"Fucking snow," Taff grumbled as he made his way onto the pitch, wrapped up in a large baggy jumper his brother had sent him at the beginning of the year. He trudged his way out of the Slytherin locker rooms and onto the pitch, leaving a trail of footprints in the blanket of white. His head was still pounding. Still. It shouldn't still be hurting. This wasn't still a hangover.
But Taff refused to think it was anything else, as if thinking it was the virus would make it real. Make it official. So here was here, to fly. Flying made it better. Flying fixed everything. Flying cleared his head, let his thoughts and worries slip away, let him cut the ties of the earth.
But someone was there. Someone was already there. His eyes narrowed, and he gritted his teeth. He just wanted to be alone! He squeezed his fingers around his broom handle, wondering if he should just go back.