Disclaimer: CHEESE. I like it.
Author's Notes: CHEESE. I still like it. Um... I wrote this... yeah. I wrote this from life experience, minus any romantic crap. I was playing volleyball (curse that wonderful sport!) and it was 24-23 them, and I was about to set it, and... it dropped right through my hands. I was not happy. Very not happy. My coach had a talk with me afterwards and mentioned a lot of the same things Lily did, minus Quidditch, insert volleyball. So therefore, I had to write about my tragic incident, except with wonderful characters, a fabulous sport called Quidditch, and a romantic sub-plot. :P
Aliss
Let It Go
He clutched the sleeked handle of his broomstick tightly in both hands, the polished wood smooth beneath his white knuckles. With a nod of his body, he turned the broomstick in a single swift movement. The world was a gray haze around him, the noise a faint whistling in his ears. He only had eyes for the gleaming maroon ball that was in his teammate's hand, tucked safely in the crook of her arm.
He pressed his body closer to the handle and with an unconscious nudge sent the broom forward. He squinted his eyes against the wind as he cut through the air with dexterity, pushing himself faster until he had soared the length of the entire pitch, reaching his ultimate target, the Ravenclaw goals.
He knew he didn't have much time. He had seen his seeker not even half minute ago, speeding through the air at the heels (figuratively speaking, of course) of the snitch, hand outstretched. They still needed one more goal. One more goal and they would win….
He pulled the broom to a halt only thirty or so feet in front of the left hoop, where he raised his hands from the handle of the broom straight above his head. In a voice almost unreal to him, he called the name of his teammate. He watched with a glint of satisfaction as she turned toward him and sent the quaffle soaring through the air.
This would be his.
He could see out of the corner of his eye the blurry scarlet and gold figure flashing through the air, closely followed by a blue and silver-clad one. The seeker was closing in on the snitch. They needed this goal.
He turned his eyes to the slowly-rising quaffle, drifting leisurely toward his outstretched arms. Time seemed to slow as he reached forward, the quaffle beginning its descent after a painfully long arch.
It dropped toward him so slowly he thought that time had stopped. His eyes widened as he found the quaffle much closer than when he last remembered it.
It was as if someone had pressed the fast-forward button.
With horrified eyes, he watched as the quaffle sped through his out-stretched arms… and straight into the hands of the Ravenclaw chaser —Boyd— below him.
He'd missed the quaffle.
It had dropped straight between his waiting arms.
He'd failed.
He was brought back to reality with the sharp noise of his seeker's shouts, the struggling snitch clasped firmly in his hand. He soared above his teammates, shaking his fist in victory… only to find them silent and somber.
He shook his fist again and James could hear him say faintly, "We've won!"
The seeker's confusion was quickly answered by the announcer with an astounded, "Boyd of Ravenclaw scores! And Gryffindor catches the snitch, ending the game… but Ravenclaw wins, 220 to 210! Amazing!"
The seeker turned to his teammates with confusion evident on his face. He watched in bewilderment as they descended to the ground in disappointment. He slowly followed.
All except James.
There he was, hovering fifty feet from the ground, a look of pure horror and astonishment plastered across his face.
It would've been different if he'd have missed the goal, but no. He'd missed the actual quaffle.
It had fallen through his open arms.
He had felt the air as it had flown between his hands.
He ran a shaking hand through his hair, slowly at first, then again, and again.
He'd done this. He'd seen the disappointment on his teammates' faces. He'd lost the game for them. He was their final hope, and he hadn't even caught the quaffle. It was his fault.
Frustration and regret burning his eyes and throat, he brought his broomstick to the ground shakily, where he landed unsteadily. Ignoring the roar of the gathering crowd and the shouts of his friends and teammates, he stumbled blindly away towards Hogwarts castle.
He pushed his way through the chattering, excited crowd and made his way through the great oak doors. Ignoring the calls of his name, he staggered through the halls, finally ending his journey at the Heads' dormitories. His breath came in tight rasps.
He'd done this. It was his fault they'd lost. It was him. He'd done the wrong. He hadn't even been able to catch the quaffle.
A fresh stab of pain coursed through his body at the thought as he huffed out the password. With a worried glance of concern, the portrait swung forward, admitting him to the sanctuary of the Heads' common room.
He took a step forward, the portrait swinging closed behind him. He walked slowly to the large scarlet couch, his prized broomstick trailing limply behind him. It landed silently as it slipped through his fingertips and hit the scarlet carpeted floor.
He sank into the plush, worn couch with a long, low sigh of regret as the guilt and anger flooded through him.
His fault.
It was all his fault.
It was his fault they'd lost to Ravenclaw.
It would be his fault if they didn't win the Cup.
If only he'd caught the quaffle.
He dropped his head into his hands… the hands that couldn't seem to catch anything. He glared at what little of them he could see; the Quidditch-worn hands— the big, rough, warm hands that couldn't do anything right….
The only thing going for him, the only thing he was truly good at, and he'd failed! He couldn't even catch a simple quaffle.
