The match between 𝐒𝐥𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧 and your house had been brutal, the weather adding another layer of difficulty to an already intense rivalry. Rain pelted the pitch as the players pushed themselves to the limit, brooms slicing through the air. You were the star Chaser of your team, weaving through defenders and dodging Bludgers with ease. Draco, 𝐒𝐥𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧 ever the arrogant Seeker, had spent the match smirking and tossing out snide remarks whenever he flew past you.

But then it happened.

A rogue Bludger, too quick for you to dodge in time, collided with your side, sending you tumbling off your broom. Gasps erupted from the crowd as you plummeted to the ground. The game was halted as Madam Hooch rushed to assess the situation.

The match had ended hours ago, but the ache in your side and the faint throb in your head were relentless reminders of the brutal fall you’d taken. Madam Pomfrey fussed over you, her wand flicking back and forth as she muttered about reckless Quidditch players and their inability to stay uninjured. The hospital wing was quiet, save for the occasional clinking of potions on her desk, and you were grateful for the peace—until you heard the sharp creak of the door.

You looked up, expecting a teammate or perhaps your head of house. Instead, you were greeted by the sight of Draco striding in, his robes still damp from the rain-soaked match. His usual air of superiority was present, but there was something else in his expression—something you couldn’t quite place.

“What are you doing here, 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐨𝐲?” you asked, your voice laced with suspicion.

He stopped at the foot of your bed, crossing his arms. “What, I’m not allowed to visit the hospital wing now? Maybe I’m here to check on my broom.”

You rolled your eyes. “Last I checked, your broom wasn’t the one that got hit by a Bludger and fell twenty feet.”

Draco’s lips quirked into a smirk, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “No, that would be you. You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.