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Every year, Angelina dreaded the signing period for professional Quidditch. This was a week-long stretch during which players could sign their contracts and finalize their positions on national teams. For many, it was a time of joy and celebration, but for Angelina, it served only as a reminder of the wizarding institution's failings.
Growing up, all she had ever wanted to do was to play Quidditch for England. Her parents were none too thrilled with her ambitions, but they did their best to support her when she made the Gryffindor team at Hogwarts. After she left school, she was offered a contract with the Holyhead Harpies (which wasn't an English team, but that didn't matter). All of her hard work had paid off—her dreams were coming true.
Or so she thought.
Angelina wasn't naive enough to think that everything would come easy to a female Quidditch player. If her time at Hogwarts had taught her anything, it was that her accomplishments were always going to be trivialized on the basis of her sex. "You play well...for a girl," was an oft-heard taunt for a reason.
But when Angelina's first contract arrived, she was shocked by her starting salary.
"The Harpies are only offering me 10,000 Galleons a year to play for them?" She scanned the salary section a second time, certain that there had been a mistake. "Oliver got 20,000 his first year—I know because he wouldn't bloody shut up about it."
George, who had been reading the document over her shoulder, patted her shoulder in a way that was not at all reassuring.
"Oliver plays for a different team and position, though, doesn't he?" he said bracingly. "I reckon starting salaries are different based on team performance and position and a whole manner of other factors."
"Well, sure, but a 10,000-Galleon difference seems a bit extreme." Angelina folded her arms and let out a huff. "Honestly, George, whose side are you on here?"
"Yours, love," George was quick to reply. "I just think you might be reading into things a bit."
Angelina was certain that she wasn't, though. The next time she saw Oliver, she casually asked him what his starting salary had been and learned that her former Captain had indeed made double what she was offered when he first joined Puddlemere as a permanent player.
Bolstered by this confirmation, she swallowed her pride and reached out to several other professional players that she knew from Hogwarts: Roger Davies, Rupert Smith, and even Terrence Higgs. All of them reported significantly higher starting salaries, and Angelina didn't think it was a coincidence that they were all male, too.
It wasn't until her first press conference that she felt she had undeniable proof of sexism within the professional Quidditch world, however.
"Mrs Johnson-Weasley! Rumor has it you and your husband George Weasley would like to start a family in the next few years. What are your thoughts on mothers who play Quidditch?" The young, blonde reporter flashed Angelina an eager smile, as if she was proud of the profoundly stupid question she had just asked.
Angelina resisted the urge to roll her eyes—barely.
"I'm sorry, what was your name?" she asked sweetly.
"Lucinda Baker for Quidditch Weekly."
"I see." Angelina chose her next words with care. "Miss Baker, I can't help but wonder why none of my male colleagues ever get asked about their thoughts on fathers who play Quidditch."
An onslaught of camera flashes followed her pointed reply, and soon another reporter piped up with, "Mrs Johnson-Weasley, are you suggesting that the media is sexist?"
Angelina shrugged. "Your words, not mine." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Harpies' manager making frantic motions with her hands. Remembering the words that she had been fed to stop worrisome inquiries, she added, "But I will not entertain any further inquiries on this matter. Thank you."
The next day, Angelina was branded a "troublemaker" in all of the major papers, and over the next few years, she wore that title with pride. When Ginny Weasley signed to the Harpies, she challenged the articles that refused to acknowledge the redhead as anything other than "Harry Potter's wife." When fans wanted to know which designer was responsible for her latest outfit, she stared wordlessly at them until they changed the subject.
Ginny soon joined her campaign against sexism in the sport, calling for increased transparency in starting salaries and more objective media coverage of female players. It was an uphill battle where the other side was aided by centuries of tradition, but the two women would not back down.
"Oh, look, Cleansweep wants me to promote their latest model," Ginny scoffed one day as she sorted through stacks of fan mail. She passed Angelina the letter that she had just finished reading. "They want me to pose naked with it, can you imagine?"
Angelina snorted. "I can, actually. They sent me the exact same letter."
"No!" Ginny pressed her hand to her heart. "And here I thought I was special."
"Merlin knows why they even asked," the older witch continued. "They must be pretty desperate."
"Well, Nimbus is giving them a run for their money, aren't they?" Ginny grabbed a quill and began to scribble a reply to Cleansweep on a fresh piece of parchment. "I reckon they'll be out of business soon enough if Nimbus keeps outselling them ten to one."
"Yeah, good point." Angelina glanced at the date on the Cleansweep letter and did a double take. The signing period for next season was only a week away—she couldn't believe that another crop of young, female players would soon join the ranks of their exclusive club.
Her heart felt heavy as she contemplated the lack of advancement within her sport. Sometimes she wondered why she even bothered with it all. But then she remembered herself at age 18—fresh-faced, energetic, ready to take on the world of professional Quidditch...and slowly realising that professional Quidditch was in no way ready for her.
She wasn't going to give up. Not until she had enacted real, quantifiable change. She owed that much to her younger self, and to all of the players still to come.