DAILY PROPHET

Special Edition: Siblings clash in Quidditch Final

By Ginny Weasley — Daily Prophet Correspondent

Keswick, Cumbria — Today’s showdown between the North and South Conferences of the England and Ireland Quidditch League is one of the most touted matches of the century, but not for the typical reasons. There were no storybook seasons or standout performances for either side; instead, it was a season leading up to a first. In all the centuries of professional Quidditch, never have a brother and sister faced off for the League Cup before today.

However, later this afternoon, history will be made when Puddlemere United fan favourite, Keeper Roxanne Weasley, 24, squares off against her oldest rival: brother Fred Weasley, 25, the regular season scoring leader for the Chudley Cannons. (More on Page 3)

Three Days Earlier

She couldn’t help wanting to look at it. The Buster Bright Memorial Trophy was one of the most impressive trophies in the history of sports, and it was the most coveted amongst the best of the best players in professional Quidditch. It meant more to some than even the League Cup, because it wasn’t a team award; the trophy, nicknamed the ‘Buster’, was given to the Most Valuable Player in the league championship match. To make the championship match was difficult; to win the match was harder still. But to be the best player, the one who took the team on his or her shoulders and carried them to victory… they all wanted that. Roxanne was no different.

Though she’d held out for nearly a week while the trophy was on display at Quality Quidditch Supplies in Diagon Alley, the pull was too strong. She just felt as if she could somehow win it if she laid eyes upon it and allowed it to inspire her. Normally, she didn’t abide by such superstitions, but there was just something about the Buster that captivated her like nothing else.

As she passed the ice cream shop next to Quality Quidditch Supplies, Roxanne ignored the stares of the patrons who recognised her and strode inside. The place was packed, which was to be expected, but the seas parted as she went straight for the trophy. It was mounted on the counter in the back, its golden lustre unsullied by the camera flashes that started clicking away when her presence was noticed.

And it was just as majestic as she’d imagined. Made of the same metal as a Snitch, it was a one-eighth scale broomstick, and it hovered over a wooden base. On the base, a small placard scrolled the names of every previous winner of the award, as well as the teams for which they played. Though the list was currently in the early 1900s, Roxanne knew that, if she waited long enough, her Aunt Ginny’s name would crop up as the 2003 winner. As it was, half of the people who had won this trophy were legends of the game, legends who had inspired her to be the best, to be one of them.

Her heart did a little flip-flop when the little broom started to fly in a cyclonic pattern. She had known it would do that from seeing Ginny’s displayed proudly on the mantel at the Burrow, but since the stardust-like trail that the broomstick left behind was supposed to spell out the recipient’s name, she hadn’t expected it to do so, since the award hadn’t yet been given. However, when a large, shimmering question mark appeared in lieu of a name, it made her smile. Craig Davidson, the artisan charged with making the trophy every year, had always had a sense of showmanship.

Roxanne had to fight the intense urge to touch it. Normally, she ignored all the strange quirks of Quidditch, such as not washing her game robes after a loss or only trimming the tail twigs of her broomstick on Tuesdays. But not this time. She didn’t believe for a second that touching it would doom her chances of winning it, but there was no reason to tempt fate. What she wanted above all else was to win the championship and take this very trophy home, and if she had to be a superstitious sot to do it, then she would. It was that important.

Hushed whispers interrupted her fixation with the trophy, and when she turned around to see what had caused the change in atmosphere, she could see why. “Fred,” she curtly acknowledged.

“Roxanne,” he replied just as tersely. But Fred’s focus wasn’t on her for very long as the pull of the tiny monument of greatness proved to be irresistible to him, as well, and he came to stand by her to examine it. His jaw slack, he hesitantly reached out a finger to touch it, which had returned to its idle state, only to recoil as if he’d been shocked. “Ow! What the —”

He never finished the sentiment, as he was interrupted by titters from the crowd, as well as a belly laugh from his sister. Highly amused, as well as relieved that she’d not made the same mistake, Roxanne said, “Serves you right, mucking up my trophy with your greasy paws.”

