Bucking Brooms & Bloody Bludgers
@jilymicrofics
Prompt: pain, words: 1404, content warning: head injury.
James groaned, eyes blinking wildly as the Hospital Wing ceiling came into focus. The sound around him was muffled, overcome by an unrelenting monotonous ringing in his ears. Pain split and re-split his skull. His nostrils stung with an overwhelming scent of chemicals. His very fibres ached, and he briefly wondered if this was how Remus felt after the full moon.
James was not unfamiliar with the Hospital Wing. He had had many injuries and ailments over the last six years at Hogwarts, but none so alarming as this.
That morning—James hoped it was that morning—was the onset of the last match of the year. Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. Stakes were high, as Gryffindor was beating Ravenclaw for the Cup, and Slytherin was beating them all. The game was Gryffindor’s to lose, and if they did they would be plunged into third place.
It was because of this, that inter-house rivalry was significantly more potent in the antecedent weeks than they had been all year. Somehow, the air in the Great Hall was tenser than when Severus Snape had deflected Sirius’s Entomorphis Hex outside Defence Against the Dark Arts that February—James agreed that “the slimy git deserved it”—and hit a passing-by Hufflepuff, whose head sprouted feelers and back sported a pair of wings. The corridor had turned into an all-out riot, with students of all houses getting involved.
Despite the relatively early hour of the morning, the Great Hall was packed. Students were roving about the four banquet tables; many were placing bets and breaking into rehearsed chants, and more than once Professor McGonagall reprimanded groups for waving banners inside.
James sat closest to the doors; with him were Sirius, Remus and Peter, as well as his teammates. He had been pushing his eggs around his plate for the past ten minutes; the mere smell of them made him want to yack, but a worm in his ear named Sirius had been telling him to “eat up” and that he would “need the energy for the game.”
“Good luck, Potter.” Tommy O’Connell, a seventh-year Gryffindor, clapped James on the back as he passed by.
James winked over his shoulder at him, and turned back to his plate. Deciding that Sirius was right, he quickly ate as much of his plate as he could keep down—his stomach was roiling with nerves. “Ready?” he asked his team.
“Ready.” Owen Atkinson, a burly fifth-year Beater nodded once, confidently, but secretly his hands shook beneath the table.
Libby Marsh and Mya Gardner agreed, smiling uneasily up at their Captain and fellow Chaser. And Monty Burns, the other Beater, looked positively green. Their Seeker, Marlene McKinnon, only nibbled at the corner of her toast, eyes fixed on the oak tabletop, where Cohen Hughes, the Keeper, had planted his face as soon as he sat down with the group.
“Go get ‘em, Prongs.” Remus smiled reassuringly at him.
“We’ll be rooting for you.” Peter’s face was red and gold with paint, and he held two measly thumbs up.
James nodded stiffly at them and rose from his seat, followed by the rest of his team. He had just crossed the threshold into the Entrance Hall when he collided with someone that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“Watch it, Potter,” a scathing voice spat. It was Tadhg Wilkes.
James was all too familiar with Wilkes. He was one of the youngest in the Slytherin gang, along with Snape, who was standing a little away from the commotion. Wilkes was renowned amongst their year group for hexing first and second-years, and getting away with it. He was otherwise a star student, Prefect, and part of the Slug Club.
“Wilkes.” James levelled his gaze with the shorter boy. “Don’t go tripping over now, you might hurt yourself.”
Wilkes’s hand shot to his waistband where his wand was stowed, apprehensively. “Worry about yourself, Potter. Quidditch is a dangerous game…”
James had shaken off the odd exchange and put it down to theatrics. In fact, it was the last thing on his mind when his Nimbus 1700 had suddenly lurched from beneath him.
“GRYFFINDOR IN THE LEAD BY NINETY POINTS,” the commentator, a seventh-year Hufflepuff named Michael Kelly, yelled into the microphone.
James felt it lurch again. He muttered to it, “Come on, don’t do this to me now.”
Mya flew past him, Quaffle tucked securely under her arm, followed by Libby who yelled at him to get back in the game.
James took off once more, regaining control of his broom. He felt the sheer power of the thing rush through his fingertips and into his veins. It felt like he possessed pure energy.
“AND TURNER HAS STOLEN POSSESSION FROM GARDNER. RAVENCLAW IS BACK ON THEIR GAME.”
Simon Turner and his teammate Oli Dawson flew parallel up the pitch, looping to pass to one another.
James was quick to follow. He darted towards the hoops, wind stinging his face. Under the Seekers, left of the Beaters, right of the Bludgers, through the scrambling Chasers.
James thought that if he reached out as far as he could, then his fingertips would surely have brushed the Quaffle. This was, of course, if he hadn’t been hit square in the abdomen with a well-aimed Bludger.
His lungs instantly lost capacity.
“POTTER HAS BEEN HIT. I REPEAT, POTTER IS DOWN.” The words rumbled in his head.
James barely had time to gasp for air before his broom bucked and he was flung into open air.
There was a collective gasp from the spectators as he plummeted towards the stands.
Limbs flailed in a frantic attempt to save themselves, grasping for what wasn’t there. His body was spinning erratically, faster than his mind could comprehend. The grassy pitch got larger by the second, but before he was even halfway down—
Hushed voices drifted in through the Hospital Wing doors, which had been left open a whisker, snapping James out of his dazed recollection. His ears had stopped ringing by then.
“I cannot allow him any visitors at the moment.”
“Please Madam Pomfrey, I won’t get in the way.” James recognised the disembodied voice.
There was a pause, then the door creaked, and two sets of footsteps scuttled in.
The sanitary-blue curtains around his too-small cot were harshly drawn open. Bright light flooded his vision, which he attempted to block with his hand. His arm, he now noticed, was bandaged with an itchy gauze.
Lily Evans stood at the foot of the cot. Her eyes were frazzled and red from crying, her long titian hair uncharacteristically messy, her lips raw and nails gnawed to stumps.
“Be honest, am I still handsome?” His voice was wheezy. Weak from not being used.
Lily let out a half-laugh, half-sob. She rounded the cot, taking a seat at his side, and took his hand gingerly in hers. “Are you alright?” Her voice was brittle.
“Of course,” he squeezed her hand, casting her a reassuring smile.
Lily smiled in return. Watery and unconvincing. Her eyes kept flicking to his head, then back to his eyes.
James frowned. “Is there something wrong with my…“
He reached his free hand towards his scalp, where most of his pain stemmed from. His tentative fingers were met with a patch of supple new skin, where thick hair usually grew.
Lily swallowed loudly. “You hit your head.”
“You hit your head on the stands on the way down and—and there was a lot of blood.” Her voice cracked. “Oh, James.”
She threw herself onto his chest—luckily Madam Pomfrey had already healed all the bruising—burying her face in the warm crook of his neck, breaking into tears for the third time that day. Her shoulders shook, tears and saliva dampening his ghastly hospital gown.
“It’s alright.” He stroked her hair soothingly, shushing her. “I’m alright.”
It was a small while before the sobs were replaced by slow breaths and the occasional hiccup.
Eventually Lily whispered, “I thought you were going to die,” though it was difficult to make out.
“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he chuckled.
A deep breath. “The boys are outside. They probably want to see you.” Lily started to sit up but James swiftly pulled her back into him, further onto his lap. He nuzzled his face into her soft hair.
“Stay with me,” he whispered.
