No Promises
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Pairing: Gen
Characters: James, Sirius and McGonagall
Summary: Just your typical Quidditch accident.
"James! James! James, you fucking wanker, wake up!"
Sirius' voice was giving him a headache, or it was simply worsening the monumental one he already had. Why Sirius was yelling at him while crushing his fingers was still a mystery. James opened one eye and winced at the bright light. Blinking, he tried to focus on the shape that was hovering over him. "Uh?"
"James! Are you alright? How many fingers do you see?"
"I barely see a hand like shape," he groaned and patted the ground around him. "Bloody glasses!"
"They broke," Sirius supplied helpfully.
"Bloody brilliant…" James was about to enquire as to how he had managed to break his glasses, again, and incidentally his right arm, again too, when he suddenly remembered… The Bludger heading straight for Sirius', who was conveniently looking the other way, the same fucking Bludger hitting him in the back as he pushed Sirius away and the fast spinning to the ground as he tried to stop his descent. He definitely needed a better broom. His father couldn't possibly say no now and the new Nimbus series looked good enough.
"You are grinning, Prongs, you can't be that bad off then."
"No thanks to you. You're a bloody beater, the first rule is never to lose sight of the Bludger."
"There are two of them, you know."
James glared at the general direction of Sirius' blur. "Is it over? Did we win?"
"Of course we did. We were leading by enough points that even if they had caught the snitch, which they didn't, we still have won."
"Wait a second." James frowned and listed to the very unusual quiet of the Quidditch field. "Why isn't everybody rushing to my side and fussing over my tragically injured self?"
"Er…Sorry." Sirius waved his wand, or at least James thought that's what he did, and muttered and incantation. Suddenly the familiar noise of the Quidditch pitch and the crowd could be heard.
"Mr. Black!" McGonagall's outraged tone could be easily distinguished among the fray of voices. "You do not put up a shield when one of your classmates is unconscious and very possibly gravely injured! You are not a healer, a medwitch or a teacher, no matter how competent you think you are."
"Competent enough to keep up a good shield," Sirius muttered.
"I'm conscious now, Professor," James said, hoping McGonagall would focus on him instead of his best friend.
"Regardless of your state of wakefulness, Mr. Potter, we better take you to the hospital wing. The angle of that arm doesn't look quite right."
"Tragic," whispered James. "I know."
"What I wish to know, Mr. Black," said McGonagall, completely ignoring James, "is why you felt the need to put up a shield around Mr. Potter and yourself."
James squinted at what he hoped was Sirius' face. He quite wanted to hear the answer to that too.
"Renata Vane," Sirius replied gravely and James had to nod in agreement. He had already woken up once to her not so kind and quite spooky ministrations – after which he swore never to fall asleep on the common room again – and that was an experience he wasn't eager to repeat. At all.
"Consider your life death to me repaid," James said before he felt himself being levitated off the ground.
"I will refrain from asking, but next time, Mr. Potter, try not to intentionally place yourself in the path of a Bludger. We haven't lost the Quidditch cup in four years and I don't intend to releasing it to the care of any of my fellow Heads of House any time soon, right, Mr. Potter?"
"Right. Sorry, Professor," he replied, but as he looked at the Sirius shaped blur walking beside him he knew he could make no promises, not until the wanker learned to keep his eyes on both Bludgers anyway.
- The End -