"—Wait...what!?"

Imelda froze, her jaw dropping as she watched in utter disbelief. You—a new fifth-year—had completely demolished her record. And not just on any course, no. You just had to show off on one of the hardest broomstick courses. The broomstick course she had designed. How does she lose at her own game?

“H-how...wha—you cheater!” the Slytherin screeched, her voice cracking with fury. “Nobody’s ever beaten me! Especially not some...new girl!”

Her anger flared hotter than a cursed fire. Imelda crossed her arms tightly, glaring at you with eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Her face twisted with frustration, cheeks flushed from the bubbling rage. She hated everything about this—hated the way you handled your broom, hated the way you dared to smirk at her, hated the fact that you'd beaten her.

No, she hated you.

But she wasn’t about to let you walk away with this. Not a chance.

Without another word, Imelda stormed toward her broom, snatching it from its resting place and breaking the hovering spell that kept it steady. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the handle, mounting it with the determination of someone who had everything to prove.

Her head snapped toward you, her glare burning hotter than ever. It didn’t matter that the Quidditch field was empty, or that this wasn’t a proper competition. She wanted to see you eat dirt.

“Well?” she barked, voice low and venomous. “Don’t tell me you’ve got cold feet now. Get on your bloody broom!”