Rating: G Character/Pairing: Remus Lupin, with mentionings of the rest of the Marauders Warnings: None. I think this is my favorite of my fics thusfar, though.
Image Prompt Used: /wbp2.jpg
Last match of the year: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. James had hardly trained, but even he knew how serious this game would be. Peter was following James around like his lap dog, more than happy to carry his friend's gear to the pitch. Sirius came along for unnecessary moral support, and to share in James' limelight: after all, Prongs had his heart set on Evans, and someone had to be there to let the girls down gently. Remus chose to sit this game out, despite his friends' protests. He enjoyed Quidditch only inasmuch as his friends enjoyed it. He had no desire, however, to sit between a flirty Sirius and a moon-eyed Peter as they watched the game and he wished for nothing more than a hot cup of coffee and a good book in the warm and blessedly empty common room.
A rumble of distant thunder brought him out of his reverie to look out the tower window. The sky was gray, and dense with clouds. It didn't look like the storm would be here any time soon, but by midnight it would probably be pouring. With a soft "tsk," the sandy-haired youth closed the book on his thumb, rising and wandering across the common room to find a slip of paper to use as a bookmark. As he neared the window, he could hear a different roar: that of the crowd cheering. He absently wondered what the score was, and how long he had been reading. Another cheer, followed by the stamping of feet--or was that another rumble of thunder?--brought a chuckle to his lips. It must be a good game, as far as Quidditch matches are concerned.
The common room was, indeed, barren. Remus assumed he was likely the only student in Gryffindor who chose to sit out the match. When he found a scrap of torn parchment on a squashy armchair, he slipped it into the spine of his book, removing the squashed thumb and squeezing it once or twice thoughtfully. Then, with a resolve he hadn't expected of himself, he set the book on a nearby table and slipped out past the portrait entrance, smiling sheepishly at the dozing figure as she complained groggily.
The Marauder wasn't certain where he was headed. Aimless wandering was more common to Sirius, who rarely cared to sit still, or James, who always found something new to catch his attention. Peter was more of a follower, but unlike Remus, he was far more eager to partake in the quartet's many adventures. Remus more 'went along for the ride,' protesting when things got a bit too hairy, and doing his best to be a voice of reason for the group. It didn't always work out quite as he'd expected, and he had to admit that he looked forward to such excursions from time to time, but he was far less adventurous than his companions.
Today, however, he found himself wandering the halls with a purpose, despite his lack of direction. His feet knew where he was going, even if he didn't consciously recognize it. Instead, he chose to simply listen to the sounds of the castle as a staircase shifted or a suit of armor creaked, letting his body take him where it would. Obviously he needed to get outside, the niggling sensation that had caused him to walk in the first place told him that clearly enough. Just as clear, though, was the fact that he did not wish to attend the Quidditch match.
He recognized where he was just after brushing aside the tapestry, and smiled. Leave it to his subconscious to lead him here. Ducking his head as he ascended the narrow staircase, Remus wondered how much of the match he could see from the castle battlements. The sky was a dull gray, now, with rare patches of white. The winds had even picked up, whipping his scarf around him. It was a good thing he'd forgotten to take it off earlier. He didn't mind the cold, so much, but it was much nicer to retain some of his heat.
From this vantage, it was easy to see the hectic confusion of the match. Seekers rose, beaters fell back, and the chasers scrambled about in the middle. It was like some sort of improvised choreography, where each player had their part. A red-clad figure rose high above the goals, broom pointed vertically, a hand outstretched in front of it. Just as Remus decided that this must be James, the crowd went frighteningly still. Another figure rose, green clad, and as James made a sharp turn (obviously following the elusive snitch) the figure adjusted its flight, closing the gap between them.
Even the wind seemed to still in the face of such fierce competition. Remus, generally uninterested in the sport as a whole, still had enough interest in his friend's exploits to be entranced by the show. James was a good flyer. The Slytherin seeker, however, was giving him a run for his money. The two spun and countered, participating in their own intricate dance: one even more intense than that of the game that continued just below them, forgotten by all but the actual players.
Suddenly, James made a tricky move with his broom, cutting off the opposition and pulling ahead. Again his hand stretched before him, a faint blur to Remus' eyes at this distance. The crowd gave a collective gasp, causing the werewolf's to do a double take. Trying to get a better look, he climbed the parapet carefully, pulling himself up from there to the sloping roof. There was less architecture here to block his view, and he could just barely make out how close the two seekers now were. James seemed to be slowing. And then realization hit; the Slytherin seeker had grabbed hold of James' robes! The crowd cried out angrily, but a dispute near the goals had claimed the referee's undivided attention.
Thankfully, the Gryffindor beaters were not so occupied. A bludger made a beeline for the seeker pair, and Remus could only assume it hit home when the two broke apart and James became a blur, low against his broom. The growl of the crowd became a righteous cheer, which was echoed by the rolling clouds as the drew ever closer. On the horizon, the sky was nearly black as pitch, and the scent of ozone mingled with the overpowering green that was the Forbidden Forest.
That would be it, then. James must have caught the Snitch. As the teams slowly descended, it became harder for Remus to see what was going on. A mass of red--obviously his Gryffindor teammates--converged on the figure that must have been a victorious James. The crowd only got louder, if that was possible, and after what looked like a scuffle (surely they were just thumping him on the back to congratulate him, though) one figure sat above the rest, on the shoulders of the crowd that had surged on to the pitch.
The wind caressed Remus' hair as it picked up again, and he nodded to himself with a smile. Up Gryffindor. All was as it should be. He'd head back to the common room, probably beating his friends there, and ask them how their game went as if he was obvious. James would enjoy a chance to give a play by play, if Peter didn't beat him to it in his excitement. The thought brought a chuckle to his lips, and he turned to jump down off the roof and back to the battlement. As he moved, a flash of lightening caught his eye, and he turned back, gazing up at the sky.
The air still didn't smell like the storm was quite ready to release on them, which was probably for the best. He didn't see any further flashes, nor did he hear the thunder that should have followed. Well, that didn't match up. Thunder always followed lightening, and the storm was too near for there to have been this much of a wait. He squinted at the sky, brows furrowed, as if this would lend some necessary perspective to the clouds.
Instead, he saw the flash again, and this time more clearly. It was not lightening; it was a snitch. But what was a snitch doing up here, so far from the field? Was this from the match? It drew closer, slowly, fighting the wind as it flew onward. One wing was slightly crooked. It must have been from the match. James, Remus assumed, must have accidentally released it when what seemed like all of Gryffindor house had converged on him.
The wind caught his scarf again, flinging it towards the small golden ball. The snitch struggled forward, never changing course, though it was obviously losing this battle. With a confused furrow to his brow, and not a small bit of awe and reverence in the gesture, Remus leaned forward, hand outstretched alongside his scarf, to pluck the struggling orb from the air.
Maybe he wouldn't play dumb, after all. As Remus hurried down the staircase and back down the numerous halls to the Gryffindor Tower, he tried not to smirk. That was a very Sirius thing to do, and it would give him away. He schooled his features into something resembling indifference as he gave the password to the fat lady and slipped into the common room. Good, he had beat them here. He settled in with his book by the fire, the snitch tucked carefully in his pocket. He couldn't wait to see their faces when they began their bragging, and his only response would be to casually take the golden ball from his pocket and show it to them.