Someone Great, James S. Potter

IX

THE SUN WAS rising as Stevie made her way  to the Quidditch that Saturday morning. There would have been a beautiful sunrise, had it not been torrentially down-pouring.

"Are you crazy," Stevie asked James, who was smiling like a maniac from where he sat on his broom, a few inches off the ground.

"You've got to play well in all sorts of weather," he said, brushing his dripping hair back. "The show must go on no matter the forecast!"

"You sound like Sinclair," said Stevie, throwing her leg over her broom to straddle it.

"Never say that again," said James, glaring jokingly at Stevie.

"Apologies," said Stevie, smiling. "Want me to do a couple laps as punishment."

"I'll let it slide this time," James said, a small smirk on his face. Stevie couldn't stop smiling—at least until James threw the Quaffle at her face to "test her reflexes."

"Is that the best you can do," James asked after he caught another one of Stevie's shot easily. "I thought you said you were strong."

"I hate you," said Stevie, flying down to the ground, breathless.

"You've got your throw all wrong," said James, landing a few feet away. "Let me show you."

James pointed his wand a few feet away, conjuring a hoop not dissimilar from the large ones at each end of the Pitch. Stevie, hiding her impressment, watched James as he demonstrated how to throw the Quaffle correctly.

"Watch," he said, reeling his arm back. In one swift motion, James snapped his arm down, releasing the Quaffle quickly. The ball flew through the hoop easily, landing ten feet away.

Stevie pointed her wand at the Quaffle, sending it flying back into her arms. She walked over next to James, aimed at the hoop, and threw the Quaffle as hard as she could. She sent it straight into the ground.

James couldn't help but cackle, though he stopped quickly once Stevie punched him in the abdomen. Stevie instantly regretted it, attempting to shake the pain away from punching James' unusually hard abdomen.

"Can I touch you," James asked, coming a bit closer. He sensed her hesitation. "It might be easier if I guide you."

"Fine," said Stevie, her eyes following his movements as he walked behind her.

"Can you act like you're about to throw," James asked. Stevie could feel his breath on her shoulders. She reeled her arm back like she had done only minutes ago.

She held back a shudder as James' hand ran along her arm, eliciting goosebumps as he fixed her positioning.

"Good," said James, his voice a bit breathier than normal. "Now put this arm up to aim." He ran his hand along her arm, pushing it up gently to point directly at the hoop in front of them.

He knew it was time to let go, to let Stevie throw the ball, but James wouldn't move, his body wouldn't let him. His hand was glued to her warm, brown skin, his nose centimeters away from her soft, curly hair. He closed his eyes, breathing in her vanilla scent, allowing himself to savor this moment for old time's sake. Nine-year-old James would've killed to be in seventeen-year-old James' position.