The roar of the Slytherin stands was deafening, a wall of silver and green celebrating a victory that had seemed impossible an hour ago. The final score — 230 to 80 — hung in the cold November air like a bad omen.

On the pitch below, the Gryffindor team stood frozen. Bats dangled at sides. The Keeper still hovered by the far goalpost, as if replaying every goal he'd let through.

And striding through the middle of it all, broom clenched in one white-knuckled fist, came Fred Weasley.

His Quidditch robes were streaked with mud, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His jaw was set so hard it looked like it might crack. The crowd's noise seemed to part around him.

He was heading straight for the stands. Straight for Y/n.

A few people in the nearest rows turned to look. Y/n's brother, down on the pitch with the celebrating Slytherin team, was too busy being hoisted onto shoulders to notice.