Scarlet Rain

A tear dripped down Alicia Spinnet's tan cheek. From its origin in her pale gray eye, it cascaded over a dark brown lash before sliding down the side of her nose and coming to rest upon her upper lip. It lingered there for a moment, then dropped onto the crisp chiffon of her jet-black dress robes.

She pulled a crumpled tissue from the pack in her trembling hand. Disposing of another readily forming tear, she squeezed the soft tissue in her palm. Its soothing touch reminded her only of her father.

He had always been the one to dry her tears, the one to comfort her, to drown her sorrows. She had depended on his guidance throughout her childhood years, but later had turned her need for leadership into a necessity fo support. He had readily given it, and had never left her needing anything more than what she had. Someone to laugh with. A Quidditch cheering section. A shoulder to lean on. A most beloved friend.

He was by her side the day she took her first trembling steps onto platform nine and three-quarters. He had exclaimed with joy the day she had gotten her Hogwarts letter, encasing her in one of his signature bear-hugs. He had taken her to Diagon Alley, delighted with her sheer amazement of what lay all around her. He had bought her a broom the day he heard she made the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He had been there with her at St. Mungo's the time Marcus Flint's cauldron had exploded, showering her in its foul contents and temporarily blinding her. He was everything her mother wasn't and wouldn't try to be. He was a part of her.

Then, in the span of two tragic days, all the comforts she had known had been taken away from her. She found little solace in her mother, so detached from her daughter that she regularly forgot what house Alicia had been sorted into.

It was a bitter pain. The magnitude of his death had cut through her heart like a hot knife through soft butter. It seemed there could be no hope of assuaging the brutal agony of so strong a bond ripped away.

It had been less than a week since he had left her. Less than a week had she been in this state of emotional anguish, each day a torment to her sanity. Countless hours had been spent locked away in her room, staring at the cold, unfeeling wall. She couldn't eat, she couldn't sleep, and nothing could tear her mind away from the black cavern of his death. Night after night, she had thought about him. His final moments. His life dedicated to so noble a task.

No one knew who had killed him. There were plenty of suspects, ranging from former Death Eaters to other Ministry workers, but so far no conviction had been reached. Each night in her dreams, a man devoid of facial features would approach her father. She could see it as clearly as though she had been there. The fabled flash of brilliant green light and her father, his eyes frozen open like a wax dummy. Though the killer of her nightmares had no face, there was something keen and penetrating about him, inspiring a macabre aura to his undistinguished appearance.

More than once during her state of mourning had Alicia considered running away, or even taking her own life. Her nondescript grief filled her with guilt, but her heartache was wreaking havoc with her already decrepit conscience. She wanted to sob for her father. She wanted to let loose a deluge of tears for the best friend she would never see again, but her withering exterior remained hard and cold. Not a tear had fallen until the funeral, when fond anecdotes flowed from the lips of all those he had been close to. Yet not her own.

She had been urged to get up and speak; reminisce upon his connection to her, but everything held her back. She had sat silently, stolidly, until the minister's droning was over, never removing her eyes from the beautiful vase of flowers on the table before her.

Story after story was told of his warmth, his kindness, his compassion, and everything that made him who he truly was. It was not until then that the tears began to flow. First one, then another until a silent cascade of droplets was running down her face.

If it were not for the letters, she mightn't have survived the week that followed the horrific event.

The first two arrived the day after he died. One was sloppily written in a small, curvy hand, the other as neat as the hand of a practiced calligrapher, its thick flowing script perfectly straight on the bumpy parchment.

The former offered only brief condolences and promises of further letters, yet it was every bit as heartfelt as Alicia could have expected. It was from Angelina Johnson. Angelina had been one of Alicia's most cherished friends from her first day at Hogwarts all those years ago. Angelina had never possessed much of a talent for writing or schoolwork, yet her point always came across in the few words she chose to express herself. Despite her minimalistic approach to communication on paper, she was as multiloquent a person as could be found inside the walls of Hogwarts. Somewhat prone to conflict, simple accusations toward any party would often become lofty, swirling speeches, detailing all the faults of her opposition. Many a person wondered how she had become such a practiced orator upon any subject of disagreement, but Alicia had known since the end of her first year where it had come from.

