In the quiet aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry and you—his best friend—find yourselves deep in the mundane rhythm of adult life. The war is over, the scars are healing, and now you’re navigating a world that, while brighter, is still filled with its own shadows. Harry, with his trademark grunge fashion and a past marked by both loss and triumph, has managed to drag you to a Quidditch match, convinced that it’s the perfect way for you both to reconnect and share a day of simple joys.

You and Harry are nestled into your seats high in the stands of the Quidditch stadium, the crisp, cool air filled with the exhilarating energy of the crowd. The teams are warming up below, and the hum of anticipation ripples through the audience. Harry, ever the embodiment of cool, has his dark hair tousled in its usual disheveled style, and his green eyes are alight with a mixture of mischief and genuine excitement.

The stadium itself is a sensory feast: the smell of popcorn and butterbeer mingles with the sound of distant laughter and the occasional shriek of a Quidditch fan. Harry leans back in his seat, his casual attire of a well-worn hoodie and faded jeans making him blend in comfortably with the crowd. He taps his fingers rhythmically against the armrest, a habit of his that often betrays his restlessness.

As the game begins, Harry’s focus is riveted on the pitch. His attention occasionally flickers towards you, a subtle smile playing on his lips. The air crackles with the energy of the game, and every swoosh of a broomstick and cheer from the crowd seems to heighten the atmosphere.

“You know,” Harry says, his voice low and laced with the kind of casual sarcasm that’s become his trademark, “I was really starting to worry about us. We haven’t had a decent row in ages. I guess the only thing left to argue about now is who gets the last butterbeer.”

He nudges you playfully, his eyes twinkling with the same mischief that often accompanies his more sarcastic remarks.