The Slytherin changing room smelled like grass, polish, and adrenaline.
Mizar stood at the mirror, finishing the last loop of his captain's armband over the sleeve of his Quidditch robes. His broom—custom-handled, sleek, and battle-scarred—leaned against the bench beside him. The tension in the room was steady but focused: low murmurs, the occasional thud of a bat against a palm, and Omar humming something completely inappropriate under his breath as he adjusted his shoulder pads.
"Oi," Omar muttered, glancing at the door. Andromeda's voice could be heard on the other side. "Did anyone tell Andie that this is the boys' dressing room?"
Mizar didn't even turn around. "I assume she doesn't care."
"I don't," Andromeda said, sweeping in like a storm wearing a Slytherin scarf as if it were a crown. Her boots clicked against the stone floor, curls pinned, expression imperial. Callista followed behind her, smirking like she'd been dared to enjoy this.
Omar yelped and dove behind his locker. "Bloody hell, Andie—some of us are half-naked! You can't just—this is a male-dominated environment!"
"And some of us are trying to deliver life-altering news," Andromeda shot back. "Cover your nipples and stay quiet, Omar. Or at least wear better underwear."
"I like the thunderbird print," he mumbled.
Callista glanced over and let out a low whistle. "That's not thunderbird, that's a cry for help."
A few of their teammates chimed in with muffled laughter and groans.
"Oi, warn us next time," said Nick Featherstone, the young reserve Keeper, yanking his jersey down hastily. "I nearly dislocated my shoulder trying to hide."
"I thought this was sacred ground," muttered Haymitch Flint, tightening the straps on his gloves. "No civilians before a match."
Andromeda rolled her eyes. "Relax, you're not that interesting shirtless."
Mizar turned to face them, one brow raised, arms crossing over his chest. "You know this is terrible luck, right? Storming the changing room before a Gryffindor match? Very cursed energy."
Andromeda gave him a regal nod. "It's not a curse. It's a blessing. And I come bearing news."
"You could've just waited ten minutes," Omar muttered. "Or sent a memo. Or an owl. Or anything that didn't involve my personal trauma."
"No time," Callista said breezily, arms folded. "The drama's fresh. Let her have the stage."
Andromeda stepped up onto the nearest bench like it was a stage, scarf trailing. "Alright, you louts. Listen up."
Mizar arched a brow. "Are we being drafted?"
"No," she said, a little too gleefully. "I am. I got in."
It took a beat. Then—
"Wait," Mizar said, his posture shifting, eyes narrowing in a rare expression of surprise. "You mean… Sayre?"
"The concert hall?" Omar blurted. "That Sayre?"
Andromeda gave a sharp nod. "Caoimhe Sayre's summer ensemble. Auditioned during the holidays. Uncle Arcturus pulled strings to get me in the room, but she made me play for it. Three hours. Two interviews—but I'm in."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Omar grinned like she'd been waiting for this exact triumph since second year. He was still partially hidden behind the locker. "You absolute showoff."
Mizar let out a low whistle. "So you're going to be Andromeda Black: enchantress of the strings."
"Hopefully not possessed by them," she quipped.
Callista grinned. "You're going to play with the best. In front of the best."
"The concert's in July. Eight young musicians. International platform. Real patrons. Real critics. Real expectations."
"You're gonna murder them all and steal their violins," Omar said, a little breathless with admiration. "You're gonna be great."
Mizar stepped forward, quiet and steady. His smile was faint, but it reached his eyes.
"You're not going to belong there," he said simply. "You're going to own it."
Andromeda held his gaze for a moment, then softened. "You think so?"
"I know so." He offered his hand, formal. "Congratulations."
She didn't hesitate. She clasped it, firm and certain.
"I'm proud of you," Mizar added, low enough that only she could hear.
For a split second, something flickered behind her eyes—grateful, maybe, or something close to relief. Then she cleared her throat and let go.
"I had to tell you in person," she said. "You were the first person who ever asked if I wanted to play. Not just if I could."
Callista stepped in, glancing at the time. "We should bounce before McGonagall comes in thinking we're trying to have secret rendezvous with our Housemates before the game."
"Play smart," Andromeda called over her shoulder, already striding towards the door. "And don't get blood on your robes. It's hard to enchant out."
The door slammed behind them, and the room returned to its former noise—but with a new kind of energy.
Omar grinned, eyes wide. "She's gonna be famous. Like, violinist and villain famous. Terrifying."
Mizar mounted his broom and rolled his shoulders back. "We're all going to be something."
Omar grabbed his bat. "Yeah. Champions."
"Exactly." Mizar gave a thin, wicked smile. "Now let's go ruin Gryffindor's morning."
And with that, the Slytherin team marched out to the pitch—wind slicing through the open tunnel, the crowd roaring above like the castle itself was holding its breath.
The sky above the Quidditch pitch was an unforgiving shade of silver, heavy with cold and promise. The stands were packed—green and gold clashing against crimson and gold, banners whipping in the wind like battle standards. The stadium thrummed with tension. The kind that pressed into your ribs and dared you to blink.
