign of good fortune to come. Cormac had heard about the professor and the importance of making his acquaintance during one of his uncle’s visits. His uncle was not a bad man, but he was an important one, and didn’t let you forget it. He had no sons and in a flight of fancy had taken an interest in Cormac’s upbringing. He had told Cormac’s mother, in a conversation Cormac supposed he was not meant to hear, that a growing boy needed a sane man’s influence. As a result, a number of fishing trips followed. Cormac quickly came to realise that he hated fishing, but in an attempt to make a good impression on Slughorn, said what he hoped was expected of him.
Slightly exaggerated tales of outings with ministry officials aside, Cormac had been mostly left to his own devices during the summer. He had spent most of it practising for the Quidditch tryouts. He had flown for hours, worked until his entire body was sore, and only rested when he could no longer remain in the air. His father had watched from his tower room and as a reward for this dedication, had asked his mother to buy him a new broomstick. It was his most prized possession; just thinking about it lifted his spirits immensely.
The Slug Club may have been an added bonus, but Quidditch was his one path towards success. Cormac may not be all that good with words or people, but he could fly. He loved to fly. He never felt awkward whilst flying and it was one of the few activities where he was confident about his skills.
Not that this confidence made itself known prior to flying. The morning before tryouts, Cormac stared at his breakfast feeling queasy, before giving up on it. He spent the remaining time hyperventilating in the bathroom, while trying not to think of how it felt to spend last year’s tryout in the medical wing instead of on the pitch, nor of the Howler he had received the next day. No, nothing would go wrong this time.
His tryout started off well enough. As soon as his feet lifted off the ground Cormac felt confident and the Quaffle was easy enough to block. And then something happened. He felt dizzy and confused and unable to control his own body. A paralysing fear embraced him and Cormac watched the Quaffle fly past his face. A minute later he felt fine, but by then it was too late. He couldn’t explain it to himself - perhaps it was a moment of madness. Despite his father’s occasional lucid protestations, his greatest fear was that he would become like him one day. Fear coiled deep in his belly, making it difficult to breathe. Cormac fought the urge to throw up as he begged Harry Potter for a second chance. He may have used a little too much force, but he was first to admit that he was desperate. This was his final chance and something out of his control, he was sure, had ruined it for him. Something wasn’t right, though he couldn’t say what.
Potter’s denial was cruel and final.
After that failure, the Slug Club dinners was the one good thing that Cormac had to look forward to. He had a ridiculously huge crush on Hermione Granger, dating back to the previous year, when he had developed a habit of doing his homework late at night as to avoid people. Often, he saw her studying - her hair in a messy bun, her notes colour coded to perfection. Cormac had never spoken to her and doubted she had ever noticed him curled up in his favourite corner, but now, with his skin cleared up and his body strengthened by the Quidditch, perhaps he stood a chance. Cormac suspected he had hidden charm somewhere, and hoped that it would emerge when he spoke to her. It didn’t quite work out, as his tongue was as tied as a sailor’s knot and all he gained for his efforts was the occasional disgusted look she threw his way.
When Granger asked him to the Christmas party, Cormac couldn’t believe his luck. He spent days planning his outfit and thinking up potential topics of conversation, so as to be able to show her the real Cormac and win her heart. He was at once terrified (he had a knack at screwing up such things) and confident, (why would she ask him, if she didn’t like him already?) which resulted in him talking entirely too much, he feared, but he hated awkward silences and she answered all his questions with monosyllabic grunts. She seemed distracted the entire night and though he tried his best to charm her, she appeared to want to get away. In fact she did get away and Cormac ended up humiliating himself, losing Hermione, getting kicked out of the Slug Club and getting a month’s detention.
It was the worst night of his life, and he was never going to live it down.
His Christmas holiday was a silent affair. His mother had gone to Paris and left Cormac to take care of his father, who was deep within one of his episodes, and his one present was a book on etiquette.
