Marauder crack

Big words for little achievements

Gryffindor and Slytherin. The match that decides the Quidditch Cup. The elements line up for the grand finale. Clear skies. A whole satisfied sun. A splendid morning at Hogwarts. The stands boil, sparkling in bursts of color. Green and white, excellence, and purity of Slytherin. Gold and scarlet, courage, and glory for Gryffindor. Players want to skim the sky but only James Potter, acclaimed by the crowd, gets to pet him when he sees the snitch flutter over his head and suddenly goes after her on propulsion. 

The winged ball soars over Hogwarts like a rocket to the moon. Enjoys making the best seeker in history sweat. When it falls into dive, buzz, hiss, traverse a goal play, zigzagging between the players. It passes by a bludger that doesn't know where it is going and by half a dozen brooms that would never reach him. James does not lose his sight and in the distance, he hears "Potter", as if hundreds of flapping birds were shouting his name in unison. 

Near the ground, the distance between snitch and seeker is getting smaller and smaller and James Potter concentrates all his senses. The noise of the wind and the crowd disappears, the noise disappears, and other players and the ground that is getting closer, simply, disappear. Obstacles, glory, everything disappears. They are left alone in the world, that golden, winged ball that looks like a nervous moth and him, James. On his broom. 

A few meters above his head, Sirius dodges the opposing defense, enters into Slytherin territory, and scores a decisive goal to tie. It's the moment. 

James aligns himself with the wind and the gods, stretches an arm, closes his eyes, and accelerates. Search, find, squeeze hard and change course, giving a phenomenal spin just before hitting the ground, with the snitch in his hand, flapping like a hummingbird struggling to get out of the water and breathe. 

Gryffindor erupts in ecstasy and Slytherin loses, for another year, his chances in the tournament. James catches his breath. Soon, the fury and noise and the crowd carry him out of the stadium on his shoulders. 

In the middle of the crowd, Sirius is a buzz, drugged, exultant. His hug is about to knock James down and throw him to the ground. Sirius literally vibrates with happiness.

- If you weren't so ugly, Prongs, I'd marry you. - Sirius has on his smile of "We have won" to the enemy, Potter, his famous smile I solemnly swear that I will be the punishment of all Slytherin there has been and for having, Potter, his almost fearsome smile of glee. - God, Potter, how much I love you, fuck! - Grabs him by the neck, ruffles her hair, and offers him to the crowd like a turkey on Thanksgiving, lifting one arm like a doll. Ladies and gentlemen, James Potter!

They acclaim him. Cheers, party, victory. He is congratulated by a mixed mob of faces. Oil -painted smiles, blurred slaps on the back, anonymous congratulations that don't mean as much as that last one congratulations, at the end of the day, when the school has almost fallen silent and meets Lily doing her prefect round and stands in front of him, just for a second.

- Good night, Lily.

- Goodnight.

Pass by him and his perfume hurts where nothing else hurts. Where there is only her. You have to tell him something. Whatever. Something.

- Have you seen the game?

What a silly question, man.

- Clearly. Like everyone.

James has another question in mind. Won't you congratulate me? But it would still turn out dumber, so he chooses not to say anything. Can't think of what could pierce his breastplate. Lily Evans makes him feel like a kid who doesn't fit into his own pants. Says goodbye again, wishes her good night again, and when he has taken a couple of steps, she calls him, and his heart thumps so hard against his chest, that he thinks he must have swallowed the snitch.

- Potter?

He turns around to face her. She is so pretty. Everything would be easier if she weren't so pretty.

- Yes?

Lily Evans looks at him. Serious, but for once, no double intentions, no aggressiveness, with nothing except that feminine calm that inspires him to win all the tournaments in the world.

- Great play.

His throat is dry. It wants to say something.

Possibly thanks but it doesn't come out. He has just been congratulated by the person whose approval means everything but somehow suddenly it means nothing. It was just a match. At school everyone expects him to be the best player but at night, in a deserted corridor where glory has no taste, next to the woman who will never be for him, James Potter would change it, all for being a far worse seeker and a slightly better man.

- It wasn't that bad.

He means it. Feeling as if he has just matured a hundred years. It wasn't really that much.

- Not bad, James.

That night he goes to bed with a smile and the last thing that happens to his head is quidditch. James. It is the first time that she has called him for his own name.