ONE

Ezra Wood learned from a young age to never put anything before Quidditch. That was exactly the reason why he was now using the sport as an excuse to his non-existent procrastination ways to avoid having his brother get on him for doing homework instead of daily practice.

The Quidditch pitch in the dark of night was Ezra's favorite-dismissing the fact that he hated the game either way. He wasn't permitted to be on the grounds this late but he had found an easy way to sneak out unnoticed. It was so eerily quiet that it comforted him in a way that makes the large moon and thousands of stars seem even more spectacular. And being so high off the ground to see it all, was worth sneaking out.

The boy hung in the air on his broom without care. His broad shoulders slumped along with his floppy brown hair that flipped over. He had so much homework to do and not enough time to do it. Quidditch games and practices had already done its toll on him and just the thought of picking up a quill to scribble a couple inches of nonsense made him feel sick in the pit of his stomach.

He remembered how disappointed his family was when they found out he hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor and instead was placed in Ravenclaw for his intelligence that was beyond remarkable for the Wood family. But they hadn't cared.

When Oliver had been sorted into Gryffindor, the house was alive. It was as if the Holyhead Harpies had won the Cup. Since then, it was all his family worried about. Was Oliver getting enough practice or was he eating nutritionally? How much was he focusing on schoolwork and girls and how well did it balance out with playing time? Was he distracted or was he hurt? Nevermind being smart.

Ravenclaw was for overcompensated, Smart Alec's who cared for nothing but of their wits and numbers—which was what his father told him before his first year. Now, his father said nothing after—literally, he's not on speaking terms with his son.

When Ezra was younger he had to admit that he admired his big brother a lot. On the playing field, Oliver overtook a whole new power completely. His brother knew everything there was to know about Quidditch. It was fascinating to hear him talk so passionately and see him so infatuated with one subject.

But as Ezra grew older, it became annoying. Oliver would wake him up before the sun had risen just to draw out plays and then make him practice—one day Oliver played too rough and broke Ezra's arm in the process of flying. But again, he just wanted to make his family at least a little happy to know that he was doing something useful.

Tomorrow was the first match. Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw—in which he needed to both stay out of his brother's House way while also helping Ravenclaw win. Ezra was trying to get his eyesight in check with the darkness and moonlight as his aid.

He reached into his blue bathrobe and pulled out a black snitch Oliver had boughten him for Christmas three years ago.

He raised it in the air, the small wings flapping wildly. Release. Fly. Catch.

It was that simple. Though he knew that having Harry Potter against him was a biased win. Sure, Ezra hated Quidditch and everything it stood for. But he was good. Really good. And joining in his third year had most definitely not been a mistake.

And he was going, to be honest with himself and say that he had quite missed the pitch during the Triwizard Tournament. He missed the green of the grass and the smell of dirt and the clean smell of new robes. He had missed the sound of the students' cheers and claps. He missed the feeling of having his feet touch the ground after being up for so long. But most of all, he missed wrapping his fingers over the golden snitch.

He soared into the black of night and upward he flew. The ends of his robe flipped past him and his hair was blowing back enough to see his hairline. He stopped in mid-air and took a good look around him.

In the sun, it's hard to see gold. In the night, it's impossible to see black.

To the right, the dim lights of Hogwarts give him the faintest glow to illuminate the grounds. On his left, the woods are so deep that he fears are the darkest of all. Up are the stars and the moon. Below is the pitch of green grass. He searches and surveys the area. And then he sees it, taunting him with the flutter of wings.

He surges forward, but the snitch moves away toward the castle. Without thinking, Ezra continues to follow it as so, feeling cheated by the gift that had flown out of boundaries.

He continued his chase to the grounds and the farther he flew the closer he was to the castle. The snitch zig-zagged across the green, fluctuating it's height and dipping up and down. The castle was nearing and the brick was mortifying to crash into.

The castle was a foot away as the snitch soared upwards, and Ezra hadn't been able to recollect himself as he crashed next to Gryffindor towers' window.

Luckily, Ezra was able to maneuver himself last minute and smashed his shoulder into the brick. His left arm seared with pain and he knew that it would be bruised in under an hour. He made a loud, strangled yell as it happened.

Pushing himself off, he held the broom with one arm while trying to flex the fingers on his free hand that had now adorned tiny scratch marks on the knuckles.

He was so focused on his well-being that he hardly even saw the lamp turn on until a soft knock on the window to his right made him jolt and steady himself on the broom.

A boy with black messy hair and large spectacles covering his green eyes made Ezra forget the pain. And instead, all he could do was stare at Harry Potter and the concern written over his face. His lips pointed downward with a frown and his eyebrow scrunched together. His pajamas were all ruffled and wrinkled and it made him look soft and cuddly.

Ezra shook his head, praying that he was hidden in the shadows enough for Harry not to be able to recognize him. He knocked again, and this time Ezra used it as a signal to leave silently.

And he forgot, but a black snitch awaited outside the window, flapping its wings gently to The Boy Who Lived himself.

Ezra landed on the pitch again and gathered all of his stuff together with one capable arm as the sore on folded itself into the pocket of his robe. He hadn't thought to bring his wand out for he was horrible at medical spells anyhow and he deeply regrets that decision at the moment.

He trudged toward the castle in deep thought of green irises and treacherous waves of a black sea. But most of all, he couldn't shake off the picture of two round circles with large frames adorning the boy's pale face.

He'd only interacted with Harry once—disregarding Quidditch matches when they go head to head with one another.

Last year, as Ezra recalls, there was a time during the Yule Ball when Luna Lovegood had dragged him towards every table to check under the chairs for welting wampers. It was after the first dance and Harry had just embarrassed himself around the school and his dancing partner was off with her sister.

The two bumped shoulders. Ezra focused on his eyes, Harry focused on the large butter beer stain he had spilled on Ezra's dress robes. He cleaned it up, apologized thrice, and was then escorted by a needy Patil twin to the dance floor where the Weird Sisters had begun to play something slow.

And Ezra watched him the whole night long.