Late, 27th June, 1890 — Tyb’s boarding house
@"Elsie Beauregard"
Everything about the last world cup had come rushing back today. Memories of the match itself had been a blur - he remembered flashes, though perhaps that was mostly the lightning they’d had - but he remembered it had been slaughter out there, remembered trudging out after in the most dismal mood. Remembered Elsie being there, afterwards, flinging her arms round his neck as though she’d been scared she’d never see him again.
Strange how little had changed since then. A lot had, of course, but so much of it felt the same. The difference was they’d won the match this time... although that was only thanks to Lestrange’s seeking, really, and Zavala being the stronger keeper. Tyb had been a waste of space, and it had been just as gruelling, just as hard, and he was just as sore and aching and tired as he remembered being then, only this time he wished he’d had Elsie waiting for him when he made it back to the ground.
The first stop had been the medical tent, this time. The bludgers had really done a number, he felt like he was probably sporting bruises head to toe, never mind the hit to his collarbone that was going to take even more time to heal. And Longbottom had gotten badly hit too, which made things no better: what if the second-string beaters were needed again? Tyb wasn’t sure he’d be ready for the next match. Maybe he was more out of practice than he’d thought.
After the mediwizards had patched him up a bit, plied him with some potions that only seemed to make him more tired and prescribed the expected ‘rest’, as much as he could get, there had been the team celebrations, of course. Truthfully, the only person he really wanted to see was Elsie; they had arranged to risk seeing each other that night, whichever way the match went.
It was late, by the time he got back to the boarding house, climbed the stairs in mindless exhaustion and let himself into his room. Tyb might have passed out on the bed in less than a minute, only Elsie was already here, and sitting on it.
“Hi,” he murmured, thinking she looked a little pale.
Strange how little had changed since then. A lot had, of course, but so much of it felt the same. The difference was they’d won the match this time... although that was only thanks to Lestrange’s seeking, really, and Zavala being the stronger keeper. Tyb had been a waste of space, and it had been just as gruelling, just as hard, and he was just as sore and aching and tired as he remembered being then, only this time he wished he’d had Elsie waiting for him when he made it back to the ground.
The first stop had been the medical tent, this time. The bludgers had really done a number, he felt like he was probably sporting bruises head to toe, never mind the hit to his collarbone that was going to take even more time to heal. And Longbottom had gotten badly hit too, which made things no better: what if the second-string beaters were needed again? Tyb wasn’t sure he’d be ready for the next match. Maybe he was more out of practice than he’d thought.
After the mediwizards had patched him up a bit, plied him with some potions that only seemed to make him more tired and prescribed the expected ‘rest’, as much as he could get, there had been the team celebrations, of course. Truthfully, the only person he really wanted to see was Elsie; they had arranged to risk seeing each other that night, whichever way the match went.
It was late, by the time he got back to the boarding house, climbed the stairs in mindless exhaustion and let himself into his room. Tyb might have passed out on the bed in less than a minute, only Elsie was already here, and sitting on it.
“Hi,” he murmured, thinking she looked a little pale.
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