He ran both hands through his sweaty hair and wiped them on his heavy Quidditch robes, which clung to his gangly frame uncomfortably.
He'd always been good at Quidditch! At one time he even went as far as to think that it was his calling in life: playing, breathing, living Quidditch.
But not anymore.
Now he wasn't good at anything. Now all he would be left to do is clerk at Madam Malkin's, and he didn't like clerking at Madam Malkin's. All the witches that shopped there were prissy with him or looked disappointed when he answered their question of his age.
He ran a hand through his hair yet again, as if attempting to crush flat his unruly hair would crush flat the feeling of salty tears growing in his stomach. Instead of burying the empty feeling of unshed tears, the feeling only seemed to intensify.
He heard the click of the portrait opening, and the accompanying sound of it clicking closed. He raised his head to see the one person he knew who would be able to make this situation either better or worse— Lily Evans.
He couldn't help the sigh that passed through his lips as she stared at him with probing, inquisitive eyes and a sympathetic expression clouding her pretty features.
She walked over to him, still bundled in her cloak, scarf, and matching blue hat, her cheeks and nose pink from the cold.
Despite his guilt and regret over the game, he still couldn't help but think of how pretty she looked, cold and raw from being outside.
She rubbed her hands together as she sat next to him, studying him with concern as she asked softly, "Are you alright? I saw you leave the game early and wanted to make sure you were feeling fine."
He stared deep within the crackling flames of the fire, not even looking up when Lily placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You're alright, aren't you?" she asked again.
"We lost the game," he muttered in response.
"Well, yes — but it was a terribly excellent game," she admitted, her hand still resting on James' shoulder.
"But we" —he uttered the final word with disgust— "lost."
"Yes, but you played brilliantly," she assured him, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze.
"Not brilliantly enough," he muttered, eyes still entranced by the dancing flames of the fire.
"James!"
He looked up to find her glaring at him appraisingly.
"You played absolutely beautifully today! How could you even think you didn't?" she questioned, hands on her hips.
He gave a sour laugh. "Lily, I missed the quaffle."
She raised an eyebrow and said tartly, "It was only one pass, James."
"Yeah, one pass that could've won us the game!" he burst heatedly.
She gave her head a small shake.
"You can't catch every pass, you know."
"But I can bloody well try!" he exclaimed crossly.
Here she had the nerve to laugh, which caused him to sink only deeper into his depressed —and now thoroughly disgruntled— state.
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and placed a hand on each of his shoulders, turning his body to face hers.
"James," she said resolutely, "there's something you need to know."
He cocked an eyebrow, far too peeved to talk about his brainless Quidditch skills, which he was perfectly content on being miffed about.
She adjusted his shoulders beneath her hands and said soundly, "James, you're not perfect, and it's high time you understood that. You're not perfect, you never were, and you never will be. You need to let this go."
He gave a light sniffle and whispered in a surprisingly choked voice, "I know."
Lily gave him a weak attempt at a supportive smile, bringing her hands down his shoulders and into her lap.
"James, you know you can't do it all. You're trying to carry the entire team on your shoulders and it just won't work. They need to do their part too."
He nodded and gave a quiet, "I know."
"And," went on Lily, not about to cut her speech short just because of his apparent tenderness to the subject, "I understand how important scoring is, but you're not going to make every shot."
He gave a terse nod as she took his Quidditch-worn hands and pressed them between her own.
"I know you're an excellent player, James," she went on, her eyes shimmering brightly, "but you're depending on yourself too much. You're not going to catch every pass or score with every shot."
He gave a bleak "I know," his eyes locked on their grasping hands.
"And James" —she took a deep breath— "you really are a brilliant player. You do know that, don't you?"
With a sigh, he answered quietly, "I know."
"So let it go," she whispered, tilting his chin up with a finger, locking their eyes together.
"I'm trying."
They sat in silence for a moment, simply holding hands, their eyes locked together.
Lily's eyes flickered with something James couldn't quite place before she leaned forward and enveloped him in a hug, sweaty Quidditch robes and all.
Pulling back, her cheeks satisfactorily pink, she murmured softly, "Feeling better?"
He swallowed thickly and shrugged, then muttered, "At least I don't want to kill myself now."
"Was my pep talk that bad?" she asked, a faint grin playing at her lips.
"Better than others," he said quietly. "Most certainly better than Sirius's, who would've reminded me of how I lost him the game."
"Then it's a very good thing I'm not Sirius," she said, and he couldn't help but notice how radiant she looked, her eyes simply shining.
"A very, very good thing," he repeated quietly, his voice low and husky.
"I bet I know what would make you feel better…" she said, her expression serious and her eyes glimmering.
"What?" he asked, his heart beginning to beat loudly in his chest.
"This," she murmured, and pressed her lips to his.
Their lips met for only a moment — one brilliant moment — but it was certainly long enough to leave James craving more.
And for some absurd reason, now that James thought about it, it really wouldn't be that difficult to get over a little game of Quidditch.
FIN.