22nd August, 1890 — Morocco vs. Britain World Cup Match
Howler Stadium
Howler Stadium
The Blackwood box had a buffet. And an open bar. And a number of quidditch colleagues, never mind an excellent view of the match from the top of the stadium. He’d brought his brother along on the invitation to enjoy it, and he had come along to say his hellos and thank-yous and to be polite.
But he had also spent a galleon on a seat in the public stands, always intending to slip away when everyone was too engrossed in the match and go squeeze onto the bench beside Elsie like he’d promised. He had been on his way to going already when someone else had drawn him back into conversation about the beaters on the field, and then... then MacFusty’s bludger hit went hurtling into the stands.
He rushed to the front of the box, aghast, scanning for the damage, as just about everyone else was. Someone with the binocular eye-glasses seemed certain that somebody had been hurt - badly, horrifically, perhaps mortally - though they couldn’t see who. Tyb squinted. It was the mid-tier of the stands. Oh no. Oh no.
The chances were a million to one, probably, that out of the whole stadium it might be her, but - but he couldn’t just sit around to wait and see while a bludger tore through the stands wreaking damage. What if - what if?
Shit. He dashed to the door of the box, digging out his ticket for Elsie’s section and wracking his brain to try and find a shortcut to where she was. He took off down the stairs two at a time, heart hammering as heavy as his footsteps, the cries of the commentator and the crowd echoing faintly in his ears. There were other people appearing, spilling out of where they had been sitting in horror and confusion and probably the same panic he was in, but they were a blur, and he pushed past on the shortest route to her, thankful that at least he wasn’t a stranger to this stadium.
But he had also spent a galleon on a seat in the public stands, always intending to slip away when everyone was too engrossed in the match and go squeeze onto the bench beside Elsie like he’d promised. He had been on his way to going already when someone else had drawn him back into conversation about the beaters on the field, and then... then MacFusty’s bludger hit went hurtling into the stands.
He rushed to the front of the box, aghast, scanning for the damage, as just about everyone else was. Someone with the binocular eye-glasses seemed certain that somebody had been hurt - badly, horrifically, perhaps mortally - though they couldn’t see who. Tyb squinted. It was the mid-tier of the stands. Oh no. Oh no.
The chances were a million to one, probably, that out of the whole stadium it might be her, but - but he couldn’t just sit around to wait and see while a bludger tore through the stands wreaking damage. What if - what if?
Shit. He dashed to the door of the box, digging out his ticket for Elsie’s section and wracking his brain to try and find a shortcut to where she was. He took off down the stairs two at a time, heart hammering as heavy as his footsteps, the cries of the commentator and the crowd echoing faintly in his ears. There were other people appearing, spilling out of where they had been sitting in horror and confusion and probably the same panic he was in, but they were a blur, and he pushed past on the shortest route to her, thankful that at least he wasn’t a stranger to this stadium.
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Cadawalader Selwyn, Elsie Kirke, Justice Rookwood, Sisse Thompsett
Cadawalader Selwyn, Elsie Kirke, Justice Rookwood, Sisse Thompsett
