Atlas Holt could think of nineteen different ways she’d rather be spending her morning off the top of her head, and that was only the beginning of what might be a truly infinite list. Sitting in the Quidditch stands on a brisk October morning, shivering into her jacket, would never rate as enjoyable. The bitter wind cut to the bone. There weren’t enough warming charms in the world to protect the shells of her ears and her slim fingers from the chill. If Perseus had not looked at her with that damnable pout, she would have blown off his request in favor of an extra hour of sleep in the warmth of her bed.
But he had pouted, and with their breakfast plans contingent on her waiting for his bloody Quidditch practice to end, Atlas had found herself sat in her least favorite part of all of Hogwarts. It was terribly dull up here. It was bad enough when she was squeezed in with hundreds of other students, surrounded by the deafening roar of their delight. Atlas had thought it might have been more tolerable as the only soul on the rickety benches.
She had thought wrong.
The practice utterly failed to capture her interest. Quidditch had never appealed much to the lanky Slytherin. It seemed such a foolish thing, a waste of time. Who cared about broomsticks when there was old magic to ferret out of ancient books and secret places? She’d rather be in the library, curled up next to the fire with a massive book sprawled across her lap. Or in her dormitory. Or the Great Hall. Or literally anywhere else on earth. This was beyond stupid—they could have simply met for breakfast after he was done. Merlin’s wrinkled balls, why had he asked her to come to his stupid practice?
Because he had her wrapped around his finger, she mused with a scowl. Atlas folded her arms beneath her chest, trying in vain to warm her numb hands. Booted feet resting on the bench below her, she ignored the sensible voice in her head that reminded her she could have worn a cloak. And gloves. And a scarf. Leggings and a stolen borrowed vintage Weird Sisters shirt were cute, sure, but perhaps vanity should not have been her priority. Atlas ignored that traitorous thought, instead peering up into the early morning sky.
Fingers of sunlight were finally managing to pierce the heavy blanket of clouds. She couldn’t quite make sense of what the Gryffindors were doing, exactly. Drills of some sort? There seemed to be a lot of ‘let’s all chase Perseus and try to unseat him from his broom with elbows and bludgers’. Undoubtedly, Perseus deserved this punishment (?) for good reason, but it was a little alarming to see the small wizard pursued by six, much larger players. He was quick, and judging by the continued Gryffindor domination of the sport, quite good. A little rush of pride surged through her, but even that affection could not overcome her overwhelming indifference to the sport.
The watch looped around a wrist informed her that it was half past eight when the team began to circle down towards the pitch. Perseus shot her a shit-eating grin as he descended, pale face flush with wind and excitement. Atlas arched her brow in return, scoffing.
Her joints protested as she rose to her feet, numb legs carrying her towards the steps. Her dark hair caught and tangled in the wind, and Atlas spent the walk down rickety, winding stairs trying to tame it. Dragonskin boots clicked in a flurry as she took stairs two at a time.
The wind was less vicious as she reached the solid ground, but frozen grass crunched beneath her boots. Her breath came out in heavy curls of fog, lungs stinging with every pull of morning air. The pitch was empty, still cloaked in the shadows of the stands. Atlas leaned against a solid patch of wall outside the locker rooms to wait, cursing the cold morning all the while.
But he had pouted, and with their breakfast plans contingent on her waiting for his bloody Quidditch practice to end, Atlas had found herself sat in her least favorite part of all of Hogwarts. It was terribly dull up here. It was bad enough when she was squeezed in with hundreds of other students, surrounded by the deafening roar of their delight. Atlas had thought it might have been more tolerable as the only soul on the rickety benches.
She had thought wrong.
The practice utterly failed to capture her interest. Quidditch had never appealed much to the lanky Slytherin. It seemed such a foolish thing, a waste of time. Who cared about broomsticks when there was old magic to ferret out of ancient books and secret places? She’d rather be in the library, curled up next to the fire with a massive book sprawled across her lap. Or in her dormitory. Or the Great Hall. Or literally anywhere else on earth. This was beyond stupid—they could have simply met for breakfast after he was done. Merlin’s wrinkled balls, why had he asked her to come to his stupid practice?
Because he had her wrapped around his finger, she mused with a scowl. Atlas folded her arms beneath her chest, trying in vain to warm her numb hands. Booted feet resting on the bench below her, she ignored the sensible voice in her head that reminded her she could have worn a cloak. And gloves. And a scarf. Leggings and a stolen borrowed vintage Weird Sisters shirt were cute, sure, but perhaps vanity should not have been her priority. Atlas ignored that traitorous thought, instead peering up into the early morning sky.
Fingers of sunlight were finally managing to pierce the heavy blanket of clouds. She couldn’t quite make sense of what the Gryffindors were doing, exactly. Drills of some sort? There seemed to be a lot of ‘let’s all chase Perseus and try to unseat him from his broom with elbows and bludgers’. Undoubtedly, Perseus deserved this punishment (?) for good reason, but it was a little alarming to see the small wizard pursued by six, much larger players. He was quick, and judging by the continued Gryffindor domination of the sport, quite good. A little rush of pride surged through her, but even that affection could not overcome her overwhelming indifference to the sport.
The watch looped around a wrist informed her that it was half past eight when the team began to circle down towards the pitch. Perseus shot her a shit-eating grin as he descended, pale face flush with wind and excitement. Atlas arched her brow in return, scoffing.
Her joints protested as she rose to her feet, numb legs carrying her towards the steps. Her dark hair caught and tangled in the wind, and Atlas spent the walk down rickety, winding stairs trying to tame it. Dragonskin boots clicked in a flurry as she took stairs two at a time.
The wind was less vicious as she reached the solid ground, but frozen grass crunched beneath her boots. Her breath came out in heavy curls of fog, lungs stinging with every pull of morning air. The pitch was empty, still cloaked in the shadows of the stands. Atlas leaned against a solid patch of wall outside the locker rooms to wait, cursing the cold morning all the while.
