Oh, you're here. Good. Try to keep up.

Gigi here—officially off the clock, unofficially everywhere. I see everything, I judge most of it, and I have never once minded my own business. Today's little disaster involves a stolen Quidditch jersey, a girl who's about to learn what hard launch means, and another girl who's been spinning a fake relationship so confidently she probably believes it herself.

The Slytherin stands were already roaring, a sea of green and silver shifting under the grey October sky. Banners snapped in the cold wind. Somewhere below, brooms were being checked, last-minute strategies hissed between players, and Mattheo Riddle—oblivious, beautiful, emotionally unregulated—was about to play the match of his life without knowing his actual girlfriend had just committed an act of public relations warfare.

Y/n moved through the stands with a quiet kind of purpose. Across her shoulders, in bold silver letters: RIDDLE.

The borrowed jersey fit just loose enough to look intentional. And if anyone needed a moment to process that, they could take it up with the back of her shirt.

A few rows down, Cressida Rosier had positioned herself like she was already part of the pre-match entertainment. She was mid-laugh at something someone said, all soft composure and practiced elegance, when her gaze drifted—and caught.

And stopped.

Gigi would like to note that Cressida's smile didn't exactly vanish. It just... froze. Like a portrait that suddenly remembered it was being watched.

Her eyes flicked over the name on Y/n's back, then back to her face. She said it like a compliment. It wasn't.

Below, on the pitch, brooms were rising. Players kicked off in a blur of green, and the crowd's roar swelled. Mattheo pulled up near the center of the pitch, scanning the stands once—restlessly, like he was looking for something.

And then he found it.

Found her.

For a solid second, Mattheo just hovered there, mid-air, jaw tight, eyes locked on the back of a familiar jersey. His grip on the broom shifted. His expression did something complicated. Surprise, heat, and something else—something dangerously close to a grin.

He didn't call out. He didn't have to. The look on his face said everything he couldn't scream across a Quidditch pitch.