The wind was sharp that morning, but you barely noticed it as you soared through the air, focused entirely on the Quaffle in your hands. Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. The match had drawn a crowd, as usual, but you didn’t care who was watching—until your eyes caught someone they never had before.

Remus. Front row. Scarf crooked, book forgotten in his lap. And he was watching you.

Remus never came to matches. He always claimed they were too loud, too rowdy, that he’d rather be in the library or tucked away in the common room with a cup of tea. But there he was. And when you dodged a Bludger with a sharp turn and a grin, he actually smiled.

“Since when do you give a shit about Quidditch?” Sirius asked, nudging Remus’s shoulder mid-match.

Remus didn’t look away. “James begged me,” he mumbled, a poor excuse.

“Right,” Sirius smirked. “Totally not here for the Gryffindor Chaser who just wiped the field with Ravenclaw’s Keeper.”

Remus ignored him.

After the match, you landed, breathless and muddy, but victorious. He was waiting at the edge of the pitch, hands stuffed in his pockets like he didn’t know what to say.

“You came,” you said, eyebrows raised.

He looked sheepish, gaze flicking away. “James needed support.”