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The game had been going on for over four hard fought hours. The scores were close, Puddlemere leading the Harpies by only twenty points and the snitch was nowhere in sight.
“Digby passes to Jovovich. Boggs sends a bludger, but it’s deflected by Corcoran. It’s Jovovich with a break-away! She feints left! Wood follows! The left ring is open! It looks like a goal for the Harpies, but no! Jovovich is cut off by her own Seeker! Jones races after the Snitch, and here comes Poerstal. They’re neck and neck. Corcoran derails Poerstal with a bludger! Jones weaves; she’s searching for the Snitch. She gets her bearings and she’s after it again, leaving Poerstal in her wake! Jones gets the Snitch and it’s a win for the Harpies!”
The announcer’s voice was lost in the cheers that erupted from the stands, but in the press box there was only relief that the game had finally come to an end and the usual bickering between two particular members of the media.
“All I’m saying is that Gwenog Jones is going to tear into her Beater in the locker room. Corcoran nearly lost her the Snitch,” the correspondent for Quidditch World Weekly snapped as she packed away her notes and Omni-oculars.
With a roll of his eyes, the Daily Prophet’s sports reporter shot back, “This is why witches should stick to the fashion pages, Weasley. You don’t understand the relationship of risk and reward. Corcoran knocked Poerstal out of the running. It’s because of her that Jones had a clean shot. Jones ought to be glad she’s got at least one player with bollocks, even if they are metaphorical.”
“Witches shouldn’t be sports writers, then? Never mind that an all-female team just won the bloody game, this journalism stuff is much too tough for the weaker sex.” She snorted loudly. “Another fine moral learned in Slytherin, I expect.”
“You’ve been sitting here arguing that the women played poorly. You can’t tell me off for applying the same logic to writing about the game that you employ in regard to playing it,” he argued, slipping into his cloak.
“Great Merlin, Malfoy, you are thick.” Ginny shook her head. It was like this at every game, and had been since the first day they’d been stuck in the press box together. The rest of the journalists just ignored them now. “My comments were about a single player, and would have been the same regardless of whether that player had dangly bits or not.”
Grabbing her ever-present coffee cup, she gave a mocking curtsy. “Until next time, Malfoy.”
He watched her go with irritation. The feeling he associated with her since they were in school together had never dissipated. Ginny Weasley was the bane of his existence, and not for the first time, Draco wondered what the hell the editor of Quidditch World Weekly had been thinking when he hired her.
“Bloody annoying witch.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
He smelled her as soon as she came in the room. Well, not her per se, but the blasted oversized frou frou java she always seemed to have in hand. She probably got it from that pretentious Muggle coffeehouse. Starbutts or some such rubbish. What the heavens and derrieres had to do with the murky liquid, he really didn’t want to know.
“Why must you always drink that disgusting swill?” Draco demanded as she flounced over and took her usual seat beside him, garish red hair bouncing on her shoulders. “You are British, aren’t you? What do you have against a nice cup of Earl Grey or some Orange Pekoe?”
Ginny smiled and took a long draw on her coffee. “I like tea just fine. My mother and I get together for a cuppa every week. I just like coffee better. Especially this time of year, these gingerbread lattes are positively addictive. You should try it sometime.”
The pinched expression on his face made it clear what he thought of that idea. “I have no intention of drinking that overpriced homage to self importance. If I were so insecure that felt the need to demonstrate my disdain for the bourgeoisie with a beverage, I’m certain an oolong or rooibos varietal would suffice.”
Her laughter drew the attention of the other journalists. She laughed until her face was as red as her hair; until fat tears rolled down her freckled cheeks in torrents. It was damned annoying, and not the least bit attractive. Definitely not cute.
When it seemed she’d finally come up for breath, Draco leveled a glare at her. “Something I said was amusing?” he queried darkly, a question which immediately set her off again.
“Oh, that was wonderful,” Ginny cried, still giggling intermittently. “Draco Malfoy eschews the trappings of elitism and pretention in all its liquid forms. You’ve truly become a man of the people!”
