Where: Entrance of the Quidditch Pitch, 4:04 pm. With: James Potter & Lily Evans
Dusk was settling around him, as he tightened the jacket, zippering it up around him. The sharp chill of winter’s touch hit his cheeks, the broomstick in his hand. He’d been flying for—well, James wasn’t sure how long it’d been. How long he’d been stuck inside of his own head. How long he’d been in the air, how long ago he’d told Sirius he’d ‘be right back’ only to finally descend hours later. He knew it was best to abide by the rules, now more than ever. But his mind didn’t stop reeling, spinning. Who could’ve done it—who would’ve ever blamed someone like Peter? He was a soft boy, kept his feathers as clean as he could when he considered the likes of people like James and Sirius his best mates. James felt horrible, but the weight that sat on his shoulders was starting to get heavier than he intended.
He’d told Marlene the night before, because he’d been curious to see, to tap into the mindset of her father. Would Alastor McKinnon, a man he’d known all his life, really arrest four boys on suspicion alone? How the questioning had been gruelling. How every last thing James had done wrong, arrogantly, egotistically in his youth was thrown back in his face like it was some trigger to get him to snap. To get him to say that he played a part in casting such a heinous spell. His mind was spinning back, sitting in the Wizengamot like he was some criminal for being a stupid kid. He felt sick. Sick to his stomach his friends went there in the first place, split apart. They should’ve never been pulled apart.
Friends like them didn’t go through life separately.
James knew there were other things he had to take care of. Breaking up with Florence was one of them, a promise he intended to follow through with. But his mind was caught, revolving around all the things said and insuinated, all the hints dropped towards him. Like he wasn’t good enough. Like he hadn’t changed. His worst memory was a mixture of both the lake incident, and the night of the Whomping Willow. To be reminded of his fifth year alone was just—James shook his head, as he approached the broomstick shed, tucking his broom inside and magically locking it, silent while his wand moved.
He’d spent most of the afternoon in the sky, McGonagall giving him a pass for once from Transfiguration. He wasn’t worried about his NEWTs for that class. He just needed an escape, a moment to breathe. Approaching the entrance of the Quidditch Pitch, James stopped. “Lily.” He practically expelled her name at the sight of her like a sigh of relief. He hadn’t told her, hadn’t expected to see her. The day at the Ministry was playing through his mind. “Look, Evans, I can explain the silent treatment, I didn’t mean it, I swear—“ he began to argue a case she might’ve not known, hands already up in some sort of mock surrender.
@bloomingevans