Ravenclaw, supposedly the wisest House of them all, had taken the very same foolish bet Gryffindor had—accepting a second-year Seeker above all else. Hufflepuff and Slytherin had been smart in their drafting, see; they still had well-oiled machines in their seventh-year players, and two trained fourth-years lined up to take the position up the next year. But James Potter was unlike anything Gryffindor had ever seen, and team captain Taylor Andrews thought it completely mad not to accept him.
Nobody could speak for the new Ravenclaw Seeker. She was a girl, he knew, pretty, and tall for their age and with this golden hair that reached her lower back flawlessly and possibly one of the smartest witches he knew of—and her name sounded familiar, too. Her father worked in the Ministry, somewhere secretive. Mum was either unemployed through the Wizarding world, or a Muggle. All this, though, he knew through whisperings—Marlene Mckinnon, the biggest goss in Gryffindor Tower. She'd seen Graham's name on the roster and immediately begun gushing out her admiration.
"I heard she's got her hands on an Oakshaft 97," Marlene says, excitedly, practically bouncing up and down on the couch. "I remember last year, in Flying class, when she was the first to get off the ground—d'you remember, James? It was bloody—"
"Merlin's tits." James had been growing sick of the unending stream of appraisals leaving Marlene's mouth for a long time and could no longer stomach it. "She's our competition, Marls. Quit acting like the sun shines out of her arse. What's the appeal, even? I don't see it."
"Got nothing on Florence," Peter throws in, nodding his agreement. "That Hufflepuff from Charms class. Merlin!"
"Graham is quite fit, though," Sirius adds as well, not lifting his eyes from the parchment before him. "If I made the team this year, I think I'd probably give her a go."
"Bugger off," James responds, scrunching up his face. He plainly does not see what everyone else does in this Gwendolyn girl. "You'd go for anything with eyes, Black. And Pete's been in love with Florence since last bloody year. Anyway, have any of you seen Lily by chance?"
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June 1976
"Would you get your bloody foot off mine?"
Her voice startles James. He blinks, rendered off-guard for a moment, his gaze zeroing in on the girl next to him. She's not particularly glaring back at him, but the expression written across her face isn't admiration, either—more a mild annoyance, a whisk of disapproval. Condescension.
Then, he glances down to below the table. His foot was, indeed, atop hers. He hadn't even realized; it'd felt like the leg of the table, that's all. He immediately moves his own foot to the side. No ill intentions, of course.
