This Chapter has been Beta'd by AditiDraco95, WoodrowRynne and was looked over by Mangagirl.
Chapter Image ~ Nostaglia at The Dark Arts.
The Quidditch Pitch.
The Quidditch pitch.
A Sanctuary. The sacred grass that kids fell on from great
heights, the hard wood bleachers that teenagers made-out under and then of course the scarlet banners billowing softly in the breeze colliding with the green, purple and yellow of the other teams. The Quidditch pitch has been a peaceful place, a serene haven, to several Quidditch players and students over the years.
It provided silent answers when children sat on the lush grass for hours on end, screaming questions and throwing fits when they knew no one was looking or close by to hear their tantrum unfold. It lent an ear to listen to meaningless rants and emotional outbursts and it provided
shelter when rain pounded hard on from the heavens above and the warmth of the castle was too far away to run back up to its welcoming doors.
It protected younger children from bullies, giving them a place to hide in times of need or escape. It brought house mates together, forming teams and alliances with each another in hopes that their training for the year would provide them with a nice Quidditch Trophy at the end of the Quidditch Season.
There was only one time when the pitch was not being used and it wasn't all too impressed. The green, tall leaves that were covering the beauty of the pitch and the colors that were taking away from the scenery, gave the itch its reminder of how lovely it truly was. Why did they have to transform it into a maze, with its bothersome hedges that bristled against the wooden structure of the piece of art and the annoying spells holding it in place which took away the beauty of the pitch? It didn't desire to be manipulated this way.
After all, the Quidditch pitch didn't need magic to be beautiful, it already was.
But with trees, hedges and leaves barricading its sense of security to the children, beauty to the world and Quidditch season to the students, the pitch was untouched and under loved. It was the only time the pitch remembered being even the slightest bit upset, even more so annoyed.
The pitch itself had seen and heard a lot over its time. It had seen students come and go, couples make-up and break-up, Blood spilt and head injuries occur. It had felt Dementors frost over the rain on its wooden structure; turning the water droplets to ice, but in the entire time the pitch had stood, it would never forget the fourteen students who where unnamed. It had never seen any of the fourteen students who united on the Quidditch pitch on the night Hogwarts was attacked, the night when the Final Battle took place and ended. They were not Quidditch players, nor had they ever sought the Quidditch pitch for Guidance or help and yet there they were.
Standing around the inside of the pitch, fourteen Students ranging from Fifth year to Seventh year protected and fought alongside one another in the aid of defending their sanctuary, their place of home; their comfort.
The Quidditch pitch was the only place that wasn't able to be covered by spells and protections when the wards of Hogwarts were put up. So when the time came for heroes and heroines to unite in the hour of need, those fourteen brave students stood out from the rest.
They defended the bleachers and stands, even the banners, and honored their house and colors till the very end; That night, fourteen brave souls fought against one hundred and fifty Black hooded men and women, all evil in their ways.
The pitch had watched as one by one the colors of Hogwarts had fallen, spilling more blood then it had ever seen being spilt on its circular being. So when the time came for the spirit of the pitch to rise above all and leave its place at Hogwarts watching as its old wooden frames and lush green grass burnt to a cinder, it smiled a sad smile.
It watched sadly as the kids who fought to defend it lay together scattered across its lawn, yet it still managed to smile, knowing that the life it had lived, knowing that the life it had spent as a piece of wood, was a life well spent.
Ultimately everything; Human, creature, wooden frame, blade of grass; anything you touch, breath on or do has a spirit of its own. It has feelings and a soul, but the most important thing it will always have; is a memory.