“Oh, sod off,” he grumbled, turning his attention to the match that was about to begin.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The following week Draco was surprised to find Ginny’s seat already occupied when he arrived. He was further surprised that it was occupied by someone other than his freckle-faced foil.
Curiously, he approached the unfamiliar bloke. The wizard was older, with graying hair and wiry eyebrows, and the easy and precise way he set up his space in the press box indicated he was a seasoned sports reporter.
“Draco Malfoy, Daily Prophet,” Draco offered, extending his hand to the newcomer. A small smile spread across his face imagining the expression on Weasley’s face when she realized her spot had been taken.
The man looked up at him and nodded. “Pleasure. I’m James Olsen, Quidditch World Weekly.”
Draco blinked. “Are you filling in for Weasley, then? What, is she out sick or something?”
“No, no,” Olsen said, grinning as she shook his head. “She left ‘to pursue other opportunities’, apparently. You know how witches are, eh? Couldn’t cut it in a male-dominated field.”
Draco’s grin grew broader at this news. He’d told her women had no place in sports reporting, hadn’t he? She hadn’t believed him at the time, but look who was gone now. It almost made him wish she was there so he could gloat. Maybe he’d send her flowers. To congratulate her on those new ‘opportunities’, of course.
The game began and Draco soon found that James Olsen had a far better grasp of Quidditch than Weasley ever had. They agreed on calls made by the referee. They favored the same styles of play and liked the same players. It was as if he’d found his kindred Quidditch spirit.
“Would you care for a cuppa?” Olsen asked, pulling out a thermos. “The little woman packs more than enough for me.”
With a murmured thanks, Draco took the cup that was offered to him gladly. No more muddy swill fouling up the press box, no more contrary witches to drive him mad. This change was looking better and better.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It was several weeks later that Draco found himself dreading the upcoming game. At first it had been a relief to have someone sharing his opinions. It didn’t take long, though, for Draco to begin wondering if Olsen had ever had an original thought in his life.
The man echoed Draco’s every comment. If Draco said the Falcons’ Seeker needed a lighter weight broom with better handling, Olsen was right there suggesting the possible models. When Draco complained that the Kestrels’ Keeper flew too far out from the rings, his yes man was there – saying, “Yes, he does.” Their columns were so similar that the Prophet and Quidditch World Weekly could easily save themselves a salary by having just one of them send in his copy to both papers.
It was boring. He missed Weasley.
Swirling his drink irritably, Draco sighed when he saw Olsen enter the press box.
“Good God, what’s that smell?” the older man asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
Draco held up the cup in his hands. “Gingerbread latte. Best damn thing Muggles have ever come up with.”
“I don’t know how you can drink that rot. It looks like sewage.” Olsen eyed him suspiciously. “And really, aren’t lattes more of a girl drink? Did you trade you bollocks for some steamed milk and a couple shots of syrup?”
“Not only that,” Draco quipped. “I held out for Celestina Warbeck tickets, too.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
He was in his office, typing column when she came to him. He looked up from his desk and there she was, ginger hair curling past her shoulders and the familiarly smug expression on her face.
“Weasley, what brings you by? Checking to see if there are openings in the style section?”
Chuckling softly, Ginny settled into the empty chair across the desk from him. “I happen to know that there are, but before you run down to apply, Malfoy, you might let me pitch a different opportunity to you.”
Draco raised a brow at her statement, very curious what sort of opportunity an unemployed sports writer might have to offer. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve been offered a program on the Wizarding Wireless. I’ll be reviewing the Quidditch matches each week, making projections, discussing players and plays. You were right, writing a sports column isn’t the place for this woman. Sports casting, though? That’s a medium I can sink my teeth into.”
He stared at her for a long moment. She really had left to pursue other opportunities. This one in particular, and it was impressive. “I’m unclear where I would fit in these grand plans of yours.”
Ginny smiled. “You’re my antagonist, of course. I need an opposite point of view. I seem to remember you fitting that role rather well, though you seem to have changed your mind about the coffee,” she said, lips curling as she eyed the empty cup on his desk. “What do you say?”
“I say we discuss the details over a latte,” he returned, rising from his desk and offering his arm. “Your treat.”
