A/N: A short break from the Swan-Children Story. It gives us a glimpse of James's childhood. Hope you'll like it. Beware of the mascots :)
The Reason for Quidditch
"Can I get a butter-beer, Daddy?" James asked, his cheeks glowing red from the cold and excitement.
"Of course you can," his father said, smiling warmly at his son. "Once you're old enough to tie your own shoelaces and to make your own breakfast and to start growing pimples and-"
"Okay, can I have some candy-floss then?"
"You know I would be happy to get you some but your mum promised to flay me alive should I ever give you sugar this late again. Speaking of late…," he checked his Muggle wristwatch – a Christmas-present from his wife which she'd given to him to challenge his inquisitive mind. "It's time to go or we'll miss the show of the mascots." He took his son by the hand and led him away from all the booths and little movable shops which sold, amongst others, a rainbow of sweets and the soft-toy-version of England's mascot – a Boggart, which immediately changed into a soft-toy-version of the greatest fear of whoever was holding it (in James's case, a soft-toy cabbage).
Once they got close to the stadium, James had to be taken onto his father's shoulders because of the massive crowd of witches and wizards who all swarmed in at the same time to find their seats. An outcry of fear and excitement suddenly went through the whole stadium, infecting the waiting crowd.
"Shame," Mr Potter said disappointedly, glancing up at James. "It seems we missed the Boggart squad."
Mr Potter had managed to get two of the most exquisite – and consequently most expensive – places in a box at the very top of the large stadium. It was laid out with a thick red carpet and the seats were large emerald-green armchairs big enough to fit a whole family. A tiny house-elf dressed in a spotless white dishcloth stood next to a delicate golden food trolley which was laden with steaming pumpkin-pasties, colourfully adorned cauldron-cakes and may other delicacies. Apart from the elf and a tousle-haired old witch, the box was empty.
James ran to the banister and struggled to get a look at the stadium below. This was his first Quidditch match and although he wasn't very interested in it, he couldn't help but get sucked into the amazing atmosphere that swept through the stadium like a disease, infecting everyone in its way. England flew against Austria today, fighting for the semi-finals of the Quidditch World Cup.
It had been his mother's idea to go and watch the game with his father. Mr Potter worked at the Ministry of Magic at the Department of Magical Innovation and Development and he loved his job, which meant that he not even worked until late at night but also brought his work back home to tinker along in the modified and expanded cellar of Potter Manor. Consequently James didn't get to spend a lot of time with his father and thus stuck to his mother. This had resulted in him developing a sudden and strong interest in pruning the Flutterby bushes in the garden or trying out new recipes for Flushing Fudge. Even though Mrs Potter was quite fond of this, she had to admit that her darling son lacked a good dose of testosterone.
"Amazing, isn't it?" Mr Potter said, picking James up to give him a better look. "You'll love Quidditch, just wait. Best game in the world!"
"But I don't even know the rules," James said doubtfully, watching the entrance of Austria's mascot: a large, green Lindworm – a funny sort of dragon with flightless, stubby wings, a wormlike body and two short, clawed feet which made it difficult for it to keep its balance. It wobbled around the stadium, wearing an expression that was clearly meant to be intimidating but really earned it nothing more than laughter as it burped up flames occasionally.
"You don't have to know the rules to love the game," Mr Potter said wisely, throwing his son a sly look over the rim of his thick spectacles. "And I will teach them to you as soon as the match starts."
At that moment a pale and anxious looking boy, approximately in his late teens or early twens, entered the box, panting and wiping sweat off his forehead. His curly red hair looked windswept as though he had just dismounted his broom.
"Gilderick, I've been looking for you all day," he wheezed, vigorously shaking Mr Potter's hand.
"On a Sunday? I'm not on duty today, Damocles," Mr Potter said in surprise.
"Yes, I know that of course, but it's urgent!" the young man said, collapsing into one of the massive green armchairs.
"What happened?"
"It's about John. His report was due yesterday but he didn't show up at the Ministry-"
"That's not unusual for him," Mr Potter chuckled, putting James back down who immediately hid behind his legs – a behaviour that was very unusual for him.
"Yes of course, but the Minister told me to get the report from him because he really needed it and I went to John's house but he wasn't there. And neither was Penny or his boy. I asked the neighbours but they told me they haven't seen any of them for days. I haven't been able to contact him since and I'm starting to worry…"
"That really is rather strange, even for John. But he'll turn up again, I'm sure. No need to fret."
