Moonlit Bonds

5. Quidditch Match

The following days passed in a haze for Moony, filled with an unspoken tension that grew heavier with every moment. Each glance shared with Padfoot felt like stepping further onto a tightrope—one they both walked cautiously, unsure of what lay on the other side. Their conversations, once so easy, were now laced with a quiet intensity. Neither of them mentioned the dream again, yet it lingered between them, always present, always pulling at the edges of Moony's thoughts.

 The upcoming Quidditch match added a layer of pressure, though for different reasons. The entire Gryffindor team was on edge, knowing that this game was critical to their chances of winning the Quidditch Cup. Prongs had been drilling the team relentlessly, and Padfoot, ever the competitor, was throwing himself into the practices with everything he had. Normally, Moony would have been thrilled for his friends, caught up in the excitement and camaraderie of it all. But lately, the only thing he could feel when he watched Padfoot was a knot of anxiety twisting in his stomach.

He couldn't concentrate on his studies. Every time his eyes wandered to the window, his mind followed, racing back to Padfoot on his broom, soaring through the air. He'd imagine a Bludger striking him or the broom slipping from his grip, and that same knot of fear would tighten in his chest. There was something off, something the dream was trying to warn him about, but he couldn't piece it together. He felt helpless, his mind spinning in circles.

The day of the match arrived, the air buzzing with anticipation. The entire school gathered in the stands; the roar of excitement almost deafening. Gryffindor was facing Slytherin, and the rivalry was as fierce as ever. Prongs had given one of his rousing pre-match speeches, and the team was ready. Padfoot flashed Moony a grin before taking off, his eyes gleaming with that familiar spark of mischief. Moony tried to smile back, but the knot in his stomach tightened once again.

As the match began, Moony found it impossible to focus on anything but Padfoot. He tracked him across the pitch, heart in his throat every time he flew near a Bludger or engaged in a risky manoeuvre. It was torture watching him like this—knowing how reckless Padfoot could be, how he thrived on danger. Moony's mind was a whirlwind of worry, the dream replaying in the back of his mind, that shadowy version of Padfoot haunting him.

The game itself was brutal. Slytherin was playing dirty, as usual, and the Gryffindor Beaters were working overtime to fend off attacks. The Golden Snitch flitted in and out of sight, a glimmering speck far above the chaos of the match. The tension in the stands was palpable, the crowd roaring with every close call, but Moony could barely hear them over the pounding of his own heart.

And then it happened.

 In a split second, Padfoot shot into action, his broom a blur as he spotted the Snitch. The entire pitch seemed to hold its breath as he streaked towards it, eyes locked on the tiny, fluttering ball of gold. But Moony's heart lurched in terror as he saw a rogue Bludger hurtling straight for Padfoot, its path unmistakable and deadly. Panic seized him, and without thinking, he jumped to his feet, shouting Padfoot's name.

His voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd, but somehow, Padfoot heard him. Or maybe he didn't hear at all—maybe it was something deeper, an instinct that rippled between them, the same instinct that had linked them in the dream. Whatever it was, Padfoot reacted just in time, swerving at the last second. The Bludger missed him by a hair's breadth, whistling past with terrifying speed. Moony's heart was in his throat, his entire body tense, the fear gripping him so tightly he could barely breathe.

But Padfoot didn't slow down. With a reckless grin, he stretched out his hand, fingers brushing against the Snitch. And then, in one fluid motion, he grasped it, holding it triumphantly aloft. The stadium erupted in cheers, the sound deafening, but Moony barely registered it. His legs gave way, and he sank back onto the bench, his heart still racing, relief flooding through him like a tidal wave.

Gryffindor had won. Prongs was shouting in triumph, Wormtail was jumping up and down, and the entire team was celebrating as they flew victory laps around the pitch. But Moony couldn't focus on any of that. All he could see was Padfoot, grinning and laughing, the Snitch clutched tightly in his hand.

The wave of relief was quickly followed by something deeper, something more unsettling. It was admiration, certainly—he'd always admired Padfoot's bravery, his wild confidence—but it was more than that. Watching him up there, so alive, so untouchable, had stirred something in Moony that went beyond friendship. His heart pounded, not from the game but from the realization that had been creeping up on him for days.

It was Padfoot. 

It had always been Padfoot. 

When Padfoot finally landed, he was immediately swept up in the jubilant crowd, Prongs slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into a bear hug. They laughed and whooped, basking in their victory, but Moony couldn't bring himself to join them. His chest was tight with emotions he didn't know how to process. Relief, fear, admiration... and something else. Something that made his heart race and his palms sweat every time he looked at Padfoot.

Eventually, Padfoot broke free of the crowd and made his way over to Moony, still breathless from the match. "What did you think, Moony?" he asked, grinning widely, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

Moony swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. "You were brilliant," he said, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside him. "But that Bludger... I thought—"

"I know," Padfoot interrupted, his grin fading slightly as he glanced back at the pitch. "I felt it too. For a second, it was like... like something was pulling me back. I can't explain it."

Moony nodded, understanding all too well. That connection they had felt in the dream, it had been real. He could feel it now, standing so close to Padfoot, their eyes meeting in that quiet, intense way that had become so familiar over the past few days.

 "Thank you," Padfoot said softly, his voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

"For what?" Moony asked, his breath catching in his throat.

"For warning me. I don't know how I heard you, but I did."

Moony smiled, though it was tight with everything he wasn't saying. "You're welcome."

And as they stood there, the celebrations carrying on around them, Moony couldn't help but feel that something had shifted between them yet again. The dream, the danger, the moment on the pitch—it had all brought them closer in ways neither of them had expected. And now, standing there in the aftermath, Moony felt that same knot in his chest, a mixture of fear and hope, knowing that whatever came next, it was going to change everything.