Momento Mori
He gripped the broomstick handle as though it were the only thing standing between himself and a universe that belonged entirely to the damned. And in a way, it did, if you looked at it through the perspective of sixteen-year-old James Potter, who gave "the defeated of the Quidditch battlefield" as the definition of all evils. The heavy wooden gates creaked precariously, swaying slightly in what little breeze there was. James knew that in less than a minute, those gates would part for him, revealing the vast sweep of the Pitch, about to be heated by something stronger than flame: the ongoing rivalry between two teams of opposing houses, each team containing two very prominent members of the dominant groups from each house. Somebody nudged James hard in the ribs. He looked up; Sirius was grinning at him. The shoulder-length hair, not nearly as black as his own, was restrained by a single tie. James smiled back wanly, thoughts on the upcoming game. "Be careful this time around," Black told him. "He might try something as idiotic as last time." James chuckled, and the two lapsed into companionable silence, sharing the solitude built by years of practiced camaraderie. The gates opened. There was an immense rush of wind, something that thrust unruly locks back from the Gryffindor seeker's forehead. The glasses and the build of the face and lips made him appear almost shy, but that was all banished by the exuberance he radiated, mounting his broomstick in one deft motion and tearing violently into the air. Up. So far up, he was sure all mortality had left him. And Merlin, it had never felt so good. The spectators in the stands became insignificant. All that mattered was Quidditch itself. It was an obsession James was happy to admit to. "No funny business this time, y'hawk-nosed git," Black was saying. There was a smooth reply, and then a harsh laugh. James rotated his broomstick, dismayed to find himself looking directly into a pair of hard, obsidian eyes. Severus Snape. One of the prominent wizards in Slytherin, keeper of the house team. Top of the Potions and Arithmancy classes, and fast failing Ancient Runes, History of Magic, and Muggle Studies. In fierce competition with James when it came to flying classes and Quidditch. One of life's hardcore assholes, who'd do what it took to win, even if it meant playing dirty. James rather admired him. After all, "bad" did have its "good" points. Sirius' eyes narrowed as he observed Severus, green robes, black hair, twice-broken nose and all draw up beside James. The classically handsome features were set in a grim expression, and all the hormones that came with the 'teenage male' package caused Black's fingers to tighten around his flying instrument, wishing he could wrap them around Snape's throat instead. It would feel good. It would feel so good. There had always been a deadly animosity between the two. James Potter was Severus Snape's rival. Sirius Black was his hated enemy. Nobody was quite sure where hatred had put down its roots. But one thing for certain: an incident that had occurred no more than a week ago had turned the eyes of each and every house upon the two adversaries, all waiting, watching, wondering when the hostility between them would explode, would cause them to cast aside all sense and see only the rage. Black's eyes burned a hole into the back of Snape's head. Severus felt this, but paid no heed. Instead, he focused his attention upon James. The Seeker. One of the people deciding the fate of the House Cup; deciding which hands it would fall into. There was a sneer on the angular features. Severus leaned forwards. "We're going to play hard," he informed James, voice husky, "and by Slytherin's rules, if it comes down to that. Don't expect any mercy. That's for the aged, girls, and young children." He broke off with an unpleasant laugh, thrusting James aside and taking position. Sirius took Snape's place at his friend's side. "Fucking prick." There was clear disgust in Black's voice, something that quickly turned to mirth. "Come on. Let's show him what Gryffindors are really made of." There was a moment of quiet, two players caught in the limbo that preceded an important game. Then, with an unobtrusive sort of rush, the Quaffle took to the air, and the match broke like a storm. ~ ~ ~ Remus Lupin watched Lily out of the corner of his eye, from where they sat, unnoticed amongst the other spectators. The girl's brow was furrowed, her scandalously low-cut top revealing a bit more than it should have, bare feet placed irreverently on the seat in front of her. Red hair restrained in a messy bun, she chewed the end of her quill, not caring that it frayed. But then again, that was Lily Evans: the woman-child who cared nothing for the trivial and everything for the significant. "The Circle Rune was sacred to the Ancients because...because..." "...because it was a loop," Remus said carelessly, "it represented eternity, fertility." She sighed, resigned. "Explain to me: why do you know everything?" "Because I'm in Ravenclaw. Explain to me: why do you take