Sixty Years of Hurt
In every world, James Sirius Potter is born on the 18th of December 2003. As a baby, he rarely cries. Calm and collected from birth, his family would always remark. His father doted on him from the very moment James gurgled up at him for the first time. Toys flowed in, days out were plentiful. Harry Potter made sure none of his children would ever know an orphan’s lot – never go to bed hungry or receive single tissues for Christmas. He was never once angry with his children, never raised his voice. Harry can’t bear to do so, not when Uncle Vernon’s furor still haunts his nightmares upon occasion. Besides, his disappointed face is far more effective. Harry is firm when he needs to be, but supportive above all else. It makes him just about the best father any kid could ask for.
But, this isn’t Harry’s story, it’s James’. James has a few issues with being the Chosen One’s son. First and foremost, he abhors the spotlight which has been on him his entire life. From his birth, right up until the shit he took five minutes ago, every single moment of his existence has been documented and publicised. It’s a horrific way to grow up, with gossip columnists circling like vultures and the flash of cameras present in every memory.
James’ hamster died when he was eight. He and his family solemnly buried Manticore under a tree in their back garden. One of their neighbours took a picture and sold it to the Prophet. What followed was a three-page editorial on the effects of grief upon young children, carefully contrasted with Harry’s own life.
Our readers will surely question the Chosen One’s parenting. Knowing what it is to experience grief so young, why would Potter give his son a hamster and not a Kneasel, with their much longer lifespans?
James first kiss was with a girl called Emily – a muggle from Ottery St. Catchpole. They’d played together in the muggle playground since they were five, whenever James was visiting his grandparents. The summer before James’ fourth year they stumbled across each other again and one thing led to another. This time Witch Weekly got the swoop – dedicated an entire issue to the history of muggle-wizard inter marriage.
It would surely be Potter’s duty to inform his son that muggle-wizard relations rarely work and when they do, wizards often outlive their muggle partners by several decades. Our readers will surely wonder why Potter is allowing his son to indulge in such relations, knowing that heartbreak is on the horizon.
From that moment on, James struggled maintaining relationships. Most of the girls he really liked weren’t willing to endure the scrutiny. Those that braved it never managed for more than a few weeks. Some girls threw themselves at James specifically because of all the attention. Occasionally, he didn’t mind, not when most were extremely pretty. But he couldn’t kid himself into believing that a hunger for fame was the foundation of a stable relationship. Besides, more often than not, their encounter ends up splattered across the papers in gory detail. The painstakingly exact descriptions of James’ body would make his stomach cringe itself into a tight ball. The first time his attempts at dirty talk had appeared in Witch Weekly, he’d spent two full days under his duvet. He’d been sixteen at the time.
Eventually, he’d been tempted from his safe space by Dobby the house elf’s famous cinnamon biscuits. At that point he’d received the gentlest of rebukes from his father.
“Jamie – it’s not fair, it’s not fair one bit – but you have to be more careful.”
For once, Harry Potter’s said the wrong thing. James nods and fumes silently. That friendly bit of advice is easy to give, but impossible to follow. Harry hasn’t got a clue what James is going through – he’s never had to be single while the media spotlight’s been on him. Oh of course, there’s that oft spouted parable of Harry’s fourth year – when some bint named Rita Skeeter suggested he fancied aunt Hermione – but how in Merlin’s name does that equate? Resentment bubbles away inside James. Not only is it his father’s fault that the papers hound him, but now he’s telling James to just get over it. Besides, he’s never really forgiven his mother for taking a job at the same paper that’s been harassing him for years.
The second issue with being Harry Potter’s son, is that everyone assumes he gets the world handed to him on a silver platter. In this world, James is born to fly. That’s where everything makes sense, up in the clouds, on his broom. James has the perfect combination – the grace of his mother and the speed of his father. He also happens to come from a family of quidditch nuts. His parents, his aunts and his uncles, drill information into him from just about the moment he can walk. Quidditch intelligence, an oft underappreciated talent, but one which elevates James’ skill above just about anyone.
James is the best chaser Hogwarts has seen in decades. He outscores everyone else by ten goals during try-outs in his second year. But, none of that matters. When he makes the team, everyone says it’s because of his father. James obliterates the school’s goal record that season. It still doesn’t stop the muttering.
