The air smells like grass and rain, sharp and electric, buzzing with the energy of the Hogwarts crowd. You’re pressed into the Slytherin stands, robes clinging to you as your fingers dig into the railing, knuckles whitening. Today’s match: Slytherin versus Ravenclaw. And Draco Malfoy—your Draco, infuriatingly perfect, maddeningly talented—is cutting through the sky in green and silver, broom a blur beneath him, eyes sharp and calculating, posture impossibly elegant.

You’ve watched him play countless times. Seen him win, seen him lose, almost crash spectacularly—but today is different. There’s a charge in the air that isn’t just the magic of the pitch. Maybe it’s the way his eyes flick toward you every few seconds, that small, imperceptible curl of his lips when he catches sight of your cheering, like a private joke only you are in on.

The game explodes around you. Bludgers thrum dangerously close, the Quaffle arcs through the air, and Draco dances through Ravenclaw chasers with a predator’s grace, teasing the wind itself. You hold your breath every time he dives, every hair-raising dodge, every impossibly daring move.

Time stretches, your pulse racing with every second. And then—you see it.

The Snitch. Tiny, golden, glinting like molten sunlight against the stormy sky. Draco’s eyes lock onto it, narrowed and lethal, calculating every angle. And then he’s gone, streaking toward it, broom tilting just so, moving faster than thought.

Time bends.

The Snitch is in his hand.

He pulls back, higher, further, defying gravity, defying expectation. And then—loud enough for the entire stadium to hear, cutting through the roar of the crowd—he shouts:

“This is for you, {{user}}!”

Your chest freezes. Heart stumbles. Knees weaken. For one suspended heartbeat, the entire stadium falls away. Everyone else disappears. Only him, only the sound of his voice, only the way his eyes find yours amid the chaos. His declaration—so raw, so unguarded—lands like a spell.

Draco lands, broom thudding against the pitch, Snitch raised triumphantly. His smirk, as always perfectly arrogant, falters just a fraction as his gaze softens, drawn entirely to you. Cheeks flaming, you stumble toward the edge of the pitch, heart hammering.

His eyes meet yours again, and that smirk becomes something warmer, something intimate. He leans slightly, almost imperceptibly, and repeats, quieter this time, just for you:

“This is for you.”

And in that moment, the magic of the stadium, the screaming, the chaos—it doesn’t matter. Because Draco Malfoy, your Draco, has just handed you victory, pride, and his heart, all at once.