His assault-by-trophy seemed to be forgotten as Fred stood toe-to-toe with Roxanne, who was his equal in height. “You don’t stand a chance. We’re the best team assembled since Ninety-Two.”

“Yeah,” Roxanne said with a snort. “Since Eighteen Ninety-Two. Our great grandparents weren’t even born the last time your lot so much as had a sniff at a championship, and that isn’t about to change now.”

“Says you,” Fred fired. “Everyone knows you pull too far to the left in your stance. We’re going to light you up like a Christmas tree.”

Scoffing, Roxanne crossed her arms. “And you drop your elbow before you throw. Any idiot can read your moves. Be grateful if you get so much as one goal, and I’ll even be nice and not tell you if I let you have it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t. I can’t even pretend to be that bad.”

It was then that Roxanne noticed the dead silence that had fallen on over the onlookers. Her agent, as well as her coaches, had specifically instructed the entire organisation to not talk to the media or make any sort of scene before the match to keep from creating unnecessary distractions for the team. No doubt she was going to get an earful at practice the next day, and it irked her that Fred would have known that yet goaded her anyway. She could fight dirty, too, but she was going to be in enough trouble as it was. Instead, she said through clenched teeth, “I’ll see you on the pitch.” With that, she spun on her heel and focused solely on the exit.

Just as she was about to step back into the street, she heard, “I’ll try not to wet myself!” It was all she could do not to go back in there and break her brother’s nose. This wasn’t just a game anymore; it was personal.

22 June, 2025 — Game Day

Nerves clawed at Roxanne’s insides as she followed her teammates onto the pitch. She could hardly hear the public address announcer over the raucous din of the crowd. There wasn’t an empty seat in the house, and several sets of floating bleachers were set in order to accommodate the overflow, and every extra person crammed into the stadium was one more who expected her to be at her best.

However, only one thought could penetrate her brain: she was going to be sick. The visiting Cannons were just starting to be announced, and Roxanne knew she wasn’t going to make it. Nudging Joey Tyler, one of the Beaters, she whispered, “I’ll be right back.”

With a knowing smile, Joey said, “Welcome to the big leagues, kid,” but she barely heard him as she darted back to the changing room, just in time to empty the contents of her stomach into the rubbish bin. Just as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, the sound of the visiting Seeker being announced sent her sprinting back to the pitch. Within seconds, her own team would be taking the air. It was the league championships; being late wasn’t an option.

When the pitch was in sight, Roxanne could see that Joey was making them space out their take-offs to give her time to get back. He was the last of her teammates to take off, and he gave her a quick salute as he soared off. Feeling a rush of goodwill toward Joey, she took off after him, letting the familiar waves of the Puddlemere fan base’s adulation hit her. But there was something different than the normal cheers from the crowd; the enthused shouts carried a sense of tense anticipation — the same that had caused her lunch to abandon ship only moments before. And with the attendance just having been announced as nearly ten thousand, it was on a scale that Roxanne had never experienced.

The wall of noise as the referee set up the faceoff was staggering, but it also quieted much of Roxanne’s nervous thoughts. It was so loud that she couldn’t think; she played better when she didn’t think. She would need to be at her best, since one bad goal could lose the whole thing. They would almost have to win on goals, since the regular Seeker and team Captain, Jamie Moorehouse, was out with a head injury suffered in their last game against Holyhead, leaving the reserve Seeker to the task. And since Chudley’s main style was quick catches and low scores, every Quaffle she let by would add that much more pressure to the Chasers, and they already had their work cut out for them.

As soon as the Quaffle was tossed, however, the Cannons took possession. Much to Roxanne’s annoyance, Fred was the culprit. He zoomed toward her goal, with the other two Chasers following in a Hawkshead Attack. The Quaffle was filtered back to the trailing Chaser on the left before being tossed to the right, trying to stunt her ability to cover all three hoops effectively. In reply, Roxanne employed a Double-Eight Loop, which would improve her reaction time when one of them took the initiative to make the shot.

