The morning of Gryffindor's Quidditch tryouts dawned crisp and bright, the pitch gleaming like it had been polished overnight. The tension in the air wasn't just from the anticipation of the upcoming season. It was also because this tryout was different. After last year's chaos when Flint knocked out Oliver Wood and no one was there to guard the rings, I'd suggested the idea of backup players to Oliver.
To my surprise, he'd agreed. It was only a passing comment, I swear. That's why I now found myself here, standing awkwardly with borrowed gear, wondering how I'd been roped into trying out for both backup Beater and backup Chaser.
"This is ridiculous. I don't even like quidditch." I moaned in annoyance.
"Come on, Sky," Fred had said, clapping me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth. "You're a natural menace. That's half the job description of a Beater."
"Exactly," George added, spinning a Bludger bat expertly in one hand. "And hey, even if you've never swung one before, we've seen your reflexes. That hand-eye coordination's gotta count for something. Let's see what happens."
What they failed to mention was how terrifying Bludgers look when you're not just watching from the stands. When I first kicked off and took the bat in hand, there was no magical moment of everything clicking. I felt awkward, the bat heavier than I expected, and my first swings were more about survival than skill. I focused on making contact, testing the waters to see what worked. It was all about figuring out the basics before I could even think of getting fancy.
My first swing was clumsy, the bat heavy in my hands, but I managed to connect and send it off course. The hit felt awkward—no power, no control, just relief that I hadn't missed entirely. But the more I tried, the more I realized there was no one right way to strike. I began experimenting: adding a bit of wrist, angling the bat differently, trying to graze the Bludger rather than smashing it outright. Each attempt taught me something.
Gradually, I started to find the sweet spot where contact sent the Bludger spinning, twisting through the air in ways no one expected. Once I understood spin, I focused on something else: concentrated power. I quickly realized that I lacked the raw physique of the traditional Beaters. My swings didn't pack the same punch. So I experimented—testing ways to increase my swing speed.
It hit me that unlike most Beaters who waited and swung stationary, if I charged at the Bludger while swinging, the momentum added to my power. I tried it, charging straight at an incoming Bludger and striking it back toward where it came. It worked—like a counter move against another Beater's hit. The more I practiced this, the more the Bludger seemed to hesitate near me, like it feared the strange combination of spin and speed I had begun to master.
Fred gaped. "Did you see that power? Is this really your first time with a Beater's bat?"
I shrugged, catching my breath. "Sort of. I used to play a lot of tennis—it's kind of similar."
George blinked. "What's that?"
I smirked. "It's a sport about beating an opposing Beater, but instead of deadly balls of leather-covered iron, it's a felt-covered ball, and instead of a Beater's bat, it was a netted racket. There are more rules but I have no desire to explain at this moment."
Fred and George exchanged bewildered looks. "So muggles have a sport like that? You've got to teach us sometime. Also, How in Merlin's name did you make the Bludger curve like that?" Fred asked. "We've never seen a Bludger move so oddly!"
I just smirked. "That's my secret."
And that became the theme of tryouts. Every Bludger I hit left my bat with intense spin and power—so much that they seemed to wobble through the air, their path unpredictable to everyone but me. Each strike was followed by a few seconds where the Bludger just hung there, like it was questioning its life choices, before it shakily reoriented itself and tried again.
The air almost seemed to hum with the lingering force of the last hit, and I could feel the slight vibration in my arms from the impact. I couldn't help but grin, thinking, Bludger, meet existential crisis. The sight of it hovering, wobbling as if dizzy, made me feel like I'd finally found my rhythm.
By the end of tryouts, Fred and George were doubled over laughing because the Bludgers seemed to actively avoid me. Every time I swung, the Bludger would swerve as if to say, not again, and dive toward someone else. One Bludger, I swear, hovered near the ground like it was trying to throw up.
Next was the Chaser tryouts.
At first, I was hopeless. My passes were clunky, my aim laughable, and I spent more time adjusting my grip on the Quaffle than actually doing anything useful. I could almost hear the twins snickering every time I missed a clean catch or fumbled a throw. But I kept at it. Slowly, my coordination improved. My passes started hitting their targets, and I stopped treating the Quaffle like it was made of glass.
Before long, I started experimenting. Could I add a little curve to a throw, the way I'd learned to curve a tennis ball in my past life? I tried, and to my surprise, it worked. The Quaffle would arc around a defender, slipping past hands that thought they had it blocked. Encouraged, I kept testing—curving throws, feints, sharp touch passes that barely stayed in my hands before zipping to a teammate.
The other Chasers—Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and Alicia Spinnet—started noticing. By the end of the session, they were clinging to my passing and shooting skills.
Angelina leaned in, grinning. "You've got to teach me that curve throw," she said, voice dripping with charm.
Katie giggled, brushing hair from her face. "Your passes are magic. Come on, Sky, share the secret."
Alicia smirked and added, "I bet you could teach us to score on Slytherin blindfolded."
I shrugged, enjoying the attention. "Maybe I could give you a few pointers."
"Oi!" Fred called from the sideline, mock scandalized. "How about us?! You refused to teach us!"
I smirked. "Try having a prettier mug. I might reconsider."
The girls giggled at my offhanded compliment, but I suddenly felt a heat at the back of my head, like someone was boring a hole through my skull. I turned slowly and met Hermione's glare—sharp enough to slice a Bludger in half. I gulped. "Alright! Let's… uh… continue with the tryouts, shall we?"
After another hour of tryouts and practice, it finally came to an end.
Oliver clapped me on the back. "Congratulations, Kingston. Backup Beater and Chaser. The way you handled that bat with crazy precision, and the way you passed and curved the Quaffle around defenders—those are exactly the skills we need. Weaving between Bludgers, reacting on instinct, threading passes like that—when things get hectic, that's what wins games. You've earned it."
As I left the pitch, broom slung over my shoulder, Fred elbowed me. "Welcome to the team. The Bludgers are never going to forgive you."
George smirked. "Or trust you."
"Good," I said, laughing. "Keeps them on their toes."