no interest in Quidditch?" "Because Quidditch isn't everything. Besides, there are other sports, Muggle sports... that I'm more interested in." "Like?" "Soccer." A grin flirted with the corners of her mouth. "I'm on the team. Swimming. Didn't have to taught boxing...my cousins took care of that. There's an entire world full of this stuff! Why resign it to flying on broomsticks?" Lupin laughed, long and hard. The shock of sandy hair on his forehead was marred only by a single streak of grey; testament, proof of tragedy. Vibrant eyes were danced to life by good humor. There was a sense of calm, of ease that emanated from the fibres that held his existence together. Lily drew comfort from it. Anybody standing on the outside looking in would have said that Sirius Black was the Gryffindor rebel without a second thought, the mischief-maker who shunned the trappings of society in exchange for a prankster's life. They would have been wrong. If anybody was the rebel, it was Lily Evans. Where Sirius was accepted for being what he was, Lily refused to play either role: dear, doe-eyed daughter, or feminine creature that she looked like. Everything about her was a contradiction, from the exuberant, heartfelt laugh that erupted from lips that looked too fragile to sustain a mere whisper, to the numerous fistfights and unconventional ways of revenge she boasted; nobody crossed Lily and came out completely unscarred. She was a brash, ardent being with an honest thirst for life, the urge to do the spontaneous, and a staunch Marauder, devil-may-cry attitude and all. I just refuse to sign the stupid map, that's all, she thought wickedly, grinning. And I refuse to join that grand scheme they've devised; the one involving the Willow. Whatever it is. Let James know that I stand behind him all the way, but not as a puppet. Never as a puppet. She put the quill down for just a second, eyeing the package lying at her side, the one McGonagall had entrusted her with. Her trunk, already crammed with various objects, refused to allow anything else in. So, it had come out with Lily to the Quidditch Pitch, for lack of better place to put it. For a moment, she pondered the object within, inwardly groaning at the research that lay ahead of her, wondering why she had bothered taking this extra-credit assignment. Then, the green eyes turned back to the broomsticks, whipping the clouds into a frenzy overhead. Hmph. Here's hoping they win, and hoping they won't have to put up with any of Lucius or Snape's tricks. It's bad enough that they're playing Slytherin... The package saw all, through eyes that were ancient, innocent, and devious at once. ~ ~ ~ The bludger flew back and forth at an alarming speed. Sirius felt the familiar burn of the muscles, and drank it in, propelling himself onwards. Sandra Eccleston, his fellow beater, grinned nefariously, raising one arm and pummeling the bludger right back at him. The ground was millions and millions of miles below. The thought sent another gush of adrenaline coursing through Snape's veins as he anticipated, the Quaffle drawing ever nearer. Muscles coiled into something reminiscent of liquid steel, he darted forwards with practiced ease. The Quaffle met unprotected flesh; he'd neglected the wrist-guards; and there was a satisfying thud: leather or skin. Sirius narrowed unfathomabley dark eyes, mind scrambling, eyes and heart racing, the adrenline pumping through his system enough to rival that of Severus and James' put together. The Slytherin Seeker is Lucius Malfoy. Little git should be easy to spot, what with that full head of blonde hair. He should...be......right..... "THERE!" Sandra jumped, curly head turning. "What?" This time, it was Sirius who was in posession of the nefarious grin. "I said, 'there.' Malfoy. The Slytherin Seeker. You know the role?" "Do I ever." Two Gryffindor Chasers darted by, followed swifty by three of those from Slytherin. Sirius focused, familiarity achieved through practice rushing into his psyche, breaking like a dam. Intense. The only word to describe a Quidditch player of his caliber. But something was wrong. Sirius felt it before he realized what was happening. A cloud began forming over his concentration... his vision dimmed slightly. He wavered in his flight, and Severus looked up, startled, as Sirius veered dangerously close. Suddenly, sight blacked out entirely, and Sirius was struggling desperately, attempting to avoid the possibly lethal fall. It was a long way... ...down.... Suddenly, his consciousness left him entirely. In its place came a vision: green sparks danced behind his eyelids. He saw his own hands, reaching out...reaching out, only to clutch at a set of sturdy metal bars. And the hooded figures watched...he felt a sudden stab of loss, painful, guilt, overwhelming, senses screaming, all blurring into sweet nothingness, a voice ringing out from the dark beyond: You see your future. And then, Sirius Black, blacked out. Pun intended, he thought weakly, finally falling
forwards into oblivion, the horrified cries and gasps of the spectators
filling his ears. |