It didn’t come as a surprise, though, when Fred took possession once again, and Roxanne was ready. A fraction of a second was all she needed to see him draw back his elbow, which he always did before taking his shot. Halting her Double-Eight, she focused on Fred, watching for the slightest hint of which hoop he was going to aim for. Subtle indicators said that his target was the left hoop, and Roxanne adjusted her stance to compensate.

However, the second she shifted her position, Fred flipped the Quaffle over to his right for his teammate to take the shot just outside the scoring area, and Roxanne missed the save by mere inches. “Ten points for Chudley, and that’s an early lead, folks!” boomed the public address announcer’s voice throughout the stadium, which was met with a chorus of jeers from the crowd decked mostly in blue and gold.

Unbidden, a cry of anger ripped from her throat. He had tricked her, knowing she would be aware of his arsenal of moves, playing her by making her think she was playing him. Had wands been permitted on the pitch, she would’ve cheerfully sent a Stinging Jinx his way where the sun didn’t shine.

Glancing toward her coach, Roxanne could see his annoyance, and it made her want to shrink into the grass. Everyone in the place was staring at her, which only made it worse, since a rookie could’ve made that save under different circumstances. She let Fred get into her head.

Swooping close before the next toss-up, Joey said, “Don’t worry about it. I should’ve had him, but I hesitated.”

This stunned Roxanne, considering Joey loved bashing anything that moved with a Bludger. “Why?”

“He’s your brother, Rox.”

Something inside of Roxanne went cold. So it was still her fault. Her voice tinged with steel, she said, “That’s what Skele-Gro is for. Do what you need to do.” Nodding in acknowledgement, Joey took his place for the face-off, leaving Roxanne with a newfound resolve. The time to play nice was done. They were fighting for a championship, for bragging rights, for the Buster. It wasn’t just Quidditch anymore; this was war.

“And that’s another ten points for Puddlemere! That brings their lead to a whopping one-hundred to twenty!”

The announcement was met with yet more boisterous enthusiasm from the local fans, but Roxanne barely heard anything. Letting any more shots go by her wasn’t an option. If they could get a 150 point lead, then the match would go into overtime — there would be no Snitch, and the first goal that went in determined the winner. If they could get to 160, then it wouldn’t matter which Seeker made the catch. Since both teams came into the match dead even in overall points, only this outcome mattered.

Plus, Fred still hadn’t technically scored against her. He had that first assist, but the two shots he’d taken since then were routine saves. Other than that, her Chasers had only relinquished the Quaffle once, which had happened when one of the Cannons had feigned ramming the Quaffle carrier and caused him to drop it. Though it was dirty and underhanded, it wasn’t against the rules, either. Roxanne honestly couldn’t say that she wouldn’t have done the same.

But her concentration shifted when Fred intercepted a pass and headed toward her, this time all alone. Joey and his partner, Eddie Gammon, were in pursuit, but Roxanne knew Fred was a faster flier than both of them. Eddie managed to spot a Bludger and intercept it, and his aim was true. It would reach Fred before he even entered the scoring area, but he wasn’t a high-performing player for nothing. With obnoxious ease, he completed a Sloth Grip Roll and dodged the projectile, once again leaving him one-on-one with Roxanne.

This time, though, she wasn’t going to let him trick her. She had one move she’d never attempted, but there was no time like the present. Roxanne could see Fred cheating to his left once again, but this time, she was ready for a double-back. Hooking the laces of her boots onto her foot mount, she nudged toward her right, but only enough to force him to commit to one direction or another. The longer he waited, the better her chances would be, but she knew he would’ve been aware of that.

When he made his shift, Roxanne was ready. The Quaffle left his hand in the blink of an eye, hurtling to her left too fast for her to manoeuvre her broom to stop it directly. Her foot firmly lodged into her foot hook, she tilted to the left, letting her weight send her upside-down, dangling only by her bootlace. She stretched her limbs out as far as they would go, covering as much space as possible. As it approached, Roxanne could only hope that her timing was accurate.

