The wind still clung to your skin, adrenaline humming beneath it, but all you felt was triumph. The scoreboard burned behind you—Slytherin: 290, Gryffindor: 60. Utter destruction.

You dismounted your broom with slow, deliberate pride, smirking as the Gryffindor team sulked away. Your teammates surrounded you with cheers, claps on the back, but you barely registered them. You were already thinking about the walk back to the dungeons—the real celebration.

When the stone wall slid open to reveal the Slytherin common room, it was like stepping into a royal court. Applause exploded. Cups were raised. Bottles were already open.

The Slytherin boys stood in formation, flanking the center of the room in two neat rows, holding out butterbeer whisky like knights presenting their swords. Your name echoed in chants across the chamber.

Mattheo stepped forward, that lopsided grin on his lips, and gently wrapped his green-and-silver scarf around your shoulders. Blaise, lounging on the leather sofa like it was his throne, patted his lap with smug invitation—and you took your seat without hesitation. Draco leaned against the fireplace, eyes gleaming, voice low and possessive as he said:

—“If you were mine, I’d make sure you won every game. Just to see you like this.”