Upon his return to Hogwarts, with more spare time on his hands, Cormac spent long hours in the library, reading up on Quidditch strategy. He was a reserve Keeper after all, it was possible that he would have his chance to play and he wanted to be prepared. The terrible memory of losing control of his own body during the tryouts still plagued his nightmares and the only way to ensure it did not return was to be in control, fully in control, at all times.
Cormac was not happy when Ron Weasley was hospitalised, but he was glad of the chance that gave him - finally he would get to play a Quidditch game. The circumstances surrounding that were wrapped in a veneer of mystery, like everything else that constantly happened around Harry Potter, but Cormac had heard through Eloise Midgen, who had been told by Terry Boot that Romilda Vane was somehow involved. Cormac didn’t really know Romilda, but he gave her a grateful smile the next time he saw her.
In order to ensure that there would be no repeat of the tryout, he went to see Madam Pomphrey for a potion which was supposed to help him keep his concentration and increase his confidence. She had been reluctant to give him such a big dose, but his parents were well connected and had insisted and in the end she had sighed, shaken her head with clear disapproval, but given him the container.
“Make sure you drink only a tablespoon of this before each practice, perhaps two if you are feeling especially anxious, but no more.”
Cormac had quickly nodded, and up until the match itself had mostly followed the dosage. The night before the game, however, Cormac couldn’t sleep. He went to breakfast feeling weak and scared and poured half a cup of the potion, topped it up coffee and downed it, trying not to grimace at the sharp and bitter taste.
At first he felt great, more powerful and in control than ever before, but the combination of the coffee and the potion quickly got the better of him and his one chance turned to his greatest disaster. It was ghastly. Cormac felt that his skill was greater than that of the rest of his team, that they needed his superior wisdom. Busy telling everyone what to do in his drugged up state, he kept missing the Quaffle, not to mention that he Bludgered Harry Potter in the head.
After making sure that Potter was going to live, Cormac hid in the shower until the changing room was silent and the last effects of the potion left his drained body, making him feel weak and tired. He wanted nothing more than to drown his sorrows, but had no access to the alcohol he knew had been sneaked in, in preparation for the possible victory celebration. The rest of the team were going to have a conciliatory drink anyway, he suspected, but he had no intention of spending any more time with them, even if his company had been welcomed.
The evening was unusually warm for March and Cormac sat himself underneath the Quidditch stands, hugged his knees close to him and sighed. His life was pretty much over.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” A voice cut through the silence, its owner silhouetted against the darkening sky. It was only when she stepped closer that Cormac could identify her.
“I could ask you the same question,” he said, with a tone he hoped was off-putting. He rather liked wallowing in self pity. Having company would defeat the point.
However Romilda Vane only laughed and sat beside him. “I like it out here after a game, before it’s cleaned. There is something beautiful in the littered grass, don’t you think?”
Cormac, who had used magic to clean the little square of grass he was currently sitting on, really didn’t, but he found himself nodding anyway.
“You’re not usually the quiet type,” she pressed on. “In fact, had you been quieter we might be celebrating a victory right now,” she laughed and he looked up sharply, making eye contact for the first time.
“Are you enjoying tormenting me? Don’t you have better things to do, people to poison?” he replied, voice measured. Cormac wanted to hurt her, for no other reason that she was there, and in all honesty he expected a slap for that. He deserved it.
She surprised him again by laughing and shaking her head. “Now silly, that isn’t a way to talk to a lady! I only thought you would want some of this.” She waved what was most certainly a flask filled with something alcoholic in front of his nose, before cruelly taking it away. “But, seeing as you don’t, I should be going.” She started to get up.
“Wait, I, uh, please?” He really needed to work on this talking to girls business. Being snarky when he couldn’t see her face had been one thing, but the way she was standing, the moonlight lit her just so, making her skin glow beautifully, her hair a dark halo.
She cocked her head and examined him closely; he must have passed whatever it is that she was looking for, because she then nodded with a toss of her hair. “All right, come with me.”
He wanted to ask where, but as she grabbed his hand and pulled him up, he realised he really didn’t care at all. Anywhere else would be better, and having company might not be too terrible.
She took him to a place by the lake, where the grass was clean and soft and a few bushes hid the castle from view.