Somewhere high in the commentator's box, Benjy Fenwick's voice crackled through the enchanted amplifiers with theatrical flair.
"And they're off! Slytherin Captain and Seeker Black-Shafiq shoots into the air with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm! Ghaffari Fuentemayor is circling below him like a bat out of hell—pun entirely intended—and Gryffindor looks… cocky. Very cocky. What could possibly go wrong?"
Mizar soared into the air with mechanical grace, his broom an extension of his will. He didn't look to the stands—not yet—but he could feel their noise in his bones. Below him, Omar tightened his grip on his bat and scanned the sky like he was ready to knock the moon out of orbit.
The whistle blew.
Slytherin surged forward.
Within seconds, the match spiraled into chaos. Bludgers screamed past shoulders. Flint intercepted a rogue Quaffle mid-turn, pivoted hard, and sent it flying towards the Gryffindor goalposts. The crowd roared.
Mizar flew higher, above the clamor, eyes narrowed behind his goggles. He wasn't thinking about strategy or weather patterns. He was watching for gold—just a glint, a blur, a whisper of the Snitch in the storm.
Below, Omar was already laughing—loud, taunting.
"C'mon, Prewett! That's the best you've got?"
Benjy cackled in the box.
"Ah, Ghaffari Fuentemayor's mouth is loud today, lads! Fabian Prewett with a Bludger to match—oh! That nearly took out the Slytherin reserves section! I haven't seen a swing like that since Allen took out a cursed wardrobe in '68!"
Fabian Prewett—muscled, grinning like the chaos itself was an inside joke—spun midair and slammed a Bludger with elegant cruelty. It missed Omar's ribs by inches and shattered a stadium flagpole instead.
"Oops," Gideon shouted from the other end of the pitch, looping around like a hawk. "We'll aim better next time!"
Omar cackled and dove, streaking green across the pitch like a curse let loose.
Mizar didn't flinch.
He twisted his broom into a tight arc, pulling into a hover just above the goalposts. The wind bit at his neck. His fingers twitched. And finally, finally, he glanced at the stands.
Green. Gold. A bit of silver flash.
No blue.
No Ravenclaw scarf. No familiar set of folded arms. No dark curls pushed back by the wind.
Magnolia wasn't there.
There was no reason she would be. She didn't even like Quidditch. They had an Arithmancy essay due in two days. She'd said she hadn't even started it the night before, when he mentioned the match in passing.
But still.
Still, some traitorous part of him had expected her to come.
He turned away from the crowd and dove hard—twisting low through a mess of Chasers as if he were slicing through water. A Gryffindor Keeper shouted a curse at him, but Mizar didn't hear it. He was flying faster now, eyes scanning the edges of the pitch, wind lashing against his cloak.
No sign of gold.
No sign of her.
Below, Omar let out a gleeful bellow and nearly knocked Gideon off his broom. The twins were laughing, wild and relentless, even as the match turned mean. It always did when Gryffindor was cornered.
Then it happened.
A flash of red and a Bludger that shouldn't have been there—launched too hard, too high. Fabian swung, Gideon baited.
Omar was mid-turn, laughing.
He didn't see it coming.
The Bludger hit him square in the side of the head with a crack loud enough to carry over the pitch. His body twisted, broom tilting violently. His bat slipped from his fingers.
He dropped.
Not like a stumble. Not like a stumble with recovery.
He dropped.
Benjy's voice cracked mid-sentence.
"—and that's—wait—that's Omar! Down—he's down! Oh Morgana—that's not good—"
The crowd gasped as one living thing.
"Omar," Callista breathed from the stands. "Oh no—"
Andromeda was already moving.
Below, Omar hit the pitch with a sickening thud and didn't get up.
The whistle didn't blow at first—just the sound of brooms grinding to halts and stunned shouts from the stands. Then it screamed, high and shrill, and the game froze.
Mizar didn't land.
He dove—faster than when he chased the Snitch every game—landing hard enough to jar his knees. He was already pulling his gloves off as he sprinted towards Omar's unmoving form, jaw tight.
Madam Hooch was beside him in seconds, wand drawn, muttering diagnostics.
Blood pooled beneath Omar's head, dark and steady.
Too much blood.
"Someone do something!" Mizar shouted, voice cracking.
"Don't move him—wait for St. Mungo's protocol—don't touch his neck—"
Mizar turned on his heel.
Fabian and Gideon had landed nearby. For once, they didn't look smug.
"What the hell was that?" Mizar's voice was razor-sharp.
Gideon raised his hands. "It was a hit—legal hit—he turned last second—"
"You aimed for the head!" Mizar snarled, stepping closer.
"We aimed for the Bludger!" Fabian shot back. "It's a game, Mizar—he baited us all match, you know what it's like!"
"He's bleeding out on the pitch!"
"It was a clean hit!" Gideon barked back, shoulders squared. "We've taken worse. So have you."
"He's not moving!"
"You think we wanted this?!" Fabian snapped.
"I think you didn't care what happened as long as you won!" Mizar's fists clenched. His voice dropped—dangerous, low. "There's a difference."
