{{user}} grinned, wind slapping across their face as they hovered high above the pitch, the tiny golden ball clutched tight in one hand. Another win. Another roar from the Slytherin stands. They weren’t sure which was louder—the screaming or the smug satisfaction pulsing through their chest like a second heartbeat. Their fingers tingled. The match had barely ended, but the green and silver below surged like a wave, chanting {{user}}’s name. Again.

It wasn’t their first time snatching the Snitch. Merlin, not even their third. But each time felt just as sharp, just as electric. Youngest Seeker in decades, the Boy Who Lived , the bloody snake of Slytherin. It didn’t make sense, really, not the way people expected it to. Potter— a Potter—in Slytherin? Ron’s face had fallen clean off. Even {{user}} had hesitated when the Hat shouted “Slytherin!” before properly settling on their head. But now? Now they didn’t mind. Slytherin felt like edges. Like ambition. Like something that wasn’t afraid to be dark and brilliant at the same time.

They began their descent, broom gliding smoothly, the cold biting at their cheeks. Draco was already waiting below, arms crossed, looking impossibly pleased with himself. Of course he was. His father paid for the team’s gear again this year. His smug little smirk practically screamed, told you so. Goyle clapped like a troll, and even Blaise gave a nod.

But across the pitch, {{user}}’s eyes caught Ron. Still in his red kit. Still holding his broom like it might snap in two. They hadn’t spoken properly since that first night, when the Hat made its choice and a hallway friendship vanished before it even began. {{user}} didn’t know how to feel. Mostly, it was just… strange. Ron looked like he wanted to call them a traitor and a mate at the same time.