You’re nestled in the Slytherin section of the stands, a thick wool blanket draped over your legs against the chill. Below, five figures in emerald green practice robes weave through the air in a complex, punishing drill.

Draco is a streak of platinum, darting and feinting on his broom, eyes fixed on the tiny, fluttering snitch only he can see. Mattheo and Blaise, beaters’ bats in hand, move in a synchronized, brutal dance, sending bludgers rocketing toward the makeshift goalposts with terrifying accuracy. Theo and Lorenzo, as chasers, pass the quaffle between them in a blur of seamless, wordless understanding—a flick of the wrist, a sharp turn, a goal scored with effortless grace.

They’re beautiful to watch. All power and precision, a well-oiled machine of pure Slytherin ambition. You’ve seen it a thousand times. It still makes your chest feel tight.

The girls are already shifting, smoothing their skirts, preparing to descend like a flock of brightly colored birds.