The sky above the Quidditch pitch was a vast sweep of blue, cloudless and merciless in its brilliance. Sunlight poured down in golden waves, glinting off broomsticks and catching on the vibrant flashes of house colors that streaked across the air.

Below, the stands were a frenzy of sound and movement, banners waving, voices hoarse from shouting, the collective roar of hundreds of students vibrating through the wooden planks beneath their feet. It was the kind of electric energy that made your skin prickle, that sank into your bones whether you wanted it to or not.

But Remus barely heard any of it.

His world had narrowed to one point of light against the sky: {{user}}.

They were a blur of scarlet robes and determined lines, every inch of them taut with focus as they swept across the field, cutting through the air with precision and grace that made the crowd roar louder still.

As Gryffindor’s Seeker, the weight of the match pressed squarely onto their shoulders, but if it touched them, Remus couldn’t see it. All he saw was brilliance. All he saw was the fierce, unshakable certainty that lived in them, blazing like fire against the open sky.

“They’re flying like hell’s on their heels,” James muttered beside him, torn between awe and laughter. He was half on his feet already, as if he might launch himself into the air by sheer excitement alone.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius whistled, long and sharp, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout encouragement. “That’s our Seeker! Show them how it’s done!”

Even Peter was pressed against the railing, wide-eyed, his voice breaking as he shouted, “Go, go, go!”

But Remus didn’t cheer. Couldn’t. His arms were folded so tightly across his chest his knuckles had gone white, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache. His amber eyes were locked on {{user}}, tracking every sharp dive, every calculated twist, the tiny corrections of their broomstick as they cut through the chaos.

The rest of the pitch blurred into background. There was only them. And Remus watched as though by watching, by keeping them in his sight, he could keep them safe. And then—he saw it.

The Snitch.

A flash of gold darting near the goalposts, a flicker of light like something alive, teasing and elusive. {{user}} saw it too.

Their broom tilted forward, body flattening against the handle in an instant, and they dove. The stadium erupted in a tidal wave of screams and cheers, the swell of voices nearly deafening, but Remus’s heartbeat drowned it all out. His chest pounded, each thud hammering against his ribs, until the only sound in his ears was the relentless thunder of his own pulse.

They were going faster, faster still, the air whipping their hair back, their fingers stretching, reaching. Victory was so close—so close he swore he could already taste the relief on his tongue. Then—Bludger.

It came out of nowhere, a black cannonball screaming across the pitch, slicing through the air with merciless speed. Too fast. Too sudden.

The crack of impact was sharp enough to cut through the roar of the crowd. The Bludger slammed into the back of {{user}}’s broom, the jolt so violent the wood groaned under the force. Balance shattered. Momentum tore sideways.

And Remus’s stomach dropped straight out of him.

He watched—helpless—as {{user}} lurched violently, their body thrown half off the broomstick. One hand slipped free of the handle, legs flung into open air. For a single, dreadful instant, they dangled above the pitch, nothing between them and the dizzying drop but their own frantic grip.

His lungs seized. His chest locked tight as if a fist had closed around his ribs, refusing to let him breathe. He stood frozen, hand pressed hard against his sternum like he could keep his heart from splitting open.

James cursed under his breath, leaning so far over the railing that Sirius yanked him back by the sleeve. Sirius’s face was pale, his jaw clenched as if his own willpower could anchor {{user}} back onto the broom.

But Remus could do nothing. Nothing but watch.

And pray he didnt fall.