Morag MacDougal
Author: chaoskirin
Title: You Reap what you Sow
Rating: G
Character(s): Morag MacDougal, with Padma Patil and (Cameron) Bradley.
Prompt: #013 - What Could have Been
Word Count: 1,456
Notes: I've never actually RP'd Morag, except for very briefly on a game that didn't last all that long. XD I wanted the chance to develop her character a little more, so while I do know her past, I really have no idea where I'm going with her future. This is some idea of what I kinda wanted to lead her to in the end - well, one route, at least. The other choice was making her a Muggle astronomer.
"So, we're almost done," Padma said, leaning against a old oak. Her eyes were mostly focused on the Quidditch pitch, but her attention was elsewhere, probably. There was a book open in front of her, a stack of notes taken over god-knew-how-long stuffed neatly into the poor, crackling binding. It looked like embers, burned once or twice - perhaps - but not definitely. Something about it felt like school, though, and what they'd be leaving behind.
"Almost," Morag answered, tying leather laces cross-wise against her calves, not too tightly, or she'd lose circulation, but tightly enough so that if she just happened to be struck by an errant Bludger, the guard wouldn't fall off and leave her shin shattered. It was all about learning the right way to secure your gear; that knowledge came just as slowly as learning how to play the game itself did. One had to crack a couple fibulas before one learned - at least, that's what Davies used to say, and Bradley now. Morag hadn't ever broken any bones, but she'd gotten some nasty bruises.
"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Padma said, closing the book with a sharp snap. A scrap of parchment escaped unnoticed by the Prefect, where it settled onto the ground and soaked up a bit of rain from the previous night's storm. What was one scrap when you had one hundred, anyway? A few scrawls on a page didn't matter.
"No, it's fine," Morag replied. "It's a few minutes yet. Hufflepuff's still got the field." The grass was wet, but she sat down anyway, given the practicality of the gesture. Her legs were tired, she wanted a bit of rest, and she'd probably fall in the mud a few dozen times anyway. If her uniform was broken in by the time she got to the field, what difference did it make?
Neither of them said anything for a while, then Padma asked, "Why Quidditch?"
"What do you mean?"
The wide-open, grassy field around them killed her chuckle. It seemed to die in the air, which Morag found a little depressing considering that the year would be over before too long, and Hogwarts along with it. "I mean, you barely ever use your wand, but you're crazy over this."
"Doesn't take magic to ride a broom," Morag replied. "My father could do it." Her shoulders rose and fell, though they fell a tad farther than where they'd been before. It didn't seem like a nice thing to bring up at all... Not that Morag was sensitive about her parentage, but recently, it occurred to her that in her desperation to be like her father, she'd been missing out on a lot. When Padma didn't respond, Morag sighed. "I suppose when a girl hits eighteen, she gets it."
"Not always."
"Mn. I guess you'll tell me there's still time."
"Well, there is. Are you happy?"
Morag scratched at her neckline, where the collar of her sweater decided it wanted to suddenly and spontaneously both annoy and provide an apt distraction from the conversation - for all of a few seconds. "I could be happier. What is there for me? A desk job in the Ministry at best." Leaning forward, she allowed the slope of the hill to guide her posture and weight to her knees, and she stood from there. "Sorry, Padma. I have practise."
Padma inclined her head a bit, waving a hand toward the pitch in dismissal. Her eyes were back on the dog-eared pages of the old book before Morag could offer a goodbye.
Hefting her broom, she picked her way down the rather slippery incline of the hill. 'Are you happy' just wasn't the type of question you asked a person if you wanted an honest answer. Either you had the little emotional first-years replying how much they hated their lives, or the sixth-and-seventh-years who tried to dig a little maturity out of themselves and insist that they didn't have a care in the world. Morag took the practical middle road, because she saw no sense in lying or dramatising the fact that she really wasn't all that happy, and that was entirely her fault. The past year, she'd thrown her whole life into Quidditch, because with only four classes - none of which involved the practical use of a wand - she had a lot of free time. However, it wasn't until recently that she really realised how much of a mistake she'd made.
Squib relatives seemed to be a source of ridicule in the school, though Morag was intensely proud of her father. She wanted to be like him, wanted to emulate him, wanted him to be just as proud of her as she was of him. And to that end, she'd failed almost all her magical courses, mostly on purpose.
So it wasn't a great idea. Morag knew she'd salvage the situation, because nothing was so long-gone that a little something couldn't be drawn from it. And Padma was right - at only eighteen years of age, she had a long way to go before she was useless, but she'd also have a lot of work to do.
