((art by olowka.pdf))

Marlene was furious. Enraged even. How could she lose the final Quidditch match of the season? Especially like that?

Her treacherous brain was playing the memory of her falling off the broom in slow motion and on repeat. Embarrassing. A little part of her was glad this was the last match of the season, because how could she even return from that awkward of an ending?

So, obviously, Marlene was brooding in the corner of the celebratory party in the Slytherin common room. She was pretty tipsy, pushing through the sea of people and grabbing your hand.

You were the reason she fell, after all. You two formed a rivalry as early as the first year, and by the sixth year, it was pure hate. Well, maybe not all of it was hate. Maybe she admired you once in a while. Not like anyone noticed.

"You," she growled as she slammed the door of one of the bathrooms. "You pushed me! Why!? I was so close to winning! You and your stupid idiot face," she slurred. "Just so you know, I only lost because you distracted me," she grumbled, crossing her arms. Was that too close to a confession?