Who: Coach Meaghan and mentions of others What: Meaghan waits. Where: Hogwarts locker room When: Tuesday afternoon practice Rating: PG Status: Complete
At 3:30 on Tuesday afternoon, Meaghan was sitting in the tiny repurposed cupboard that served for the office in her team’s locker room. Normally it would be the captain’s office, which had always seemed like a laugh to her. What Hogwarts captain needed an office? Even Charlie Weasley, who’d been bloody good (you know, for a Seeker) before he went and wasted his life and talent (for a Seeker) snogging dragons or whatever, hadn’t had much use for it. In fact, she was pretty sure he’d used it to store booze for post-match parties more than anything else. And maybe some kind of dragon porn too, she wouldn’t put it past him.
Now, of course, it was the coach’s office - Meaghan’s office, which in a lot of ways was even more of a laugh. She’d never had an office, she never wanted an office, she’d never even wanted to be a non-officed captain so this office rubbish was damn well wasted on her, though she thought she could come up with a use for it quick enough if someone gave her a bottle of firewhiskey, or the next time her husband came to a match. But when it came to official officey business, she’d barely set a foot in it since September. Captains and coaches should be outside. That’s where Quidditch happened.
Today, though, it seemed like as good a place as any to wait. She wasn’t the most discreet of women (and some would say she didn’t even know how to spell the word), but even she knew this wasn’t a conversation that should happen in front of everyone.
And it was going to happen, even if Corrie was a half-hour late, because you couldn’t just quit a bloody team like that. It didn’t happen, and the only reason she was even acknowledging that it had was that she’d got three owls from the Harper kid to prove his part in it, and she’d also had to gather up her daughter’s broom and send that stupid doll (which was apparently on a timer and had squawked its head off soon as the practice was up) on with Potter.
She’d been pissed at first, and put the remaining members of the team through hell the rest of Sunday practice. The only reason she was even a little calmed now was that when she went home that day, Pye had done his Ravenclaw thing and made sense at her. It was bloody annoying when he did that without permission, but sometimes it came in handy -- like now, when despite her instincts screaming that now’d be a real satisfying time to tear someone’s arms off, common sense/Augustus Pye pointed out that this would probably not help her team win the tournament. So instead, encouraged by the father of her children, she was going to talk to one of her children instead. Anything was worth trying once and all that.
At 3:45 the team began to arrive and dress out for practice. Lockers squeaked open and clanged shut amid the kind of chatter that you always get when a team gets together, in or out of a locker room, though today it seemed slightly more hushed and uncertain. She recognized the voices, though she couldn’t hear what they were saying.
First up they were going to talk about proper broomcare, Meaghan thought with a frown at the Comet 360 propped up in the corner of the room. It had been a Christmas present, newest sleekest fastest Comet yet, something to make damn sure she’d be able to outfly the bludgers and avoid another situation like the one back in December. And it had worked -- she’d flown perfect in the last match and played brilliant. Just like it was supposed to be.
Meaghan had looked over the broom after practice on Sunday. It was perfect, clipped and polished just right. But the kid’d had no business tossing it on the ground like that. You respected your broom, you treated it right, you took care of it and it’d take care of you. The crap school broom she’d borrowed the week before was one thing, only even then you were supposed to have some pity on an antique. But she knew she’d taught Corrie better than to throw around a brand new pristine top of the line broomstick. No matter how mad you were, and Meaghan had been pretty bloody mad in her day, and for that matter her bloody day wasn’t over yet thank you ruddy much, you didn’t abuse your broom. Especially when your mum had bought it for you. There were poor kids in Ethiopia who’d be damn over the moon for a chance to touch a broom like that, much less own their very own and get to use it whenever they like.