Muttering which continues when James is made Gryffindor captain in his fifth year. He’s the most senior player and the natural choice. Still, the rest of the school says it’s fixed. Professor Longbottom is a family friend, after all. James captain’s his side to two house championships in a row. People still claim it’s down to ‘daddy’s influence’.
All that muttering isn’t half as bad as when it ends up being true. The scouts who arrive in his sixth-year talk about signing ‘Harry Potter’s son’, not James’ own ability. Well, all but one of the scouts. Joe Bubbington of the Chuddly Cannons talks enthusiastically of the intelligence with which James reads the game, the expert way he avoids attempted cobbing and his beautiful sloth grip roll.
James Potter receives offers from every quidditch team in the league – bar the Harpies. Uncle Ron – his godfather and life-long Chuddly Cannons fan – tells him to sign for Puddlemere United.
“Definitely not the Cannons, mate. They haven’t won a game since I was your age.”
His father nods along, assuming James’ will sign a pre-contract for after his seventh year. In some worlds, James does. Not this one, though. All that quiet resentment has been building up for years. Frankly, it’s a minor miracle and a testament to James’ character that it hasn’t exploded out of him already. Still, he can’t bring himself to be angry at his father – not when he gave James’ a childhood of happiness and kindness. Instead, James resentment manifests itself as avoidance.
To the surprise of his entire family, James doesn’t return to Hogwarts for his seventh year. Instead, he packs up his bags and joins the Chuddly Cannons. He puts as much distance as he can muster between him and his father.
His Uncle Ron nearly cries when he hears the news – whether out of happiness or despair at his godson’s wasted talent, no one is quite sure. James is about as skilled a rookie as the league’s seen in years. But, he’s only one player. The other six, mostly thirty-something year olds and rejects from the European leagues, are abysmal. Till his dying day, James will never forget the despair he felt when Annika, a Swedish chaser, asks with complete sincerity what the hawkshead attacking formation is.
For the first ten games of the season, James is the team’s only scorer, averaging five goals a game. He’s already the highest scoring Cannons player in fifty years.
His team hates him.
Not only is he showing them up, he’s also shinning the media spotlight on them by sheer proximity. No one cared that the Cannons were shite until Harry Potter’s prodigal son started playing for them.
When these sorts of problems crop up, James invariably goes to Teddy to bitch about them – mostly because his big brother has a way of telling him to get a grip.
“You chose this bloody job, you git. Anyway, if you want your team to like you, stop hogging the quaffle. You could turn them into decent players, but you’re choosing to showboat. Twat.”
As always, James takes Teddy’s words to heart. James Potter actually starts paying attention in training and realises, maybe it’s not entirely the players fault. The chasing coach, the manager’s brother, is completely useless. James gets to work. Annika and Jan are not James’ biggest fan – more prone to insulting him in rapid Swedish, than listening to his tactical suggestions. But, when James hands Annika her first ever league goal, they start considering his advice. Slowly but surely, James Potter gets the Cannon’s chasing trio purring – just in time for their first match against Puddlemere United.
James Potter is not a man who intimidates easily, but seeing the United squad, fit to bursting with the league’s best talent, he damn near shits himself. He’s particularly scared of their young chaser – Abigail Thorley. A Slytherin three years above him, James’s faced her a dozen times. Each one ended with him battered and bruised from her cobbing. Hell, she’s responsible for three of his five broken ribs. Of course, James has a crush on her, but that’s more down to her outstanding aerial ability and phenomenal shot accuracy than anything else. He tries his best at a bit of camaraderie when the two old rivals meet again.
“Who thought we’d end up here then, eh?”
Abigail Thorley tosses her long black ponytail over her shoulder and stalks away, glowering.
The cannons don’t win because that’s impossible, but at least the margin’s less than the usual four hundred. In fact, the chasers manage twelve goals between them, their best yet. In spite of his broken nose, courtesy of Abigail’s elbow, James is upbeat.
“oo vow, aye zink er weerry comin awong”
Or after a quick episky:
“You know, I think we’re really coming along.”
They enter the winter break, James favourite time of year, as it combines Christmas and his birthday. Only, for the first time, James doesn’t celebrate it at home, he doesn’t even send his parents a card. He feels like complete shit when his parents send Hedwig anyway, laden with presents. But he’s made his bed, now he has to lie in it.
