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a caustic fleeting thing
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March 17th, 1890 - Chudley Cannons Pitch
Cash Lestrange could be difficult to work with at the best of times. He usually made up for being moody by being really fucking good, but even that had been difficult today - his turns had been slow, his dives clumsy, his catches of the snitch a second later than they ought to be. It had been an uncomfortable practice for everyone - pouring rain, among other things, had no one in the mood. But even Cash had to admit that calling his second-string seeker fucking incompetent had been a bridge too far.

The practice had ended about thirty minutes after that, and Cash was chain smoking muggle cigarettes up in the bowels of the pitch rather than deal with his team. His broom was tucked next to him as he sat on one of rafters. Unfortunately, he had used this hiding spot once or twice before after bad games - that is to say, he could be found.

So he supposed that he ought not to have been surprised by the sight of his sponsor - and former teammate - twenty feet beneath him.

"I suppose you want me to come down," Cash called, blowing a smoke ring.
@Theodore Gallivan




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One terrible practice did not a terrible team make. That said, this Cannons practice had been downright disastrous, the sort that - even pretending he didn’t care - sincerely hurt Theo to watch.

And he knew, from extensive personal experience, when someone stomped off to go sulk.

“I think a couple of people might rather you didn’t,” Theo shot up with a shrug, that practice not much inclining him to tread carefully around people’s egos or hurt feelings. He clambered up another set of rickety wooden stairs of the internal structure to get closer to his perch. The seeker had been especially awful - not just at seeking, but at letting his fuse fizzle out in front of everyone, sparks flashing up even in the mad rain they’d had for hours. And actually, Lestrange had been awful increasingly more often than Theo could really remember him being, in former years. Was Lestrange getting distinctly worse? Or was that just the fault of Theo’s own mood swings, rubbing off on what he saw?

In any case, it didn’t stop him from correcting his last remark with an extra sting of sardonicism. “Or - about half the team.”


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Cash took another drag of his cigarette. "I suppose that's fair," he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. It was odd to think of Theodore Gallivan as his boss. Nathaniel Gallivan had plucked Cash directly from Ravenclaw and onto first string - kickstarting his entire career. He was used to working under Nathaniel Gallivan, was comfortable with it, had trusted his decisions. Perhaps it was unfair to hold Theodore's age against him, or the fact that Cash had once been his captain. Theodore knew Quidditch, and had a right to inherit the team - but it was still weird.

If Gallivan had just come up here to shoot snarky comments back and forth, that was - well, that was fine. Cash bounced his left leg, with the foot up on the rafter, up and down.




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