She’s on the Quidditch pitch at dawn, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up, shouting encouragement that sounds suspiciously like a challenge. You sit in the stands with a mug of coffee that’s gone cold, pretending you’re not watching the way she moves - confident, fast, alive. When she spots you, she grins mid-flight and nearly takes out a Ravenclaw chaser.

“Oi!” she yells afterward, landing hard and jogging over. “You distracting me on purpose?”

“Maybe,” you say, standing as she drops her broom and pulls you into a quick, breathless kiss that smells like wind and grass. “You play better when you’re showing off.”

She laughs, bright and unguarded. “You should come fly with us sometime.”

You snort. “Last time I tried, Madam Hooch threatened to ban me for life.”

Marlene gasps dramatically. “Rude. Guess I’ll just have to train you myself.”

That’s how you end up spending afternoons on the pitch, her hands on your shoulders as she corrects your stance, her voice softer than anyone else ever hears it. She cheers when you manage a half-decent turn, whoops like you’ve won the Cup when you don’t fall off.

Off the pitch, she’s still restless, dragging you out for runs by the lake, competitive swims, late-night push-up contests she definitely rigs in her favor. She smells like soap and sweat and freedom. She kisses you like she’s proud to be with you when you finish tonight's workout.