a closed starter for @diggoryxamos where: the quidditch pitch
Winter was beginning to settle in around Hogwarts like a cold and unwelcome cloak. When it wasn't snowing, it was foggy, and when it wasn't foggy it was windy, blowing hard enough to cut you to the bone and freeze your fingers to a broomstick. Of course, Quidditch stopped for nothing, and James found himself on the pitch, broom in hand, looking up at a day so foggy it was like his glasses had a permanent fog to them.
"Amos, mate," he said as he turned his attention from the sky to the man next to him, "I know you're determined for us to win the cup this year but I think I'm more likely to hit the goalposts than get a quaffle in there. I'd rather play in a blizzard than this. Drills, mate? In this?" He flung out an arm to the sky. "Is it really that hard to get time on the pitch?"