Rain pelts down on Lorelei's sickeningly orange umbrella. The sound mimics the thunderous waves of a tempered ocean. It's nearly deafening, especially when mixed with raucous cheers from excited students. Through the sharp winds biting at her eyes, she could hardly see any of the quidditch players, let alone Harry.
To the shock of no one, Lorelei's not a fan of sports. Well, mini golf, if that's considered one, she likes. Her family's big on them. Dedicated nights for football, Nessie's mouthwatering finger foods, placing her pillow over her ears when the shouts became too loud. Lorelei believes sports to be dangerous and much too confusing—why do people like being hurt? Adding wizardry to the mix does not change her mind.
Faintly, red and gold figures zoom through the skies. Lorelei holds up her dampened sign with a firm grip, blocky lettering cheering for Gryffindor. Quidditch has been tediously explained to her several times, half of them by James and Harry—more alike than they think. She listens intently, and it never quite grasps. Even pretending is a tedious task.
To her left, her uncle shifts, his own dark gray umbrella rubbing against hers. Lorelei, honestly, was beginning to rethink her decision to attend Harry's game. He's been acting funny lately, and if there's one thing she's tired of, it's secrets. Plus, she's still banned. Though, to her immense surprise, Lonnie sought her out; he told her they could go together. She stared with no response, he had to shake her shoulders to get her back to reality.
Lonnie Yates wanting to watch quidditch . . . something is definitely wrong nowadays.
When the game started, he was intensely focused, head turning with the dashing players. Dare she say, she even caught him cheering. This does not collide with the known fact of him returning his broomstick in his first year.
A few rows down and to the right, Ron and Hermione sit with the claimant of a better view. Lorelei doesn't think anywhere is a better view with the downpour, and her uncle was concerned she'd slip off the edge, so they stand towards the back with an easy way to the exit.
Crimson jets pass and the crowd roars.
Lorelei squints, tightening her hold on the umbrella as gusts threaten to blow her down. Everyone made fun of Luna Lovegood for the silly frames she wore, but she knows they'd be useful right now. Seeing through the thick haze of rain is impossible, which only makes her more nervous for Harry. She tries not to think about all the accidents football players have when she catches a glimpse of her uncles' games.
Hair sticking to her cheeks, Lorelei holds her sign under her armpit to tap Lonnie on the shoulder.
He looks down at her, water droplets in his scruff. "Are you okay?"
She can barely hear him over the rushing of the wind and the harsh splatters of rain. "What's happening, Lonnie?" She hopes her question reaches him. "I can't see a thing!"
Fear of ailment vanishes and is replaced with humor. Lonnie chuckles, or she thought he did—it was all so loud—as he extends an arm towards the pitch. Lorelei follows his arm and sees . . . nothing. Perhaps she needs glasses.
"Gryffindor's just scored a point. See those balls?" Lorelei doesn't. "They're called bludgers. George just hit one away from Oliver Wood."
Lorelei makes an 'o' shape with her mouth, slowly nodding.
"Harry's looking for the snitch."
This, she knows. Days and days of standing out in the freezing cold, early mornings, freshly fallen snow ("It's a broomstick, Lori. I fly over it!"), pouring rain—Lorelei might consider herself the captain of the team if she has to let the snitch loose one more time.
