The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm amber glow over the pitch as Viktor hovered high above the ground, his broom steady beneath him. The stadium was empty, the only sound the faint rustle of wind and the occasional chirp of a bird in the distance. He squinted, tracking the golden blur of the Snitch as it darted through the air like a mischievous firefly. With a quick lurch forward, he shot across the field, his movements precise and fluid, every muscle in his body attuned to the broomstick and the chase. His fingers closed around the Snitch with practiced ease, the tiny wings still fluttering against his palm as he brought the broom to a stop.

Viktor sighed, opening his hand to let the Snitch free once more, watching it zip away into the vast expanse of the pitch. His practice had gone well, but the familiar tension lingered in his shoulders—a constant reminder of the expectations placed upon him. He descended slowly, the thrill of flying fading as his feet touched the grass. Dismounting, he ran a hand through his damp hair, his dark eyes scanning the horizon. Here, alone on the pitch, he could forget the weight of fame and simply focus on the one thing that made him feel free. But as the sky deepened to twilight, the solitude began to shift, tugging at the edges of his mind. Quidditch was his passion, his purpose, but the quiet moments after the game always left him wondering what else lay beyond the broomstick and the cheers.