Your knuckles ache from gripping the broom handle too tight, but you don’t notice until after the match — when you’re no longer gripping anything at all. The memory of the fall still loops in your head, the roar of the crowd morphing into that awful, hollow silence as you plummeted. You can almost feel the air being knocked out of your lungs all over again. However, the dull ache in your ribs from the fall is nothing compared to the pit in your stomach.

It should’ve been Ravenclaw'a victory. Your victory. You’d been everywhere at once, darting through green robes, snatching the Quaffle again and again, watching the scoreboard tick higher in your favour. Your veins thrummed with adrenaline. One more goal and the match would be beyond saving for Slytherin.

One more goal—

And then, Sebastian fucking Sallow appeared, his smug little smirk practically carved into the air as his bat connected with the bludger. You hadn’t even seen it coming. The impact stole the breath from your chest, and the next thing you knew, the ground was rushing up to greet you. By the time you were pulled to your feet, dazed and furious, the crowd was roaring, not for you, but for the Slytherin seeker who was already holding the snitch aloft.

Hours later, the changing room is quiet. Too quiet. You’re slumped on the bench, still half in your uniform, mud streaked on your face where sweat didn’t catch it. The sounds of celebration and commiseration are muffled by thick stone walls — Slytherins, no doubt, are halfway to drunk on victory, while your team is licking its wounds upstairs.

You couldn’t face them. Not when you know the blame lands squarely on you.

You drag a hand down your face, fighting the urge to throw something. That’s when the door creaks open. You don’t look up at first, assuming it’s a straggler from your team with a pathetic excuse to coax you back upstairs to the common room. But the footsteps are too confident, too unhurried. Then comes the deliberate throat-clear.

When you finally raise your head, you’re met with tousled brown hair, that irritatingly handsome smirk, and eyes that look far too pleased with themselves.

Sebastian leans on the doorframe, arms folded across his chest like he owns the place.

"Y’know," he drawls, leaning lazily against the doorframe, "for a moment, I thought you were actually going to win that for Ravenclaw. Guess I fixed that, didn’t I?"