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I have named July the month Mistress updates one story after another all month. FOUR story updates this month. FOUR. And this is number FIVE. So enjoy one of my favorite Quidditch chappies! 

The locker room was empty.

It was the morning of the match and for the first time, it actually felt as empty as it looked. The lockers were closed, water bottles placed neatly on the benches before them. The chalk board had been cleaned. Two full sticks of chalk were in the tray, along with a black eraser. I moved into the men’s showers. A long row of pristine, white towels were on the bar. The floor was shiny.

Everything was always given an overhaul the night before a game.

I pulled off my shirt, my shorts, my boxers, and turned the water on hot. It felt good, a tiny distraction from everything else. I needed it.

Steam filled the shower stall. I didn’t bother to grab for the shampoo, but instead let the water wash over me, down my shoulders and chest, my thighs and feet until it puddled and sank into the drain. Something similar to what I currently wanted to do.


I cleared my throat. “Yeah, Lils?”

There was a pause. “I’ll get the team ready and going,” she called. “You take your time.”

I frowned. I couldn’t ask for a better sister. “Yeah, all right,” I said. “Thanks.”

The door closed.

I was five when Dad plopped me on a broom for the newly thought-up Potter-family-broom-racing. It was supposed to be a bi-annual thing, but Lily crashed early and whined to Mum, so it never happened again. I’ll still never forget it.

I got low on the broom, knuckles white from clutching it so hard. My eyes were on Dad’s.

“You’ve got this,” he told me, pointing to the finish line, which was nothing more than two terra cotta pots about three meters apart. “Just fly straight. Just like I taught you.”

“What if Albus is better?” I asked softly. Mum was trying to get Al to stay on the broom. He was pouting.

“You concentrate on you,” he said. “That’s all you need to worry about.” He leaned forward and kissed the top of my head. “Ready, son?”

“I was born ready.”

“That’s for sure,” Mum said and rolled her eyes.

I won the Potter-family-broom-racing competition, but only because Albus ran into one of the pots, Lily fell, and Mum and Dad spent the whole time puttering around at the starting line laughing at us. But I still felt like a winner.

Dad made me a certificate for winning.

“Take that to the Tornadoes,” he said with a cheeky grin. “They’ll sign you for sure.”

I still have that piece of paper. One edge was torn and part of the bottom corner was burnt, but it’s in my trunk.

I turned the shower up a little. My skin was starting to redden over my shoulders.

I hated this moment. The moment everything in my life had been building for. Growing up, I thought it would be when I got signed by the Tornadoes or when I finally played for the Cup. I imagined the robes with my last name stitched on the back. The ones that weren’t paid for by a player auction. I imagined practice jerseys being made. Interviews. Screaming fans.

Instead I spent this morning going over the internship sheet all the seventh years were given from the Ministry.


My fingers passed through my hair. Fuck.

This was how it ended. The Quidditch Final against Slytherin. Seventh year. June.

Sunny day. Not too bad, but the sun would have to be noted. It had been dry for three days, so the ground would be solid.

I went into this same stall before my first game as a reserve. Petrified. Shaking, nervously fumbling with the soap and shampoo. Maxwell told me I didn’t have to shower, but for some reason it made me feel better. Being alone. Like a warm massage.

This time, though, I couldn’t hide.

I switched off the shower and dried off, wrapping the towel around my middle. I pushed open the door and everyone’s eyes were on me. I expected as much. They were silent.

Waiting for me to say something.

Waiting for me to lead, as a captain.

So I walked over to my locker and got dressed. I slowly pulled on each pad. Each piece of fabric. Each item that had the Gryffindor logo attached to it, until I finally reached my robes. I tugged them on each arm and fastened the front.

POTTER was stitched into the back.

It was only then that I realized my father was standing next to the locker room door, arms crossed in his Gryffindor t-shirt, hair as messy as mine. I blinked.

“Hey,” he said.

The rest of the team was quiet. I was proud. Even Lily was quiet. She had done a good job, considering everyone was dressed, brooms at their feet.

I chewed on my bottom lip, guilt eating away at my stomach. I should have told him. I should have told him everything. “Hey,” was all I said.

“I won’t keep you,” Dad said with a brief flicker of a smile. “I know how important mind-set is before a game. I did want to tell you good luck, though.”

“Thanks,” I replied, managing a small nod. It felt like my throat was going to close up.

