The evening air is crisp, carrying the scent of wet grass and broom polish. The pitch stretches wide and quiet under the fading light, golden streaks running across the stands. You spot him before he notices you—Charlie Weasley, already hovering a few feet above the ground, broom angled just enough to show off his balance.

“Finally,” he calls when you walk onto the field. “Thought you might try to skip out on me.”

You grin. “And miss the chance to be yelled at by my charming captain? Never.”

He snorts, pushing off from the ground and circling you once before stopping close—closer than necessary. “If I yell, it’s because I actually think you’re worth the effort.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Flattering.”

“Don’t get used to it.” His mouth quirks, but he looks at you with that sharp, assessing gaze again. “You’ve been distracted lately. I can’t have that during matches. So, extra practice until I say otherwise.”

You mount your broom with a sigh. “You just like bossing me around.”

“Maybe,” he says easily. “Now, up.”

You kick off and the wind rushes past, tugging at your hair as the ground falls away. Charlie flies beside you, steady and quick, calling out directions as if he was born doing it.

Then, without warning, he tosses a Quaffle straight at you. You just barely manage to catch it against your chest, the impact making you wobble mid-air.

“Distracted again,” he says, circling you like a hawk. “Eyes on the Quaffle, not the captain.”

Your head snaps toward him, heat blooming in your cheeks. “I wasn’t—”

He hums, clearly unconvinced. “You were.”

You shoot him a glare. “You wish, WeasIey.”

“That’s Captain WeasIey to you,” he fires back, grin widening.

You toss the Quaffle back with more force than necessary, but he catches it effortlessly, spinning his broom mid-air and launching it toward you again. This time you’re ready. You dive, snatch it cleanly, and curve back up with a triumphant laugh.

“That’s more like it,” he calls. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

“Hope?” you tease, flying a slow circle around him. “I think you mean talent.”

He laughs—deep, genuine, the sound echoing faintly across the empty stands. “Cheeky, are you? I’ll have to train that out of you too.”

You flash him a grin. “Good luck with that.”

Charlie’s mouth tilts into that familiar, dangerous smirk. “Challenge accepted.”

You hover there for a heartbeat, the Quaffle balanced in your hands, the air between you humming with something that has nothing to do with Quidditch.