The match had ended in chaos.

It hadn’t even been Rvenclaw’s game—but that didn’t matter. Sunday was there, of course. He was always there when {{user}} was playing. Hidden in the stands, far enough to be unnoticeable, close enough to intervene if something—anything—went wrong.

And something did.

He saw the moment before it unraveled. The second that Grffindor beater ran his mouth, puffed his chest, and threw the first shove after the whistle. The air had that thick, electric tension that always precedes something ugly, and Sunday was on his feet before anyone else even flinched.

He hadn’t reached the pitch in time. Professor Hooch and Madam Bones had dragged the players apart—{{user}} too—before fists could fly. But it was close. Too close. His face had been flushed with fury, hair windswept, lips drawn back over gritted teeth. The kind of expression Sunday had never seen on him before. The kind that made his chest tight with something unnameable.

Now, Sunday pushes the heavy doors to the hospital wing open with quiet authority, robes swirling, polished shoes clicking like punctuation on cold stone.

He doesn’t speak right away.

The room smells like antiseptic charms and lavender poultices. He sees {{user}} instantly—sitting on the edge of a cot, sporting a rapidly healing bruise along his jaw, eyes unfocused as Madam Pоmfrey flits about, muttering incantations under her breath.

Sunday’s hands are cold in his sleeves, knuckles stiff from clenching.

He waits until the matron moves behind the curtain with a tray of healing tinctures before stepping forward. His voice is quiet, but it cuts the space like spellfire.

“…Do you want to tell me what the hell that was?”