“I’m proud of you,” he said with another smile, causing me to almost lose my shit. Why did he have to say that? That he was proud of me? I hated when parents did shit like that.

Made me feel more guilty. I fumbled with my words, unsure.

“Thanks for stopping by, Dad!” Lily chimed, getting to her feet and hugging him. “Now we have to do last-minute prep. We’ll see you after.” She shot him a charming grin and shoved him out the door. Then she locked it. “Sorry, James. He said he wanted to see you. I knew it would throw you.”

I shrugged. I didn’t want anyone else to see it, but Avery’s eyes were piercing right through me. “Right.” I shook my head. Had to concentrate. Couldn’t let this get to me. Couldn’t let any of this get to me.


That was all I wrote on the chalkboard.

“I could stand up here and give you a load of shit about how we’re going to stop on them and revel in the glory, but that’s exactly what it would be,” I said, beginning to pace. Their eyes were locked on me. “This team has talent. You know all about it, considering our last team meeting was devoted entirely to it. But we have something they don’t.”

“Face symmetry?” Freddie offered.

“We have passion,” I said. “We have the passion for this sport. Everyone in this room loves it. For some of you, you live and breathe it. For others, you just love it enough to dedicate so much time to it on a weekly basis. You have followed the rules - for the most part - this year and I can’t ask anything more from you. You’ve given me everything.” My gaze scanned them. Chasers. Beaters. Keeper. Seekers. “I can only ask that you give me that dedication and passion one more time. Just once to show this team they cannot intimidate with physical force to beat a skill team.”

I took a breath, surprised at how shaky it had become. “If we played Slytherin ten times,” I said softly, “they might win nine. But not this game.”

I paused, my eyes on Avery. “Not this game.” Then I drew a line under the word. Under win.

“We’re going to win,” Lily said, her tone far more stable than mine. “But we’re going to win for you.”


“Win for yourself, Lily,” I said, meeting her eyes. The same as mine. “As I will be winning for myself.”

“James,” she said, giving me a warning tone. “Tell them.”

My jaw tightened.

“Tell them what?” Bink said, his feet skidding back and forth on the floor.

My gaze hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. Like rocks or pterodactyls or hummingbirds. But a lot of hummingbirds since they’re tiny. Don’t worry, the hummingbirds are alive and well. They’re just being dropped.

“Tell them … what?” Bink repeated slowly.

“Gryffindors,” I said, trying to give my voice the confidence I was lacking. “This is my last game.”

“Of course it is, you’re graduating,” Fred said, making a face.

“I’m serious,” I said. “Because of extenuating circumstances, I am unable to get signed by a professional team. So after Hogwarts, I won’t be playing Quidditch anymore. Therefore, this is my last game.” Other than the occasional pick-up game in the Burrow garden.

Silence. So much awkward, tense silence.

“There has to be something we can do,” Paloma blurted.

“Just win,” I said, shaking my head. “Don’t win for me or for bitterness or pride. Just win for you, okay? I want to go out there and play.” I ran my fingers through my hair, throat suddenly sore. Eyes suddenly prickly now that I had vocalized that this was it. It was the end. “Let’s just go out there and win.” It tasted like I had stuck the chalk in my mouth. “For Gryffindor.”


Lawson’s handshake was firm. Clearly the last week of his recovery had been ideal for him. He was still tall and bulky, thick arms emphasized by his green robes. He grunted a little and stepped back to the other side of the circle.

The crowd was deafening, but I had gone through this drill so many times that it was like a familiar buzzing in my ears. Blurs of red and green. Mostly red because really, who liked Slytherin?

The old burgundy trunk sat between us, open. Each ball was struggling. I saw the Snitch compartment twitch.

“I want a fair game.”

Who played fair? Indeed. I replayed the image of blood falling over my eyes. Of trying to piece together the evening while I was in the hospital with Avery. Seeing her arm. How distraught Albus was about Paloma. Lily’s back wound as she protected Wesley.

Lawson’s sneer insisted he was thinking about the same thing.

There was a light breeze. That might impact Avery.

I glanced over my shoulder. She nodded, hair already tied back.

Godric, she was smart.

“No cheating. No filthy language. I want a clean, fair game.”

Fat chance, woman.

I couldn’t help but wonder if Lawson knew. He had connections in the Quidditch world. I hated his sneer. It was a knowing sneer. I hated him.

I hated he knew this was my last shot on a broom. To compete.

At a bloody school. At seventeen.

She reached down to grab the Quaffle.

