She sat on her broom, scanning the field. Her brothers had warned her not to play today. Tom had simply said, “Don’t give them a reason to touch you.” Mattheo, a bit more dramatic, had gone with, “If Wood so much as looks at you funny, I’ll hex him into next year.”

Naturally, she ignored both of them.

Oliver was circling like a hawk near the Gryffindor goalposts, barking orders at his team. His voice carried across the pitch.

“Keep your eyes on the Ravenclaw Chasers—especially her. She's faster than she looks.”

She smirked. He always says that.

The game began with a roar. Then—chaos.

One moment she was reaching for a pass mid-dive, and the next—CRACK. Her broom jerked, twisted, and she was spiraling. The wind tore the breath from her lungs. The ground came fast. Too fast.

Pain exploded in her arm as she hit the grass.

“Shit!” Oliver was off his broom before the whistle even blew, sprinting toward her. “Riddle—hey, are you—bloody hell—don’t move.”

Then—bam, you were in the infirmary. The doors slammed open, and two storms named Tom and Mattheo entered.

Oliver stood, suddenly tense.

Tom’s voice was quiet, but dangerous. “Move.”

“She fell,” Oliver said, stepping aside but not retreating. “I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

“You pushed her,” Mattheo snarled, advancing.