“Digby passes to Jovovich. Boggs sends a bludger, but it’s deflected by Corcoran. It’s Jovovich with a break-away! She feints left! Wood follows! The left ring is open! It looks like a goal for the Harpies, but no! Jovovich is cut off by her own Seeker! Jones races after the Snitch, and here comes Poerstal. They’re neck and neck. Corcoran derails Poerstal with a bludger! Jones weaves; she’s searching for the Snitch. She gets her bearings and she’s after it again, leaving Poerstal in her wake! Jones gets the Snitch and it’s a win for the Harpies!”
The announcer’s voice was lost in the cheers that erupted from the stands, but in the press box there was only relief that the game had finally come to an end and the usual bickering between two particular members of the media.
“All I’m saying is that Gwenog Jones is going to tear into her Beater in the locker room. Corcoran nearly lost her the Snitch,” the correspondent for Quidditch World Weekly snapped as she packed away her notes and Omni-oculars.
With a roll of his eyes, the Daily Prophet’s sports reporter shot back, “This is why witches should stick to the fashion pages, Weasley. You don’t understand the relationship of risk and reward. Corcoran knocked Poerstal out of the running. It’s because of her that Jones had a clean shot. Jones ought to be glad she’s got at least one player with bollocks, even if they are metaphorical.”
“Witches shouldn’t be sports writers, then? Never mind that an all-female team just won the bloody game, this journalism stuff is much too tough for the weaker sex.” She snorted loudly. “Another fine moral learned in Slytherin, I expect.”
“You’ve been sitting here arguing that the women played poorly. You can’t tell me off for applying the same logic to writing about the game that you employ in regard to playing it,” he argued, slipping into his cloak.
“Great Merlin, Malfoy, you are thick.” Ginny shook her head. It was like this at every game, and had been since the first day they’d been stuck in the press box together. The rest of the journalists just ignored them now. “My comments were about a single player, and would have been the same regardless of whether that player had dangly bits or not.”
Grabbing her ever-present coffee cup, she gave a mocking curtsy. “Until next time, Malfoy.”
He watched her go with irritation. The feeling he associated with her since they were in school together had never dissipated. Ginny Weasley was the bane of his existence, and not for the first time, Draco wondered what the hell the editor of Quidditch World Weekly had been thinking when he hired her.
“Bloody annoying witch.”
He smelled her as soon as she came in the room. Well, not her per se, but the blasted oversized frou frou java she always seemed to have in hand. She probably got it from that pretentious Muggle coffeehouse. Starbutts or some such rubbish. What the heavens and derrieres had to do with the murky liquid, he really didn’t want to know.
“Why must you always drink that disgusting swill?” Draco demanded as she flounced over and took her usual seat beside him, garish red hair bouncing on her shoulders. “You are British, aren’t you? What do you have against a nice cup of Earl Grey or some Orange Pekoe?”
Ginny smiled and took a long draw on her coffee. “I like tea just fine. My mother and I get together for a cuppa every week. I just like coffee better. Especially this time of year, these gingerbread lattes are positively addictive. You should try it sometime.”
The pinched expression on his face made it clear what he thought of that idea. “I have no intention of drinking that overpriced homage to self importance. If I were so insecure that felt the need to demonstrate my disdain for the bourgeoisie with a beverage, I’m certain an oolong or rooibos varietal would suffice.”
Her laughter drew the attention of the other journalists. She laughed until her face was as red as her hair; until fat tears rolled down her freckled cheeks in torrents. It was damned annoying, and not the least bit attractive. Definitely not cute.
When it seemed she’d finally come up for breath, Draco leveled a glare at her. “Something I said was amusing?” he queried darkly, a question which immediately set her off again.
“Oh, that was wonderful,” Ginny cried, still giggling intermittently. “Draco Malfoy eschews the trappings of elitism and pretention in all its liquid forms. You’ve truly become a man of the people!”
“Oh, sod off,” he grumbled, turning his attention to the match that was about to begin.
