WHO: Seamus Finnigan & Morag MacDougal WHEN: Saturday, late morning. WHERE: Quidditch pitch SUMMARY: Bantering, flying, generally misunderstanding one another. RATING: PG-13 STATUS: Complete
Morag imagined that it would only be a matter of time before the Carrows invented a reason to ban brooms outside of Quidditch games and official practices - or some idiot gave them a reason, if her classmates’ recent behavior was any indication - so she intended to fly as much as possible before that inevitable evil. But as she approached the pitch, she wasn’t surprised to find that she wasn’t the only one who’d had the idea. There were a handful of younger years lounging in the grass on the far end, watching several more toss a quaffle back and forth above them. But her eyes followed a figure circling alone, near the other end of the pitch. She actually considered going back inside the castle, mostly because of how much she didn’t want to do just that when she recognized Seamus. Heat crept from her belly up her neck, belying the autumnal chill in the air.
Before she could think better of the decision, Morag mounted her broom and kicked off towards him, tugging a ratty knit cap onto her head. Because it was cold.
And because she didn’t trust the blush hadn’t reached her ears.
It wasn't that Seamus didn't enjoy Quidditch practices, or wasn't pleased with having made the team this year. It was that keepers kept, and he had always preferred flying through the air to sitting still in front of the hoops. He understood Ginny's attempts at strategy with the Gryffindor team turned on its ear, but he was still jealous of Paige's position as Seeker, and had chosen to give up attempting to burn things for a while, coming out to the pitch as a tension reliever.
There was freedom in the sky that there wasn't in the castle, even if the chilly Scottish autumn wind was stinging his ears and smarting his eyes. Hopefully Dean had gone somewhere warmer. Maybe he was with the last of the holiday makers in Cornwall, or had managed to make his way to the continent. Seamus had had a letter from his mum, saying there'd been no news by her or Dean's mother, but that had been a week ago. Seamus squinted as he made a sharp turn at the end of the pitch to test his reflexes, and got more than he bargained for, meeting Morag's approach head on. He spiraled low, turning a corkscrew with a full-throated shout of Jesus Henry Christ's full name, and Morag's tacked onto the end for good measure.
Morag hadn’t been expecting that. The embarrassing gasp of fright as she only just managed to stay on her own broom was swallowed up in a choke of laughter at Seamus’ exclamation. If he’d have moved like that during the trials, Ginny might’ve thought twice before stranding him as a Keeper.
“Now don’t go saying I was trying to knock you off your broom,” Morag scolded preemptively, but she was smiling. “If I had been, you would’ve been.”
Pulling up level with her again and starting a slower circle than he'd been making before, Seamus caught his breath, and then shook his head. "Bullshit," he refuted. "I don't see a Bludger anywhere. Or is this some new tactic - just sneak up on the other players, try to frighten them into falling?"
Morag quirked a brow, circling opposite Seamus going in the other direction, so they’d come face to face before flying wide away from each other.
“Are you afraid of me, Finnigan?”
"No," Seamus laughed. Other people might be frightened of her - the younger years down below were more intimidated by a salty seventh year, for example - but Seamus didn't consider Morag to be scary. Not in the sense she meant, at least. "Sorry."
Pursing her lips, Morag leaned into her broom, dipping lazily and levelling again. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected Seamus to say, and couldn’t decide if she liked the answer he’d given. There was too much for her to read into, or too little, perhaps.
“What’re you doing out here? Not practicing,” she observed, realizing that her question really had only one literal answer, curious if Seamus would offer more.
He pulled up on his broom, steadying to a halt and hovering, watching as she carried on. "Hard to practice keeping on your own," he admitted. Seamus rubbed his nose on his sleeve. "Same as you," he guessed. "Get out for a while, better than homework, if you're not a Ravenclaw." He did have homework. Runes translations and Astronomy reading, but thankfully the idiotic diorama was finished. "How was Wiztopia?" he asked, emphasizing the first syllable so as to make it clear how little he thought of a utopian wizarding society, free of his ilk.
Morag snorted. She was hardly the model Ravenclaw, but still. Getting out of doors was an absolute necessity on the weekend.
And besides, she’d finished her homework.
“Boring as fuck,” she admitted, slowing to a stop herself and balling her hands in her pockets. She should’ve worn gloves. “Though I did make all of the wizards Su let me paste in poofs.”
"That's your utopia?" Seamus asked, the question cluttered with a laugh. "We're all getting off with each other and leaving you alone?"
Wait.
Was Morag a lesbian?
“I thought Professor Carrow would appreciate my leveling the playing field,” Morag joked grimly, catching Seamus’ eyes and looking away again, pretending to care what the students on the ground were up to. “And besides, isn’t that what you’re all doing already?”
