Football, What's That?

Mikey had been leaning a little too precipitately, avoiding a group of three raucous third years who were quarreling about some sort of statistical facts concerning the something or another. He was not really paying attention. He always let his mind wander in crowds like this. His thoughts were half for lunch, half wondering if he could possibly manage to scrounge up some library time without anyone cornering him to play a game or something. Then he bumped into something.

It was not a rough crash, just a momentary shock touch, but one that brought him back to the real world from his daydream. Without thinking, he reached out and supported her on autopilot, his hands steady on reflex. "Whoa sorry, my fault," he said, squaring his shoulders as he regarded the girl standing before him.

She was dressed in black and white, her book still gripped closely in one hand as though it were a lifeline. Her voice when she did speak was so low he barely heard the word that she used, the word "sorry" whispered-thin above the buzz of the corridor.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment Mikey was sure he'd stepped into one of those books in which life was slightly more melodramatic. She resembled one of those painting ladies or perhaps a significantly fancier part of the castle than he was accustomed to frequenting.

He picked up that she took a rapid glance at his shirt. Oh, it must be the shirt. It was his Liverpool FC shirt. Electric red script and club emblem on the front. A muggle thing, clearly. He stared at it, then at her. "Oh yeah," he replied, his half-smile spreading across his face. "It's for a sports team. Not the sort that flies on broomsticks. Its a Muggle sport."

He shifted on his feet. “I guess it must look a bit weird here. You’re not the first person to give me that look.” He hesitated, his gaze darting to the book in her hand. "What're you reading?" he asked, not wanting to be too boisterous keeping pace with her subdued tone as well as he was capable of. "If you'd like a quieter area, I know of little corner close to the back stairs. Barely anyone goes there." He grinned. "Unless you'd rather pretend like I'm not here, which is okay. Just figured I'd ask. You, uh, seemed like a person who might appreciate the quiet."

interaction: @Mikey Forville

She'd actually said yes. Not a dutiful, uninterested "yes," but an actual one, with actual interest shining in her eyes. It totally took him by surprise. He tightened his bag strap and started walking. Not too quick, not too slow. He was struggling to keep up with her slippery pace. "Right then," he gasped, “It's close."

He began to walk, not run exactly, looking back every two or three seconds to ensure she was still following him. "'Wizards' Theories on Astronomy,' though," he grunted, sort of under his breath. "That's a big one. You really do have to have a brain for all those star charts and finicky diagrams. I tried once so far. I drew something that looked sort of like a dung beetle instead of Mars." He smiled at the memory. "Still have it, though. Sorta proud of it."

They turned the corner, and the central hallway sound faded with every step. He'd spoken of a stairway that he'd show her, and now here they were. A tiny, cobblestone stairway with a chill wind and a window seat curled around the base of the corner curve. No great paintings to look at, no armor telling stories of the wars fought long before. Only a simple archway and the dim, grey light coming through the window.

"Here we are," he said, moving aside to let her see better. "Not exactly the fanciest Tower, but it's generally unpopulated. And it's peaceful." He sat on the sill of stone and regarded his shirt, rubbing an ink smudge from his palm. "So," he started, his gaze back on hers, "football."

His smile was a bit uncertain. "It's a Muggle game, yeah. A bit like Quidditch, I suppose, but, uh, without the broomsticks or the flying or the Bludgers or the magic." He smirked. "You kick a ball with your feet, you can't use hands unless you're a goalie. Just try to kick it over the other side and into a net. That's pretty much it. But it's something to some people." He remembered his dad and him. "To my father and me, anyway. Loud and dirty and marvelous. We like to go to the matches when we can. He hesitated, a very small sigh coming out of him. "Difficult to put into words, I suppose. But it's a part of home. Makes me think of where I'm from."

Then, catching himself going on and on, he rubbed the base of his neck and looked down. "Anyway. Sounds silly, probably?"

interaction: @Mikey Forville

Victoria calmly followed the boy, her steps quiet on the stone floor. Her eyes scanned his face as he spoke — not out of suspicion, but curiosity.

As he spoke about the book, she bit the inside of her cheek to stop a smile from forming. She simply nodded. “Be proud,” she said softly, her voice almost lost in the empty corridor.

When they reached the stairway, Victoria paused. It was nothing special at first glance — a shadowed corner of the castle, a few steps leading nowhere in particular. But it was quiet. Cool air wrapped around her like a soft blanket, and for the first time that day, she felt herself relax. Her eyes flickered with something warm. “Yeah… it’s peaceful,” she murmured. She looked at him. “Thanks.”