The team goes from strength to strength in the second half of the season. James is proud, really proud, of the work he’s done. Still, it doesn’t stop him from signing a pre-contract with the Tutshill Tornadoes. Proud does not equate to wasting his career in Chuddly. By the final game of the season – against Puddlemere – the Cannons still haven’t got their win. James is strapping on his shin guards when the dressing room quiets and Jan clears his throat.
“We’ve decided you should have this, because of what you’ve done for us this season.”
James blinks, shocked at the near emotion in the big Swede’s words. Jan walks over and hands him the captain’s armband. James swallows and nods. He’s letting the emotion hit him, when Annica heads over for a debrief.
“Thorley’s going to be off her game.”
She shoves a copy of Witch Weekly towards James. He scans the front page, an in-depth article suggesting that Abigail’s recent poor performances have been down to poor diet and weight gain. James blinks in surprise.
“What they on about, Abigail’s not put on weight…”
James blushes furiously. He would know, since he’s been minutely scrutinising every photo of her in the papers. Opposition research, of course, nothing more.
“Obviously – it’s just Witch Weekly. Same with every female chaser. Your mum got it the worse.”
“What you mean? This never happened to mum!”
“Påskkärring James, did you never read papers as a kid?”
James frowns, but can’t dwell on it. The match is starting. He tries to give Abigail an encouraging smile as they’re lining up. It’s met by the usual glower. He’s fairly sure it earns him an extra vicious kick during the game.
The match itself is a perfect storm. Literally – a storm. Great lashing rain, gusty billowing wind and ominous thunder. It’s the sort of game which renders beaters useless and makes the snitch catch a complete coin flip. In these sorts of games, the chasers decide the match. Something rather magical happens. Puddlemere, who prides themselves on home grown talent, has all-English chasers. The Cannons have two Scandinavians, who are rather more used to this weather than the Brits. In fact, it’s basically nothing to them. Plus, they have James Potter. James Potter whose skills and talent have been belittled and marginalised all his life, now captain. He’s got a fucking point to prove. The Cannon’s net twenty-six goals to Puddlemere’s ten. Then Puddlemere’s seeker, with no clue of what the score is, catches the snitch.
Ronald Weasley has cried from joy three times in his life. Once on the day of his wedding, once more when each of his children were born. At the sight of his godson securing the Chuddly Cannons their first win in twenty-four years, Ronald Weasley sobs uncontrollably into Hermione’s shoulder.
James tries to talk to Abigail after the match, but can’t find her in the media frenzy. In the many interviews which proceed, James tries to emphasise it was a team effort, that they won together. It’s no use – the next day the Prophet’s headline boldly declares:
The Chosen Chaser Secures First Victory.
James, named Young Player of the Year, attends the league’s annual prize giving. Or rather, is forced to attend. He skulks in corners at the afterparty, trying desperately to avoid his parents, both present by virtue of Ginny’s position at the Prophet. Mostly, he follows his soon to be manager – Oliver Wood – like a puppy. Then Abigail comes to find him. Suddenly, James couldn’t care less that his parents and every newspaper in the country are milling about. Not when, for the first time ever, Abigail is smiling at him.
“Sorry for breaking your nose.”
“Witch Weekly’s stupid, you’re not fat…”
The comment makes Oliver Wood choke on his complimentary champagne. James wants to take a running jump off the astronomy tower. Normally, he’s good at this sort of thing. Then again, normally he’s not talking to someone he’s fancied since third year. Thankfully and by some miracle, Abigail takes it in good humour. They talk. They talk some more. Perhaps have one or two more drinks than they should.
When James Potter wakes to the sound of Abigail Thorley’s chainsaw like snores, his heart is practically bursting from his chest. He can’t help but feeling, at long last, that things are on the up. That he’s finally found someone who will be able to handle the spotlight, someone that likes him for being James, not the Chosen One’s son. As the chainsaw peters out, James glances down, smiling goofily. Only to see Abigail looking up at him, horrified. She jumps out of bed, cursing.
“What… what’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe I’ve done this – I’ve slept with Harry Potter’s son.”
“So, what does that matter?”
“It matters because if anyone hears about this I’ll never be taken seriously.”
She rushes about James’ bedroom, furiously pulling on her dress from the night before.
“Is there a back exit, something discreet?”
Dolefully, James sends her out via his garden. Then promptly returns to his bed, throws his duvet over his head and curls up into a ball. His heart breaks that extra little bit. It’s oh so very him, to have that one moment of complete happiness immediately snatched away.
