The Slytherin stands were louder than usual.

Green and silver banners whipped violently in the wind, the sky hanging low and grey above the pitch. The crowd roared as players mounted their brooms, boots kicking off the ground in sharp, impatient bursts.

Cold, sharp droplets that soaked through robes and made the pitch slick and dangerous. Most of the crowd retreated further under the stands.

You didn’t.

You stayed at the very front.

Because Mattheo Riddle was already in the air.

The Chasers shot into the air as the whistle blew, and the match exploded into motion. Bludgers tore across the sky. The Quaffle flashed scarlet between hands. The crowd surged with every near miss.

Mattheo flew like he had something to prove.

Sharp turns. Ruthless dives. Calculated aggression.

A Bludger came out of nowhere—

“Riddle watch out!”

He twisted instantly, the iron ball missing his ribs by inches.

Minutes later, Slytherin was down by four. The stands grew restless. Opposing chants grew louder.

His expression shifted— not softer.

Sharper.

The Snitch glinted near the goal posts.

He saw it the same moment the opposing Seeker did.

And then he dropped.

The dive was reckless. Vertical. Brutal.

Gasps ripped through the crowd.

“Mattheo!” You screamed.

He didn’t pull up.

Didn’t hesitate.

The ground rushed up violently—fifty feet— forty— thirty—

The other Seeker faltered.

Mattheo didn’t.

At the last second, he twisted sideways, arm stretching out—

His fingers snapped shut.

The whistle shrieked.

The stadium erupted.

He pulled up just before impact, skidding low across the grass before shooting back into the air, fist raised — the Snitch glittering between his fingers.

Slytherin exploded in celebration.