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january 14th, 1977
𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐎'𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆, and James Potter insisted on Lori Lantsov come out to the pitch for practice at this time because in his words, early mornings are the best for Quidditch. Lori despises it.
It was a sweet visual — the deep blue up above and the streaks of morning yellow at the horizon. The clouds were getting lighter every few minute seconds. Birds were chirping somewhere, crackling in the tree branches all around and orchestrating with the swaying of the leaves, small, humming wooshes.
"Booked the entire pitch just for you and I," James puts his hands out in the air in pride, watching a bored Lori study the expanse of the field.
She placed her hands on her hips, thinking about the entire situation for a brief moment before declaring, "yeah, nope, I'm not doing this."
She turned around swiftly, hair blowing in the wind just as James leaped forward and caught her by the wrist, cool fingers wrapped around her skin as he pulls her back to her initial spot, closer to him.
"No, no, no, you cannot give up that quickly," he declared loudly, "I have a feeling you're going to be great at this although even a first year holds their broom better than you do."
"Your support confuses me," she deadpans, "greatly appreciated, Potter."
"This is what we're going to do, you're going to go up in the air and you're starting off by only trying to fly," he explained, "I don't doubt your hand-eye coordination is fabulous so for now, we only have to focus on getting you to fly good."
Surprisingly, that explanation was not all too terrible.
"You're very mature on Quidditch field," Lori raised a brow at James, "a whole new man."
Lori was quite exhilarated despite the constant whining. Height has never been her forte. There were other things that a brilliant mind like Lori could not understand.
The weather thing. Per say, continual play even through a blizzard? A hail storm? Quidditch, in its nature, was unsafe on a perfectly clear day, and Lori liked safety. She liked knowing, for certain, that her face was not at risk of getting beaten by a flying deathball. Like, it was a safety hazard, right?
However, there was something quite addicting that came with that unsafe proposition. Risks of a danger.
"You really need to try more things that are a tad dangerous and exciting," James observes, folding his arms, "you look so at contempt."