The whole world seemed to slow down; all that existed was her and that Quaffle. Inch by inch, foot by foot, it careened toward her splayed arms. When it arrived, it was heading for the space between her arm and her midsection, and almost instinctively, Roxanne pulled her fist into her chest. For one breathless moment, she waited for the ball to reach her, and at last, she was able to jut her elbow and graze the Quaffle.

Roxanne whipped her head around to watch its trajectory. Time seemed to crawl as the ball hurtled toward the far hoop, and as it neared, her heart slammed against her rib cage, the sound of her own blood flow roaring in her ears. If she was even breathing at that moment, she wasn’t aware of it. All she could do was hang from her broomstick as the Quaffle’s path looked ominously like it was going to go in.

The sound of the Quaffle striking the ring reverberated through the entire stadium, and Roxanne nearly passed out in relief when it deflected wide and away from the goal. The first sound she heard when her nerves abated was the roar of the crowd and the sound of the public address announcer bellowing, “And there is a modified Starfish and Stick by your Roxanne Weasley! It doesn’t get much better than that, folks.”

Possession was quickly regained by Puddlemere, and they scored a quick goal, giving Roxanne a chance to regain her seat and get back into position. By the subsequent face-off, though, her adrenalin was still crashing through her veins. Her brain barely acknowledged the next slew of saves she made; all she could think about was that look of disbelief on Fred’s face after she had thwarted his almost perfect shot. It was exceedingly difficult to keep the grin off her face. Now, they were even.

Feeding off her sparkling save, Roxanne stopped every single shot that came her way. Whether she was in some sort of zone or had deflated the opposition’s attack, she didn’t know, but after what she had already done, the rest of it seemed easy in comparison. And true to his word, Joey kept Fred far away from the scoring area, and Chudley had a difficult time keeping the Quaffle. Puddlemere racked up seven goals in relatively quick succession, and by the third hour of the match, the score was one-seventy to twenty. One more and they would have the necessary margin to assure victory, which would force Chudley to catch the Snitch in a hurry to avoid being embarrassed.

But all of that went out the window when Chudley’s Seeker, Thad Exelby, sharply changed directions. Hot on his heels was the Puddlemere Seeker, Ryan Pryor, but he was simply too far behind. A glint of light in the afternoon sun told Roxanne and everyone in the stadium that this wasn’t a trick. Down the pitch, the Puddlemere Chasers were already on the move, desperately trying to rack one more goal before the Snitch was caught. Her role almost forgotten, Roxanne’s vision flitted from the Snitch to the opposing hoops, desperate for the latter to occur before the former.

The Quaffle was launched just as the Exelby began to extend his arm, which was met by a collective gasp from the crowd. Millisecond after agonising millisecond passed, but the shot might have been one too late. Just as the Snitch was enveloped by the Exelby’s hand, the Quaffle passed through the hoop. Everyone looked around at one another as if to see whether the goal had come first of the catch. No one, not even the referee, seemed to know.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the public address announcer said, his voice just as breathless as everyone else’s, “this play will be going to review. In all my years in this sport… this is completely unprecedented. You are, indeed, witnessing history.”

The referee flew up to the officials’ booth to confer with the recording crew. They documented every move by every player, and it was all done with a time index stamped on it, which went down to a millionth of a second. If there was an answer to be had, they would have it. As they deliberated, a clamour rose up in the crowd, many of whom had omnioculars and were doing a review of their own. Roxanne wished she could hear what was going on, but all she could do was pool with the rest of her teammates at the centre of the pitch alongside the Cannons and wait for the final decision.

She glanced over at Fred, only to find him staring into space. The normal smirk on his face, that confident grin, was gone and was replaced by a terse expression and clenched teeth. In a way, she felt bad, since he hadn’t been able to score at all in the match, but for the most part, she didn’t. He was the enemy until the game was over, which included that very moment.

Finally, the referee made his way to the announcing booth before returning to the pitch. If it was the catch that came first, he would raise his arm in the air and clench his fist, signalling the end of the match, but if the goal came first, he would point toward the hoops before doing the former. That the referee was taking his sweet time in announcing the decision was maddening, allowing a lump of anxiety to rise in Roxanne’s throat. After what seemed like an eternity, the referee moved his arm.

