Losing
The pain of losing a Quidditch match – to Slytherin, of all teams – is a strange kind pain.
I'm angry, but I'm angry at myself, more than anything; because I feel like I've let the entire house down. Worse than the anger is the disappointment; the disappointment I can see in my house member's eyes, the same disappointment that taints all of their sentences that are meant to be comforting. And worse than all of that is knowing that it's all my fault, because I'm the team's captain, damn it, and I'm supposed to have trained them to be better than this. But I haven't, I've failed; and failure is one of the worst kinds of pain.
It doesn't help that failure is such a foreign thing for me to experience.
It can't be cured by a string of colourful swear words, fired off at rapid pace first in a vicious shout and then muttered murderously under my breath, nor by hurling quaffles furiously across the pitch until my arm aches and my lungs burn from the physical exhaustion of flying for hours. Not even she can make me feel better, I think, and the thought that I could care about winning a game to such a point startles me. It's the truth, though; she can't fix this, because it's my responsibility and therefore my fault.
But she'll be damned if she's going to stop trying.
She's sitting opposite me in the otherwise empty change rooms, silently observing as I open my palm, let the struggling snitch I'm holding escape for a few seconds, and then catch it again.
If the last forty minutes of frustrated silence, punctuated only occasionally by a soothing phrase from her and a sharp comeback from me, have proved anything, it's that she doesn't quite understand just how much this game and my team, my team, mean to me. She couldn't, because she doesn't play and she isn't a captain so how could she?
When she moves to sit beside me I lose concentration for a second, nearly letting the golden ball get more than an arm's length away; but I manage to curl my fingers around it just in time, feeling the wings flutter against the palm of my hand. She gingerly rests her hand on my knee, and when I don't move she slides closer and leans her head against my shoulder.
She might not understand all of the reasons why I'm upset, but she does understand that I am upset.
And as she exhales slowly and closes her eyes, I realise that maybe she does know there's nothing she can do or say to make me feel better at the moment, but that she wants to wait with me anyway. In spite of the fact that I'm being an arse, sulking and snapping at her, she wants to stay with me until the crushing weight of disappointment at a failed responsibility lifts from my shoulders and I can unclench my fists.
Because that will happen.
There's one more game, still a chance that we can come back from this and compete for the Cup. So the team will work together, harder than before, and we'll win the final. And then I'll be able to forgive myself for letting them down today.
I shove the snitch into my pocket and place my hand on top of hers resting on my leg, sliding my fingers into the spaces between hers and letting my temple rest gently on the crown of her head. I feel the minute shift in pressure on my shoulder as she smiles, and I squeeze her hand firmly.
Failure is a strange thing to experience, but the hope I can feel blooming will push it away eventually, and then it'll shift to determination and finally euphoria as we win the Cup and Gryffindor cheers for us again.
Because the pain of failure is nothing if not motivating.
a.n. The fantastic prompt of James losing a Quidditch match and being comforted by Lily was given to me by the ever amazing twilightstargazer. I don't feel like I've done your idea justice, and for that I'm so sorry!
I thought that I was getting better but I woke up this morning even worse (I didn't think that was even possible!) and all of me hurts. So that's probably why this piece turned out so emo. Oh well, James has bad days. And I did try to write from experience with this one; I don't play sports (HA!) but I have one friend in particular who is absolutely sports mad, and so I used him for inspiration.
Please review - compliments or constructive criticism, or requests, are all welcome.
OH, speaking of reviews - WE'RE OVER 100. :D SO. The next chapter will be super happy (maybe a Tease one, as they seem to be your favourites... Thoughts?) and yeah. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who's reading this story and, more importantly, enjoying it. Your support means the world, and it's your kind words that give me the inspiration to keep writing.