Today was the day. The big match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw—the one that would decide who took home the Quidditch Cup this year.

Gryffindor had been on fire all season. Unstoppable. Harry was brilliant at catching the Snitch, Fred and George were flawless with the Beaters’ bats, the Chasers were quick, and even Ron had stepped up as Keeper.

Now, it was all down to this.

You and Hermione were finishing getting ready, bundling up for the chilly afternoon. Fred had already come by earlier, said goodbye, and—like clockwork—tossed you his Quidditch jumper. His good luck charm, he called you. You wore it to every match, and you could never say no. It was oversized on you, practically swallowing you whole—but Fred loved that.

“You know,” Hermione said suddenly, glancing at you as you slipped on the jumper and tied the side up, “why don’t you just admit your feelings to Fred?”

You rolled your eyes. “And if he doesn’t like me back?”

Hermione scoffed, pulling on her scarf. “Oh, come off it. You’re smart—you know he likes you. He hasn’t dated anyone in ages. If that doesn’t say something, I don’t know what does.”

You laughed, shrugging. “Yeah, I know. I guess I’ve just been stuck in my own head. But…” You hesitated, then grinned. “If they win today, I’ll tell him at the party tonight.”

Hermione smiled, linking arms with you as you both headed out of the portrait hole. “Good. You better.”

The walk to the pitch was brisk, the wind biting as you made your way to your usual seats at the front—perfect for watching Fred. You couldn’t help but feel your heart race as the stands filled with students, the excitement palpable.

Soon, the match began. Brooms zoomed overhead, cheers and shouts erupting from every corner of the stadium. Your heart pounded as you watched Fred and George fly across the pitch like they owned it, working in perfect tandem.

But your eyes stayed on Fred.

As he soared past your side of the stands, his gaze flicked to you for just a second—winking before speeding off again. Your cheeks burned instantly, a flush creeping up your neck.

Hermione smirked beside you, clearly catching the exchange. But you weren’t the only one who noticed.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Angelina glancing your way, her expression tightening for just a moment as she flew by. She liked Fred, that much was obvious—but you knew Fred’s heart wasn’t in it with her. Still, you ignored the tension, pushing it aside.

Right now, all that mattered was the match. And Gryffindor had to win.