DEAD TO ME → (h. potter)

PROLOGUE

"You have two minutes, Indiana, and two laps to go!" Her fathers voice was low like the bass of a choir and demanding like a military leader. In her early adolescence, she may have described it as frightening, but at the ripe age of seventeen, it was only a fuel to her fire. She channeled her anger through her broom and into the Beater Bat clutched under her fingers, the material almost becoming hot with lividity. "Don't you waste time, now!"

Her oesophagus stung and the wind was flaying her ponytail about so madly that the whipping of it against her face began to hurt, her flushed skin sensitive from the harsh wind that collided against her cheeks. The pads of her fingers were beginning to burn from the harsh grip they held on the wooden pole of the broom; normally she would have been wearing her dragon-hide gloves, but alas, her father was tough. Only the best Quidditch players can play just as well without protection equipment, he said. No helmet, no goggles, no gloves. Just the player. Just her.

"One minute!"

The Firebolt was the fastest broom in the league and she was fortunate enough to be able to afford such a piece of equipment, but alas, her father never seemed to be impressed. His happiness about the broom had lasted for, perhaps, one practice; the Firebolt outmatched both the Cleansweep and the Nimbus 2001, but he seemed to think the Firebolt should have been faster. That she could, somehow, force it to ride faster. She did her best, despite her best never being quite enough.

"On the ground, now!" He sounded angry, she thought. His voice boomed through the yard, echoing about the vast space. By the look of the wrinkles between his eyebrows protruding and the corners of his lips downturned, she knew she was in for it.

As soon as Indiana's feet came in contact with the grassy field, her father reached out his rough, calloused hand and snatched the broom from her so quickly she almost stumbled forward. Hands at her side and chin up, she waited for her father to begin, dark eyes void of emotion.

"That's ten seconds longer than last time," Jack Jones said in such a violently calm voice that she could feel the echo of it boil in her stomach, filling her with dread. "If you were serious about what you're pursuing, you'd think you'd see some progress."

"I — I am serious —"

"I don't want to hear it," His voice was raised this time, so raised that perhaps, if she were five years younger, she could have flinched. Maybe even cried. His silent disappointment was so incredibly loud that it made her temples pound, her heart clench. "No Captain can be slower than his teammates. The Captain is a Captain for a reason. He is stronger, he is faster, he is better. You seem to be none of those things."

Maybe it's cause' I'm not a He, she thought bitterly. Maybe if I were Simon, you'd be less of a fucking dick.

"I want you doing at least five more laps before dinner," He threw the broom into her grip so aggressively the tip of it almost whacked her in the forehead; she caught it swiftly, her hands burning again when they touched the surface of the wood. "No less. I'm charming the Bludger — it'll stop coming at you once you've gotten all five done."

"Kay," Indiana said quietly and firmly, sharply nodding her head. Her father raised a single eyebrow, nose slightly scrunching with anger. Indiana bit the inside of her cheek and tried again, "Yes, father."

Without another word, he turned and stomped in through the backdoor of the Manor, robes billowing behind him. When his figure vanished, Indiana let out a short sigh of relief, her heart still pounding against the inside of her chest as her body calmed down. Behind the glass of one of the windows on the second floor of the Manor, the figure of her brother, Simon, appeared. Flashing his teeth in a grin, he waved down at her. She lifted her palm up to him in a small wave.