"Back off!" a voice cut in. One of the Gryffindor Chasers—Aoife Lynch, all fire and freckles—stepped between them, her wand clenched tight. "It was a hard hit, but not a hex. It's Quidditch, not tea time."
Mizar's eyes flicked to her. His voice was cold as sleet. "If he doesn't wake up, do you want to tell his parents it was just a game?"
"He's not dead!" she snapped. "And you're not helping!"
Andromeda's scarf slipped from her shoulder, but she didn't stop to fix it. Her boots hit the turf hard. Callista followed, her braid unraveling, panic pale on her face.
She dropped to her knees beside Omar.
There was so much blood.
She froze.
Her hand hovered inches from his brow, but she didn't know where to touch. Didn't know if touching would hurt him more. Her throat tightened, panic swelling up inside her like she was drowning in it.
"Omar?" she whispered.
No response.
"Omar, it's me. It's Andie. You're okay, alright? You're fine. You're just being dramatic—wake up, damn you."
Madam Hooch looked up sharply. "Don't move him—don't lift his head—"
"I wasn't," Andromeda snapped, even though her fingers trembled near his temple. "I don't know healing—I don't—someone fix him!"
"I've never seen this much blood," Callista whispered, eyes fixed on the grass. Her wand hand shook.
"Stretcher's coming," Nick Featherstone said, somewhere behind them. "They've already called the castle. Madam Pomfrey's on her way."
Andromeda's knees were soaked now, blood dark against the fabric of her tights. Her hand found Omar's—cold, limp. She clutched it with both of hers and bent closer, as if her voice might pull him back.
"Omar, if you even think about dying, I swear on Merlin's ugly beard I'll drag your soul back myself and hex it into next week."
Still no movement.
Her voice cracked. "You bloody idiot… you've never shut up a day in your life. Don't go quiet now."
Mizar stood frozen a few feet away, arms still at his sides, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. His broom lay forgotten on the grass. The blood. The screaming. The way Andromeda sounded.
He couldn't remember feeling this helpless in years.
Omar was his best friend.
And he hadn't protected him.
The crowd had gone silent. No cheers. No victory songs. No anthem of triumph.
Only wind.
Only blood.
Only a boy being carried off the field, and the girl who refused to leave his side.
And Benjy Fenwick's voice, cracking faintly in the background.
"…and we'll pause here on the pitch… Merlin help us. Come on, Omar."
The Mediwizards finally arrived escorted by Madam Pomfrey, levitating a stretcher with practiced precision. Andromeda didn't let go of Omar's hand even as they lifted him. The medics tried to usher her aside.
She refused.
"I'm going with him," she said.
One of them frowned. "Miss, we need space to work—"
"I said I'm going."
Mizar walked beside it like he'd been carved from stone.
"Captain," one of the St. Mungo's mediwizards said sharply, "I need you to stand back. We're taking him now—"
"I'm coming with you," Mizar said, voice low and final.
The mediwizard blinked. "It's protocol. Friends aren't allowed transport-side unless—"
"I said I'm coming." Mizar's gaze didn't waver. "If you try to stop me, I'll hex your boots into next week and fly behind you anyway."
Next to him, Andromeda's grip on Omar's hand hadn't loosened since they'd lifted him from the pitch. Her fingers were blood-slick, pale around the knuckles, jaw set with a terrifying calm.
"I already told your colleague," she said icily. "We're not leaving him."
The other Mediwitch—a freckled woman with short-cropped hair—sighed. "You'll be in the way."
"We won't," Callista said from behind them, wand tucked into her sleeve, her voice steadier than she felt. "And if this were your best friend, you wouldn't be watching from the grass either."
The first mediwizard hesitated.
"Fine," he muttered. "But you stay behind the boundary. No touching him. No interference."
"Understood," Mizar said, already climbing into the transport platform they'd conjured. Andromeda was right behind him, her scarf still stained with blood. Callista followed, barely looking where she stepped.
The platform began to rise, air humming around its edges as protective wards clicked into place. The stands below looked like toy models now, students craning their necks to watch the Slytherins vanish into the sky. The whole pitch had gone ghostly quiet.
Mizar crouched beside the stretcher, eyes fixed on Omar's face. There was a faint tremble in his hand—just enough to betray how tightly he was holding himself together.
"You're going to be fine," he said, mostly to himself. "You're going to wake up and make a joke and say we're all being dramatic."
Andromeda sat opposite him, still clinging to Omar's wrist like it was a lifeline.
"I don't even know healing," she whispered. "I study theory. Magic history. I don't know how to fix this."
"You don't have to," Mizar said. "Just stay."
"I'm not leaving," she said. "Not until he tells me I'm being too loud."
"Which he will," Callista murmured from where she stood at the back, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. "First thing he'll say is we ruined his dramatic exit."
Mizar almost smiled. Almost.
But then Omar's fingers didn't twitch. His chest didn't rise. And the blood on Andromeda's hands hadn't dried yet.
So Mizar kept staring forward, silent.
And they soared towards St. Mungo's with the boy who never stopped talking laid out between them, and none of them could do a bloody thing but hope.