A few week later, a dejected James – bearded, glum and gloomy – receives an owl from Oliver Wood.
Turn on your wireless.
James obliges with a melancholy flick of his wand. Out booms the rhotacized voice of England’s head couch, Archie Preston, announcing the 2022 World Cup squad. James scowls and stirs his tea viscously when the name ‘Thorley, Abigail’ is read. James’ supposes she deserves it, but it’ll be difficult hearing her name when he’s following his beloved England.
“Potter, James.”
James freezes. The teaspoon falls into his mug with a plop. Then, for the first time in a week, he smiles.
Arriving at England’s training camp in Germany, James is greeted by a less than enthused team. Every one of them, just like the rest of the nation, is convinced that James is there by virtue of his surname. James doesn’t care. Besides, he knows they’re wrong. Archie Preston is a wizard in his seventies, with a beak-like protuberance for a nose and a face which reminds James uncannily of his family’s owl. Preston would never select a player based on their surname, especially when it would heap unwelcome attention on he and his team. He tells James as much.
“I have bought you here because you are the future of England. To get you used to it. You won’t see the pitch and you should be glad of it!”
James is glad. He doesn’t need that sort of stress in his life. Besides, just being here with the team is a dream come true. However, it’s not all sunshine, daisies and butter mellow. Abigail’s there. James keeps it determinately professional. It helps that she doesn’t say a word to him. Still, training with her is hell and then some. James gets a close up view of the hypnotic swing of her pony tail, the shape of her body under England robes and her cobbing – which he has always found very attractive.
England stutter their way through the group stage, getting by with narrow victories and lucky snitch catches. James likes Archie quite a bit, but can’t help but question his team selection. He’s chosen big names and a wealth of Puddlemere players – ignoring form and instead choosing old favourites. It takes a toll on the team. Perhaps the only bright-spot is Abigail finding her scintillating form, personally dragging England into the quarter-finals with a win over Haiti. Not that James cares, mind.
Quite a few of James’ family attends the quarter-final against Argentina, much to James’ chagrin. The media’s spent the entire tournament speculating whether he’ll be playing, the familial onlookers send them into a frenzy. He studiously avoids them. Except… what Annika said about his mum keeps nagging away at him. Against his better judgment, he sneaks into her tent, under the cover of his invisibility cloak
“Jamie!”
His mother rushes to hug him, embracing him as if he hadn’t been avoiding her for the last year. James’ eyes prickle with tears as the weight of guilt settles into him. While they catch up, he slips in his question about how the Prophet treated her. She nods along, explains the worst of the headlines, is surprised he never realised.
“Well – that’s a good thing then isn’t it? We did our job right, making sure you never noticed.”
“Then how – after all that shite – did you end up working for them?”
“Because sometimes James, you have to join them, to change them. At least with me here the Prophet won’t stoop as low as Witch Weekly. Haven’t you noticed they’ve been better lately?”
James frowns, perturbed. He supposes they have been better. Well, the gossip columns have been just as bad – but at least the sports section never insulted Abigail like Witch Weekly did. He promises to come back home for dinner one weekend, when the tournament’s over. He’s been an idiot for far too long.
England’s quarter-final against Argentina carries on for two whole days. There’s not a centimetre between them. Then Vincent Cattermole, England’s second chaser, is knocked out cold by a bludger to the head. James winces and groans with the crowd, absently turning towards Preston to see who he’ll sub in. The great owl pauses, then points at James. James blinks. The man’s gone mad. How in god’s green earth can he justify subbing James in for his first cap during a World Cup quarter-final. Abigail’s clearly thinking along the same lines. She swoops down and begins remonstrating with her manager, furious. A fire ignites in James’ belly. He rips off his training top, mounts his Thunderclap and streaks into the air.
James doesn’t feel nervous. He feels like he belongs. It’s as if he, Abigail and the third chaser – Jonny Kettleburn – have spent a life time flying together. They work on instinct. England pull ahead. After his fifth goal, James gives a great whoop and does a mid-air cartwheel. He rights himself to see Abigail gently smiling at him.
“Don’t get cocky.”
James is on top of the world.
