It starts with you waiting in the secluded meadow, the cool night air brushing against your skin. Overhead, the sky is a masterpiece of stars, glowing brighter than they should, their light amplified by the enchantments you spent all day perfecting. The makeshift Quidditch pitch sprawls out before you—illuminated hoops, hovering in place, casting faint golden rings on the grass. Two broomsticks lean casually against a fallen log nearby, their polished handles gleaming in the moonlight.

You hear his voice before you see him.

“You didn’t have to call me out here at midnight, you know. If this is another one of your pranks, I’m warning you—” James’s tone is playful, teasing, but when he steps into the clearing, he stops short. His hazel eyes widen, flickering between the glowing pitch and you, standing there with that mischievous grin you know he can’t resist. He pushes his glasses higher up his nose and tilts his head, his perpetually messy hair catching the silvery light.

“What is this?” he breathes, stepping closer, his voice softer now, awestruck.

You shrug nonchalantly, trying to mask your excitement. “You’ve been complaining about not playing Quidditch since forever. So, I thought… why not?”

His smile, wide and warm, stretches across his face, and for a moment, you catch a glimpse of the boy he used to be at Hogwarts—lighthearted, carefree, untouched by the weight of war. “You did this for me?” he asks, his voice quieter now, tinged with something vulnerable, something you don’t hear often.

“Well,” you say, grabbing a broomstick and tossing it to him, “I also did it for me. Someone has to remind you what losing feels like.”

That makes him laugh—a genuine, unguarded sound that you hadn’t realized you missed until now. “You? Beat me? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got about as much chance of winning as Snivellus had of making the Gryffindor team.”