You leaned forward, fingers tightening on your broom handle, hair whipped by the wind as Ravenclaw and Slytherin roared beneath you. Somewhere in the crowd, you knew Fred Weasley was watching. Probably grinning, shouting your name, his Gryffindor scarf tangled around his neck like a badge of rebellion. He shouldn’t have been this invested in a Ravenclaw match, but when had Fred ever cared about what was proper?

Your hand shot out—and you caught it. The Snitch struggled against your fingers, wings fluttering frantically. The whistle blew sharp and final.

Ravenclaw won.

The crowd erupted, blue banners waving high—but the triumph was short-lived.

Across the pitch, a Slytherin Beater, still red-faced from defeat, didn’t take it well. His eyes burned with spite as he raised his bat one last time. A black bludger spun toward you, too fast, too close.

You barely had time to turn before the world dropped out beneath you.

A crack of pain split through your ribs as the bludger struck, and your broom lurched sideways, spinning wildly. You felt yourself slipping—falling—

The wind tore the scream from your throat.

“Oi! NO!” Fred’s voice cracked from the stands, louder than the cheers, panic cutting through the noise like a blade.

McGonagall was already on her feet, her face pale beneath her tartan hat. “Merlin’s beard—someone do something!”

Snape scowled from the Slytherin section, arms crossed, lips thin. But even he didn’t have a snide remark ready. His black robes flapped in the wind as he watched the chaos below.

Professor Flitwick, small but sharp-eyed, flicked his wand toward you in a desperate attempt to slow your fall. “Arresto Momentum!” he squeaked, his voice lost in the roar of the crowd.

The spell softened your landing, but not by much. You hit the pitch hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Grass and earth pressed against your cheek as everything spun around you.

And then there was Fred.

He was vaulting over the stands before anyone could stop him, nearly slipping in the snow as he sprinted toward you, his heart in his throat.

“Oi—stay with me, yeah?” He dropped to his knees beside you, brushing damp hair from your face with trembling hands. “Don’t you dare scare me like that again.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out more like a wince. “Did we win?”

He huffed, somewhere between relieved and wrecked. “Yeah, you bloody did. You and that brain of yours—and apparently no self-preservation.”

McGonagall approached, lips tight but relieved. “Madam Pomfrey is on her way. You’ll be spending the night in the hospital wing, I’m afraid.”

Snape gave a cold glance toward his fuming Beater. “Detention. A month. And your team forfeits ten points for unsportsmanlike conduct.”