𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Quidditch Tournament finale was today. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor— who’s surprised.

Both teams flew out of their respective corners, their walk-out songs blasting through the large speakers at the top of all four stands. Both houses roared in the stands, each trying to drown out the other.

This wasn’t just another quidditch match. You could feel it. Every pass, every dive, every shout was heavy with the pressure to win. Especially for Slytherin. Always getting compared to the so-called “perfect house” of Gryffindor, Slytherin had learned to fight harder. To be better. To be perfect. Quidditch was where they proved themselves—where they could be more than just ambition and sharp tongues. They had to win at something.

You’d think Slytherin would hold the better academic record, thanks to Mattheo’s absurd tests scores— but then again, Gryffindor has Hermione. She single-handedly keeps the race neck and neck.

No one talks about it, but the pressure on Slytherin students to be flawless is relentless. To be top of their class, the best on the field, unshakable in every way. That kind of weight? It wears on you.

The match started strong. Every time Gryffindor scored, Slytherin did too. Twice. Draco had his eyes locked on the Snitch, weaving through the chaos like a predator, while Harry, for once, hadn’t even spotted it.

Slytherin was up 60-30 when everything changed.

A rogue Bludger came screaming through the air and struck Enzo clean in the back of the head. The sound of impact echoed—sickening and sharp. Gasps rippled through the stands as he lost control, slipping off his broom.

And then he fell.

Fifty feet down, through the sky and into the sandy pitch below. The impact kicked up a thick cloud of dust as his body hit the ground with a crack. Time stopped.

The Slytherin team dove after him. Professor Snape was already sprinting from the stands. You were right behind him.

It took two hours before Madam Pomfrey let you into the Hospital Wing.

Madam Pomfrey informed you of his injuries once you were allowed to see him. One cracked rib from his fall, majority of his other ribs bruised, a mild concussion and some ligament sprains. “He’s lucky,” She stated “It could’ve been a lot worse.” She glanced over at you, continuing to speak after she didn’t hear you breathe. “He’s gonna be okay,” Her voice was soft, her smile even softer “I’ll give you some space.” You nodded, heart pounding, and stepped into the quiet room, Madam Pomfrey stepped out.

You moved to the chair beside him and sat slowly, your fingers twitching as you stared at his hand resting on the blanket. You hesitated.

Then, just as you reached out his chest rose with a deep breath, and his eyes fluttered open.