Lily Evans and the Marauder's Secrets

Quidditch Practice

"I feel fine, I promise," I say. I've eaten my lunch and napped through afternoon classes and I'm very ready to get out of this bed. "And I'll be extra careful. No running around or anything."

Madame Pomfrey sighs but gives in. "Fine. You do seem to be alright. But if anything starts hurting, you come straight back here, you hear me?"

"Of course," I promise, and with one last worried examination of my healing injuries, Madame Pomfrey releases me.

There's students milling about the corridor. Classes have ended for the day and late afternoon light slants golden across the floor in broad strokes. A few people, mostly from Gryffindor or my year, call hello's and ask how I'm doing. I smile and reassure everyone I'm going to live, but I don't linger long with anyone. There's only one person I want to see right now, and so long as he's kept his word, I know where I'll find him.

It's an unusually pleasant day for the end of February, and the mingling sunshine and cool air feels wonderful on my skin. Nearly all the snow has melted and the green of the grass underneath is a welcome, sorely-missed sight. The Quidditch pitch rises against the backdrop of the deep, glittering lake. I find a spot by myself – there's a few people watching, most in groups of twos and threes – and settle back. The Gryffindor team zips around the stadium, engrossed in their scrimmage. I brought a book with me to pass the time but give up reading pretty quickly and just watch.

James blurs scarlet and gold as he directs the rest of his team. Marlene whoops when he puts the Quaffle in one of the rings, and Stacy Abbott tosses it back good-naturedly back.

"I got lucky that time!" he shouts at her. "You've blocked all my other shots today!" She beams.

Again, I shake my head. I can't believe I missed this person. I'm kicking myself for stubbornly refusing to see James for who he is now and only holding him to his past. Mum's words come back to me from when she met James for the first time on the platform over Christmas. "Where's the prat Potter you've been going on about? Because that," she had said, nodding at James, "is not who I was expecting. It's okay if people change, dear."

He's not who I was expecting this year, either. Nothing with James this year was what I was expecting. But I guess that's okay.

Maybe even better than okay.

The treetops tickle the drooping sun by the time the team wraps up practice. They circle in the air for some final words, then land and head for the locker rooms until there's just one lone figure left on the pitch.

I glance around. All my fellow spectators have already dispersed. I get to my feet and start down.

***

James waits, sitting with his legs dangling off his broom and facing away from me, watching a few early owls circle over the Forest. As I approach, he hops down and turns to face me. I stop when I'm still a few paces away, the broomstick hovering in the air a buffer between us.

"Never thought I'd see you come to watch a Quidditch practice," he says.

"Yeah, well, it seemed like the place to be today," I say. I feel oddly shy standing out here in front of him now that I'm not confined to a bed and surrounded by a bunch of other people.

"Well, I'm glad you came," he says, and his smile puts the golden evening to shame.

"Me too," I say softly, and come a few steps closer. "The team looked good today."

"Thanks," he says. "I really think we've got a fair shot at the Cup again this year." He sounds amused, like he knows I'm not here to talk about Gryffindor's chances of winning the Quidditch Cup but he's willing to indulge me.