“Good luck, Potter,” Lawson said out of the corner of his fat gob. “You’re going to need it.”

Surprisingly, and what a rarity it was, Lawson was right.


Lawson was built for a ground sport. Rugby. Ice hockey. Something where players hit other players and gouged out eyes. He didn’t belong on a broom. Slytherin, however, had adapted the style of those sports and turned them into their own hybrid.

Rughockey Quidditch. So I had started calling it.

Ever since brutality in Quidditch took an up-swig about ten years ago, it had been more encouraged as long as no one was fatally injured. Thanks, refs. Most of the hits were technically clean if done correctly (something a Hufflepuff could never manage to do), but hurt like hell and were usually enough to throw off someone’s game.

Like mine, when Lawson nailed me in the shoulder and I flew off my broom, twenty feet in the air, slamming hard on my side.

My sharp intake of breath told me immediately a rib was broken.

“Fuck,” I whispered, eyes squeezing closed as I clutched my side. There were yells from the crowd. Footfalls beside me.

“James?” Avery waved a hand in front of my face. “Are you okay?”

“Score,” I said.

“Thirty-ten Slytherin,” she said softly, as if the information may injure me further.

She was right to do so, since I twitched and a burst of pain flew up my side. “Broken, Aves,” I managed to get out, wincing. “Bandage. Need a wrap.” I kept gasping for breath.

The rest of the team landed beside me.

“You need Bones?” Fred said, glancing over his shoulder. “She’s over there.”

“No way she’ll let me play,” I managed, nearly choking from the pain. Fuck it hurt. There were lights dancing before my eyes.

“She called a foul,” Bink said, nudging my leg. More pain. “You get to take a penalty shot.”

Yes, that was what I needed. A penalty shot.

“Can you?” Avery whispered while the others were distracted by the Gryffindor cheering.

“I have no choice.”

“James, don’t be stupid.”

“Story of my life, Aves,” I said, cringing. “Help me up so I can look like I made a miraculous recovery. And get me a fucking bandage.”

Avery let out a disgruntled sigh and grabbed my elbow, helping me to my feet. She pulled her wand out from her robes and turned my undershirt into a tight bandage, keeping my rib in place, though the pain was excruciating. More lights dancing before my eyes. Fuckfuckfuck.

“Call the timeout if you need it,” she said into my ear, handing me the broom that had landed a few meters away.

It felt foreign in my hands. Oh, Godric.

No. Not this game. Not ten minutes into this game.

My last game. Bloody fuck, I should just give up.

Throw in the towel and go climb into a hospital bed, curling up under the blankets to let my rib heal. And then go down and punch Lawson right in the face. Emerson-punch him right in the face. Yes, that was a good plan.

I managed to get one leg over the broom, trying hard not to let the pain show. It had to have been. I felt my brows crease. Jaw tighten.

“One shot, Potter.”

I left the rest of the team on the grass. The Slytherins were by their bench. All except the Keeper. Rodulov. Big bloke with black hair and black eyes. He was sneering.

Balance was disaster on a broom. I didn’t realize until a rib was broken how much of my core I used to stay where I needed to. I moved the Quaffle to my right hand. Oh, Godric, the pain. I was starting to feel dizzy. Hopeless. Sad. Upset. Hufflepuffy.

The whistle blew.

Okay. Must. Fly.

I wasn’t going very fast, but leaning forward felt like torture. I cringed, focus blurry. Okay, there’s Rodulov. There’s his broom. There’s the three hoops. He’s in front of the center hoop. Keepers always stay in front of the center. They’re idiots. All I have to do is fake and he’s mine.

I kicked my broom a little when entering the scoring zone, letting out a painful cry as I threw without faking, almost blind. Radulov kicked it away, though barely, and cheers erupted from the fans in green.

“Fuck,” I whispered, turning away. Everything hurt.

“James, you need to see Bones,” Avery said when I rejoined the team on the ground. She handed me water and forced me to drink. The others were somewhere. Doing something. Flying. No, not flying. It was a timeout.

My parents were in the audience.

Mum was probably having a spaz attack at that hit. She could see through everything. She probably knew my rib was broken. Sorry, Mum.

“Fuck no,” I said, rounding on Avery. “I’m playing. You remember what happened in the third place final? Dad told me Abigail got a Bludger to the rib.”

“She was taken out,” she said, frowning.

“I’m not leaving my last game, Aves,” I said, desperation in my voice. I turned to Bink and Fred. “Try not to pass it to me in the scoring zone. I can’t shoot for shit, okay?”

