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The days flew by in a blur of classes, essays, and practical lessons.
Lyra found herself skimming through her assignments, her focus slipping as she awaited the upcoming Quidditch matchâthe match that everyone was talking about. Slytherin versus Gryffindor. It was always a heated rivalry, but this time felt different.
More personal.
As Lyra sat through yet another mundane Transfiguration class, her quill lazily scratched across parchment. Professor McGonagall was explaining some complex theory about human-to-animal transformations, but Lyra's mind was elsewhere.
Quidditch.
She could already picture herself soaring over the pitch, the wind whipping through her hair as she aimed for the quaffle. The thrill of it always gave her a sense of purpose that nothing else could.
She'd been practicing hard, but she knew this next week would make or break the season.
The Slytherin team had been training relentlessly, and their captain, Marcus Flint, was more aggressive than ever. There was no way they could afford to loseânot to Gryffindor.
Not to Fred Weasley.
After class, Lyra gathered her things and hurried out of the room, barely acknowledging Astoria, who was chattering about something or another.
The halls of Hogwarts bustled with energy as students hurried between classes, but her thoughts were focused solely on Quidditch now.
She could already feel the tension building, like a storm brewing just on the horizon.
The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet when she arrived later that evening. Blaise and Pansy were whispering by the fireplace, and Draco was sprawled across one of the emerald-green couches, looking as smug as ever.
He gave her a quick nod as she passed, but Lyra's thoughts were already elsewhere. She needed to get to the pitch to practice.
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As she reached the Quidditch field, the air was cool, and the sun hung low on the horizon, casting a golden light over the grounds.
The familiar scent of the pitch hit her, filling her with a strange mix of nostalgia and adrenaline. The rest of the Slytherin team was already there, warming up and going over tactics.
Flint gave the female player a sharp nod, his usual scowl in place as he barked out orders.
"Lyra. We can't afford any mistakes this week," Flint growled, his dark eyes scanning her, as if daring her to falter. "Make sure your focus is on the game, not anything, or anyone else."
Lyra clenched her jaw. The Gryffindor beaters had always been rentless, but the weasley twins were notorious for their relentless, aggressive play.
And while George was a menace in his own right, it was Fred who always seemed to go out of his way to push her buttons on the field.
Their rivalry had grown fiercer over the years, and this match would be no different.
"We'll beat them," Lyra replied confidently, her emerald eyes flashing with determination. "Easily."
Flint grunted, clearly pleased with her attitude. "Good. Practice is all week, no excuses. You need to be at your best."
The team took to the air, their brooms rising swiftly into the sky. Lyra felt the familiar rush as she gripped her broomstick, her feet leaving the ground.
This was where she belongedâup in the air, where the weight of Slytherin's expectations couldn't touch her. The roar of the wind filled her ears as she zoomed across the pitch, chasing the Quaffle with practiced precision.
Her mind kept flashing to the Gryffindor team, though, Fred Weasley, in particular. She could already picture him darting through the air, that cocky smirk of his as he sent Bludgers her way, always with the intent to knock her off her game.
But this time was different. This time she wouldn't let him.
Her nerves got the best of her, and she shoot quafflers after quafflers with ease through the big wooden hoops.
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After an intense practice session, Lyra landed back on the pitch, breathless but exhilarated.
The sun had almost completely set, casting long shadows across the field. The rest of the team was gathering their things, leaving the field, Flint already barking orders for tomorrow's session before leaving himself.
But Lyra lingered for a moment, her mind racing with tactics and strategies.
Just as she was about to leave the field, she heard a familiar voice behind her.
"Practicing hard, Arakan?"
She turned, already knowing who it was. Fred Weasley stood a few feet away, his broom casually slung over his shoulder. His red hair glowed in the fading light.
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "What do you want, Weasley?"
Fred shrugged, taking a step closer. "Just thought I'd check in on the competition. Making sure Slytherins aren't getting too cocky before the match."
"Whatever, the pitch is yours." Lyra groaned in exhaustion. She was too tired to fight right now, like Flint said, she had to keep her attention on the game.
Fred watched as she passed by him. "You better be careful, strotting around the castle by night." Fred's voice echoed behind her, and she slightly perked her head towards his direction.
"Sirius Black has been spotted in Hogsmeade," He told her sternly.
"But I suppose it wouldn't matter if you were gone by the upcoming match, it's not like you make a difference after all." He sneered, his teeth glistening with menace.
She stopped in her tracks, sparing him a glance as she turned around fully to face him.
"We'll see about that, since you're all so confident, let's make a bet," She said in a low tone.
"If Slytherin wins, you'll have to do all my homework for the rest of the half-year. If Gryffindor wins, i'll do yours."
Fred thought for a moment, before agreeing. Now he really had to win, he could barely keep up with his own homework.
Lyra didn't think much of it, as she is naturally gifted academically, but she was still determined to win.
Lyra simply broke the conversation of, by turning on her heel, heading for the exit.
"Goodnight, Arakan." Fred spoke out from behind her, and she could practically hear the smirk in his voice, but she didn't respond. She only rolled her eyes by his sly behaviour.
Git.
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