The Argentines are aggrieved. So much so that one of the beaters sinks his bat into James’ stomach as if on accident, casually leaning over to grip James’ throat under the pretence of stopping himself from falling. It’s a level of pain and violence a seasoned international player would be familiar with. Not James, though.
He acts on instinct, swinging a fist straight into the opposing beater’s face. He breaks his nose. The referee, a German, gives a sharp blow on his whistle, points to the England goal posts and holds up five fingers. Abigail roars.
“Five?! Five?! You biased scumbag – who gives five?! You’re a fucking wanker, Potter!”
The ref ups it to seven. Argentina score them all. For the first time in ten hours, they’re within a snitch catch of England. England pull two back, but then with a horrible precision, the Argentine seeker dives. The next moment, she has the snitch. The match is over. England is out.
James isn’t sure what’s louder, the roar of the assembled Argentines or the boos of his own supporters. He floats down to the ground, ears ringing, stunned. A wizened owl grabs him roughly and hauls him towards the England dug-out. Objects are thrown in their direction, abuse too, all by the England fans. James numbly let’s Archie drag him to safety.
When James returns to his house in Tutshill, he needs Auror protection. Death threats stream in by the hundred. Witch Weekly runs expose after expose, vivisecting his life in excruciating detail, attempting to pinpoint in exactly what moment he became ‘that stupid boy’. The Prophet goes slightly easier, but not by much. The conclusion is simple, James Potter should never play for England again. Oliver Wood comes under pressure to rip up his club contract, especially considering the Argentine beater also plays for Tutshill. Oliver scowls and states that James will be wearing Tutshill blue for the season.
“Is that because you are personal friends with the Potter family?”
“No, it’s because he’s my player. I’d do it for any of my team.”
That pierces through James’ malaise just a touch. To be honest, he was planning on quitting. But now, some voice in the back of his head screams at him not to let Oliver down. Then his father turns up. James’ sobs into his father’s shoulder just like he did as a kid. The world doesn’t seem so dark when he has his father’s quiet reassurance.
A few days later, there’s a knock on his back door. He frowns, draws his wand and pads over, opening it to reveal a sheepish Abigail Thorley. She roughly shoves a basket of muffins in his direction.
“I just want you to know, none of us blame you. Well… I don’t anyway.”
“Cheers.”
James takes the muffins and shuts the door in her face. He doesn’t need to open that particular can of worms, not when his whole life is imploding. Still, the led ball in his chest lightens, ever so slightly. He spends the rest of the off-season having dinners in Godric’s Hollow and the Burrow. Sometimes, he heads down to London to visit Teddy and Victoire in their flat. His Gran surreptitiously plies him with treacle tart and hot chocolate. His godfather refuses to wear anything other than his James Potter Chuddly Cannons shirt. His brother insists that quidditch is stupid anyway. The wizarding public still despises him. But, it’s all suddenly much easier to take.
James arrives at the Tutshill training ground for the first time completely out of his mind terrified. The media hiss and buzz about him like angry flies. Protesting England fans boo and jeer at the entrance. Once inside, Oliver greets him before dragging him towards another nervous man. James recognises him as the Argentinian beater. The man stares down towards the floor, shame faced.
“I am very sorry to have caused this. I never thought… you do not deserve this.”
James blinks, confused. He’d been preparing to apologise himself.
“Nah, don’t be daft mate. You didn’t make me deck you. I’m sorry for that, by the way.”
Oliver Wood growls his approval and claps them both on the back.
Four years later and James Potter is the poster boy of Tutshill’s meteoric rise. Three League titles in a row and a European Cup to boot. Unfortunately, James’ personal life can’t quite mirror his professional success. A string of unsuccessful, highly publicised relationships – same old song. Worse still is having to witness Abigail’s romantic endeavours, plastered across the papers. Particularly painful is the six-month relationship with Vrasta Vulture’s star seeker – Alexi Vatova. James takes particular pleasure in beating Vrasta during the 2023 European final. Still, James starts to understand the position Abigail was in. He talks to his mum some more, goes through back issues of the paper, understands exactly what it was like for his parents before they were born. Just about every paper was, one way or another, accusing Ginny of sleeping her way to fame and glory. James’ heart is still a bit broken, but at least he can start moving past it.
