Summary - Daily Prophet editor, James Potter, strongly suspects he’s falling in love with his new freelance reporter, Lily Evans. The only problem is, he’s never actually seen her.
Based on the prompt I gave myself on here a few days ago. Sort of based off of Rainbow Rowell’s Attachments. If you want background music for this, Be My Baby by The Ronettes is your jam. This turned out more tender than smutty, and I don’t have the heart to change it.
Special shoutout to @beks21 @elanev91 and @ghost-of-bambi for letting me bounce ideas off of them. And dealing with my ADD self in general when I get excited about an idea.
When James played professional Quidditch for Puddlemere United, he always arrived home smelling a mixture of sweat, dirt, and sometimes even blood depending on the day.
He loved the soil that caked under his nails, the way his uniform clung to him after practice, he loved the way it made him feel like a man.
He had been recruited fresh out of Hogwarts for the reserve team, and had managed to move his way up after just one season.
A prodigy, he had been called.
Puddlemere’s best chance at the World Cup. The best Chaser since Joscelind Wadcock. His team had slaughtered nearly every rival they had faced, and he had set a new record for number of Quidditch goals scored in a single game.
His success had been written about in nearly every publishable magazine along with his face gracing each cover.
Hair windswept, Quidditch goggles strapped tight across his head, broom slung across one shoulder.
His smile, smug, proud. Insanely arrogant.
That was the image of him during his Quidditch years. That was the image that had been posted for all to see.
He had thought he was invincible.
Until about three seasons into his career when he suffered one too many Bludgers to the head, and was instructed by the team healer to retire.
He had gone back to his mother’s house, he had sulked, he had cursed, he had smashed his broomstick to bits, he had burned every copy of every magazine he had saved with his stupid, smirking face on the cover.
He had been intrigued when his old school mate, Fenwick, had said he was leaving his post as Quidditch reporter for the Prophet, and wondered if perhaps James would be interested in applying for it.
James’ eyebrows had disappeared behind his fringe, and he had ran a calloused hand over his unshaven jawline as he considered it.
It hadn’t been his first choice - Quidditch itself was his first choice - but it had been a rather close second.
If he couldn’t play, perhaps he could still still partake in it someway, even if it was through written word.
So he had agreed, and though the first few games he attended had been frustrating sitting alone in the stands rather than being in the air above the pitch, he grew to enjoy reporting. Like most things James tried, he was good at it, and he knew his beat, was passionate about it, and it showed through on paper.
A year without Quidditch.
Without dirt, sweat, and blood that stained his clothes, and made him smell like earth itself.
And instead he went home smelling like ink, parchment, and delivery owls.
And though it was honestly, truly fine, James still felt as though something was missing. As if Quidditch had left a Bludger size hole in him, and he would be forever listless until he found a way to fill it.
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