"You're probably right. It's just that I can't get it out of my head, what he said to Greyback the other day. John was so angry about him taking all those little children. I can't blame him, really. And I mean, who could? It's really horrible. Anyway, do you remember what he said? He challenged Greyback! Something about being too much of a coward to take on someone his own size, or something like that."
"He really said that? Merlin, that mouth of his was bound to get him into trouble one day. Fenrir Greyback isn't someone you want as your enemy, especially when you have a small child."
"You know him better than me, Gilderick. Where would he go if he was in trouble? How can I contact him? Please help me," young Damocles begged urgently.
Mr Potter worriedly looked down at the jet-black head of his son who clung to his right leg, hiding his face in it. He heaved a sigh and got down on his right knee, gripping James gently by his shoulders.
"Son, I have to leave you for a moment. Look at me James," he said, softly forcing James's chin up so that the boy had to look him in the eyes. His heart gave a pang as he saw the tears James was trying to keep from running down his cheeks. "It will only be a minute. Go ahead and watch the game and I'll be back before you even notice that I've been gone."
"But you promised to teach me the rules," James breathed, wiping his tears away angrily.
"And I will. But you have to help me. You have to watch the game, memorise every move and action so that you can tell me about it later," he gave his son a hearty wink, clapped him on the back and gave him two large, gleaming Galleons. "Go and get yourself a nice, big candy-floss, alright? Just promise not to tell your mother," he added hastily.
And with that he left, following the red-haired Damocles, leaving his son behind.
James gulped hard a few times to force the tears back down that had been welling up inside of him and turned towards the food trolley, the large golden Galleons in his clenched fist. "I'd like a Wiz-Pop, please. And a cauldron-cake," he said to the house-elf who was exactly as tall as himself. He paid with his golden coins and told the baffled elf to keep the change.
The match had already started so James got back to his seat reluctantly. Now that his father was gone all the excitement he had felt only a few minutes earlier had subsided completely. He wanted to go home.
"Stupid, useless Quidditch," he grumbled, folding his arms over his chest and scowling.
"I beg your pardon?" a brittle voice came from behind him, startling him so that he dropped his Wiz-Pop. He had totally forgotten about the only other occupant of the stand apart from the house-elf and himself – the tousle-haired old witch.
She got up from where she had been sitting all this time, quietly following the game, and bent down to pick up James's lemonade. It looked very painful. She had to hold on to the armrest of James's chair, her legs trembling slightly. Finally she flopped down beside him, sighing heavily.
"Now, my boy, what made you think Quidditch was stupid?" she asked croakily, handing him his Wiz-Pop.
James looked at her, wide-eyed. She was very thin and small, almost like a pixie. Her messy hair was the colour of ash but her eyes were ablaze with a vivid fire. Although it was obvious that she was very old, her face was strangely smooth – almost like a child's – and her cheeks glowed.
He gave her a shrug in answer to her question. "I just don't see what's so great about a few people flying around and throwing a ball at each other," he said.
"Merlin, the way you say it, it really sounds dead-boring," the tiny old witch said snickering. "I have to admit I've never met a boy who didn't like Quidditch before."
James didn't answer.
"Really, there is nothing boring about Quidditch at all. Just look!"
At that moment, a black ball came shooting through the air like a cannon ball, straight towards their box. James screamed in shock and jumped off his armchair when a tall figure on a broomstick appeared practically out of nowhere and flung a batter at the ball with all his might. It made a sound like a lightning bolt striking a tree.
The old witch laughed merrily and clapped her hands together while James struggled to get back onto his seat to see what had happened. His heart pounded against his ribs as though it was trying to escape. He could feel the adrenalin rushing through his body.
"What on earth was that?" he squeaked.
"That, my boy, was a Bludger," she told him with the air of someone handing out presents.
It didn't take long for James – once he got over the shock of almost having been blasted out of existence by the Bludger – to fall for Quidditch. The old witch, who introduced herself as Catriona McCormack, told him everything she knew about the game, its rules, its most famous players and one or another funny anecdote – like about the Seeker of the Holy Head Harpies who'd caught a sparrow during the match against the Chuddley Cannons in 1923 and tried to sell it to referee as the Golden Snitch because he'd been too lazy to go looking for the real thing.
The match ended in a spectacular battle between the two seekers who shot through the air like arrows released from their bows, nearly colliding in midair, circling around one another like mating birds until the Austrian seeker finally pulled out of a stunning dive, his right fist clenched around something very small und fluttering – the Golden Snitch.
Yelling himself hoarse with joy over the glorious game and irritation over the defeat of the English team, his heart racing with excitement and happiness, James felt that he'd found the one thing in the world his heart was beating for – Quidditch.