While a part of him is distinctly pleased when Abigail and Vatova split, he mostly just feels bad for her. Especially when the papers start reporting Vatova’s numerous affairs in exacting detail. Abigail’s been hiding in her house for most of the 2024 off-season. James gets and idea. He summons a confused Lily to help him assemble a basket of muffins. Under his invisibility cloak, he heads to Abigail’s house, leaves the basket by the back door and knocks loudly. Abigail emerges, scowling. She notices the basket and her features settle into a slight smile. She looks up, casting about for James. He’s already long gone, though, still not willing to address what happened between them
But, Abigail and James begin exchanging pleasantries before matches, which extends into idle chatter. Eventually, they start engaging in a bizarre sort of mid-air flirting via cobbing, blurting and blatching. James always seems to end up the more bruised of the two – not that he’s complaining, mind. Still that’s the extent of things. Until the league’s annual prize giving in 2026. James cleaves his time between his parents and his team mates – drinking free champagne, stuffing his face with canapes and generally celebrating winning Player of the Year. Abigail wonders over.
“Remember what happened last time we were here?”
“Yup.”
“I am sorry y’know – about how I… dealt with that. I was a bit of a tosser, I suppose.”
“Yeah. It’s fine though. I get it.”
Still, once bitten, twice shy. James shakes her off, goes back to celebrating with the Tutshill crowd. Then Jonny comes and drags him off to talk tactics with the rest of the England hopefuls. He and Abigail are thrust into close proximity once more.
For the second time, James Potter wakes up to the sound of Abigail Thorley’s jet engine snores. Only this time, when they peter out, he looks down to see her smiling. She almost never smiles, but she’s smiling for James. It’s just about the best feeling in the world.
“You gonna leg it again?”
“Nah, think I’ll stay.”
The pair of them are crowded around James’ wireless as England’s new manager – Oliver Wood – calls them up to the England squad. The England fans aren’t happy. They still haven’t forgiven James. England’s hosting the tournament, they have to win, they can’t afford the liability that is James Potter. Petitions whip around, protests are held. No one wants James Potter in the squad. An exasperated Oliver suggests a plan he calls ‘aggressive public relations’. James dons his quidditch robes and heads to the kids ward in St. Mungo’s. James doesn’t mind. The kids are wide eyed and full of admiration, a far cry from the vitriol he’s used to. After being booed at every game for four years, it’s a welcome change of pace. It’s at St. Mungo’s that he meets young Jimmy Scriber, who asks him to sign a muggle CD of all things.
“What’s this then, mate?”
“It’s a muggle football song. We sing it for England and it gets the whole nation together!”
James frowns and scrutinises the CD, remembering the name. An idea takes root at the back of his brain. As always when he’s faced with the complexities of the muggle world, James heads towards the Grainger house. Mr. Grainger tells him all about 1996 and the Three Lions, 1998 and another stupid boy.
“Don’t have a copy though, son.”
So, he heads off to see his Uncle Dudley. James watches videos on his uncle’s computer of England fans screaming out lyrics.
“Oh, I think I have a CD somewhere. It came out when me and your father were teenagers – everyone had one.”
James leaves Dudley’s attic with a battered CD. He heads to see Lee Jordan, family friend and WWN’s most popular DJ. Lee, a muggleborn, nods enthusiastically at the sight of the CD cover.
“I see what you’re getting at, we’ll need to re-record it though – change it so that people get the lyrics.”
Three Dragons is the hit of the summer. James is still abused left and right, but now its intermixed amid the team’s new anthem.
“Three dragons on a shirt, the snitch is still gleaming. Sixty years of hurt, never stopped me dreaming! It’s coming home…”
The abuse doesn’t get to James as much, not when he has Abigail to glower at reporters and call the majority of the England fan base tossers. Oliver toys with sticking him in front of a press conference, decides better of it. James will have to let his talent do the talking.
This England team is much more balanced than it’s 2022 predecessor. Johnny, Abigail and James are natural choices for chasers. But, otherwise, Wood doesn’t fall into the same trap as Preston. Their seeker is Robert Dott of the Ballycastle Bats. The Batts may have finished eighth in the league, but Dott caught almost every snitch last season. Brookes and Davies – Falmouth’s beaters – are a dangerous combination of brutal and accurate. They add a much-needed grit and grime to the squad. Trafford, veteran Tutshill keeper, is a constant stalwart at the back.