They nodded, both looking concerned.

My last game of my entire career. My rib was broken. And if this kept up, it was going to be the reason we lost.

Another whistle.

“Let’s go, Gryffindors!” I said, trying not to take in the surroundings. The quiet from the fans in red. The quiet skepticism from my team.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

I kicked back off and took the Quaffle, dodging a few bulky Slytherins, a Bludger, and then passed to Bink. Thank Godric because everything was hurting again. Aching. Like thick needles being prodded into my skin. I blinked a few times, focusing on Bink and Freddie. A few passes. Bink scored. Cheers erupted in the red and I realized I narrowly missed another hit by Lawson when there was a gasp.

Dear Godric.

Okay, concentrate. Quaffle. Slytherins have it. Okay, good. Bink has it.

I have it!

Shit shit shit!

Okay, Freddie has it.


Ow. Breathing hurts.

Don’t breathe.

Cancel that. Must breathe.

I have it again! Oh, god!

Bink has it.

I blinked again, wind finding its way through the strands of my hair. I soared past one of the Beaters, who was winding up for a pretty wicked shot.

Then a scream.

I almost fell off my broom I turned too hard.

Once again, Lawson was right.

My baby sister hit the ground hard.

Wesley was on the ground first. “I was about to hit it!” he cried, falling to his knees and skidding across the grass. “Then Lawson nailed me – this is my fault!”

I shoved him to the side, unaware at how I managed to get to her side so fast. She was curled in the fetal position, wincing with pain. “Where’d it get you?”

Her fingers uncurled from her arm. It was at a strange angle, which made my stomach turn.


The crowd noticed this as well. Collective groan.

“You’re not playing.” Madam Bones was at my shoulder. “That needs a splint and three different potions to heal. Put in your reserve, Potter.”

I leaned to the side, ribs erupting in pain, and made eye contact with Haley.

Why was everything going wrong?

Why was my final match going so terribly, terribly wrong?

“No.” Lily’s voice came out in a mixture of a sigh and a groan. “Fuck. No.”

“Lily Potter,” Madam Bones scolded. “You need to watch your language.”

“NO.” Lily’s face was a mixture of tears and sweat and dirt. Among her freckles, of course. “I am playing.”

“You don’t have a bloody arm to catch with,” Wesley said desperately. “Lily, just do what the lady says, okay? You’re hysterical.”

“Shut up, Jordan,” Lily snapped. “I am playing this game and not giving Slytherin the satisfaction of side-lining me.”

“You can’t catch!” Wesley said.

“Bloody thanks to you.” Lily kicked him away and got to her feet, using her good arm. “Give me a fucking splint. I’m playing this game.” Her hair was whipping away from her face. “Now, okay?”

The Slytherins were jeering.

Avery took out her wand and gave Lily a splint, considering Madam Bones dumbstruck look as she made her way back to the sidelines. Haley remained on the bench.

“Back in the air,” I snapped at the rest of them. I took Lily by her good arm and leaned down. “You’re sure?”

Her brown eyes met mine, lips white. Probably from the pain. “I am not letting you do this on your own, James.”

My hands balled into fists. “Fine,” I said. “I’m just worried about you.”

She slapped my chest. “You’re a fucking Quidditch player.” Lily drug her fingers across my cheekbones. I could feel the grains of dirt and assumed it was a war paint. “Act like one, will you?”

She steadied herself on her broom and took off into the air.

Another whistle.

Act like one.

Act like a Quidditch player.

I took a moment to look around, feet still on the ground. Green players. Red players. Leagues of fans, screaming with signs. Some had glitter, which was a trend that had apparently caught on quickly.

I was a Quidditch player.

I was a fucking Quidditch player.

We were down forty to twenty.

And I was a fucking Quidditch player.

“Potter. In the air!”

I was playing in my last match ever.

Quidditch. The game I loved. The game I dedicated myself to. Researching stats. Reading up on every team. Every player. Every practice drill. It was my entire life. My team was my family.

And I’ll be fucking damned if some git with a hamburger face was going to make me look like a fool.

Not now. Not this game.

Fuck this pain. Fuck the Slytherins. Fuck David fucking Flynn.

Not. This. Game.


“It’s ninety-forty Gryffindor!” shouted Ryan the Puffer. “Can you believe this comeback?”

Yes, I could.

