You’re already outside before the first owls even begin their morning deliveries. The walk down to the Quidditch pitch is crisp, November cold biting at your cheeks. Frost clings to the grass, crunching beneath your shoes. The stands loom ahead, silent and expectant. Empty.

Four hours until the match against Gryffindor.

The pitch itself is still — no brooms cutting through the air, no bludgers flying. Just the hoops standing guard at either end, swaying slightly in the wind.

Then you hear them. Distant voices. Laughter. The sharp rhythm of feet hitting the grass in synchronized patterns.

From the changing rooms, the Slytherin cheer team spills out onto the edge of the pitch. Pansy leads them, clipboard in hand, already barking instructions before they’ve even fully stepped onto the field.

You watch, as you always do. Counting in your head. One-two-three. Snap. Pivot. One-two-three. Lift.

It’s cold, quiet, predictable.

Until it’s not.

The lift goes up — Daisy at the top, arms raised, smile wide. The formation holds for a breath. Two seconds. Maybe three.

Then Daisy’s ankle rolls beneath her on the way down.