When that arm went toward the hoops, the entire stadium exploded, and the sound of the public address announcing the official decision was drowned to barely more than a whisper, another voice added to the excited cacophony assaulting Roxanne’s ears. All she could do was stare. In the corner of her eye, she saw the Chudley players touch down and dejectedly make their way to their changing room, and subliminally, she heard the congratulations from her whooping teammates. But something about it was surreal, like it was just something that had indeed happened — just not to her. It was only when the league director walked out onto the pitch, bearing the League Cup, that reality started to dawn.

“May I direct your attention to the centre of the pitch,” said the public address announcer in an enviably even tone. “England and Ireland Quidditch League commissioner Aldric Darple will award the League Cup to your own Puddlemere United.” At the mention of the name, a majority of the attendees cheered, and a howl of victory came from the winning players. Roxanne remained silent, but it was finally starting to set in. She had seen it, heard it, and had it confirmed publicly. And the man she had only met once who was standing with the large, ornate trophy that would sit in Philbert Deverill’s office for the next year was about to seal the deal.

Touching his wand to his throat, Darple’s amplified voice said, “This year has been one of the finest in history for our beloved sport. A new generation of phenomenal players have taken the torch and led the way to victory across the board. Throughout the country, more witches and wizards than ever have taken notice, driving attendance numbers to staggering heights, all in anticipation of what we’ve seen here today. Please, everyone, give your appreciation to the warriors standing before you for this excellent display of competition and athleticism.”

Thunderous applause rained down onto the pitch, and a chant began. “Jamie! Jamie!” they cried, paying homage to their sidelined team Captain. Even the Puddlemere players joined in, including Roxanne, who was finally starting to regain her faculties. The noise doubled when the subject of the chant was helped from the runway that led from the changing rooms by Coach Peter Pembroke. Jamie waved to the crowd before he was assailed by his teammates, who lifted him on their shoulders and carried him to Darple. Though he had not participated in the match, Roxanne, as well as the rest of the team, knew that he was one of the main reasons they had got to this level, both with his prowess on the pitch and his leadership off of it. Roxanne felt proud that she could support Jamie’s ankle on the way to his dream.

An almost feral yell came from Jamie when he hoisted the Cup in the air, and the crowd responded in kind. Flashbulbs lit the whole stadium, documenting the moment forever. Publications across the world would feature this match, and Roxanne was sure she’d buy every single one, just to make sure she never stopped believing it had really happened.

When Jamie made his way toward her, at first, Roxanne thought that he was heading toward Joey, who was standing beside her, but he thrust the Cup into her hands, her arteries hammered out a wild beat as her arms shot into the air of their own accord, displaying the centuries’ old monument to the game to the masses. And in kind, she did as Jamie had done, passing it to Joey, and the rest of the team, including the coaches and reserve players, got their turn with it. All the while, however, Roxanne’s focus shifted to the last trophy that the evening would see handed out.

After nearly a half hour of the Cup being paraded around, a new sense of anticipation took hold of all of them. They all knew what came next, and when Darple finally made the announcement, it was met with an extraordinary measure of quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming, from the Ministry of Magic: Special Envoy to the Minister and the Junior Minister of Magic, Percy Weasley!”

Though Roxanne had heard from her cousin Lucy that her uncle was going to be speaking on behalf of the Minister after the championship match, she hadn’t known to what end. At least, that was, until that moment. She inhaled sharply when she saw what he carried in his hands, and she wasn’t the only one. Several of the players were staring at it as well, but the one she noticed first and foremost was Fred, who had come back out to the pitch with a few of his teammates to watch the ceremonies. Whilst the rest of them glanced at the Buster Bright Memorial Trophy with hope in their eyes, holding out that they might win it, her brother was looking at it as if in mourning.

