If he’d gotten a headstart in leaving the box, about halfway there his luck changed as the tide of the crowd turned against him, everyone heading downwards in a hurry to get out of there. Tybalt pushed through where he could, accidentally bumping shoulders as he tried to squeeze past on the stairs, wishing he had a broom on him to get there faster.
Because it was half his fault she was even here. It would have been worse if he’d been playing - Christ, he could have been in MacFusty’s place - but since he wasn’t Elsie might well have begged off from enduring another match if he hadn’t joined her brothers in pestering her to come anyway. She disliked quidditch on the best of days, and this? Merlin help her, she would never watch another match.
But that was not the worst of it, and Tyb didn’t dare think about the worst of it, about what damage the bludger might have done in this time, about why the whole stadium seemed shaken by it. It had hit someone. Please let it not be her.
He was still moving towards the place she was sitting, but realised he might have missed her already and so had to keep stopping to peer frantically through the sea of faces, lest he saw her. He thought he caught a glimpse of Owen Beauregard, and his heart thudded up into his throat as he looked at the people around him, none of whom were her. Maybe it hadn’t even been her brother.
Clinging to the railing, Tyb hauled himself a few steps further towards the benches in this box, trying not to let the panic take the reins. “Elsie?!” He couldn’t prevent himself from raising his voice though he knew it wasn’t subtle, wouldn’t look good in ordinary circumstances. But the rest of the crowd, surely, must presently be too preoccupied to care, so he would take his chances. (He said, as if he was thinking straight at all.) “ELSIE!”
Because it was half his fault she was even here. It would have been worse if he’d been playing - Christ, he could have been in MacFusty’s place - but since he wasn’t Elsie might well have begged off from enduring another match if he hadn’t joined her brothers in pestering her to come anyway. She disliked quidditch on the best of days, and this? Merlin help her, she would never watch another match.
But that was not the worst of it, and Tyb didn’t dare think about the worst of it, about what damage the bludger might have done in this time, about why the whole stadium seemed shaken by it. It had hit someone. Please let it not be her.
He was still moving towards the place she was sitting, but realised he might have missed her already and so had to keep stopping to peer frantically through the sea of faces, lest he saw her. He thought he caught a glimpse of Owen Beauregard, and his heart thudded up into his throat as he looked at the people around him, none of whom were her. Maybe it hadn’t even been her brother.
Clinging to the railing, Tyb hauled himself a few steps further towards the benches in this box, trying not to let the panic take the reins. “Elsie?!” He couldn’t prevent himself from raising his voice though he knew it wasn’t subtle, wouldn’t look good in ordinary circumstances. But the rest of the crowd, surely, must presently be too preoccupied to care, so he would take his chances. (He said, as if he was thinking straight at all.) “ELSIE!”
