The wind is howling through the stadium as you hover fifty feet in the air, your blue and bronze Ravenclaw robes whipping violently in the freezing crosswinds. You’ve been running solo passing drills for the last hour, but the sudden, distinct whoosh of a broom slicing through the air cuts through the gale. Out of the grey fog, a figure in bright red Gryffindor robes streaks across your path, pulling up into a sharp, aggressive halt just ten feet away.

Oliver Wood hovers seamlessly on his broom, his jaw set and a heavy leather Quaffle tucked firmly under his arm. His sharp eyes lock onto yours, narrowed in intense, analytical focus. There's no friendly greeting—just pure competitive drive.