An unrelenting rain lashed against the castle walls, obscuring the land outside from the third years peering out the windows in the Gryffindor common room. Those same third years couldn't help but notice that the dim shadows cast by the clouds that hung over the castle were particularly appropriate for the mood in the common room this afternoon.
Losing to Slytherin in the second last game before the Christmas break hadn't been high on anybody's priority list, least of all that of their captain, James Potter. Broomstick still in one hand, he had slumped down on one of the armchairs in the common room and had gone for at least ten minutes without saying a word. The rest of the team were milling about, some had gone to wash and change, others were talking in mumbles to their friends, but James Potter just sat.
This wasn't how it was meant to be. This wasn't what extra training sessions where he grilled the team to the point of collapse were for. He was meant to be the captain that led them to House Cup victory, and he'd lost. A logical person would have pointed out to him that Gryffindor's chances of winning the cup were far from over, seeing as it was the only game they'd lost, and Ravenclaw was going to be a pushover, but on an afternoon like this one, there weren't too many logical people around.
"It's alright, we'll get 'em next time, mate," a fifth year said brightly, walking past and slapping the Head Boy on the back. James stood from the armchair and without a word he sauntered out of the common room - broomstick still in hand.
He descended a flight of stairs and continued until he found a corridor that appeared empty, that was until something red caught his eye.
Lily looked up from her position sitting in the windowsill, quill in hand and a piece of parchment in the other. A heavy, leather bound textbook was sprawled on the floor beside her.
"James?" She frowned, leaning forward ever so slightly. He simply looked at her.
His silence compelled her to stand up and walk towards him. Even from a distance she could tell that he was drenched to the bone. His face was muddy, and there was also the fact that he was still holding his broomstick.
This wasn't James moping, not like he did back in fifth year when she refused to go out with him. This was something deeper than that - much deeper than the outcome of a quidditch match at the very least. She wouldn't be surprised if the match was the straw that just broke the camel's back. Every day in the newspaper they read about people dying and here they were, wanting to help, wanting to make a difference, when they were stuck in little Hogwarts cocoon. She knew the feeling. Quite well, actually.
As soon as she reached him she was compelled by something to touch him. Perhaps it was that maternal kick that here was a person who was drenched to the bone and who was probably going to catch a cold because of it. Or perhaps it was something else.
"Look at you, you're soaking wet," she reached out and placed a hand on his chest. He looked down at it. The vulnerability on his face tore at her core. "Come here," she said, taking the broom from his hand and placing it gently against the wall. He obliged without a word. She straightened up, before emerald eyed met hazel.
"I just..." he stopped, his gaze dropping to the floor once more.
"It's okay," she replied softly, placing a delicate hand on his cheek.
At her touch he looked at her plainly and honestly. They had drifted closer and closer as the encounter had continued, and James couldn't help but notice that she had never come this close before. It was a trivial observation, but one that James Potter intended on treasuring.