Angelina and her father, a muggle, had never seen eye-to-eye on any subject. She could never be prevailed upon to take her classes as seriously as he liked, and he could never be prevailed upon to accept the fact that she cared more about Quidditch than she did about receiving a good education. While having never witnessed any such altercation, Alicia had listened patiently to Angelina's rants each time a letter arrived about a failed exam. It was not until Angelina failed her Charms O.W.L. and her Divination O.W.L. that the constant dispute had grown into a full-fledged dissension.

During their sixth year, howlers had become a monthly occurrence, so much so that no one was disturbed as Mr. Johnson's voice filled the great hall in rage. It was known by all that Angelina didn't have much of an aptitude for schoolwork, but she was one of the crowning jewels of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and as long as she kept her grades high enough to play, no one but her father cared.

This summer, however, was different. Alicia usually received letters detailing how much fun she was having, her exam grades, sarcastic remarks about her father, and inquiries as to when they could meet up. Alicia had received but one letter from her all summer, stating that due to her marks on the finals, she was grounded for the whole summer. There were no allegations against her father, no complaints, nothing characteristic of her except for the penmanship.

Alicia's correspondence from the author of the second letter had been limited as well.

When Katie Bell had first set foot in Gryffindor Tower during Alicia's second year, no one had seen much in her. She was small, introspective, and unlike the other first years at the time, quiet, modest and painfully shy. Night after night she had sat alone in the common room, poring over textbooks and scratching away with her quill. Each night Alicia had watched her, never guessing that she would next year be joined on the Gryffindor Quidditch team by the tiny, companionless blonde.

One evening, when Alicia could stand to watch her sit, friendless, no more, she had approached her, and they had been friends ever since. It had taken perhaps a day or two for Angelina to accept the first year, but they soon learned that she was not as introverted as she seemed, and they formed a trio that grew infamous as their talents emerged.

Katie had long ago developed a taste for writing and her letters were always long, flowing manuscripts full of eloquent vocabulary that conveyed multiple points with the greatest of ease. They were, in fact, rather unlike Katie. Though by no means quiet, she was fonder of quick, pointed remarks rather than grandiose speeches. Alicia's correspondence with her had been limited as well, and a short series of plaintive letters had explained everything.

Though Katie usually got along well with her family, a grievous conflict had been stirring over the course of the summer. Her family wanted to move to France as a means of being closer to her grandmother, and in doing so they also contrived to take her out of Hogwarts and enroll her in Beauxbatons for her last year of schooling. It wasn't like Katie to involve her self in a conflict, but she had been absolutely adamant that she wouldn't go. Should she move to France, it would be taking away everything that she had known, casting her into a world she had never known.

The letters had saved her sanity, reassuring her that the world was still turning, and that there was still someone there to love her in her father's stead. No friend could ever replace the paternal affection, but the epistles had reassured her of their undying companionship.

At first she had put the missives away, disregarding them as yet another reminder of what had passed, but each night she would revisit them. As sleep eluded her, she would pore over their words, reading what was hidden between the lines. Whether frustrating boredom or panicked despair, the deeper messages in what they said spoke to her, bolstering her confidence that come the start of classes, all would be well. However likely her words would prove to be false, it proved to be one of two silver linings to the storm cloud hovering above her.

She now sat in a flimsy plastic chair, shielded from the pouring rain by only a flimsy white canopy. All around her were huddled a mass of sniffling relations, all encased in a sheath of black, and wringing handkerchiefs in their hands.

Though surrounded by her relatives, she felt withdrawn from this place of insincerity, to a place where she could just be. Alone. She didn't want to see her family, she didn't want to be a part of all the fanfare, all the pomp and flourish. Such a panoply of remorse felt hypocritical and mendacious to the memory of her father.

Another tear dropped from her eye, but their outflow had been checked by the cease of tales of remembrance. Each story told tore at her heartstrings, ripping away her composure until there was nothing left but raw emotion. Every fond recollection was like another assault on her grieving heart.