The following week Draco was surprised to find Ginny’s seat already occupied when he arrived. He was further surprised that it was occupied by someone other than his freckle-faced foil.
Curiously, he approached the unfamiliar bloke. The wizard was older, with graying hair and wiry eyebrows, and the easy and precise way he set up his space in the press box indicated he was a seasoned sports reporter.
“Draco Malfoy, Daily Prophet,” Draco offered, extending his hand to the newcomer. A small smile spread across his face imagining the expression on Weasley’s face when she realized her spot had been taken.
The man looked up at him and nodded. “Pleasure. I’m James Olsen, Quidditch World Weekly.”
Draco blinked. “Are you filling in for Weasley, then? What, is she out sick or something?”
“No, no,” Olsen said, grinning as she shook his head. “She left ‘to pursue other opportunities’, apparently. You know how witches are, eh? Couldn’t cut it in a male-dominated field.”
Draco’s grin grew broader at this news. He’d told her women had no place in sports reporting, hadn’t he? She hadn’t believed him at the time, but look who was gone now. It almost made him wish she was there so he could gloat. Maybe he’d send her flowers. To congratulate her on those new ‘opportunities’, of course.
The game began and Draco soon found that James Olsen had a far better grasp of Quidditch than Weasley ever had. They agreed on calls made by the referee. They favored the same styles of play and liked the same players. It was as if he’d found his kindred Quidditch spirit.
“Would you care for a cuppa?” Olsen asked, pulling out a thermos. “The little woman packs more than enough for me.”
With a murmured thanks, Draco took the cup that was offered to him gladly. No more muddy swill fouling up the press box, no more contrary witches to drive him mad. This change was looking better and better.
It was several weeks later that Draco found himself dreading the upcoming game. At first it had been a relief to have someone sharing his opinions. It didn’t take long, though, for Draco to begin wondering if Olsen had ever had an original thought in his life.
The man echoed Draco’s every comment. If Draco said the Falcons’ Seeker needed a lighter weight broom with better handling, Olsen was right there suggesting the possible models. When Draco complained that the Kestrels’ Keeper flew too far out from the rings, his yes man was there – saying, “Yes, he does.” Their columns were so similar that the Prophet and Quidditch World Weekly could easily save themselves a salary by having just one of them send in his copy to both papers.
It was boring. He missed Weasley.
Swirling his drink irritably, Draco sighed when he saw Olsen enter the press box.
“Good God, what’s that smell?” the older man asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
Draco held up the cup in his hands. “Gingerbread latte. Best damn thing Muggles have ever come up with.”
“I don’t know how you can drink that rot. It looks like sewage.” Olsen eyed him suspiciously. “And really, aren’t lattes more of a girl drink? Did you trade you bollocks for some steamed milk and a couple shots of syrup?”
“Not only that,” Draco quipped. “I held out for Celestina Warbeck tickets, too.”
He was in his office, typing column when she came to him. He looked up from his desk and there she was, ginger hair curling past her shoulders and the familiarly smug expression on her face.
“Weasley, what brings you by? Checking to see if there are openings in the style section?”
Chuckling softly, Ginny settled into the empty chair across the desk from him. “I happen to know that there are, but before you run down to apply, Malfoy, you might let me pitch a different opportunity to you.”
Draco raised a brow at her statement, very curious what sort of opportunity an unemployed sports writer might have to offer. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve been offered a program on the Wizarding Wireless. I’ll be reviewing the Quidditch matches each week, making projections, discussing players and plays. You were right, writing a sports column isn’t the place for this woman. Sports casting, though? That’s a medium I can sink my teeth into.”
He stared at her for a long moment. She really had left to pursue other opportunities. This one in particular, and it was impressive. “I’m unclear where I would fit in these grand plans of yours.”
Ginny smiled. “You’re my antagonist, of course. I need an opposite point of view. I seem to remember you fitting that role rather well, though you seem to have changed your mind about the coffee,” she said, lips curling as she eyed the empty cup on his desk. “What do you say?”
“I say we discuss the details over a latte,” he returned, rising from his desk and offering his arm. “Your treat.”
The End.
KateinVA is the author of 15 other stories.
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