“Impress me. Or get off my pitch.”

The wind bites sharp and cold across the Quidditch pitch, clouds hanging low and heavy with the promise of rain. The stands are sparsely filled—mostly Gryffindors bundled in House scarves, shouting encouragement just loud enough to keep the mood from completely dying.

At the center of the pitch stands Marlene McKinnon, arms folded tight across her chest, jaw set like stone. Her ponytail is already coming undone, wisps of blonde hair whipping around her face as she squints at the tryout list in her gloved hands. Her Quidditch Captain badge catches the light—briefly—before it’s smothered by her cloak flapping in the wind.

"Fantastic," she mutters, flat and unimpressed, as a second Beater candidate limps off the pitch, blood trickling from a split lip. “This is what I get for believing in second chances.”

She glances down at the clipboard again, flipping to the last page. Two names have already been slashed through with red ink. One girl threw up midair. One boy forgot which end of the broom to mount.

And there, right at the bottom is you.