Her eyes flicked downward to the shining leather of her shoes, and she could only imagine how sickly she must have looked. Her hair was starting to curl uncontrollably because of the moisture dripping from the roof of the tent, and her makeup had run down her face like an eerie brown waterfall. But it was more than that. So much more. She had noticed it as she was dressing earlier this morning, and the change in her facade had alarmed her exceedingly.

Her eyes, once sparkling with an odd sort of introspective enthusiasm, were haunted and hollow. Her cheeks no longer had a rosy tinge to them, and her customarily tan skin had begun to take on a yellow, sallow quality. Her general countenance had taken on a vacant and detached air, and she had not spoken to anyone for days.

Though the service was excruciating, the small reception at her home afterward was nearly unbearable. As various aunts, uncles and cousins began to crowd into the Spinnets' small row house, Alicia seized the opportunity and crept quietly to her room, locking the door behind her.

She sank onto her bed, consumed by fatigue and sorrow. She shut her eyes, the temporary darkness soothing the stinging sensation. She felt as though, in an instant, she could drop off to sleep and when she awoke in the morning, none of this would have happened. As she lay back, her dress robes billowing under her, she thought of him. His smiling face, painted into her memory like an eternal picture, a sacred canvas.

Suddenly, from somewhere in the isolated caverns of her mind, she thought she heard a tapping. She shook it off, but it came again, more persistent and louder. Opening her eyes, she sat slowly up, blinking in the harsh light of her room. Glancing around her room, she could find no disturbance, but the tapping continued. She walked over to the window, thinking perhaps it was the tapping of the rain upon the pane. However when she lifted the thin sheet of glass, the tapping continued. She turned away, falling onto her bed again. From somewhere behind her, there came a screech, and she whirled around to face a large, tawny barn owl with a letter tied carefully to its leg.

She picked up the letter, hardly daring to open what she held. It was addressed to Ms. Alicia Marie Spinnet, in the same emerald green ink that had been present on her first letter those six years ago. With trembling fingers, she ripped open the thick parchment envelope bearing the telltale insignia and began to read.

Dear Ms. Spinnet,

I regret to inform you that must be taken from your summer holidays a month and a half early this year. You have been selected to represent not only Gryffindor House, but the entire school of Hogwarts in the Harper Classic.

The Harper Classic is a Quidditch Tournament held every seven years, designed to bring together eight of the finest schools of magic in the world. Three chasers from each school have been selected to compete in this tournament, and I assure you it is one of the most prestigious honors given at this school.

The Classic is a series three vs. three matches in a single-elimination tournament. The field will be narrowed from eight teams to four teams, then from four teams to two teams, and finally only one victorious team will remain. The rules are the same as a regulation Quidditch match, but there are no snitch, no seeker, no keepers, and no beaters. Despite the lack of beaters, bludgers will still be present.

There is more to the Harper Classic than just Quidditch however, and a series of banquets and balls are among the festivities. It is recommended that you properly attire yourself for such occasions. A suggested list of clothing is included below.

Please remember that you are representing the entire institution of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and provide a positive representation at all times.

Each school you will be facing has a different set of chasers who have different strengths and different standards. I feel it incumbent upon myself to hint that many of these players come from schools where Quidditch is emphasized over schoolwork, and that Hogwarts has always been a long shot in the Classic. The staff members, however, have expressed confidence that this time will be different. I leave you with that.

It is suggested that you bring the following for your one month stay;

- Up to three sets of dress robes

- Practice robes (you will be given your scarlet Hogwarts robes upon your arrival)

- Quidditch gloves and pads

- Broomstick

- Robes for every day wear

- Any necessary personal items

Yours truly,

Professor Minerva McGonagall

A Portkey will be sent to your house at six p.m. tomorrow. Be ready to leave.

Alicia's mouth dropped open. They had chosen her.

For the longest time, being selected to play in the Harper Classic had been only a faint possibility, a dream at the most. She had nearly forgotten about it in the wake of her father's death, but maybe the Classic was a way out of all of this. A chance to begin again. A chance to get away from all the false commiseration, and the half-hearted sympathies. This was her chance to do something for herself. Her one last shot at happiness.