Heading past the stands, she noticed the witch who'd been sitting there watching the practices for the past several weeks. Her intentions were horribly transparent, even if the fact that she even chose to be among them involved some huge secret. Of course she existed as some sort of talent scout, most likely for the minors, given the rather dumpy appearance she had. The rest of the team pretended she wasn't there while showing off while they pulled off stunts that they'd never normally attempt in practise. Bradley and Morag sometimes chuckled about it in the locker room after a session, because it was funny to watch. The only thing either of them were concerned about was getting the Quaffle through those damned tiny rings at the end of the pitch, because goals won a game, not circus tricks.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the woman standing up, making notes on a clipboard with a Quick-Quotes quill. Meanwhile, Morag held up her hand for the Quaffle, and Michael Corner passed it to her before hailing one of the Beaters for a few laps around the field. The catch stung a bit, but she managed it one-handed, before dropping it to the crook between her shin and the top of her foot. Maybe she could get on an indoor soccer league over the summer.
"Oi, Morag," Bradley called from across the field. He held up his hand to wave, but given that the Quaffle was just about to fall off her foot, she lofted it too him. He caught it, of course.
"What's up, Cameron?" she asked, holding her hand out for a pass. He threw the ball back to her.
"Wondering if I could chat with you for a quick sec, is all. I was hoping you'd get here early... It's important. Don't think the rest of the team should know yet- here." He held out an envelope. Neatly written in gold ink was her name - Morag MacDougal. "You should open it, but I want to tell you myself..."
Morag nodded. "You aren't kicking me off the team, are you? I might be angry."
"Nothing like that," Bradley said. "That scout. Her name's Loretta Looncall. She used to play for the Pride of Portree. She was here for you."
"Wha--"
"They want you on as a reserve Chaser. It's really good pay, Morag, and eventually... Who knows? You could be a starter. It's all there in the letter."
"I thought they were here for you," she said.
Bradley chuckled. "I'm already signed with the Tornados. The team's not supposed to know that, either, but I figured..."
"Well... Congratulations," Morag said, still somewhat stunned as she tore open the top of the envelope. Just as Bradley said, it was all there, start to finish, including the proposed salary, which made her double-take.
"You, too," Bradley said. "I hope to meet you out on the field one day."
The letter ended up in her pocket for the rest of practise, and she studied it for the rest of the night in her dormitory, because she still couldn't believe it. Well, it seemed logical in retrospect the more she pondered it, but what really got to her was what could have been. She could have applied herself to her studies. Could have pulled herself away from the pitch instead of spending that extra time practising. Could have potentially ended up miserable for the rest of her life.
Instead, she'd be soaring, and that's all anyone could ever ask for.
1/20
Title: You Reap what you Sow
Rating: G
Character(s): Morag MacDougal, with Padma Patil and (Cameron) Bradley.
Prompt: #013 - What Could have Been
Word Count: 1,456
Notes: I've never actually RP'd Morag, except for very briefly on a game that didn't last all that long. XD I wanted the chance to develop her character a little more, so while I do know her past, I really have no idea where I'm going with her future. This is some idea of what I kinda wanted to lead her to in the end - well, one route, at least. The other choice was making her a Muggle astronomer.
"So, we're almost done," Padma said, leaning against a old oak. Her eyes were mostly focused on the Quidditch pitch, but her attention was elsewhere, probably. There was a book open in front of her, a stack of notes taken over god-knew-how-long stuffed neatly into the poor, crackling binding. It looked like embers, burned once or twice - perhaps - but not definitely. Something about it felt like school, though, and what they'd be leaving behind.
"Almost," Morag answered, tying leather laces cross-wise against her calves, not too tightly, or she'd lose circulation, but tightly enough so that if she just happened to be struck by an errant Bludger, the guard wouldn't fall off and leave her shin shattered. It was all about learning the right way to secure your gear; that knowledge came just as slowly as learning how to play the game itself did. One had to crack a couple fibulas before one learned - at least, that's what Davies used to say, and Bradley now. Morag hadn't ever broken any bones, but she'd gotten some nasty bruises.
"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Padma said, closing the book with a sharp snap. A scrap of parchment escaped unnoticed by the Prefect, where it settled onto the ground and soaked up a bit of rain from the previous night's storm. What was one scrap when you had one hundred, anyway? A few scrawls on a page didn't matter.
"No, it's fine," Morag replied. "It's a few minutes yet. Hufflepuff's still got the field." The grass was wet, but she sat down anyway, given the practicality of the gesture. Her legs were tired, she wanted a bit of rest, and she'd probably fall in the mud a few dozen times anyway. If her uniform was broken in by the time she got to the field, what difference did it make?
Neither of them said anything for a while, then Padma asked, "Why Quidditch?"
"What do you mean?"
The wide-open, grassy field around them killed her chuckle. It seemed to die in the air, which Morag found a little depressing considering that the year would be over before too long, and Hogwarts along with it. "I mean, you barely ever use your wand, but you're crazy over this."
