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“My father is going to kill me,” Simmons says to his reflection in a defeated tone.“Uh-huh,” Grif says. He’s trying to count how many cookies there are left. He knows he’s got four boxes in his room, plus the one he put in Simmons’ cupboard that he’s currently eating, but he can’t remember if he hid another one somewhere else. Maybe inside that ugly-ass statue down the hall?“I’m not gonna make the team, and my father is going to kill me,” Simmons repeats.
Grif barely lifts his head from the pillow where it’s resting. “Yeah, probably.” Or he left it in the Room of Requirement.“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”Grif pops a cookie into his mouth and wipes his fingers in his blue and bronze tie. “Buddy, can you chill? Tryouts haven’t even begun yet. Also, it’s just quidditch. Who cares.”Simmons turns sharply, looking agitated. “Who c— Everybody cares, Grif! This stupid sport is the only thing everybody likes in this school. The whole student body’s gonna be there. If I mess this up, everyone’ll laugh at me!”“So not much of a change then.”Simmons throws one of his gloves at him. Grif dodges with practiced ease and eats another cookie. Damn, they’re good. Thank Merlin for Honeydukes. Grif still doesn’t know how he survived his first two years at Hogwarts without snacks. Those were some dark times.It’s three hours to Simmons’ quidditch tryouts, and he’s as ready for them as Grif was to face a dragon in his fourth year. Which is to say, not at all. It may be a bit of an overdramatic comparison, but whatever. Simmons’ anxiety levels are always at the maximum anyway, it doesn't matter if he's taking a pop quiz or facing life-threatening peril.In this situation, though, it’s justified. The nerd is as coordinated as a splintered old broom, built like a twig, he wears glasses, and is kind of skittish. He’ll be lucky if he hasn’t gotten his nose broken by a Bludger by the end of the day.But, against all common sense, he’s still going to the tryouts, because apparently Simmons’ dad has decided that he’s “not going to put up with his son being a complete disappointment any longer”, which apparently translates to Simmons finally getting into the Slytherin quidditch team.Hence why he has spent the last ten minutes in full quidditch gear having a full mental breakdown in front of his full body mirror.Simmons has gone back to forlornly staring at himself, and honestly, Grif doesn’t give a shit about this whole thing, but this is beginning to get annoying.He swallows the delicious treat and sits up with a sigh. “One,” he says, lifting a chocolate-smeared finger, “that’s not true. You said it yourself, you think quidditch is stupid. And you know I don’t care about it. So that’s two people who don’t like it. Two, not everybody is gonna be there. It’s just tryouts, not a game. And there’s like a couple dozen library-dwelling Ravenclaw nerds who never go to the pitch. Kind of like you. Because you don’t even like quidditch, remember?”“You’re a Ravenclaw too, Grif!”“Yeah, but I’m not a fucking nerd. And I don’t appreciate you lumping me in with them. I’ve never gone to the library in my life and you know it.”“You were there last week trying to find a spell to turn you invisible so you could nap anywhere.”“One, you can’t prove that. And two, when I find that spell, you won’t be able to throw these wild accusations at me anymore.”“Shut up.”“I’m just saying, man. You don’t wanna do it, I don’t wanna watch you do it, let’s just stay here and play videogames.”“You just wanna stay inside because it’s cold as balls today.”“That too. See? There is not a single positive thing about doing this!”“Well, it’s not like I want to do it either! You know why I’m in this mess!”There’s a pause as Simmons huffs and readjusts his arm guards for the fourth time. Grif picks up his glove from the bed and starts playing with it instead of throwing it back at him. He takes a moment to thank his lucky stars that Donut and Tucker are not around when he asks, “What position are you trying out for?”“Chaser, obviously.” Oh, good. On the scale of ‘bad’ to ‘catastrophic’, chaser is... not horrible. Grif was worried that he was going to have to talk Simmons out of swinging a bat around while high up in the air. He is a lanky nerd with no upper-body strength, there’s no way he could cut it as a beater, or even a keeper. He could try as a seeker, but even if Simmons won’t say it out loud, Grif knows that the mere thought of being singled out in the pitch, all eyes on him, with the final score depending on his efforts, is the stuff of nightmares for him. Among the chasers he’d feel more at ease. Or, well, Simmons’ version of ‘ease’.Grif is just glad that he’s being somewhat conscious of his limitations this time instead of setting himself an impossibly high bar that he can never reach. Simmons does stuff like that sometimes.“There’s no way I’m gonna get in,” the redhead mumbles to himself.“No, you’re not,” Grif sighs. “Look. For whatever stupid as fuck reason, you’re still gonna do this and you’re gonna get your ass kicked...” Simmons whimpers, “...but until then, let’s just play videogames. Which is exactly what we’ll get back to doing when we return from said asskicking.” Simmons looks defeated and relieved at the same time. “...Okay.”“Okay.” Grif looks Simmons up and down again. He looks weird in sports gear, but maybe that’s just Grif being used to seeing him either in his school uniform or casual wear. The Slytherin quidditch uniform is all black and green —it’s a different, uglier shade of green than Simmons’ eyes— and kinda lame. And Simmons isn’t making it any less lame by wearing full protective gear, even the ridiculous helmet. “You might wanna take all that protective shit off. I mean, if you’re gonna do something dangerously stupid, you might as well look cool when you go down. Like a true maverick. That’s what I would do.”Simmons throws his other glove at him.