As the echoing ring of the grandfather clock struck 4 o'clock, a striking young male paced back and forth along the Gryffindor locker room. With every step of his muscular, yet somehow still skinny figure, the figure, a person, became even more absorbed in the scattered plan that laid in his mind. His jet mop of black hair stuck every which way and the all too famous smirk he, James Potter, was known for was long gone from his face. Instead his facial features maintained a hardened concentration, and as his legs maintained a constant pace back and forth the narrow, semi-cleared space between the dated wooden locker room benches and the metallic storage sections. To a stranger James' repeated pacing would surely come off as strange and even annoying; however, the group of Gryffindors accompanying the benches to his left had become used to this habit much too long ago.
Suddenly James stopped, dropped his arm, and rotated his head towards one particular player: Marlene. Tall, good natured and competitive Marlene had the crucial task of catching the flying lightning fast golden ball known as the snitch. And while James did not have any doubt in his mind that Marlene possessed the capability to conquer this task, he realized that as a result of Gryffindor's previous loss to Ravenclaw, he and his two other chasers would need to secure at least 125 points before Marlene caught the snitch. That was they needed to win the last match. The last match of Quidditch at Hogwarts. The last match where he, James, had progressed so far over the past years. And if Gryffindor was to lose? And lose to the stuck up Slytherin team?
A deep sigh coursed through James' body. He trusted his team, that was certain, but even him, a prodigy Quidditch player, could not predict what their crafty opponents would attempt. As James returned to his actions he saw each of his team mates staring expectantly back at him. After all, James had not admitted to his team mates that he possessed even a sliver of nervousness. He couldn't have. He was James Potter, and James Potter was never nervous. At least that's what everyone believed.
Moving his cloaked arm, he pulled back the now maroon tattered fabric, covering his arm, to spot the time on his watch. Glaring back at him he saw the number 4:17. Time was dwindling and he still had no plan.
Without saying another word James returned to pacing. He focused solely on the task on before him: Should he risk a backwards maneuver play, which they had not practiced, but surely would confuse the Slytherin team? Or should he play it safe, a classic dive play, but risk the opposing Captain predicting this? Decisions, decisions. Placing first the right foot in front of him and the the left, the rhythmic flexion of the young man's knee stimulated a new connection in his mind. But of course! If he would instruct the team to conduct a - but alas, James was interrupted. "James, mate, we all know this game is crazy important, but Merlin's beard if you keep pacing I will definitely lose my mind" his companion Sirius Black interjected. Turning his torso to face his fellow teammates, James simply glared at his best friend, hoping he would receive the message to be quiet. Sirius simply rolled his eyes and the Gryffindor locker room once again remained abnormally quiet.
James returned to his thoughts: Was there a way to combine the two maneuvers in such a short time? To stall his teammates from noting any panic in his actions, James instructed the team to begin with their usual pre-match stretches; however, only moments into their stretches a large booming noise occurred. James did not give this a second thought; it was most definitely the rest of his house and the Slytherin house gathering for the face off that was to come. James forced himself to return to his thoughts.
Within a few minutes James finally was able to relay his plan to his players, and describe to the best of his ability which techniques to use in certain situations. Reviewing new the routine took another ten minutes and with another glance at his watch, James sighed in relief. 4:27. He had made it with three minutes to spare, and awarding himself for his profound plan James took a seat next to his fellow teammates. His characteristic smirk returning to his face. They would win. He now had no doubt.
Ordering the team to suit up and prepare for their announcement call to the field, James could not help feeling giddy and yet also nostalgic. With his family of teammates surrounding him he gave his final pep talk:
"Alright you lot, I have a few things to tell you. While for some of you this is simply a beginning to your Quidditch adventures here at Hogwarts, it is also some of your teammates' last. I have been so honored to torture you with endless drills, yell at you all till I turn blue in the face, and hopefully knock some sense into those useless minds of yours. You all have worked damn hard for this. Have a good laugh while we crush those Slytherins! And don't muck it up!" James exclaimed, his grin only growing wider with each word.
The team placed their brooms front of the doors to the corridor which lead to the Quidditch field and awaited their call.
Ten minutes passed; Fifteen minutes passed; And still no call to come to the field. Sensing the abnormality, James volunteered himself to check on the delay; however, what he found he would never had imagined. Just as he passed the entrance doors to the stadium, he saw the familiar figures scattered in what seemed to be a pattern across his treasured Quidditch field. Quickening his pace until it transformed into a run, he halted as soon as his mind comprehended the scene in front of his eyes.
They were bodies, bodies of students and teachers, spelling out five words that James never wished to hear, or read.
"The Dark Lord has arrived."