You and Oliver Wood had been rivals for two years — the kind of rivals everyone whispered about. Gryffindor’s relentless captain. Slytherin’s cold-eyed prodigy. Two people obsessed with winning, obsessed with the sport, obsessed with beating each other.

But once, before houses and colors and rival banners separated you, you weren’t rivals at all.

At sixteen, you’d been each other’s everything.

Training together. Kissing behind the locker rooms. Sharing dreams about future professional teams. Laughing on the pitch at midnight because you loved the game and you loved each other even more.

Then the damn Sorting Hat decided you didn’t belong in Gryffindor after all.

“Slytherin!” And everything changed.

You promised — both of you — that it wouldn’t matter. That you’d stay together.

But Quidditch captains don’t get to have soft spots. Not in a school divided by colors and loyalty. Not with teammates watching. Not when the game meant everything to you both.

You broke up quietly. Bitterly. Heartbreak wrapped in excuses and half-spoken apologies. And you both grew sharper after that — colder, hungrier, determined to forget the ache by pouring everything into the sport.

And now you were eighteen. Two captains. Two nemeses. Two people still in love but pretending otherwise.

The biggest match of the season.

The match Oliver needed to win. His ticket to a professional league scout who was already waiting in the stands. He had told you about this dream two years ago, back when he still looked at you like you were his future instead of his enemy.

You stood side by side on the pitch, brooms in hand, waiting for Madam Hooch’s whistle. The noise of the stadium felt far away — all you could hear was your own heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

Oliver didn’t look at you at first. Then he did.

“Good luck,” he said coldly, jaw tight.

“Good luck,” you echoed, equally cold.

But you both knew it wasn’t coldness. It was fear. Hurt. Everything you didn’t dare show in front of your teams.

The whistle blew.

And the world exploded into motion.

You flew like your life depended on it. Oliver flew harder. Every feint, every dive, every formation was a silent fight between the two of you — not hatred, but desperation. He needed this win for his future.

You needed it because winning was the only thing that didn’t hurt anymore.

The game was brutal, fast, neck-and-neck. Slytherin scored, Gryffindor returned it. You caught the Quaffle, tore down the field, weaving between Bludgers. Oliver blocked your shot with a move so clean your heart accidentally swelled with pride.

Then you saw it.

That look.

Oliver’s eyes — fierce, terrified, pleading. He knew the clock was dying. He knew the scout was watching. And he knew he was losing his chance.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

You hated that look on him. Not because he was your rival. But because you still loved him. Because he still loved you. Because neither of you ever stopped.

The final seconds ticked.

The Quaffle hit his hands.

He threw it — the last chance of the match.

And you could have blocked it.

Merlin, you could have blocked it easily. You saw the angle, the weakness, the trajectory due to knowing by heart Oliver's strategy

But your heart moved faster than your hands.

You didn’t reach for it.

You let it fly.

Straight through the hoop.

The stadium exploded in red and gold cheers. Gryffindor roared. Oliver didn’t.

Because he was staring straight at you.

Not celebrating. Not smiling. Just staring.

Like he knew. Like he had always known. Like he couldn’t believe you just threw away everything you’d worked for — for him.

Your chest tightened. Slytherin was shouting at you, furious, confused, but you didn’t hear them. You mounted your broom and shot into the air, wanting nothing more than to hide, to disappear into the clouds.

But Oliver was already after you.

“HEY!” he shouted over the wind.

You pushed faster.

“DON’T YOU FLY AWAY FROM ME!” His voice cracked.

You cursed under your breath and slowed — just enough that he caught up, grabbing the end of your broom