The match was brutal. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor always was.

You were cutting through the wind, a blur in green, just catching the Quaffle when someone veered hard into your path — elbow out, broom angled. You didn’t even get the chance to yell. One sharp slam to your side and you were weightless. Someone had aimed it. Someone had meant it.

And then gravity took over.

The sky spun.

Wind screamed in your ears as you dropped, helpless, broom spiraling away like a dead branch. And then the ground — unyielding, brutal — met your back like a stone wall. The breath tore from your lungs. Your vision spotted. The stadium roared.

Then boots. Snow-crunch. And him.

Boots skidding against the grass, he dropped to his knees beside you so fast he nearly lost his balance. His green Quidditch robes flared around him, his hair whipped back by the wind, but all of him was laser-focused — his gloved hands hovered over your arm, your ribs, your face — unsure where to land first.

“Bloody hell—” His voice was low, tight, but not shaking. “Don’t move.”

You couldn’t have, even if you wanted to.

Your lungs felt compressed, the ache spreading like a bruise under your ribs. But you caught the way his eyes scanned you — sharp and furious, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. He was pale under the smudges of dirt on his cheek, jaw locked.

You blinked, pain shooting through your ribs when you tried to laugh. “Think it was an accident.”

Regulus looked up — across the pitch — eyes locked on whoever had hit you. “Accidents don’t have smug faces.”

He exhaled, then turned toward the stands where the other team hovered midair — one of them grinning down at you like it was funny.

His eyes darkened as he tracked the red blur of the opposing Chaser still circling above — the one whose elbow had landed just right, just wrong. You saw the way Regulus’s jaw ticked, the muscle in his temple twitching. A storm, quiet and building.

Regulus didn’t say anything for a moment. Just crouched lower beside you, shielding your body from the cold wind — and the crowd. You were half-sprawled in the snow-dusted grass, the breath still knocked clean out of you, but his presence grounded you more than any spell could.

“I saw who did it,” he said under his breath.

You blinked, struggling to focus.

Regulus’s voice was tight. Controlled. But you could see the storm behind his eyes — the calculation, the barely held restraint. “They charmed the Bludger. It wasn’t just aimed. It was hexed.”

“Reg—” you rasped, but he was already scanning the pitch again.

His gloved hand pressed lightly against your shoulder to keep you still, then moved — gentle, searching — down to your ribs. You hissed when he reached your side. His jaw clenched.

“I’m going to kill him,” Regulus muttered.

You caught the edge of his sleeve, fingers numb. “Don’t.”

He looked back at you sharply. “He could’ve killed you.”

“Yeah,” you managed, “but he didn’t.”

Regulus breathed in slowly, like he was trying to anchor himself to something solid. Then he reached out and swept a few strands of hair from your face, his touch hesitant but careful.

“You’re not allowed to fall like that again,” he said quietly, almost like it was a promise. “Not on my watch.”

Around you, the pitch buzzed with noise — the shrill sound of a whistle, shouts from the stands, Madam Pomfrey approaching fast. But for a few seconds, it was just the two of you. Grass and snow. Sky spinning overhead.

Regulus leaned in a little closer.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight again,” he added, so quiet only you could hear it.

And he didn’t move. Not even when Madam Pomfrey dropped to her knees beside you. Not when players started landing. Not when the whisper of a punishment or a rematch crackled through the air.

Regulus stayed kneeling, hands steady, eyes on you — like you were the only person that mattered on the pitch.