They had played well. There was no doubt about that. Even under normal circumstances it would have been a hard fought match and it was anything but normal circumstances. So there should have been some comfort in that, like. For Sioni, though, there was no comfort, no solace. Just the dead feeling of having failed.

And for once he didn’t feel like telling his team to pick themselves up and be proud of what they had done. And mercifully he could leave that until later. Right now, with the Gryffindors patting themselves on the back, he was interested in only one thing: Shanley. As soon as the whistle had been blown and before the fatal words “Gryffindor wins!” had been shouted, Sioni was on the ground and racing toward the two crumpled figures at Madam Hooch’s feet. He must have been more tired than he had admitted, though, because he was passed by Skrumpkin, running flat out and skidding to a halt beside his sister. Millie’s eyes were open when Sioni got there, and he didn’t give her much more than a glance. Kneeling heavily he checked Shanley for signs of broken bones and bleeding. Finding none he cradled her head on his lap and brushed her hair from her forehead as gently as his gauntlets would allow. Two black eyes was the least she could expect, and chances were Madam Pomfrey would have two broken noses to see to that evening. That was normal for a good Quidditch match, though. What frightened Sioni was how still his teammate was.

“Shanty town? Are you alright, fach?

 


Not Getting Any Younger