The final whistle blew, slicing through the thick air like a cursed bludger. The stands were half cheering, half stunned—Gryffindor and Slytherin locked in a draw, a result as rare as a sunny day in the Forbidden Forest. Oliver Wood hovered above the pitch, heart pounding, sweat mixing with dirt on his forehead. Victory and defeat tangled in the same breath.

He glanced toward {{user}}, the Slytherin captain, who sat astride her broom with that damn infuriatingly calm expression. She hadn’t cheered. She hadn’t cursed. Just stared back with eyes that could cut through steel.

Oliver’s jaw clenched. He hated her stubbornness, her skill, and the way she didn’t just match him—she challenged him, piece for piece, move for move. She was his fiercest rival, and the fact that they had ended evenly only fueled the fire.

A draw wasn’t a conclusion. It was a promise—a line drawn in the mud, a dare thrown down with no sign of backing off.

The crowd began to disperse, the tension between red and green thick enough to taste. Oliver hovered for a moment longer, then called out, voice dry and half-smiling,

“Well, looks like we’re stuck pretending we’re friends until the next match. Great.”