Her expression stayed neutral, but her eyes betrayed a quiet gentleness. Maybe she was just tired. Maybe she wasn’t.

Tilting her head slightly, she listened him. Victoria frowned in that thoughtful way she did when something didn't quite make sense. “Doesn’t it get boring without using magic?” she asked, her voice curious rather than critical.

She listened. Really listened.She watched the way his fingers twitched slightly when he got excited, and how his voice softened when he mentioned his father. And when he finished, she smiled. A gentle, rare smile that pulled the dimple into her right cheek.

“No, it’s not silly,” she said quietly. “Why would it be? It strengthened your bond with your father and brings back good memories. I think that’s… really great.”

There was a pause.

“I didn’t really have that with mine,” she wanted to add, but she did not. “You should treasure it.” she added gently.

For a moment, he wasn't entirely certain what had occurred—then he glimpsed the smile. It was not bright or phony, nothing at all like the huge, exaggerated smiles he was accustomed to seeing spread wide across students who were trying too hard. No, it was low key. Honest. Like some tentative entity that had just discovered it was cool to be there. And it made him feel privileged, somehow.

"I'm glad you don't think it's silly," he said. The silliness was always half the charm, sprinting down muddy fields, his dad yelling approval like it was life or death, the world narrowing to the ball and the goal and the bellow of a crowd that did not know your name but roared as if they did.".

When she asked her if it ever got stale without magic, Mikey actually chuckled, and nodded. "Sometimes, yeah. Especially when I got to Hogwarts and suddenly realized that I could make things float with a flick of my wand. Believe me, that's more thrilling than doing drills any day." He paused, then continued, "But somehow there's something about doing it the difficult way that makes it last longer. You learn where your limits are. And sometimes you end up surprising yourself."

He sat back slightly against the stone shelf, inclining his head to the side towards her. The window caressed the line of his hair and cast a warm light upon them. "You see, most people don't really ask. About that kind of thing. The Muggle things. Sometimes I wish I could have the two halves of me apart. Mikey with the wand, Mikey without."

He ran his thumb across the seam of his sleeve for a second, then turned to look at her once more. "I might show you sometime, if you want. Not the entire match, obviously, unless you're up for a day trip to Liverpool. I've got a ball in my trunk, though. You don't need magic to kick something down a corridor, do you?" His grin went a bit crooked, boyish, full of good intent.

interaction: @Mikey Forville

Victoria tilted her head slightly at first, as if letting Mikey’s words sink in. Her eyes lingered on his face, quietly studying the way his expression shifted with every sentence. There was a certain honesty in his voice that disarmed her—a kind of simplicity she wasn’t used to. His words were thought-provoking, in a way that tugged at something old and uncertain inside her.

Part of her wanted to understand, to meet his meaning halfway. But another part—the part that had been trained to build walls and hold her tongue—hovered just behind, unsure if it was safe to step closer. Still, her features had softened now, the tension in her brow easing, her gaze a little warmer, a little more open.

“That makes sense,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “What I mean is... the easiest thing isn’t always the most fun, right? Sometimes, the thing you work harder for—the thing you earn without magic or shortcuts—it just ends up meaning more."

Her words lingered in the air, gently, like dust caught in a shaft of light. A silence followed; not heavy or awkward, but reflective. She didn’t rush to fill it. Maybe she was thinking too. Or maybe she was just listening—to the wind brushing against the window frame, the soft creak of the old floorboards, the quiet rhythm of being still beside someone who wasn’t trying to rush her.

Then, at his idea about football, her eyebrows lifted slightly, a spark of amusement flickering through her expression.

“Liverpool might be… a bit ambitious,” she said, her lips curving into a faint smile that betrayed a hidden playfulness. “I don’t need the whole game. Just enough to understand what I’m looking at without feeling completely lost.”

This time her voice was softer, less guarded. Something had shifted. Not a dramatic transformation, but a quiet loosening—like a door that had been cracked open just enough to let the light in. Then she gave a small, thoughtful nod, her blue eyes brightening with a flicker of curiosity.

“Show me sometime,” she said, the hint of a challenge in her tone, gentle but sure. “How it’s played.”

