Headmistress Minerva McGonagall knew that Quidditch was as much a part of the history of Hogwarts as anything else. Between the Trophy Room and changing room, one could, if one were so inclined, trace Hogwarts’s history back centuries. Each win, each loss, was etched somewhere. Minerva picked up the Quidditch Cup; it showed the wins, sure, but she wondered where the losses were carved. She traced the engraving from her seventh year: –1954 Slytherinâ€.
Colin Royce stepped in to the changing room, seeking the solace of a quiet place to sit. Unfortunately a cacophony of sounds filled the room: some voices shouted about Minerva’s fall, others wailed about the game’s outcome, equipment slammed into walls and lockers. But as captain Colin indulged in none of those emotional displays. He trudged into the changing room, peeling his equipment off, and practically collapsed onto the bench between the lockers. He replayed the game over and over again, but he couldn’t figure out when things began spiralling out of control. They were doing well for the first hour, but then the Slytherins started playing dirty: cobbing the Chasers, blagging the Seeker, blatching the entire team. It was this last that took his best Chaser out of the game.
Colin sprawled across the bench as he remembered the hit Minerva took. He’d watched in horror as Slytherin Chaser George Corsa hurtled toward her. Not to be deterred, she stayed on course, but Corsa was too stupid to veer, and he knocked into Minerva so hard she fell from her broom and plummeted to the pitch below. The matron had bustled onto the field when Minerva hit the ground, before the play was even finished. Colin knew from watching it that her fall wasn’t a good one, but he needed to keep his focus on the game. So as the matron levitated an unconscious Minerva off the field, he pulled Cora in as back-up Chaser. She wasn’t as strong a flyer as Minerva, and her arm wasn’t as good, but Colin was desperate. So many players were in seventh year and this was their last chance. But it hadn’t worked. Minerva was in hospital with broken ribs, Cora was crying in the shower, and it was going to take the rest of the team to peel Colin off the bench.
He banged his head again and again on the wood beneath him, a soft thumping rhythm he hoped might calm his erratic heartbeat. He usually didn’t allow himself to wallow after a loss, but he was so sure, so sure they’d win this and the Cup would be theirs, would come to Gryffindor instead of Slytherin, again. But Corsa and Cora and Minerva and it was all down the drain. Maybe it would be better to just stay here. The hard wooden bench beneath him wouldn’t judge him for their loss. Right now, it was the only thing on his side, the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor. Nothing could change the fact that Slytherin had beaten them, again.
Before he left the room, he used his wand and wrote –No more near misses- CR 1954†on the edge of the bench, so small as to be almost unreadable. No one would see it unless they laid where he now lay.
Minerva ran her eyes over other dates, other Gryffindor losses. The line that read –1977 Ravenclaw†stung. James Potter had been a phenomenal Chaser and magnificent choice for Captain, but alas, the Cup wasn’t Minerva’s during his sixth year. She thought he’d put together a winning team, and he had; it just hadn’t been enough.
The team sat on the bench between the lockers, listening to James Potter’s version of a pep talk. It was his first game as Captain, and he needed them to win. They were up against Hufflepuff who’d come in second for the Cup last year. It wouldn’t be an easy win, but James knew his team could handle it. Now if only he could convince them of it.
‘We’ve practiced more than them. We want it more than them. Hufflepuff is strong, but we’re stronger!’ James paced beside the bench, looking at his team. His fellow Chasers, like him, were returning members, but one Beater, his Seeker, and Keeper were brand new. He needed them to keep their cool. He knew that his new Beater, Theo, knew the plays, and James had seen him working well with Catherine, his returning Beater. His Seeker, Emily, drumming her fingers on the bench, peeling a little varnish off the edge was making him worry, as was the new Keeper, Ben, who seemed very distracted by something written on the wall. James needed them to be on their best today if they had any chance of winning. He rallied his players and ushered them out onto the pitch where a crowd roared their support.
James circled the pitch, dejected, until the sun set, before making his way back into the changing room. He was surprised to see Sirius, Remus, and Peter all waiting for him. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he told them. ‘You’re not on the team.’ He sat on the bench where his team had been hours earlier, listening to his morale-boosting speech. Not that it had helped any. Hufflepuff had whomped them nearly 400 to 250 by the time Emily saved them more humiliation by grabbing the Snitch. James had lost his first game as captain, and with a large enough margin that it would be almost impossible for them to win the cup.
James flopped back against the bench, covered his eyes with his arm, and sighed. ‘So,’ he said tentatively, ‘how bad did it look?’
He felt the bench shake as his friend sat with him. ‘Probably not as bad as it felt, Prongs,’ Remus said. ‘But Theo seemed to fit in well, and Emily eventually got the Snitch.’
