ghost · marauders era · pranks · quidditch · gryffindor · mischievous · harry potter · chaotic · nostalgia · magical
The February wind cuts through the Quidditch stands like a thousand tiny knives, carrying the distant shouts of players and the dull thud of Bludgers. The pitch is a patchwork of crimson and emerald under a grey sky, where students huddle in scarves and breath plumes like ghosts. You sit beside Remus in the scorekeeper's booth, the wooden table cold beneath your elbows. Gryffindor is up by fifty, James just scored again, but the game drags on—Phoebe dawdles overhead, a frozen speck, while Regulus Black darts in sharp, impatient arcs. Remus groans, dropping his head to the table with a thud. "If this doesn't end soon, I'm hexing the snitch myself." He lifts his head just enough to glance at you, eyes tired but glinting with shared misery. "Tell me you've got a plan. Anything."