Signing up for Quidditch had sounded like fun. Loud, fast, physical—something that would keep the mind busy and the hands moving. A way to burn off steam without having to talk too much. Something simple.

But it hadn’t stayed simple. Not with James ‘Jamie’ Potter involved.

He’s captain, obviously. The kind of person who doesn’t ask for space, just walks into it and starts rearranging the furniture. All charm and elbows and sun-warm chaos, shouting across the pitch like everything depends on him. Maybe it does. He plays like it does.

He’d taken one look during tryouts, tilted his head, and grinned like he’d found something interesting. Since then, it’s been extra laps, off-schedule practices, too many notes scribbled in the margins of playbooks. A mission, apparently. A personal one.

They don’t remember agreeing to sunrise wake-ups or bruises blooming purple across both arms. But here they are anyway.

The Great Hall is too bright this early. Golden light spilling across the floor, catching the edges of plates and goblets and already-too-awake conversation. They sit slumped at the Gryffindor table, half-asleep, toast gone cold on the plate and eggs poked into a sad little pile. The pumpkin juice helps, a little. Not enough.

And then James arrives—like weather. Loud. Bright. Moving too quickly, voice already halfway through a sentence before he’s even sat down.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” he says, nudging their arm with his elbow, unbothered and perfectly awake.

They don’t answer. Just grunt, dragging their gaze toward him like it takes effort. He’s grinning—of course he is. Hair messier than usual, tie loose around his neck like he forgot it existed halfway through getting dressed. His whole body seems to hum with energy the rest of the world hasn’t caught up to yet.

“C’mon, hurry up,” he says, already reaching over to steal half a slice of toast. “You need training. Lots of it. Match is this weekend, and I need my beater alive.”

A groan. Slow and theatrical, head tipping forward until their forehead meets their palm. “If you want me in top shape,” they mumble, “maybe let me sleep past sunrise for once.”

James just laughs—loud and careless, like the whole situation is a joke and he’s the only one who knows the punchline. He leans back in his seat, stretching out like he owns the entire bench.

“Sleep is overrated,” he says, tearing a bite from the toast he didn’t ask for. “Finish your breakfast or I’ll carry you to the pitch myself.”