cigarette daydream || james potter

"If we can find a reason, a reason to change,"

The group of Gryffindor students spilled down the winding path toward the Quidditch pitch, their footsteps scattering loose gravel and laughter into the cold afternoon air. Above them, the sky stretched out in a pale, restless grey-threatening rain but holding back just long enough for the match to begin.

Estella walked slightly ahead of the group, her laughter cutting through the wind as Marlene and Dorcas clung to each other's arms behind her, skipping dramatically over uneven stones as though the entire world were a stage built for their chaos. Dorcas nearly lost her balance at one point, only saved by Marlene yanking her upright with a delighted shriek that only made them laugh harder.

The atmosphere grew louder with every step.

As they neared the stadium, the roar of the crowd became a living thing-thousands of voices swelling together until it vibrated in the air itself. The enormous Quidditch pitch rose ahead of them like a coliseum carved into the landscape, its stands already packed with flashes of scarlet and gold on one side, deep navy and silver on the other. Banners snapped violently in the wind, painted mascots twisting and fluttering as if they might leap from the fabric at any moment.

They climbed the wooden steps into the Gryffindor stands, weaving through clusters of students wrapped in scarves and painted faces, until they reached a spot near the front. From there, the pitch opened up in full view-vast, open, and impossibly high, the goal hoops glinting like distant rings suspended in the sky.

When the Gryffindor team finally burst from the tunnel entrance, the stadium erupted.

The crimson side roared so loudly it felt like the air itself shook. Broomsticks sliced upward in tight formation, robes snapping behind them as they ascended into the grey sky. Estella felt the sound of it deep in her chest-familiar, almost painful in the way it tugged at something she had tried not to miss.

For a moment, she just watched.

The cheers, the chanting, the wild, unrestrained joy of it all-it pressed against her like a memory refusing to fade. She swallowed once, hard, as jealousy flickered through her. Not bitter, not quite. Something sharper. Something like longing.

She missed it.

The way the wind used to hit her face at full speed, cold and violent and alive as she tore across the pitch. The way the crowd's roar used to swell whenever her name was called, thousands of voices rising like thunder beneath her. The way everything narrowed down to motion, instinct, and sky.

Now she stood in the stands, still and grounded, while someone else wore the feeling she used to live in.

On the pitch, the game exploded into motion.

Both teams darted through the air with ferocious speed, robes whipping behind them as they twisted, spun, and dove. Bludgers were launched like cannon fire, forcing sharp evasive turns and sudden drops that made the entire crowd gasp in unison. For a second, a Ravenclaw Chaser flipped upside down mid-air to avoid a brutal hit, barely recovering control before streaking toward the opposite hoops.

Then Gryffindor answered.

James Potter broke through the defensive line like a comet, his broom cutting through the wind with reckless precision. The Quaffle left his hand in a clean arc-and struck true.

The Gryffindor stands detonated into celebration.

"POTTER!" voices screamed from every direction, the sound rising into something almost deafening.