Y/n's hand tightened on her broom as she hovered in formation, waiting for the whistle. Across from her, the Slytherin team formed their own line. Pucey at keeper, Riddle and Berkshire as beaters, Warrington and Bole as chasers. And at the center, black hair whipping across his forehead, Theordore Nott.

Up close like this, with only feet of air between their positions, she could see everything. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his green tie was slightly crooked. The bruise on his collarbone from last night, partially hidden by his jersey.

His eyes met hers.

McGonagall's whistle lifted to her lips.