She threw the clock a glance when the team started moving out onto the pitch, one by one abandoning the locker room. 3:53. Normally she’d be out there already to greet them or glare or some shite, but if she went out now she’d miss her chance to chew out Corrie before they started warming up. And it’d be a damn big chewingout after she’d kept Meaghan waiting this long. A lesser woman might have wondered if she’d written the wrong time or day in the owl, but McCormacks weren’t uncertain and Meaghan knew she’d written “a hour before” and “Tuesday.” McCormacks didn’t fidget either, which is why she didn’t. And McCormacks didn’t give in, which is why at 4:05 she was still sitting in her office, feet up on what passed for her desk, arms folded across a once-flat chest that had been generously and unexpectedly blessed by motherhood, steadfastly refusing to look at the clock. Time didn’t exist unless she said so.
A quiet knock on the door roused her from her plans, and she pressed her lips together in a grim smile. Finally. She’d probably shown up late thinking she’d escape a tongue-lashing, but it bloody well wasn’t going to work. Feet hitting the floor emphatically, she went to open the door.
It was Harper, looking apologetic. Unbidden, Corrie’s description of him as a house-elf popped into her mother’s head. Under different circumstances it would’ve been funny, but it just reminded her that he had returned to the team when he was told. He’d even written all those owls to explain himself.
“Whaddaya want?” Meaghan said, glaring at him. Didn’t he have anything better to do than to go around knocking on doors and interrupting people?
For a minute the kid didn’t say anything, eyes darting past her to look at the clock. His hand went to his head, and he rubbed his hair. Then he said, nervously, with another glance at the clock to be sure it was really there, “It’s 4:11. Are you coming to practice?”
Meaghan had a tongue-lashing ready at hand, and though the subject wasn’t there to receive it, here was a subject and she’d always been pretty damn good at switching things up on the fly. She gathered her fury, opened her mouth to let it out...
And stopped. She turned to look at the clock, ticking away. She looked at the broom leaning in the corner.
She turned back to Chase and without a word, pushed past him and made her way through the locker room.
She glanced at Corrie’s locker, which had been shut since Sunday, and moved on.
The team was on the other side of the pitch when she burst through the doors, Chase close behind her. They saw her immediately and as she watched them jog toward her, her breath caught for a moment when she saw a girl of a certain height and build among them. But as the girl approached, she saw the girl’s clipped hair and breathed again. Weasley. Right.
They were gathered in front of her now, panting and sweating and staring and waiting, and she didn’t have a bloody idea what to say to them. She didn’t know these kids. She knew about them, of course - once she had down the short list for the team she’d done her research. Flint there had a total bastard of a dad and everyone knew it. The Goldsteins were related to Gwenog Jones, not that they looked it as light as they were. And everyone knew about the Potters and Weasleys, much as Meaghan wished people would shut up about them sometimes (except for Charlie, who despite his pervy dragonfancying was still a good bloke).
But she didn’t know them. She knew how they played, she knew where they came from, but she couldn’t glance at them and read the tension in their bodies, know how much longer they needed to work on a pass or a play. How much more they could handle.
She knew Corrie. She’d trained her, she’d raised her. She’d damn well better know her at this point. She could read her like a book. Or she’d been able to do until lately.
Corrie had been her touchstone for the team, or her weathervane, or whatever bloody metaphor worked best. Meaghan wasn’t a Ravenclaw and she didn’t think in words. She was a Gryffindor, and she did, and occasionally felt when she allowed herself and it wasn’t one of the wussy emotions trying to break out. She didn’t doubt. Doubt was for people who failed. It had no place on her pitch or in her team.
But standing on her pitch, facing her team, with the full force of her authority and even an office and a house-elf assistant behind her, she had no idea what the hell to say, and the silence stretched on as her eyes swept over their faces, wondering what in Godric’s name they all needed.
And what in the hell she was going to do about it.
And what the point of this even was anymore.
She’d never wanted to be a coach. She’d never even wanted to be a captain. It was too much responsibility, too much work. She’d only gotten into this whole gig because she was bored, and getting ready to retire anyway, and because of Corrie.
And now she was gone.
They were beginning to fidget when Meaghan finally cleared her throat. “Girl Goldstein, you’re promoted,” she said, and without pausing to see the look on Elliot’s face or anyone else’s, she turned to Chase.
“Harper, it’s your practice.”
And before he could either thank her or protest, she stomped past him to the bleachers and sat down, arms folded and face as immovable as a stone.