The stands were still roaring, the air alive with cheers and the scent of churned grass, when the final whistle blew. Gryffindor had won — decisively — and the team was circling the pitch, brooms dipping low to wave at the crowd. You were still on the edge of the field, heart pounding from the match’s last tense minutes, when a blur of scarlet and gold broke away from the others.

Fred barely slowed as his feet hit the ground, broom tucked under one arm, hair wind-mussed and cheeks flushed from the cold air and adrenaline. Before you could say anything, he was in front of you, grinning like he’d just pulled off the best prank of his life.

“There’s my good luck charm,” he said, loud enough that a few nearby students turned their heads. And then, without hesitation, he hooked an arm around your waist, pulled you in, and kissed you like the whole of Gryffindor needed to see exactly who he’d been winning for.

You could hear catcalls and whistles from the team still hovering above, but Fred didn’t care — in fact, he deepened the kiss just enough to make your knees wobble before finally pulling back, his forehead resting against yours. “Told you I’d score one for you,” he murmured, eyes still bright with victory.