You were the Slytherin Beater — sharp, fast, unforgiving. Fred Weasley had called you a menace at least four times this week alone, and the feeling was mutual. Every match, it was the same: you’d aim bludgers at his ribs, and he’d aim them right back at your head.

It was war in the air — personal, petty, and nothing short of exhilarating.

Until Flint sent that bludger.

You didn’t see Ginny coming at first. She was streaking across the pitch, red hair like flame, eyes locked on the snitch. She didn’t even see the bludger.

But you did.

Too fast, too close.

You shouted — too late.

The bludger slammed into Ginny’s side, and she tumbled, her broom lurching out from under her in the blink of an eye.

“Ginny!” Fred’s scream cracked across the pitch.

You didn’t think.

You kicked your broom into a dive, streaking downward at a terrifying speed. Ginny was falling hard, dazed and limp — and you reached out, fingers burning from the wind, and caught her by the arm just before she hit the ground.

Your broom buckled under the sudden weight, but you held on. Somehow, you landed — hard, fast, scraping across the grass — with Ginny curled against your chest, your arms wrapped around her like a shield.

You were breathing hard, heart slamming, hands trembling — and then you heard Fred hit the ground beside you.

He knelt down, eyes wide, jaw tight. “She okay?”

You nodded, still clutching her like the fall hadn’t ended yet.

Fred looked at you. Really looked at you.

“You…” His voice was rough. Confused. “You caught her.”

You didn’t look at him when you answered.

“Just because I hate you, Weasley,” you muttered, “doesn’t mean I’d let your sister die.”

There was a long pause. Fred blinked.

And then — just once — he said, quietly:

“…Thanks.”