I could because the second I got back into the air I grabbed that Quaffle and threw it past Rodulov. And then I did it again.

The fans in red were screaming themselves hoarse.

One hundred.

One hundred ten.

One hundred twenty.

One hundred thirty.

Snack on that for lunch, Slytherin.

Hope that scouts liked that move, Lawson.

Suddenly I didn’t care about not being signed to the Tornadoes or the Falcons or the Magpies. I cared about kicking the shit out of Slytherin because I had the capability to do so. I was the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and so help me Godric I was going to win.

One hundred forty.

One hundred fifty.

Bink was flying like his life depended on it. He looked way better today than he had in practice. Fred was catching well. Paloma nailed Lawson with a Bludger to the left leg. And Lily was still in the air, determination written all over her face as she searched for the Snitch.

She was pale, though. Too pale.

One hundred sixty.

Lawson was panting. Avery was playing like her goddamn heart depended on it, kicking away Quaffles with surprising poise.

One hundred seventy.

One hundred eighty.

My entire body was on fire, but I didn’t care. All I could feel was the wind. The pressure of the crowd. The heat of the afternoon sun.

And the glory of sticking it to Slytherin.

One hundred ninety.

I looked to Lily, my heart hammering in my chest. Everything was fuzzy. Everything was me, in my mind. Lily streaking across the pitch. The Slytherins had the Quaffle? I didn’t have the Quaffle. Someone had the Quaffle.

Lily was racing. So was Cook, the reserve Seeker, who had replaced Malfoy.

But it was his fingers that clasped the tiny ball. Lily couldn’t extend her hand far enough without shrieking in pain.

“No,” I said, watching Cook raise his hand triumphantly against the roar of the Slytherin fans. My heart sank. Everything sank.

Everything was for nothing.

Then there was a different kind of roar.

I turned.

The scoreboard read: 190 Slytherin. 200 Gryffindor.

My eyes flickered to Radulov, who slammed his fist hard into the metal hoop, streaking it with red. Behind him the Quaffle was floating toward the ground.

Bink and Freddie slapped hands off to the left.

We had won the Cup.


It was everything I had ever imagined it to be. Like a painting, colors swirled together. My shoulders bumped with chests and hands and the jaw of some Hufflepuff. I tossed my broom onto the bench, head spinning. My ribs were still killing me, but I didn’t care. The field was clad with red. Glitter was on my robes.

And then it was there.

I’d raised it on two other occasions. I’d grabbed it and hoisted it over my head, yelling myself sore.

But this was different.

When I took the silver Cup from Sinatra, who was trying to say something, but I didn’t give a fuck, I shoved it toward the air Lion King style. A deafening roar met my ears.

For me.

For my team.

For Gryffindor.

I held it there for what seemed like ages. My arms hurt. My ribs hurt. My legs still hurt from the way I landed. But I didn’t care. I’d won my final match. I had made my father proud. I had made myself proud.

Avery held it after me. I was shocked to see the tears in her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. Holy hell. She was grinning like a fool. She passed it on to Lily, who had help by Wesley to hold it up. I lost track of it as I looked back at Avery.

She threw her arms around me, careful to avoid my injury. “You. Were. Amazing.”

“You were amazing.” I kissed her cheek and a few people bumped into us.

“James,” Avery said, laughing. “You just scored twelve of the twenty goals!”

I couldn’t help the grin that was creeping up my face. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Didn’t I?” I still couldn’t believe it. All of it. The Cup. Someone else was holding it. Probably Paloma.

“You’re so fucking brilliant,” Avery said, out of breath. She was laughing. There was that look in her eyes, still glossy from the tears. Then her gaze was torn away and she grinned widely. “Mr. and Mrs. Potter!” she cried.

My parents were right there. Dad, still in his t-shirt. Mum in a matching shirt. Immediately, Dad pulled me into a hug and Mum shoved him away to pull my shirt up.

“I knew it,” she said, her fingers brushing over the bandage Avery created. “James, you brute. This is broken. It could have punctured something!”

“But we won,” I said gleefully with a charming, shit-eating grin.

Mum sighed, bringing her eyes to mine. “You are your father,” she muttered, slapping me on the back of the head.

“Not such a terrible place to be.” I hugged Dad, ignoring the pain in my side. “You see that goal to take it to eighty? Boom. Right past that Russian son of a bitch.”

“Language, James,” Dad said, but ruffled my hair. “It was great. I can’t believe I’ve missed so many games. I think I’ll wake up with no voice tomorrow.”