It translates onto the pitch. The group-stage blurs by in a series of fast snitches and devastating score lines. England win every game, knocking out tournament favourites Portugal in the process. They trounce Chad in the Round of Sixteen. Their quarter-final against Lichtenstein ends comically when Lichtenstein’s beater swallows the snitch, resulting in their disqualification.
They get drawn against Argentina in the semis.
Dread settles within James’ stomach. The fan’s anger reaches a fever pitch. They don’t care that James is the tournament’s top chaser, they don’t care he’s in the best form of his life. He cannot play that match. James wholeheartedly agrees. Only Abigail’s snoring keeps him calm when he wakes up from scalding nightmares. Oliver Wood engages in a string of steady pep talks at every meal. It doesn’t help. James has a full-on panic attack in their last training session. Every bit of abuse, every bit of regret and personal disappointment collapses in upon him.
Oliver won’t let up – he can’t afford to. You can’t just chuck a new chaser into the mix in a semi-final. As James walks awkwardly into the Puddlemere stadium, the abuse is extreme, reaching a nasty apex. When James gets to the dug-out, the fear’s gone. It’s just anger now.
“How’s this fair? All this for four years and they still expect me to win them fucking games. They still expect me to care enough to fight for them.”
Abigail looks on the verge of tears, a first for her.
“I know, Jamie.”
Up in the commentator’s box, someone else is fuming. Shockingly, it’s not Ginny Weasley. Archie Preston, former commentator turned pundit listens on with increasing anger as Ludo Bagman play up to the crowd’s vitriol. Bagman languishes in talk of destiny, in the inevitability of James Potter’s forthcoming self-destruction. The old owl boils. See, Archie Preston feels a lot of guilt for what happened. Hard not to when it’s your decision that caused an eighteen-year-old to get meteoric levels of abuse. He’s been loudly fighting James’ corner the whole tournament. At last, in the face of the smug Ludo bagman, he finally snaps. The wizened owl gives a defiant caw and launches himself at the former beater. Ludo’s magically magnified voice gives way to a strangled yelp as Archie starts to throttle him.
Down in the dugout, Jonny gives a great whoop and points up towards the commentator box.
“Look at bloody Archie!”
The entire England team watch as their former manager is dragged away from a befuddled Ludo Bagman, by a guffawing Ginny Potter. James sighs. He’s done with it all. All the bloody carnage and the hate. He has two choices: leave or play. As always, James Potter plays.
Few people can remember a game with such calculated ferocity. The Argentines are doing everything in their power to rile James up. Abigail is his bodyguard, scything through the cobbing, attempted punches and rib digs – constantly doling them out herself. James keeps focus, keeps his temper and racks up the goals. When Robert catches the snitch after four gruelling hours, England wins by a margin of five-hundred and thirty.
At the final whistle, James takes a lap of the arena fist held aloft defiantly, meeting the eyes of every fan who put him thought hell. He’s expecting the usual chants of ‘piss of Potter’, ‘prat Potter’ and ‘Potter the plonker’. Instead, a familiar chorus undulates across the arena.
“Three dragons on a shirt, the snitch is still gleaming. Sixty years of hurt, never stopped me dreaming! It’s coming home…”
James smiles. He has absolution.
Abigail scowls as news reaches them that Bulgaria have trounced Sweden – she’ll be facing Vatova again in the final. The team regroups, tries to maintain focus. That’s the danger after such an emotionally charged semi-final – taking your foot off the gas.
James whole family comes to the England National Stadium for the final. This time he doesn’t avoid them, he steers into the skid, joins them for dinner. He takes Abigail too. Rita Skeeter’s quick quotes quill goes into overdrive. The news of the two team mates ‘torrid affair’ dominates the headlines. James finds it hard to care, not when he’s this happy.
The DA takes their place in the top box – Ron’s wearing his James Potter Cannons shirt. Archie Preston, Ginny Potter and Rita Skeeter prepare to commentate – Ludo Bagman is mysteriously absent. On the pitch, James greets the opposing team with curt nods. Vatova shoots Abigail a smirk. James’ blood boils. Victor Krum, Bulgaria’s manager, stops dead in front of James.
“You have done very well.”
Krum nods and heads off to talk to Oliver Wood. Abigail sniffs disapprovingly.
“Mindgames.”
James shrugs and stares around the stadium, drinking in the noise. He lets off a mad laugh into that cold English air.
“Hear that noise you lot – hear the song?”
