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Sioni was standing at the door of the changing room, looking out at the pitch as the torches flared into life. From where he stood it was like looking out into a great bowl of cotton wool, a swirling mass of lights and shadows. He was about to go back to talk to the team when he heard Hooch’s whistle. With one hand on the door frame, he shouted back to the team.

“All right Badgers!  This is it. We can do four more hours easy, like. And four more after that. Let’s see if the Gryffindors can do as well, shall we? Line up! Let’s go! Back to work!”

He stepped out into the stadium, a silhouette against the glow, his shadow  twitching and writhing behind him as he walked out toward the middle of the pitch, following the sound of the whistle. The torch light lessened the gloom, but in its place the pattern of shadows cast by the moving players were like an added team of ghosts, the generations of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, Gryffindors and Slytherins who had played their hearts out in years gone by.  This was going to be crazier that ever.

 


Not Getting Any Younger