“Avery, you were fantastic,” Mum said with another smile. “You’re truly the best Keeper Gryffindor has seen in years. Hogwarts, even.”

Her face colored. I loved it when she blushed.

“Thank you,” she said softly, voice nearly drowned out by the crowd.

“James, we’ll see you later?”

“Have to go find Lily?” I asked with a laugh.

“She’s in more trouble than you are.” Mum kissed my forehead and started shoving her way through the crowd. Anyone could tell she used to play Quidditch. Those were definitely illegal elbows.

Dad ruffled my hair again. “Proud of you, son.”

And the guilt.

“Thanks,” I said, smile fading a little. “Hey, Dad?”

I should tell him, right? Well, yeah. He’s my dad.

“Hmm?” He turned, green eyes on the Cup I figured Freddie was holding.

I faltered.

“Thanks for coming,” I said. I ignored Avery’s face.

He grinned and followed Mum to find Lily and scold her for playing with a broken arm. A gross broken arm at that.

“You’re going to have to tell him eventually, you know,” Avery said softly, hooking her arm through mine. We started to shove through the crowd. “It’s not like it’ll remain a secret after the game you just had today.”

“Just...let him have today.” I smiled at her. “Everyone’s happy today. Just let them have it.”

“All right.” Avery tightened her pony tail with one hand and then stopped dead, looking shocked.

“What? Is Edwards here?” I almost laughed, following her gaze.

To her mother.


“You got off work,” Avery said, voice leaked with disbelief.

“I traded a couple shifts.” Mrs. Flynn shrugged a little, her eyes just as watery as her daughters. It was crazy how similar they looked. The angles of their jaw-bones; though her hair was blond, the texture was the same. It was all the same. Luckily, Avery also got Mrs. Flynn’s eyes.

Immediately, I let go and stepped to the side. Avery fell into her mother’s arms, fingers gripping her shirt tight.

I rubbed the back of my neck as people patted me hard on the back, congratulating me on a job well done. Bloody right. Twelve goals? Unheard of at a Hogwarts game. I’d have to look back at my stats book. Hasn’t been done in recent years. Not by one bloke. At least I could hold onto that.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Avery said, still holding tight to her mum. “It’s...seriously.”

“Your father owled me,” Mrs. Flynn said.

Avery drew away, steadying herself as someone pushed through the crowd behind her. “Saying?”

“Well, he said he’d be here,” Mrs. Flynn said. “But then he had to cancel for an appointment.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, love. I know you were starting to talk to him again.”

Clearly Mrs. Flynn was ill informed.

“I’m not upset he’s not here,” Avery said, trying to smile a little again. “I wanted you here. That’s important.” She stood on her toes, leaning over to give her mother a brief kiss on the cheek. “Did you want to spend the evening together? I could show you around the castle or something.”

“The Potters actually invited me to dinner in Hogsmeade,” Mrs. Flynn said, placing a piece of hair behind Avery’s ear. “I want you go to have fun with your friends. You just won the Cup. You deserve to have a nice party without your boring mum.”

“You’re not boring,” Avery insisted sheepishly. “I’m sure you could put back a few tequila shots.”

“Keep her in line, James,” Mrs. Flynn said to me, grinning fondly. That sort of motherly way only they were capable of.

“I’ll watch out for her.” I tipped my head and watched the women hug once again before Mrs. Flynn pushed through the crowd in search of my parents. I looked back to Avery, who was still grinning. “She made it.”

“She did,” Avery breathed, brows raising. She grabbed my robes and pulled me into a hug, her face resting on my shoulder.

We were still, listening to the roars of Gryffindor fans around us. They had started chanting.

“You smell like shit,” Avery muttered and ruined the fuck out of the moment.

A/N: So that was one of my favorite chapters as well. 50,52, & 54 are some of my faves of the whole story. I hope you all enjoyed it! 

Also, if you're a fan of Scorpius and Rose (I know QUITE A FEW reviews on this story have hounded me about it in BTQC), I've recently started a ScoRose story of my own in Rose's POV. I know. Me. Girl POV. A little weird after Jane. So if you like that ship or if you like my stories, feel free to give it a glance. It's a fluffy story :) 

Thanks again to everyone who is reading! I love you lots! 

Favorite quotes? What do you think the party is going to be like? What would you like to see happen to Rodulov? haha.

UP NEXT: The party, bittersweetness, and a lot of desperation.

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