They tried to replace him, once. Professor McGonagall was tired, she was fed up, she could not find the energy to keep telling him to ‘stay with the game, Jordan’ and ‘stop cursing at the Slytherins, Jordan’ and she finally snapped. She informed him, briskly, that his services as commentator would not be required for Saturday’s match, thank you very much, and if he so much as showed his nose at the booth she would personally detract two hundred points from Gryffindor.
That Saturday, there was what the history books could only refer to as a riot.
Thomas Hopkirk, chosen for the task because of his diligence in writing homework reports and notoriously fervent support of Puddlemere United, was a complete and utter disaster as a commentator. His strong Yorkshire accent gained a terrible resonance when magically amplified, and within three minutes of the game there had been no fewer than ten complaints that it was easier to keep up with the blurred streaks of colour speeding by than to follow the commentary. After twenty minutes, students had abandoned their traditional chants of ‘Slytherin, for the win’ and ‘Gryffindor, hear us roar’ for something different.
It takes the teachers a few minutes to understand, because something like this has never, in the history of Hogwarts, ever occurred before. It is disjointed at first, impossible to make out, with no apparent rhythm.
After thirty minutes, Hopkirk calls a ‘well-aimed defence’ for George Weasley. Seconds later, Gryffindor beaters Fred and George Weasley appear hovering in front of the commentator’s booth, loudly complaining that this is the fifth time he has gotten their names wrong, for Merlin’s sake, if he can’t tell the players apart then why does he even try? Madam Hooch shoos them away, blowing her whistle and commanding them to get back to the game. Usually, Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch matches are the dirtiest, most fast-paced events of the entire Cup. Up in the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey is prepared for the worst. But today, the players seem listless. Chasers on both sides have missed easy passes, dropped the Quaffle in the middle of an unimpeded run, and the two Seekers can be seen hovering by the side of the pitch, staring at nothing.
And all the while Thomas Hopkirk drones on, describing the players’ every move in great detail, confusing the Weasley twins three times within six minutes.
By the time McGonagall realises what is going on, it is too late. All the students, from all four houses, are yelling and waving their banners angrily. A chant has risen up, led by a fuming fifth-year Slytherin, and has made its way all around the pitch to be taken up by a group of Gryffindor third years who have transfigured their lion banners to reflect the words echoing from the stands in hundreds of voices.
Professor McGonagall closes her eyes for a moment and contemplates the choices that have led to her being in this place, at this time, and wonders what she has done to deserve this.
'WE WANT JORDAN, WE WANT JORDAN, WE WANT JORDAN!’
pixelskylines
germansingergirl
andulkaphoto
amandla
yousharknotpass
vaporwave
tangentwithtanner
