Practice was different without Kearney. The team was off kilter, plays not quite running just right without him. Oliver kept the plays running, did his best to smooth things over. The reserve player was good, but she hadn’t played with the team like Kearney had. She didn’t know the cues, the dance. She was catching on as best she could, but it was just a reminder that Kearney was gone. Perhaps forever.



The morning was rough. He wanted nothing more than to keep playing through lunch, to hammer out these issues and get back on their game. But he was aching too—and Oliver realized that, just like the others, _he_ hadn’t played professional Quidditch since December either. He needed a break too. With a heavy heart, he called for lunch. They touched down, the atmosphere decidedly glum. 


“Take two hoors fir lunch,” he clapped the reserve chaser, Meryl, on the back as she passed, holding her for a moment. “Guid wark it there, Meryl.”


“Thanks, Cap’n,” she murmured, looking rather pale, but determined. She nodded, setting off on her own. That wasn’t going to work, he mused, looking to his other two chasers. Hector and Erickson were walking together, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. He was going to have to have words with them later.


Oliver looked around the pitch. The stands weren’t empty—oh, the Auror. He’d forgotten about her. It occurred to him that he needed to know who was _protecting_ them. He didn’t want to be blindsided by anything that might happen. He remembered what the Ministry had been like not even a year ago. 


He swung his broom down from his shoulder, stepping into the stirrup of his broom, rising through the air. Landing on the risers, he approached the Auror, who had somehow been saddled with a small boy with white blonde hair. He arched his brow.


“S’the lad yoors then?” He queried, careful to keep his tone friendly. “We’ve stopped fur lunch. Dae ye’ fancy grabbin’ a bite?”