Losing was awful, and no matter how many times you did it, it didn't get any easier to handle. There had been far too much losing going on this year, in Lindsay's opinion, and she was trying her hardest to put herself in the mindset of a winner. That was easier said than done, of course, since a mind that was often filled with as much self-doubt as Lindsay's was a challenging sort of mind to change. There was no doubt that she'd been trying, though. She'd finally brewed up the ultimate solution for soaking sore muscles, and every moment she had to herself was spent with a damp and rather pungent towel wrapped around her bad shoulder, or any muscle that so much as twinged. Most of the pain, she'd be happy to report, was the good kind – the kind that clung when you were working hard and getting stronger. When you're at the bottom there's nothing to do but improve. She tried to embrace it all as a sign that she was actually getting better, since it was the only concrete way to know for sure whether or not any of the work she was putting in was making a difference. She felt perfectly fine and strong and good when she woke up that morning, and was prepared to go on her ritual run... and then she looked outside.

Lindsay had seen fog before. She'd grown up in Scotland – she was more than familiar with the concept. At first she'd merely felt frustrated that the weather decided to shift just in time for the match. Hadn't she been having a lovely picnic outside just days before? It had just seemed like normal fog initially, but after wandering around for only a moment on the slippery grass she decided it wasn't worth trying to navigate the uncannily thick conditions right before a match. She couldn't see far enough in front of her at any one time to be sure that she wouldn't fall flat on her face and kill herself. She'd come back inside quickly, feeling both chilled and concerned. The fog didn't look like it was lifting. On the contrary, it looked like it was just settling in and getting comfortable. Any confidence she'd managed to dredge up was being replaced by worry, and by the time she'd eaten and made it out to the clubhouse, that concern was settling in her mind as firmly as the fog was on the air. 

Someone was going to get hurt. She knew that wasn't what she was supposed to be worried about, but she couldn't have helped herself for all the galleons in Gringotts. If she couldn't even see a thing on the ground where the fog was thinnest, how could she spot the bludgers in the air where it hung like a dark curtain over the whole pitch? Pete may not have been doing as much bouncing as usual, but Lindsay was picking up his slack. She couldn't sit for thirty seconds without nearly bouncing her leg clear off, and when she was up and walking about she couldn't stay off of the balls of her feet. If it hadn't been a match, she might have been able to see this as an opportunity for some amazing beating practice, but this actually counted. She was having great difficulty seeing the conditions as anything but a disaster that had been concocted specifically to throw her off. 


we don't realize our faith in the prize unless its been somehow elusive
how swiftly we choose it - the sacred simplicity of you at my side