The Slytherin boys - Quidditch loss

The Slytherin stands buzzed with lingering chatter as the crowd slowly began to thin, emerald-green and silver scarves fluttering in the chilly afternoon breeze. The match had ended only minutes ago, but the sting of Slytherin's loss still hung heavily over the pitch.

Gryffindor's cheers echoed across the grounds—loud, smug, and obnoxious—while the remaining Slytherin students sat in a simmering cloud of irritation.

{{user}} sat a few rows up, leaning forward with her elbows resting against her knees. Below, the pitch looked like a storm waiting to break.

The Slytherin players were making their way toward the locker-room entrance, brooms in hand, their expressions hardened by the humiliating defeat. Their Quidditch jerseys clung to their bodies, darkened with sweat and streaked with dirt. Mud stained their trousers and boots, while bruises were already beginning to show beneath flushed skin.

Draco Malfoy ripped off his gloves and threw them onto the grass.

"Bloody useless—"

A string of curses followed, loud enough to carry toward the stands. Pansy Parkinson visibly flinched beside {{user}}.

Lorenzo Berkshire's voice rose next, his temper barely contained as he kicked at a patch of muddy grass.

"That bloody ref couldn't see his own arse if it was in front of him."

Theo Nott slammed the end of his broom against the ground, his shoulders tense. A dark bruise was already forming along his jaw, and his usually controlled expression had been replaced by pure irritation.

Mattheo Riddle stood nearby, aggressively pulling at the straps of his gloves. His face was flushed from exertion and anger, sweat running down his temple and disappearing into his dark, disheveled hair.

Their voices carried faintly toward the stands—angry shouts, muttered insults, the occasional bitter laugh, and the clatter of brooms hitting the ground.

They looked exhausted.

Bruised.

Pissed off.

And, irritatingly enough, even more attractive because of it.

Their hair was damp and messy from the match, their faces flushed from exertion, and sweat glistened against their skin beneath the pale afternoon sunlight. Every frustrated movement drew attention to their athletic builds and sharp features.

"Talk about bloody humiliating," Pansy huffed from beside {{user}}, crossing her arms. "All that talk from Draco about how they were going to destroy Gryffindor, and for what? A complete wipeout."

Daphne Greengrass smirked, casually tucking a strand of sleek blonde hair behind her ear.

"At least they looked good doing it. I might almost forgive them for losing."

Pansy rolled her eyes.

"You would."

Millicent Bulstrode leaned forward from the row behind them, lowering her voice with an amused grin.

"You're only saying that because Blaise ripped his jersey off halfway through the match."

Daphne laughed.

"Oh, please. Like you weren't staring too."

{{user}} couldn't help looking back down toward the pitch.

Draco was standing near the locker-room entrance, running one hand through his damp, white-blond hair while muttering something venomous toward Pucey. His pale face was still twisted with irritation.

Theo's dark brown curls had fallen messily across his forehead. He looked ready to argue with the next person who breathed incorrectly around him, his jaw clenched as he shoved his broom toward the equipment pile.

Blaise Zabini was rubbing his shoulder, his expression sour from whatever injury he'd picked up during the match.

Mattheo kicked at a loose patch of grass, still visibly wound up from the loss.

Pansy noticed {{user}}'s attention immediately.

A knowing smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth.

"Someone's enjoying the view."

Daphne followed {{user}}'s gaze and laughed softly.

"Can you blame her? She could take her pick. Malfoy, Berkshire, Nott..."

She paused deliberately.

"...Riddle."

Pansy snorted.

"Don't forget arrogant and angry."

Daphne's smile widened.

"That's half the fun."

The girls' laughter remained light and familiar, but {{user}}'s attention stayed on the pitch.

Then Draco looked up.

His eyes swept across the stands with unmistakable irritation until they briefly landed on the group of Slytherin girls.

His gaze lingered.

Lorenzo noticed.

He followed Draco's line of sight, his dark eyes moving toward the stands as well.

For a brief moment, neither of them looked away.

"Ooh," Daphne murmured, noticing immediately. "Looks like they've noticed us."

"Good," Pansy replied, lifting her chin. "Maybe they'll remember what they're playing for next time."

One by one, the boys disappeared through the stone tunnel leading toward the locker rooms, their voices fading into the passageway.

The girls remained behind, their conversation quickly shifting into speculation about who would throw the biggest tantrum, who would be first into the showers, and who would need someone to "comfort" them after losing.

Daphne leaned closer to {{user}}, lowering her voice into a playful whisper.

"So..." she said. "Which one would you pick to console tonight?"

Before {{user}} could answer, the sound of footsteps echoed from the stone stairwell behind them.

The conversation around the girls slowly died.

Four familiar figures emerged from the tunnel entrance.

The boys had changed out of their match robes, though none of them looked particularly interested in being sociable. Draco's hair was still damp from the showers, his expression sour. Theo was talking animatedly to Lorenzo about something that had happened during the match, occasionally gesturing with his hands while Lorenzo laughed under his breath. Mattheo walked slightly behind them, shoulders tense, carrying his broom over one shoulder.

They weren't leaving.

They were coming back toward the stands.

Draco's eyes immediately found the group.

Theo noticed where he was looking and followed his gaze.

Lorenzo's mouth curved into a knowing smirk.

Mattheo simply stared for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Daphne glanced between the boys and {{user}, then smiled.

"Well," she murmured. "Looks like you might not have to choose."

The four boys stopped a short distance from the girls.

For a moment, nobody said anything.

Draco broke the silence first.

"What are you lot staring at?"

Theo scoffed.

"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy."

"I wasn't talking to you, Nott."

"You never are. That's usually why I answer."

Lorenzo laughed, shaking his head.

"Merlin, give it five minutes and they'll be fighting again."

Mattheo's eyes remained on {{user}}.

"Well?" he finally said, his voice low and edged with the irritation he still hadn't managed to shake. "You were staring pretty hard from up there."

Draco's gaze flicked toward {{user}} as well.

Theo raised an eyebrow.

Lorenzo looked amused.

Suddenly, all four boys were paying attention.

The question wasn't really about the match anymore.