"No," Seamus barked, his expression flashing from exasperation to resignation. Did everyone genuinely think that he and Dean had been romantic, or was it just a fun button to push? "Who do you even know who's a poof?"
“Who cares?” Morag retorted. She felt restless. She hadn’t come out here to chat with Seamus and decide she was wrong about… whatever… it was that had happened after Charms last week. He’d made her feel stupid then and she felt stupid again now for having imagined he might fancy her, a little. He didn’t. And she didn’t. She didn’t.
But she hated being wrong.
Jerking the handle of her broom and turning upside down for a split second before righting herself, Morag refused to feel anything but her usual brand of cantankerous normalcy.
“So should I filch that quaffle or do you want to race?”
What had been wrong with that? "I-" Seamus frowned. He didn't actually want to compete with Morag, unless it was within the context of games where it was required, given they were in separate houses. "Did I say something wrong? I didn't mean - - I don't really care if someone's a poof, so long as they're not, you know… I just like…" She looked dramatic, windswept and chilly and pulling tricks on a broom rather than pay attention to him or what he was saying. "Girls."
Morag smirked, straightening her cap and tucking the hair the wind had torn from her braid behind her ears.
“Bully for you,” she replied matter-of-factly. If he’d expected her to be surprised, she wasn’t. The Gryffindor was an incurable flirt. “I just came out here to fly, that’s all. We can talk about your sexual orientation later, if you really feel there’s more to say on the matter.”
She studied his face, but she wasn’t close enough to discern the shade of his eyes today. There wasn’t a good reason to get any closer, either, none but the cold, and Morag didn’t let herself imagine how much warmer she might be pressed against one of his broad shoulders.
Seamus shrugged them, still not convinced that he hadn't somehow inadvertently offended her, even if Morag was the one putting poofter figurines in a diorama. What were they doing in the diorama, to make their miniature orientations obvious? "I thought you didn't like it when we talk about my sex life," he retorted, and then he was off, tucking his body close to the broom to fly through one of the hoops he was charged with defending. They didn't set a finish line, they didn't need a countdown or someone to blow a starting whistle; Seamus and Morag were already adept at skimming past each other, even if all past experience was limited to the ground.
Morag had only just opened her mouth to deride him, but closed it again quickly as she gave chase, darting above Seamus near enough that the ragged bristles of her broom came within a hands breadth of sweeping his back. Her grace on a broom wasn’t a Chaser’s grace, light and fast, but the strength and brutal swiftness of a Beater as she cut through the air. She flattened herself against her broom, picking up speed as she zipped past Seamus, flashing him a rare, unguarded grin.
Maybe that was why the Slytherin Quidditch team didn't have girls. Watching them rush past, it didn't matter so much that you had fallen behind, if they were happy about it. He battled back when they leveled out; despite Morag having years of experience, Seamus' broomstick, while not top of the line, was a newer model that had only ever belonged to him. There weren't bludgers to barrel after and bat away, and Seamus pressed the advantage to check her - not so aggressively as one would in a match, not so playful as an ordinary boy might have checked an ordinary girl he fancied.
The brief, almost-rough contact made Morag bold, and she dropped a few feet below Seamus before charging up again, circling the Gryffindor and diving right through his path with a gleeful laugh.
This was almost as nice as arguing.
They carried on for twenty minutes or so; long enough for Seamus to wish he'd been clever enough to wear a hat as well, and fancy something hot to drink. "OI!" he shouted, pushing up alongside and pointing down to the ground in a gesture to indicate landing. He slowed on the descent, landing light and easy rather than attempt some daredevil manoeuvre and risk causing himself injury rather than present an impressive display of flying expertise.
"Aren't you cold?" asked Seamus, feeling his own pinked cheeks with an icy hand. Playing in December wasn't going to be very pleasant.
Though she’d just been about to climb higher, Morag turned and followed Seamus down, leaping from her broom while she still had a little momentum. She took a few quick steps to slow herself, rather than letting her broom do the work. It was a showier landing, and she knew it.
“Freezing,” Morag admitted, tugging the sleeves of her jumper down and holding them fast against her palms with bared fingertips. Despite the cold, though, she felt better than she had all week, better even than after Quidditch practice. Physical activity always took the edge off of her temper, which was probably why Morag made for such a grouchy student; spending the bulk of her time seated behind a desk, studying, or attending sullenly to a lecture did little to improve her mood.
He grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners and a hint of a dimple visible in his left cheek. "Come on," he said, lifting his broom to his shoulder and turning toward the path that led back to the castle. "We'll get a cuppa and warm up."