"Okay," Mikey said, his face lighting up. Not that she said yes—it was that the word yessed. Not with pity, not with politeness, but because she truly did mean it. The regard made something pull at the corners of his mouth. "I will, then," he said. "Show you, I mean." He gazed up for a moment, out the window. The light had changed. It did that time of day, throwing long golden lines across the flagstones. He thought about the old back alley at home, where he used to kick the ball against the wall for hours, imagining it a stadium. It wasn't Hogwarts. It wasn't magic. But in a way, it was.

"I think you'd manage," he said suddenly, looking at her again. "Not just because you've got that look like you'd out smart half a team. Because you've got the kind of quietness that makes other folks take notice and listen." He shrugged barely at all. "That's what a player does. Remains calm, observes, waits… then pulls something brilliant out of nowhere."

And then, after a pause, his tone fell to something lightly ironic. "Apart from that, if we're being honest, I could do with someone to kick a ball around with. Few Ravenclaws find it a bright idea to spend one's time on a muggle sport." His fingers moved over the strap of his satchel once more. "And besides, I think you'd enjoy it." Maybe not the whole screaming horde, but the part where it's you and the ball and the sound of your own feet. That part's kind of mystical, in a way. He leaned back against the rock again, hands at the back of his head now, looking tranquil. "But don't worry. I'll make it easy. Just enough to get your feet in motion."

interaction: @Mikey Forville

Victoria felt a warmth stir inside her at the boy’s sincere and straightforward words. There was something in him she hadn’t expected—genuine kindness. His voice carried no hidden agenda, no subtle judgment, no politeness that expected something in return. It was the kind of honesty that made Victoria more comfortable. He was friendly and really sincere.

She averted her gaze from his eyes and turned to the window. Outside, sunlight spilled across the floor in soft golden streaks; the beams shimmered, flickering slightly, yet still held together like parts of a greater whole. She took a deep breath. Just moments ago, the boy had told her, “I think you'd manage.” A simple phrase, yet it echoed in her mind. She was surprised, but the words eased her hesitation immediately.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she nodded, gratitude softening her features.
“…Ah, thank you! I guess we won’t know unless I try,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. Then, after a short pause, her tone shifted—curious and gentle when she heard the way he explained a player's role.
“So… is football kind of like a strategy game?” She hoped it was, because it would be easier for her that way.

Victoria listened intently as the boy explained, his voice bright with passion. It wasn’t a subject she was familiar with, yet a tiny spark of interest flickered inside her. She’d always felt a quiet distance from sports—but the way he spoke about it, the enthusiasm that lit up his eyes, made her want to understand. Maybe it wasn’t really about football. Maybe it was about the courage to try something new.

“…Something tells me this sport might actually be pretty cool. And fun,” she murmured softly, just enough for him to hear. Her eyes were kind, carrying a fragile but honest mix of curiosity and hesitation.

“…Still, I should probably warn you,” she added, lowering her gaze again.
“I’m not the easiest student to teach.”

He didn’t laugh. Instead, his lips pulled into a thoughtful smile. “That’s alright,” he said. “I’m not really the best teacher.” He shifted slightly, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, gazing out across the castle grounds. The wind had picked up again, shuffling the trees like fingers through hair. Distantly the lunch bell rang through the stone.

“I suppose that's what I most like about it," he continued, not looking at her yet. "It's not being good at it. It's just showing up. Kicking the ball. Going for it. Doesn't care if you're a genius or completely crap at it." He looked at her now, the smile rising again, unforced. "Besides anything else, being hard to teach is because you have your own way of doing things.".

He allowed the silence to lie there for a moment. It was comfortable.Then Mikey stood up, slowly, brushing the back of his robes off and shoving his bag onto his shoulder. "I need to go." he said softly, glancing once down the corridor. "I promised KodoPodo I'd nick him something from the lunch hall. He gets proper angry if I don't."

He paused before he turned back, eyes flashing to hers a last time. "Thanks for talking to me, Victoria. I know you didn't have to. But I'm thankful that you did." Then dug into his satchel and produced a small creased sheet of paper. It was a drawing he'd done when he was much younger: a football field in a wobbly line, two stickmen in mid-kick, with a large optimistic "GOOOAALLL!" scribbled in bubble letters at the top. Goofy. But sincere.

He proffered it to her. "In case you ever want to be reminded what the game looks like," he said to her, smiling. "Or if you ever are in class and need something to doodle on." And with a salute fashioned from two fingers and that half grin, Mikey turned and began down the sweep of the hall, each step soundless on the stone. He did not look back.