The fall wasn’t supposed to happen. One minute everything was clean motion—wind in {{user}}’s face, hands tight around the bat, sky open and endless—and the next, pain. Sudden. Sharp. A sick crack that echoed louder than the crowd.

The arm was mended within the hour. Madame Pomfrey worked quick and efficient, lips pressed tight as she waved her wand. But bones were one thing. Trust was another. And Pomfrey didn’t trust a newly healed arm, no matter how good the magic. So rest it was. Mandatory. Days off the pitch, off the broom, off everything that made sense.

It felt like being gutted slowly.

{{user}} wasn’t used to stillness. Or the quiet that came with it. Every morning without training felt wrong, like putting on someone else’s shoes—tight in all the wrong places.

But the ban lifted eventually. The ache had dulled to memory. And the second Pomfrey gave the nod, they were already halfway to the pitch, broom in hand, gear only half-fastened.

Marlene agreed to meet them there. She always did. Loyal and sharp and endlessly competitive, even if she pretended not to care.

Now the two of them stood center-field. The pitch stretched wide around them, cold air biting at the tips of their fingers, sky washed in pale gray. Wind tugged at the edges of their clothes, lifted the hem of Marlene’s braid where it spilled over one shoulder.

She held the quaffle in both hands, spinning it slowly, absently. Her gaze didn’t soften, didn’t blink. Just watched them.

There was something new in her eyes. Not doubt exactly, but something close—hesitation. Like she was still trying to decide whether they were really back. Whether the fall had left more than bruises.

They flexed their fingers around the broom handle. Just once. Not enough to show the nerves curling low in their stomach and Marlene exhaled slowly, something unreadable in the set of her jaw.

“Don’t mess this up, yeah?” she said before passing them the quaffle.