They shared the flask of what turned out to be rather good fire whiskey. Romilda only smiled mysteriously and tapped her nose when he asked her where she got it from and as the burn and pleasant warmth found their way into his belly, Cormac felt the shame slip away only to be replaced with both comfort and fear. He was getting drunk with a girl, a girl who was rather beautiful. He tried not to think about it. The more he thought, the more everything messed up.
“If I didn’t know you were in love with Harry Potter, I would have thought you were trying to get me drunk and have your wicked way with me,” he said after it was his turn to drink. Cormac had taken a rather large gulp and his eyes were stinging up, so he had to look away. It made it easier to speak, besides.
She put a warm hand on his elbow and when he looked at her, her eyes were sparkling. “My dear, who has been filling your head with such ideas? I am certainly not in love with Harry Potter.”
He stayed quiet, but his raised eyebrow spoke volumes.
“I thought he was interesting, is all,” she said after a pause and looked away. “I saw a lot of potential, plus, fame could be fun.”
“And me?”
“You can be fun as well.”
He wanted to kiss her that night, but every time he tried to move closer she looked away or passed him the flask and so he laid back on the grass looking at the stars above instead.
He woke up just before dawn, disturbed by the too loud chirping of birds, feeling cold and stiff all over. She was gone. Cormac cranked his neck experimentally, vowing to never drink again, and somehow managed to get to the Gryffindor dorms without running into anyone. The first thing he did was to pour the rest of the potion down the loo. His grand gesture was a little negated by the fact that there was barely a single dose remaining, but it was the principle of the thing. A long hot shower and a hearty breakfast later, he felt much more alive. No one was talking to him, but that was not entirely unusual and Romilda gave him a little wave from amidst her gaggle of girls.
After that, Romilda became a friend, a good one, and they would stay and talk late into the night. She was funny and sharp, and nothing was easier than talking to her. Cormac never had to be careful when he spoke; never worried he would inadvertently offend her. She was the one that said the most outrageous things and made him blush. She was also adventurous and bold and they sneaked out at night to explore the castle or have feasts in the kitchens. He always felt exhausted the next morning and often missed breakfast, but falling asleep in class was a small price to pay.
He listened to her talk about Harry Potter with awe, and soon he realised that her flippant remarks on that first night were far from reality, and so he tried to be a friend, as much as he could. He offered her friendly advice, feeling like a hypocrite and a saint at once.
Cormac tried to tell her once that the obsession was not healthy. Potter was an idiot to not want her, but after the love potion fiasco, it was close to impossible that he would ever trust her enough or even talk to her, so that was pretty much a lost cause. But it didn’t go quite as planned and Romilda threw some pumpkin juice on him, so there was that. Cormac bit his tongue and tried to support her.
That year, Cormac’s birthday was on a Monday and a rainy one to boot. It started with a double Potions and two birthday cards - from his parents and Matilda. While he was always happy to hear from Matilda, Romilda was not at breakfast and looking up at each new arrival made it hard to fully concentrate on the latest tale of the Beauxbatons girls’ antics.
He didn’t see Romilda the entire day, and was about to sneak out on a solitary trip to the kitchens - he couldn’t go without cake on his birthday - when she burst into the common room. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair flying behind her, and she grinned as soon as she spotted him, making his heart beat faster.
The dejected feeling that had been following him around all day was gone in the space between that smile and her hug, a tight, if too brief an embrace.
“Hey,” she said, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Happy birthday!”
He grinned back. She hadn’t forgotten.
“I have a surprise for you. Meet me here after curfew, dress warmly.”
Cormac did dress warmly, and by the time he returned to the now dark common room, Romilda was waiting for him. A huge red scarf was wrapped around her neck and her hands were hidden behind her back.
“Happy birthday, Cormac,” she said again, leaning in to kiss his cheek and when she stepped back, she was brandishing an object in front of his face.
A broom - one shrunk to fit in the palm of her hand.
Cormac looked at the broom and then up to her smiling face, his brows furrowed.
“Um, you do know, that is my broom, right?”
