The sun was dipping low over the Quidditch pitch, casting long shadows across the grassy field as the final whistle echoed through the stands. For weeks, maybe even months, Fred’s team had been the league’s punching bag — the ones everyone laughed at, the ones who never seemed to quite get their rhythm or luck. But today was different. Today, everything had clicked.

You sat near the stands, heart pounding, breath caught between hope and disbelief. You had been there for every late-night practice session when Fred came home bruised and exhausted, dragging you into his quiet rants about quitting, about how maybe this wasn’t meant to be. But he never gave up. Not once.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as Fred’s mates swarmed him, slapping backs and shouting his name. The victory was theirs. The underdogs had finally claimed their hard-fought glory. Fred’s red hair glinted with sweat under the fading sunlight, his face flushed with triumph.

But the moment the whistle blew, Fred didn’t reach for the trophy. Instead, his eyes scanned the crowd until they found you. His smile faltered for a split second, replaced by a look that said everything without words: I did it. Because of you.

He vaulted off his broom and cut through the throng of players, his heart pounding faster than it had all game. When he finally reached you, the crowd seemed to blur into nothing but the two of you.

“Did you see that?” he asked breathlessly, voice thick with disbelief and pride.