To even her surprise, Roxanne found that her feet were traversing the grass of their own accord before coming to a halt in front of Fred. He gave her an incredulous look, as if asking what she was doing there when, but she ignored it and pulled her older brother into a hug. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his shoulder. Whatever Percy was saying, she had no idea, but as her competitive juices simmered down, it was nearly impossible to not feel awful for her brother. While her dreams had virtually come true by thousandths of a second, his had been conversely shattered in the same span of time.

Roxanne had half expected Fred to shove her away, especially in front of his teammates; instead, he clung to her. When the salty warmth of a tear dripped onto her cheek, she was stunned. “I lost it, Roxy,” he said, biting his lip and looking skyward to quell his display of emotion. “I let them down.”

“Last time I checked, it’s a team sport,” she said. “There are six other guys on the team who have just as much say in the outcome as you do.”

“I should’ve made that shot!” he hissed. “I was an inch away.”

She sighed. “Fred, it’s not your fault. I —” Her speech was pre-empted by an elbow in her ribs, which, upon investigation, belonged to Exelby, the man who had been a hair’s breadth away from toppling the final outcome..

“That’s you, Weasley!”

Not knowing whether he was talking to her or Fred, Roxanne said, “What’s what?”

Pointing toward the centre of the pitch and to where Percy was standing and looking quite enthused, Exelby said, “You! They’re waiting for you.”

Completely gobsmacked, Roxanne vacantly wandered toward her uncle and the trophy he bore. She still wasn’t completely convinced that this wasn’t a joke or, at the very least, a giant mistake. Surely, one of the Chasers, who had scored a slew of goals, was the winner. All she had done was get really lucky on one save and turned away the few shots that her forward contingent had allowed.

When she got there, Roxanne stared blankly at Percy. “What am I, er, supposed to do?”

Ending the Amplification Charm on his voice, he said, “I would think you’re supposed to take the trophy.” Tapping his wand on the base, the tiny broom set into motion, but instead of a question mark, like the one that had appeared at Quality Quidditch Supplies, the shimmering text said ‘2025: Roxanne Weasley, Puddlemere United’. And before she realised it, it was in her hands. She was utterly transfixed by it, and that the crowd was serenading her with cheers went largely noticed,

With a quick Sonorous, Percy addressed her so everyone could hear. “Your move to make the save against your brother was quite brilliant, I must say.”

Flushing, she said, “Um, thanks.” When Percy rolled his eyes and cast the charm on her, as well, she repeated, “Thanks.”

“Where did you learn that move?”

“I, er, just remember hearing about it and thought it might work. Fortunately, I got enough of it to make the stop.” Roxanne was annoyed by her own comments. They were borderline gibberish, but she honestly couldn’t think of what else to say.

Probably hoping for a more loquacious response, Percy asked, “Is there anything you’d like to say?”

There were several things that Roxanne wanted to say, but when she opened her mouth, all of them scattered, leaving just one thing. Finding her words once again, she said, “I want to thank my brother, Fred.” At the surprised gasps from the onlookers when she thanked her opponent, Roxanne smiled. “He’s been a git to me my whole life, and he was always such sore loser when I kicked his ar — beat him. But every time we played, no matter what, he always inspired me to be better, and without that, I wouldn’t be here right now.” Lifting the trophy in the air, she said, “Big brother, this one’s for you.”

Later that Night

Roxanne laughed as Fred imitated one of his teammates’ fall from a broom in practice due to a pack’s worth of Drooble’s being stuffed in the tail. Their amusement was only briefly curtailed by the arrival of their beverages — Butterbeer all around. She had even foregone a night out with her teammates to have a drink with her brother.

“Who put the gum in his broom?” she asked, though she was fairly certain she already knew the answer

“The Drooble Fairy, of course!” he said, holding his hands up in mock innocence.

They both chuckled and nursed their drinks. Silence replaced the laughter, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. It was several minutes before Fred finally wondered aloud, “So, did you really mean it when you said…”

“What, that you inspired me?” Roxanne thought at first that he was just trying to take the mickey out of her, but it was hard to miss that little glimmer of hope in his expression. Of course, she really had meant every word, but in fine family tradition, she instead said, “Not a word, brother. Not a word.”