Chapter Text
The London sky had that bluish-gray shade that I used to appreciate, but which, on that Tuesday morning, seemed just... monotonous. Inside the newsroom of The Daily Prophet, the sound was a symphony I knew by heart: the incessant clicking of keyboards, the murmur of televisions tuned to sports channels from all over the world, and the omnipresent aroma of burnt coffee that I could no longer ignore.
I was in my element. With my red hair tied in a bun so tight it could serve as a weapon of self-defense, I was reviewing, for the third time, my column on Manchester City's tactical reform. I didn't just write about football; I dissected it. For me, the pitch had always been a chessboard, and every player a piece that should move with logic, purpose, and discipline.
"Evans! In my office. Now."
The voice of Alastor Moody, the editor-in-chief whose scars from decades of covering hooligans made him the most feared figure in the building, cut through the air.
I stood up, straightening my pencil skirt with an automatic gesture. Deep down, I hoped it was about the coverage of the FA Cup final. What I received, however, was a manila envelope and a look from someone who was about to throw an impossible challenge my way.
"Diggle broke his leg," Moody growled, throwing himself into his worn leather chair. "Fell off a ladder trying to rescue a cat. A damn cat, Lily. He was our man in Brazil."
My heart skipped a beat. Brazil. The World Cup would start in ten days.
"I'm wrong about Dedalus, sir. Who is going to replace him? Vance? Meadowes?"
Moody let out a dry laugh that sounded more like a throat-clearing.
"No. You are."
I blinked, frozen.
"Me? But I'm the tactical and European analysis editor. I don't do..." I searched for the right word, grimacing, "...entertainment chronicles. The Brazilian National Team isn't about tactics, sir. It's about carnival, little dances, and players who think the pitch is a theater stage. Especially that number 10."
"James Potter?" Moody smiled, and it was a terrifying smile. "Exactly. You hate him on paper. You've already called him 'an affront to defensive organization' and 'a talent wasted on childish displays.' Now, you're going to cover him up close. I want your technical vision contrasting with the South American chaos. It's the biggest opportunity of your career."
I opened my mouth to protest, but the office door was flung open before the first word could leave my throat.
"If you guys are talking about Rio, I've already started packing!" Sirius Black entered the room with the energy of a hurricane.
Sirius was the magazine's best photographer and my best friend since college, despite us being polar opposites. He wore a leather jacket over a band t-shirt, had black hair falling over his eyes, and a smile that said he had already decided that trip would be a two-month party.
"Black, you're going with her," Moody said. "Try to ensure the photos aren't just of models on the beach. We need football."
"Moody, my dear fellow, I'm going to capture the soul of that nation," Sirius declared, throwing himself onto the boss's desk and grabbing my envelope. "Tickets for tomorrow morning. Evans, darling, leave your wool coats in the basement. We are going to the country of sun, music, and, apparently, the man you most love to hate."
I took the envelope back, feeling the weight of the paper and the responsibility.
"I don't hate him, Sirius. I just don't respect his style of play. There's a difference."
"Sure, sure. That's why you have a folder on your computer full of videos of his dribbles for 'analytical purposes,'" Sirius winked at me.
"It's opponent research!" I retorted, feeling my cheeks warm up.
"The point is," Moody interrupted, standing up to signal that the meeting was over, "the flight leaves at eight. Be there. Brazil is waiting, and the world wants to know if James Potter really is the savior of the homeland or just another golden boy with too much gel in his hair."
My night was a blur of frenetic efficiency. While most people would be dreaming of caipirinhas and white sand, I was sitting on the floor of my apartment in Islington, surrounded by piles of scout reports.
I had heat maps of James Potter over the last two years for Real Madrid. I had statistics on assists, kilometers covered, and, unfortunately, a list of tabloid controversies. James was "The Faithful." He never abandoned a play, never let his team down, but he also never missed a chance to provoke an opponent or post a video laughing after a crushing victory.
He was everything I despised: loud, unpredictable, and gifted with a talent that seemed to come effortlessly, defying the need for discipline that I preached so much.
"You're doing it again," Sirius's voice came from the phone's speaker, which I had thrown onto the bed.
"Doing what?" I asked, without taking my eyes off the tablet.
"Studying Potter as if he were a quantum physics exam. Lily, relax. It's Brazil. People there don't use clocks, they use the rhythm of their hearts."
"That is the stupidest thing you've ever told me, Sirius. And you've said a lot of stupid things."
"I'm just saying... don't try to control the trip before we get there. Are you going to take that laminated schedule of yours?"
I looked at the meticulously organized sheet of paper inside a transparent folder, with sleep schedules adjusted for the time zone and fifteen-minute intervals for meals.
"I am. And you are going to follow it."
"We'll see, Evans. We'll see. See you at boarding. And, Lily?"
"Yes?"
"Try not to fall in love with the number 10 on the first day. It would be terrible for your reputation as the 'Ice Queen of Sports Criticism.'"
I hung up the phone without answering. I looked at the photo on my tablet screen: James Potter, in the yellow National Team jersey, laughing at the camera after scoring a bicycle kick goal. He seemed to be having more fun than anyone should be allowed to have while working.
"Insufferable," I whispered to the empty room.
I closed the suitcase, zipped it locked, and turned off the light. The silence of London would be the last calm thing I would experience for a long time. I just didn't know it yet.
At Heathrow Airport the next morning, the contrast between us was evident. I was wearing dress pants, a starched white shirt, and flats, holding a black coffee as if it were my only anchor to reality. Sirius showed up wearing sunglasses—even inside the terminal—a half-unbuttoned linen shirt, and carrying three cameras hanging around his neck like medals.
"Ready for the chaos, Evans?" he asked me, offering a bright smile.
I looked at the boarding gate. The sign flashed: RIO DE JANEIRO - GIG.
"I'm not going to chaos, Sirius. I'm going to work."
"Believe me," he said, putting his arm around my shoulders as we walked toward the jet bridge, "in Brazil, the two are the same thing."
As the plane took off, leaving the British mist behind, I felt the first butterflies in my stomach in years. It wasn't a fear of flying. It was the feeling that, for the first time in my life, I was going to a place where my rules, my tactics, and my laminated schedule would have no power at all against the Brazilian national team's number 10.
The World Cup was beginning, and my game was about to change forever.