headcanon that the only reason lee jordan remains quidditch commentator despite getting told off for unnecessary comments during every match is that he’s the only candidate who can tell the gryffindor beaters apart
“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry, who had never had anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry’s pasties, cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten).
J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone
“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you
not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will
now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live,
remember that. Now, why don’t you put that admirable cloak back on and
get off to bed?“ - Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
@poppypomfrey as always, i love you. your fic today was to good for the world.
“I think it’s going well.”
James looked up from his chair, cheek throbbing like a
fucker and contact half sliding out of his eye. “I’m losing.” He said, in disbelief.
“I know but I’ve got money on it.” Lily said, moving the ice
pack from his shoulder to his temple, even though he’d read somewhere that
using one icepack for the whole body was unhygienic. If he brought this up
however, she would probably stuff the pack in his mouth.
“But then wouldn’t that be bad because you’d be los-“ he
started, and then realised what was happening. “Oh my god, you put money on Black?”
Lily shrugged. “Odds are on him winning.”
“You’re my manager.”
“Hey, numbers don’t lie.”
James couldn’t believe her.
“I fucking knew I should have hired Remus. He never would have bet on my literal opponent-”
Lily sighed, blew hair out of her eyes and looked at him
like he was an idiot, which was not unusual. She took the icepack off his temple
and threw it into the bin as if his whole body wasn’t a walking bruise right
now, and squatted down to meet his eyes.
“Potter. Focus. You keep letting him in on your left side
and it’s why you’re going down so quick, and when I say ‘hover your hands
around your face’ I mean cheek level,
not at your goddamn eyes because we’re
not at fucking practise, it’s not
like he’s gunna break your glasses.”
“You did break my glasses.”
“Four times.” He corrected, because it had been, and he has
the receipts to prove it. Lily rolled her eyes.
“Focus James. Stop
fighting like you’re in school. Stop misdirecting
and just fucking hit him. The
more times you try the more likely you are to actually knock him out.”
“Wow. What a tip.” James said sarcastically, because it was
already the third round, and he was so tired, and her hair looked so pretty
like this, why didn’t she wear it like that all the time.
Lily looked at him, scanning his face, and he could feel his
lip swelling. It felt enormous, bigger than his whole head. “Are you good?” she
said at last.
“Fine. Yeah. All good.” He lied, although it wasn’t really. He
could go back out. He’d gone back out with worse. That time with Avery, where
his rib broke and punctured a lung but he’d kept going and fainted. Lily had
screamed at him the whole ambulance ride, blood on her hands and eyes wide.
“You can win this.” She said in her Lily voice, all sure and
steady and solid, like it was an absolute. Like he already had.
“Alright.” He wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. The room
was to bright, and her hand was on his leg, and he would fight a dragon if she
would keep looking at him like that.
“Hey,” a guy poked his head round the changing room, “its
two minutes.” James could hear the crowd again, yelling names and stomping their
feet. His mum was watching tonight, huddled in the corner with eyes peeking
through her fingers. The last time she came to watch he’d won in three rounds,
and now he was down to Black with blood in his mouth because his mouth guard
had been mashed into his gum so many times.
“Let’s go.” Lily said, standing up. James followed,
picturing the simple movement of his arm. The swift action of an upper cut
colliding with a jaw. The pounding in his fingers, the feel of bone against bone.
“Did you really bet on Black?”
She met his eye, lanyard tangled and in jeans with a hole on
the knee that was not stylistic. “’Course not. I pick you every time, so
fucking win or I won’t be able to pay my rent.”
He grinned, and the crowd roared, and the doors opened, and
he could still feel the imprint of her hand on his knee like a burn. Proof of
how royally fucking gone he was, not just in this fight, but with her.