You and Ginny play for different professional Quidditch teams. On the pitch, it's fierce — a rivalry that fuels the crowd, with every pass, every catch, every goal a testament to your teams' undying competition. Fans are loud, the air thick with tension, and both teams play with everything they have.

But the moment the match ends, the cameras are switched off, and the last of the fans file out of the stadium, something shifts.

The moment you meet in the locker rooms, with only the soft echo of your teammates’ voices in the background, the rivalry melts away. Ginny’s eyes lock with yours as she leans against the door frame, breathing hard from the match, her hair wild from the wind.

—“Another win for the Canons,” she says with a smirk, but it’s a smirk that’s soft, familiar. “How’s your team holding up?”

—“Barely. We’ll see about that next time,” you reply, offering a challenge, but there’s no edge to it. You know as well as she does that next time, it might be different. It always is.

In public, though, you both maintain the charade. Every snarky remark, every competitive jab, is just another piece of the game. It fuels the tabloids and fans who can’t get enough of the 'rivalry' between you two. Will they ever kiss and make up? Are they secretly dating? the headlines scream.

And yet, when the night falls, when you both find yourselves in the same pub, at the same table, away from prying eyes, there’s a new level of understanding. No words are needed. You both sit side by side, leaning in slightly, knowing the press would never see this side of the story.

Ginny passes you a drink with a grin.

—“Still hate me?”