"Doesn't take magic to ride a broom," Morag replied. "My father could do it." Her shoulders rose and fell, though they fell a tad farther than where they'd been before. It didn't seem like a nice thing to bring up at all... Not that Morag was sensitive about her parentage, but recently, it occurred to her that in her desperation to be like her father, she'd been missing out on a lot. When Padma didn't respond, Morag sighed. "I suppose when a girl hits eighteen, she gets it."
"Not always."
"Mn. I guess you'll tell me there's still time."
"Well, there is. Are you happy?"
Morag scratched at her neckline, where the collar of her sweater decided it wanted to suddenly and spontaneously both annoy and provide an apt distraction from the conversation - for all of a few seconds. "I could be happier. What is there for me? A desk job in the Ministry at best." Leaning forward, she allowed the slope of the hill to guide her posture and weight to her knees, and she stood from there. "Sorry, Padma. I have practise."
Padma inclined her head a bit, waving a hand toward the pitch in dismissal. Her eyes were back on the dog-eared pages of the old book before Morag could offer a goodbye.
Hefting her broom, she picked her way down the rather slippery incline of the hill. 'Are you happy' just wasn't the type of question you asked a person if you wanted an honest answer. Either you had the little emotional first-years replying how much they hated their lives, or the sixth-and-seventh-years who tried to dig a little maturity out of themselves and insist that they didn't have a care in the world. Morag took the practical middle road, because she saw no sense in lying or dramatising the fact that she really wasn't all that happy, and that was entirely her fault. The past year, she'd thrown her whole life into Quidditch, because with only four classes - none of which involved the practical use of a wand - she had a lot of free time. However, it wasn't until recently that she really realised how much of a mistake she'd made.
Squib relatives seemed to be a source of ridicule in the school, though Morag was intensely proud of her father. She wanted to be like him, wanted to emulate him, wanted him to be just as proud of her as she was of him. And to that end, she'd failed almost all her magical courses, mostly on purpose.
So it wasn't a great idea. Morag knew she'd salvage the situation, because nothing was so long-gone that a little something couldn't be drawn from it. And Padma was right - at only eighteen years of age, she had a long way to go before she was useless, but she'd also have a lot of work to do.
Heading past the stands, she noticed the witch who'd been sitting there watching the practices for the past several weeks. Her intentions were horribly transparent, even if the fact that she even chose to be among them involved some huge secret. Of course she existed as some sort of talent scout, most likely for the minors, given the rather dumpy appearance she had. The rest of the team pretended she wasn't there while showing off while they pulled off stunts that they'd never normally attempt in practise. Bradley and Morag sometimes chuckled about it in the locker room after a session, because it was funny to watch. The only thing either of them were concerned about was getting the Quaffle through those damned tiny rings at the end of the pitch, because goals won a game, not circus tricks.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the woman standing up, making notes on a clipboard with a Quick-Quotes quill. Meanwhile, Morag held up her hand for the Quaffle, and Michael Corner passed it to her before hailing one of the Beaters for a few laps around the field. The catch stung a bit, but she managed it one-handed, before dropping it to the crook between her shin and the top of her foot. Maybe she could get on an indoor soccer league over the summer.
"Oi, Morag," Bradley called from across the field. He held up his hand to wave, but given that the Quaffle was just about to fall off her foot, she lofted it too him. He caught it, of course.
"What's up, Cameron?" she asked, holding her hand out for a pass. He threw the ball back to her.
"Wondering if I could chat with you for a quick sec, is all. I was hoping you'd get here early... It's important. Don't think the rest of the team should know yet- here." He held out an envelope. Neatly written in gold ink was her name - Morag MacDougal. "You should open it, but I want to tell you myself..."
Morag nodded. "You aren't kicking me off the team, are you? I might be angry."
"Nothing like that," Bradley said. "That scout. Her name's Loretta Looncall. She used to play for the Pride of Portree. She was here for you."
"Wha--"
"They want you on as a reserve Chaser. It's really good pay, Morag, and eventually... Who knows? You could be a starter. It's all there in the letter."
"I thought they were here for you," she said.
Bradley chuckled. "I'm already signed with the Tornados. The team's not supposed to know that, either, but I figured..."
"Well... Congratulations," Morag said, still somewhat stunned as she tore open the top of the envelope. Just as Bradley said, it was all there, start to finish, including the proposed salary, which made her double-take.
"You, too," Bradley said. "I hope to meet you out on the field one day."
The letter ended up in her pocket for the rest of practise, and she studied it for the rest of the night in her dormitory, because she still couldn't believe it. Well, it seemed logical in retrospect the more she pondered it, but what really got to her was what could have been. She could have applied herself to her studies. Could have pulled herself away from the pitch instead of spending that extra time practising. Could have potentially ended up miserable for the rest of her life.
Instead, she'd be soaring, and that's all anyone could ever ask for.
1/20