It turned out to be a very long match, lasting well past nightfall.
Josephina’s voice grew hoarse as the evening progressed, with Slytherin maintaining a steadily growing, even daunting, lead over Gryffindor throughout. James began to dread the shrill ding of the scoreboard as more points accumulated, marked by green fireworks from the enchanted sign.
Slushy snow caked James’ hair, freezing it to stiff fronds that slapped and battered his skull as he flew. His jersey and cape, like the rest of the players’, was sodden with a mixture of melted snow and cold sweat, weighing him down as he slewed through the melee, dodging Bludgers that hurled out of the dark like malevolent comets, whistling dully as they whickered past. All around, the crowd had reached that point of stubborn weariness that reduced their cheers to a dull, constant rumble, strung out between a sturdy commitment to their team’s victory, and the increasing desire for the match to be over so they could all return to the warmth and light of the castle.
James was wiping the slush from his goggles for what felt like the millionth time when a sudden roar lifted from the crowd. There was no ding from the scoreboard, no flash and pop of celebratory fireworks, which meant the roar could only mean one thing: the snitch had been seen. And if the crowd had seen it, that meant that Albus probably had as well.
James flung his gaze around the pitch desperately and finally found it: a streak of fluttering gold, zigging and zagging through the players. Albus was closing in on it already, his hand outstretched, banking and swooping in pursuit.
James threw himself low over his broom and it shot forward, dipping toward the golden streak as it angled nearer.
The crowd was a seamless blare now. As James arced to intercept the snitch, he caught a glimpse of the scoreboard. Gryffindor was currently down by a score of twenty-eight to one hundred sixty-two.
If James failed to capture the snitch during this sighting, even if Albus managed to miss it, the Slytherins would soon have enough points to win the match no matter who eventually caught it.
As James neared the whizzing golden ball, he watched it swoop directly over Deirdre’s shoulder. She watched it go past, clearly resisting the urge to catch it herself, which would, of course, only result in a penalty. She whipped her gaze back to James as he swooped after it, reaching forward with his right hand.
Voices called in passing, some shouting him back or vying to distract him, others urging him on. James heard none of them, merely strained forward, dodging Bludgers that threatened to bash him from his broom, piloting as if through a tunnel of snowy white streaks.
Albus was ahead of James still. His cloak flapped and snapped behind him, flinging damp mist into James’ face. The snitch dipped, however, and James saw it an instant before Albus corrected. James’ broom dropped away beneath him at his urging, cutting beneath Albus and catching up to the golden ball. James reached, stretching so hard that his arm felt it would pop right out of its socket. His fingers brushed the snitch’s buzzing wings. He grinned with determination, then snapped his hand closed onto…
…empty air!
Another hand had swept across his view from above, engulfing the snitch in an instant and sweeping away again, taking the golden ball with it.
James boggled at the empty darkness where the snitch had been, still reaching uselessly with his fisted right hand, then twisted his head to look up.
Albus was hanging upside down beneath his broom, dangling from his folded knees with his right arm fully extended, grasping the golden snitch just above James’ head. He met James’ gaze through his own slush-streaked goggles and grinned, shrugging his upside-down shoulders down at his brother.
The crowd erupted into shocked—and perhaps even slightly relieved—applause. The match was over. Josephina Bartlett breathlessly announced the final score, but James deliberately tuned her out, swooping down to the field and not even dismounting, merely ducking his head and flying straight into the open doors of the locker area beneath the Gryffindor grandstand. His face was hot with mingled rage and embarrassment. He had no wish to speak to anyone or endure the cheering that even now still echoed from the pitch, celebrating Albus’ amazing capture.
By the time James had stripped out of his wet gauntlets and half-frozen cape, the rest of the team came trudging along the tunnel, dragging their brooms, their heads down. Few spoke at all. None made eye contact with each other. James plopped onto a bench to pry off his wet shoes, the laces stiff with ice. He changed into a dry pair of trainers, tossed his Quidditch shoes into the bottom of his locker, and tugged his coat from a hook inside the door.
He was just turning to leave when he saw Lily near her own locker, disconsolately shaking frozen clots of snow from her pony tail.
He walked over to her, straddled the bench that ran between the row of wooden lockers, and plopped down. He had some vague idea of walking back with the team, finding some nominal solace in their silent camaraderie. It had been a bad loss—there was simply no escaping that fact—but at least they could suffer it together.
Lily plopped next to him and grunted as she pried her own shoes off. The second one kicked from her foot and struck her locker, knocking its door shut with a bang. She glared at it, breathing angry chugs through her nose.
“You might have seen that coming, if you’d been paying any attention over the past few years,” she said quietly, still gazing at her closed locker door.
James frowned, replaying her words in his head. “What do you mean, if I’d ‘been paying any attention’?”
She turned to him but kept her voice low. “Albus loves those stupid aerial acrobatics. He’s always looking for reasons to try out some harebrained maneuver, like that thing he did tonight when he stole the snitch right from under your nose. You might have seen it coming, is all.”
“Oh, so you’re going to pin this whole thing on me, are you?”
James hissed, pushing himself upright. “And what about when Beetlebrick and Dvorek were drilling home goals all match long, right under your nose? Are you going to tell me that was my fault too?”
“I knocked more away than made it through!” Lily snapped, stripping off her gloves and throwing them violently to the floor. “It was snowing buckets out there, in case you didn’t notice. I could barely see the bloody Quaffle before it was too close to catch!”
“That didn’t seem to bother Lamia Lorelei at the other end of the pitch, did it?” James declared, heaving himself to his feet and pointing in the general direction of the Slytherin goal rings. “She was like a brick wall out there!”