“Uh huh, I also know that you haven’t flown it in months. We are going flying, surprise!”
“We are?”
Cormac hadn’t flown in months - not since his first and last Quidditch match. He wasn’t sure if he would ever fly again, but looking at her outstretched palm and the now faltering grin, he felt a sudden craving for the wind in his hair and the lightness that came with flight.
She took him by the hand and led him through the maze of silent hallways. It wasn’t until they were standing side by side in an empty classroom, with cold gusts of wind coming in through the open window, that he felt the familiar rush of excitement.
He was going to fly again.
Romilda was still holding his hand, and feeling her shiver was enough to break through his euphoria.
“You sure you want to do this? I thought you hated flying,” he asked, looking at her with concern.
She nodded, a little pale, but determined, “I’m sure. I flew for Harry Potter, I can fly with you. I trust you.”
He knew of her fear of flying; knew how she hated the lack of ground beneath her feet, and yet hated that fear even more.
This present was as much for her as for him.
She held on tightly - her fingers digging into his sides - as he soared through the window and into open air. He started off carefully, long gentle loops, which allowed them both time to adjust. Just as his desire to let go was about to take over, Romilda whispered her encouragement. He stopped being careful and simply flew.
They hadn’t bothered with a warming charm, and it was a cold night. It was no longer raining, but the stars were well hidden behind a thick layer of cloud, and the new moon provided little light.
“That’s good, we don’t want to be spotted from the castle,” Romilda had said.
He had flown at night a few times, but never in Hogwarts and always alone. The warmth of her body against his back and the tight hold of her arms made this an entirely new experience. In the cold, quiet darkness, her touch felt like the only real thing in the world.
They flew without speaking until Cormac could feel her shivers more than he could feel his hands. They returned to the History of Magic classroom - landing on a desk with less finesse than Cormac would have liked.
Flushed with adrenaline, they couldn’t silence their giggles. If it hadn’t been for some swift thinking and a well placed statue, they would have ended up right in Filch’s hands.
That night, he dreamed of her brown curls, of her dark eyes, of her long fingers.
He didn’t watch the final Quidditch match; he had almost made peace with his failure, but couldn’t quite stomach the sight of his red and gold clad team mates. He couldn’t exactly avoid the victory party, was there just in time to witness Potter and the Weasley girl’s passionate embrace.
He found Romilda underneath the Quidditch pitch, leaning her head on her knees. She had never seemed anything but strong before, but now she looked very small and he balled his hands into fists, wanting to touch her.
“Hey, what are you doing here?”
He thought that she was crying, but when she looked up, her eyes were dry. She smiled a little. “I could ask you the same question,” she parroted.
He knelt behind her, and hugged her tightly, until he could feel a little of the tension leaving her body.
“You are going to be okay.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, it’s… it’s stupid really. It’s just, I’m used to getting what I want, and seeing him kiss her like that, felt strange, but not…” She paused and looked him in the eye. “I realised I didn’t want to be in her place.”
Before he could reply, she carried on speaking.
“I feel ridiculous, for being so stupid. Just…give me a couple of days, okay? It’s Hogsmeade weekend, and we can go together, if…if you want?” She hesitated. “It will be fun.”
And it was.
He was under the mistaken impression that they would go to Madam Puddyfoot’s, however she had other plans and much to his relief they couldn’t be farther from the horrid crowds of the teashop. He’d always wanted to explore the Shrieking Shack. There, under the crumbling roof, amongst giant cobwebs and dust mites, is where they shared their first kiss.
Or at least that’s how she liked to tell the story.
In reality, she started coughing and they raced outside, feeling breathless and giddy. She had a cobweb caught in her hair and as he moved to remove it, their eyes met and his breath hitched. Cormac could hear his heart beat as she moved closer. Their noses bumped and she laughed and he gripped her shoulders too hard and she accidentally scratched his cheek.
He remembered it as being perfect.
It made everything that followed it - the Deatheater attack, Dumbledore’s death, leaving Hogwarts, telling his parents he was turning down that ministry job in order to see the world and figure out what is it that he wanted to do - that much easier to cope with.