The roar of the crowd echoes across the Quidditch pitch, the crisp autumn air vibrating with anticipation. She's standing near the stands, wrapped in her house scarf, its golden threads gleaming in the sunlight. The match is about to begin, but James doesn't seem to care.

"James," she laughs breathlessly, trying—and failing—to push him away as James presses another kiss to her lips. "You're supposed to be on the pitch!"

He smiles against her mouth, warm and insistent. "Not without my lucky charm."

Her cheeks burn, though she knows it's not from the cold. "You say that every match," she murmurs, tangling his fingers in her windblown hair.

"Because it's true," he replies, tilting his head just enough to steal another kiss, deeper this time, his Quidditch gloves brushing against her jaw as he cups her face. She melts for a moment before reality drags her back.