‘It’s just your new Keeper who needs work,’ Sirius said. James was very grateful that he wasn’t taking the Mickey. He didn’t think he could handle that right now. He felt the bench move again, then someone slapped his thigh. ‘C’mon, mate, get cleaned up and we’ll sneak to the kitchens for some dinner,’ Sirius told him.
‘Padfoot’s right,’ Remus chimed. ‘You didn’t do as bad as you think you did. Take a few days, then get the team back here and learn from today’s loss. You and Gryffindor can still win this.’ James peered at his friends. There would be time later to regret. They waited a moment, then walked out; they knew he’d pull himself up and be out in no time.
James took one more minute, lying on the bench, and for the first time read some of the writing on the wall. As he was about to push himself off the bench, lettering, small, near his eye became clear. It said: –No more near misses- CR 1954â€. James didn’t know who CR was, but he knew how CR felt. Before standing, he added another line under CR’s: –No more big misses either- JP 1976â€.
Minerva noticed too several recent gaps in the engravings: 1993, 1995, and 1998. The last one was understandable. In the midst of Voldemort’s reign, with Severus in control of the school and the Carrows running rampant, there was no way Quidditch matches would be held. The missing year in the middle one was an unforeseen consequence of the Tri-Wizard Tournament which ended up being more dangerous, in so many ways, than Quidditch matches could ever possibly be. No, it was the missing win in 1993 that struck Minerva as most disconcerting. A beast had been released in the castle and for the first time in her life, Minerva McGonagall didn’t see Hogwarts as the bastion it had always been. It became a living nightmare. No one knew when or how the monster in the Chamber of Secrets would attack, and when a student was attacked the morning of a match, Albus had no choice but to cancel the remainder of the season. The school was no longer safe.
The changing room was quiet, and Oliver’s footsteps echoed as he crossed to his locker. He’d been so sure of a win this year, so determined to make up for last year’s bitter defeat. Harry’s first save had been spectacular. Dodging those rogue bludgers, diving out of the sky in front of that arrogant git Malfoy, and snatching the snitch from underneath his sneering Slytherin nose! And Harry didn’t even mind when that mad Professor removed all the bones in his arm afterward.
But now there was no hope; Dumbledore’d cancelled the rest of the season. There was talk of closing -- closing! -- Hogwarts. Oliver sat on the bench in the changing room. He spared a moment to wonder how many other players must, at some time or other, felt the same way he did now: lost, defeated, weary of the world. Surely others found solace on this worn wooden bench. He laid back and felt the solid wood beneath him. Gazing up, he felt he was looking through the ceiling rather than at it. His eyes traced a path down along the wall. Captains or players were always writing on the walls, sharing words of encouragement or playing tips. He closed his eyes again and shifted his head a mere fraction of an inch, but it was enough. When he opened his eyes, Oliver knew the small etchings on the bench he was looking at now could only have been written by someone who had lain exactly where he was lying.
–No more near misses- CR 1954†was followed by –No more big misses either- JP 1976â€. Oliver wasn’t sure who they were, but he could imagine how they felt. It was how he felt, and he was sure these weren’t players’ words, they weren’t intended for anyone but whoever wrote them. These were captains’ regrets. Games they’d lost. Maybe Cups they’d lost. But they weren’t intended to inspire; they were a memorial. They said, –Never forget.†Oliver heard the message loud and clear.
There was nothing he could do about the cancelled games, nothing he could do if they closed the school, but he could be prepared, be ready, for next year. It would be his last at Hogwarts and if he wanted to win the cup again, he’d do whatever it took to win. Oliver added one final line to the list of captains’ laments: –No more misses, full stop- OW 1993â€. With a renewed sense of hope, even in the dark days the school was facing, he left the changing room and headed up to the castle smiling.
Now that the war was over, and Hogwarts rebuilt enough to open by September, many more years could be engraved on the gleaming cup. Minerva would miss the possibility of it resting in her office after a win, but each year on it, and each year missing, told a story. She moved away from the trophy case, out of the room, and through the quiet corridors to the Headmistress’s office. It still felt strange, being in what she still considered Albus’s office, but she supposed that he, too, was another story marked somewhere in the building for people to find and add to as the years went by.
Hogwarts: A History by noblefate
Chapter Notes: This story is based on Phoenix13's "The Changing Room Bench." The artists's notes said: "The idea for the story behind this is several short drabbles with the setting of the bench in the Quidditch changing room. It can actually be from the point of view of the bench as it watches generations of Hogwarts Quidditch teams come and go." I went more with the first idea...
Standard disclaimer: I'm just playing with JKR's toys.
Thanks to Kitty/witch1561 for correcting my missing years!