Chapter Text
The rain started before breakfast and didn’t let up, tapping steadily against the high windows of Hogwarts until the whole castle felt wrapped in grey noise.
By lunchtime, the grounds were thick with mud, and the Black Lake churned under a sky as gray as old iron. In the Great Hall, everyone buzzed with guesses about the Quidditch match—would it be cancelled, postponed, or played in weather Madam Hooch would probably call questionable?
It wasn’t cancelled.
“Of course it isn’t,” Blaise Zabini said from across the Slytherin table, stirring his food like he was already bored. “That would mean someone here actually makes sensible decisions. McLaggen’s been telling everyone that Gryffindor is basically guaranteed to win. I guess he’s hoping to jinx himself.”
A couple of Slytherins laughed under their breath.
You didn’t look up from your plate straight away.
Across the hall, the Gryffindor table was as loud as ever. Seamus Finnigan was doing something with cutlery that looked dangerous, while Ron Weasley tried to push him away without letting on he found it funny.
Hermione Granger was reading right in the middle of the chaos. Harry Potter looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
And Ginny Weasley was laughing at something Dean Thomas said, her head tipped back a little, not caring that half the hall noticed.
You looked away first.
Unfortunately, Blaise noticed anyway. “You’ve been doing that all week,” he said mildly.
“Doing what?” you asked without looking up.
“That thing where you pretend the Gryffindor table is in any way relevant.”
Pansy Parkinson leaned forward at once, eyes bright with interest. “Are we talking about Ginny Weasley again?”
“No,” you said quickly.
“Yes,” Blaise replied at the same time.
You let out a slow breath, wondering if it would be worth it to strangle him.
Before the conversation could continue, Professor Snape rose from the staff table.
The hall quieted immediately. “The match will begin at two o’clock,” he said coldly. “Weather conditions are irrelevant to competence. Any student interfering with the pitch will be dealt with personally.”
He stared a little too long at a group of Ravenclaws, who suddenly became very interested in their soup.
Across the room, Ginny looked up and met your eyes right away. She smiled, as if she found the whole thing funny and you weren’t in on the joke.
You looked away first. Annoyingly, it felt like losing a contest you never meant to enter.
By the time both teams walked onto the pitch, the rain was even heavier. The air felt thick and soaked, almost like the sky was pressing down on the grounds. Brooms lifted off slowly.
Slytherin got on their brooms in near silence. Urquhart shouted instructions that everyone ignored. Vaisey gripped his broom like it had done something to him. Draco Malfoy looked pale, staring straight ahead.
Across from them, Gryffindor looked like the storm was just another teammate.
Ron was already arguing with Katie Bell about positioning, gesturing wildly from the Keeper rings. Ginny rolled her shoulders once, as if shaking off the rain.
Madam Hooch’s whistle cut through everything. The pitch exploded into motion.
Mud flew up right away as brooms cut through the wet air. You turned left, just missing a Bludger from Jimmy Peakes. The rain was so heavy that players seemed to appear and disappear in it.
Ahead, Ginny Weasley moved as if she belonged in it. Demelza Robins broke forward with the Quaffle. “Mark Robins!” Urquhart shouted from somewhere behind you.
Ginny got there before you did, quick and precise. She caught the pass in mid-air and sent it off again without a pause. You chased after her.
A Bludger tore through the space between you a second later.
The game turned into pure noise.
Ron’s voice carried faintly from the hoops, half instructions, half outrage, as he tried to keep track of Katie and Demelza moving like opposing currents. Harry streaked upward somewhere to your left, scanning for the Snitch with single-minded focus.
And Ginny, every move she made drew eyes. Every pass, feint, and goal made the Gryffindor cheers louder, until it felt like part of the storm. You hated losing to Gryffindor. You hated losing to Weasley. But most of all, you hated that you understood why everyone watched her fly.
A Bludger came in fast, too fast. You twisted, but pain shot through your shoulder as metal slammed into bone. The world spun sideways. For a moment, all you felt was cold rain, noise, and the blurry pitch below. Your broom dipped, but you managed to steady it.
Somewhere below, Madam Hooch’s whistle screamed. You dragged yourself upright. Your arm burned. Warm blood soaked through your sleeve. Across the pitch, Ginny stopped.
She looked at you through the rain. For a second, her face was hard to read, focused, then maybe a little concerned, before she turned back to the game.
But after that, she glanced your way more than once.
Gryffindor won by a clear margin. The stands exploded in red and gold as students rushed onto the pitch, even though Madam Hooch was yelling herself hoarse.
Blaise touched down beside you moments later. “Unfortunate result.”
“It was predictable,” you muttered.
“So was your tone.”
You didn’t answer.
Somewhere in the crowd, Ginny laughed at something Demelza said and almost lost her balance in the mud. You looked away before you could stare.
The corridor outside the changing rooms was quieter, though you could still hear the celebration echoing through the stone. Rain hit the tall windows in an uneven rhythm. You adjusted your broom and headed for the stairs. Then the door opened.
“-and I swear if Seamus calls that a lucky shot again I’m going to-”
Ginny Weasley stopped mid-sentence.
So did you.
Up close, she looked less like a blur of motion and more like the aftermath, wet hair stuck to her neck, freckles standing out in the cold, mud on her kneepads, her eyes immediately turned to your shoulder. “You’re hurt,” she said.
“It’s nothing serious.”
“That’s usually what people say when it is serious.”
You moved your sleeve aside without saying anything. Blood had already soaked through.
Ginny exhaled through her nose. “You’re going to the hospital wing.”
“That sounded like an order.”
“It was.”
She paused, then stepped towards you, closing the space between you.
“You Slytherins are awful at this,” she said, already reaching for your sleeve.
“At what?”
“Accepting help.”
“And Gryffindors are reckless.”
“We prefer ‘brave.’”
“Same thing.”
She ignored your comment and gently pushed your sleeve back. Her touch was steady and warm, even in the cold. The injury stung when exposed, but her face softened a little as she looked at it.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
“I’m always lucky.”
Her mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“And I’ll say it again if necessary.”
A voice called her name from inside the changing room, but she ignored it. She let go of your sleeve, her fingers lingering just a moment too long.
“You played well,” she said quietly.
“So did you,” you replied.
She grinned again. “Try not to sound so surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
Another call from inside. She stepped back. Then, as if remembering something, she added lightly: “Your catch near the west hoops was better than most people will admit.”
Before you could answer, she was already turning away. The door closed, and you realized, a little annoyed, that you were smiling.
Dinner that evening was louder than usual.
Gryffindor filled half the hall with their victory energy. Slytherin filled the other half with grumpy frustration.wn.
Blaise looked at you right away. “You have that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you act as if nothing happened.”
Pansy leaned in. “Did she speak to you again?”
You didn’t answer.
A folded note hit your shoulder. You opened it.
*Nice catch.*
*Try not to bleed on the floor next time.*
— G.W.
A small, smug snake was drawn beneath it. Across the hall, Ginny was watching you. When your eyes met, she smiled.