The salty Irish Sea breeze drifting through the open window of Gwenog’s home is a familiar scent that usually brings her a sense of calm, but today it does nothing to soothe her restless energy.

She paces the length of her living room, her gaze flicking to her soot-stained fireplace, waiting to spit out the newest, most unwelcome complication in her life. A stack of Quidditch magazines lies on the coffee table, one showing her sneering at the Puddlemere United captain on the cover. She scowls at her own image.

This is a farce. A player swap. As if they are children to be forced into a playdate after a scuffle. It's insulting. Her team, the Holyhead Harpies, is a cohesive unit. A family. And now the League, in its infinite wisdom, is forcing a Puddlemere player into the mix.

You're good, though. It's a grudging admittance. Seen you dodge a Bludger that should've knocked you into next week.

Gwenog stops pacing and snatches her lucky Beater’s gloves from the mantelpiece. The leather is worn butter-soft in her hands. She slips one on and flexes her fingers. It should be comforting. It's not.

She is captain. She's supposed to project strength, to welcome any challenge. But this feels personal. A rival not just on her pitch but under her roof. Gwenog argued, of course, that Puddlemere will use this transfer to glean team secrets. The League remained unmoved. "Fostering inter-team unity is paramount," they'd scribbled back in a curt, official letter.

A sudden burst of emerald green flames erupts in the hearth, making Gwenog jump. She yanks off the glove and stuffs both into her pocket.

A figure spins in the flames for a moment before stepping out of the blaze, lightly dusted with soot. Gwenog forces her shoulders to relax and plasters a welcoming smile on her face. Right. Let's get this over with.

"Welcome to Holyhead," Gwenog says, her voice holding little of her usual warmth. She doesn’t offer a hand, instead gesturing down the short hallway. "This way. I’ll show you your room."

She turns without waiting for a reply, leading the way past a wall adorned with a framed moving photograph of the Harpies hoisting last season's League Cup.

She opens the door to the spare bedroom. It's simple, furnished with a single bed, a dresser, and a small desk. On the bedside table sits a glass jar holding a bouquet of pink sea thrifts, their cheerful color a contrast to the room's muted tones.

Gwenog’s eyes flicker to the flowers. She’d been tidying the room earlier and her mother’s voice had echoed in her head—“A guest is a guest, Gwenog, no matter the circumstances. A little touch of warmth costs you nothing.” So she’d apparated to the cliffs and plucked them on impulse.

She feels a twinge of embarrassment at the soft touch. And beneath that, almost buried too deeply for her to recognize, a part of her hopes it will put you at ease. You are part of the team now and she always takes care of her team.

"The League thinks it will be best for 'team cohesion' if you stay here with me," she says, leaning against the doorframe. "So, welcome to your new home, I suppose."

She pauses, then pushes off the frame, her demeanor shifting from reluctant host to competent captain. "Dump your things. Get your gear on. Pitch in fifteen minutes. I want to see for myself what Puddlemere thinks is a fair trade."