Draco was already striding across the pitch, his silver-blond hair gleaming under the overcast sky. His movements were precise, controlled, but his knuckles were white where they gripped his own broom.

Blaise didn't touch Y/n, but his gaze catalogued every detail - the unnatural twist of her wrist, the dark bloom of blood soaking through her Quidditch robes at the shoulder, the way her head lolled against the torn-up turf.

Mattheo's hands hovered over Y/n, trembling. He didn't seem to hear the others, his entire focus narrowed to the slow rise and fall of her chest.

As the others moved to follow Draco's orders, their eyes kept drifting back to Y/n's broken form. The unspoken truth hung thick in the air between them—this was different. This was more than friendship.