The final whistle echoed across the grounds, lost almost instantly beneath a roar that shook the very foundations of the stadium. Mattheo Riddle descended from the overcast sky like a dark comet, his fingers white-knuckle tight around the golden Snitch, still fluttering helplessly in his palm. The scoreboard gleamed in vibrant emerald and silver: Slytherin had obliterated Gryffindor. The pitch was a blur of crimson defeat, but as Mattheo hit the turf, his jaw set in a cold, triumphant smirk, the green-draped bleachers erupted into absolute chaos.

By the time the team swept down to the dungeons, the Slytherin common room had transformed into an electric hive of noise and rebellion. Green flames roared savagely in the grand stone fireplace, casting sharp, flickering shadows across dark leather sofas and heavy tapestries. The black lake pressed against the high arched windows, its murky depths illuminated by enchanted floating lanterns that pulsed to the heavy bass of magic-spun music. Butterbeer flowed freely, firewhisky was passed around in stolen crystal decanters, and the air crackled thick with victory, ozone, and the sheer high of domination.

At the center of the madness stood Mattheo. He tossed the stolen Snitch into the air, catching it effortlessly without looking, his quidditch robes still dust-streaked and smelling of rain and wind. A crowd gathered around him—cheering, pouring drinks, clamoring for a word from their ruthless captain—but his dark eyes cut through the haze of green light, cool and calculating. He didn't just play to win; he played to crush, and tonight, Slytherin owned the castle. And he knew exactly what he wanted as his prize.