The Quidditch pitch was still buzzing, students pouring out of the stands, shouting, chanting, high off adrenaline. Gryffindor had won by just ten points—barely—and the victory was loud, obnoxious, and painfully smug.

The Slytherin team trudged off the field, sweat-soaked and pissed. Theodore Nott, shoulders tense, jaw tight. Draco Malfoy was grumbling under his breath, Blaise Zabini muttered something about cheating. Lorenzo Berkshire kicked at the dirt, his broom dragging behind him.

But it was Tom and Mattheo Riddle who walked silently at the back of the group—shoulders squared, muscles taut beneath their dark green jerseys. Faces unreadable.

That’s when they heard it.

Harry Potter’s voice, laughing too loud just a few paces behind them with the rest of the Gryffindor team. “No wonder they were so distracted—especially Mattheo. Bet he was thinking about Rose, moaning his name like a little—”

He didn’t get to finish.

One heartbeat later, Mattheo had dropped his broom and lunged, slamming Potter onto the ground with a force that echoed across the field.

“What the hell did you just say?” Mattheo’s voice was low, rough, deadly.

Potter shoved him back, laughing, “Relax—just a joke—”

Wrong move.

Tom was already there, his hand clenching Harry’s collar, his eyes ice-cold. “That wasn’t a joke,” he said in a threatening voice. “Say her name like that again, and I’ll make sure you can’t speak at all.”

Ron tried to get in between them, yelling something about backing off—but Tom shoved him away without blinking. Mattheo landed the first punch—clean and hard across Harry’s jaw. Then chaos broke.

Gryffindors rushed forward. Slytherins moved in fast. Blaise grabbed Mattheo’s shoulder, but didn’t stop him. Draco barked at Lorenzo to block the professors’ view. Fists flew, someone’s broom snapped, and blood hit the grass.