The chorus pounds down at them from every direction. Sixty years of hurt. James shakes his head.
“No more.”
The mascots are let in. For the English, hordes of willow-o-the-wisps synchronise into three luminous dragons which swoop and roar their way round the stadium. Then, the Bulgarians let their veelas lose. Predictably, just about every man in the stadium stares slack jawed and misty eyed. James notices Jonny doing the same beside him. He slaps the chaser on the shoulder.
“Will you get a bloody grip!”
Abigail notices, turns to him, smiling fondly.
The mascot parade ends with the dragons swooping down to terrorise the now enraged Veela. The fourteen players head towards the centre circle. James takes a shaky breath, shares one final look with Abigail beside him. The whistle blows. The match starts.
The chasers are evenly matched. The first thirty minutes is a desperate display of fast paced tactics and constant turnovers. Bludgers rip between the beaters like morter fire. At last, Vatova breaks the deadlock, executing an outstanding divebomb before slamming the quaffle through England’s smallest hoop. He wheels off to celebrate, blowing Abigail a kiss as he passes. James hears a distinct ringing in his ears. Abigail pre-empts him, jabbing a finger into James’ chest.
“Calm down Potter, I can shut him up myself, thank you very much”.
She can at that. The next time Vatova dawdles in possession. Abigail is on him, sinking her elbow hard into the Bulgarian’s nose. The referee doesn’t notice. Vatova gives a great howl of pain and drops the quaffle. Abigail snatches it up, shoves it sideways to James who pulls out a sloth grip roll to avoid a bludger and simultaneously pings the quaffle through Bulgaria’s largest hoop. The crowd bellows its approval. Abigail flies over to James lazily, smirking at the sight of Vatova’s bloody nose being hastily patched up.
“See.”
For some reason, James is rather turned on.
The match darts onwards, both teams score two apiece. Then, Buglaria’s seeker dives vertically, streaking towards the ground. The crowd stills, a pregnant pause emerges. Robert Dott doesn’t move an inch. He looks bored. Archie’s magically magnified rhotacized voice breaks the silence.
“Portov’s tried a wronski feint, the dingbat! You’re no Krum, my son! Imagine thinking Robert Dott would fall for that one.”
James laughs along with the rest of the stadium. Vatova seems a touch peterbed after Abigail broke his nose – he’s piped down at any rate. The English chasing trio takes advantage, purring into life and taking a two-goal advantage. The rain starts lashing down, Bulgaria pull one back. Abigail moves up beside James.
“It’s no good – we’re too evenly matched. This is a snitch catch.”
James nods his agreement, his stomach squirms. It’s all on Robert Dott.
It takes five hours and fifteen-goals for each side. Through the pouring rain and the ripping wind, both seekers spot the snitch. They tear upwards. The world seems to slow. James’ mind races. An old muggle song, one of his father’s favourites, whirs between his ears
Let the rain wash away, all the pain of yesterday.
Up the seekers sore, high into the English sky. Robert Dott pulls level, then ahead. Screams rent the air as he closes a clawing hand around the snitch. Pandemonium envelops the stadium. Abigail practically pounces on him, gripping him as if her life depends on it.
“We did it, Jamie! We did it!”
The England team concertinas into a mass group hug, which descends carefully down to the ground. The subs pile on, so does a roaring, growling Oliver Wood. Tearfully, shaking and shocked, the England team heads towards the top box. James resolutely marches to Archie, dragging the old owl to lift the trophy with them. As the rest of the team take turns brandishing the trophy to the crowd, James pulls Abigail to the back of the box, his family rearranging themselves subtly to shield them from view.
He kisses her, with as much feeling as he’s ever felt.
For the first time since the snitch catch, the noise of the crowd breaks through the stunning euphoria. The chorus of a song cascades upon him, belted out by a thousand voices.
“Three dragons on a shirt, the snitch is still gleaming!
No more years of hurt, no more need for dreaming!”
[---]
A/N:
Bit of a lighter one this chapter. Was a lot of fun for me weaving in the footie references. Plus, there was a hell of a lot of wish fulfilment going on there, alongside an attempt to forgive Roy Hodgson for ruining my childhood. Who knows, maybe life will imitate art at the 2026 world cup. I’m not holding my breath though.
Next up is part one of a longer four-part story exploring a world where Arianna Dumbledore never existed.
As always, comments and likes are appreciated!