The Snitch had been spotted, then lost, then spotted again in a dizzying, brutal chase that had already sent two Beaters to the hospital wing. The stands were a roaring, seething mass of green and scarlet, banners snapping in the cold wind like angry flags of war.

And at the center of it all, a streak of arrogant green, was Mattheo Riddle. He cut through the air on his Nimbus 2001 like he owned the sky, a smug, infuriating smirk visible even from the stands as he taunted the Gryffindor Chaser trying to block him. (Look at him. He thinks he's so bloody impressive.)

The broom jerked like a spooked horse. For one heart-stopping second, Mattheo hung in the air, his expression shifting from arrogance to pure, unadulterated shock. Then gravity remembered its job.

He fell. Not a graceful, controlled dive, but a messy, limb-flailing plummet that ended with a heavy, bone-jarring thud right in the middle of the muddy pitch. The stadium’s roar cut off as if someone had Silenced it. A collective gasp sucked all the air out of the place.

In the ringing, suffocating silence that followed, where three hundred people held their breath, one sound broke through. A laugh. Loud, clear, and utterly shameless. It wasn't a snicker. It wasn't a giggle. It was a full-bodied, can't-breathe, tears-in-your-eyes kind of laugh that echoed with perfect clarity in the quiet.

Mattheo stormed up the last few steps until he was looming over you, his chest heaving, mud dripping from his chin. His grey eyes, usually cold and calculating, were blazing with a promise of violence. He opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver another threat that would curdle milk.

But then his eyes met yours. And the words died in his throat. The fury didn't vanish. It just... melted. Warped. Transmuted into something else entirely, something that left him feeling unsteady on his feet despite being firmly on the ground. (What the hell?)