C R U C I O | Fred & George Weasley |

T H E M A T C H

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The Quidditch match buzzed with excitement. As I approached the stands, familiar voices called out. Turning, I saw Fred and George waving energetically. 

"Hey, beautiful!" Fred called, a wide grin on his face.

"Hello there," I replied, feeling a warmth spread across my cheeks.

They made their way over, weaving through the crowd effortlessly. "You look stunning today," George remarked with a playful wink.

"Thank you," I chuckled, feeling a mix of delight and shyness at their compliments.

"So, excited for the match?" Fred asked, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

"Absolutely. It's my first time watching a live Quidditch game," I admitted, trying to match their infectious energy.

"You're in for a treat," George chimed in. "The view from your seat is fantastic. We made sure you'd have a perfect spot."

"That's so thoughtful of you both. Thank you," I said, genuinely touched by their consideration.

They nodded with matching grins, pleased that I appreciated their effort. 

"Well, better grab your seat before it gets too crowded. Enjoy the match!" Fred said cheerfully, gesturing toward the stands.

"Thanks, I will!" I replied, waving as they disappeared into the growing crowd, feeling a surge of excitement for the match ahead.

In the midst of the excitement, I found my designated seat, located perfectly for an clear view of the Quidditch pitch. As the match kicked off, the energy was noticeable, crackling in the air with every maneuver.

Fred and George, soaring on their brooms, they were a dynamic duo. They navigated the field with remarkable skill, their red robes a blur against the sky. Fred darted across the pitch, his movements agile and precise, while George seemed to anticipate every Slytherin move, intercepting their passes effortlessly.

The match escalated quickly. The Slytherin team played aggressively, aiming to rattle the Gryffindor seekers. Bludgers were whizzing dangerously close, and the audience gasped as a particularly close call narrowly missed George. The tension in the stadium surged as the match intensified.

Fred, determined and focused, zoomed across the field, making daring dives and acrobatic turns to evade the Slytherin beaters. His dedication was evident in every swift maneuver, a testament to his commitment to the game and the team.

Meanwhile, George's strategic brilliance shone as he directed their Gryffindor chasers with precise hand signals, organizing  their moves with calculated precision. His quick thinking kept the Gryffindor team on par with the aggressive Slytherin tactics.

The crowd roared with every near miss and cheered in unison as Fred and George organize  seamless plays, their teamwork and brotherly connection evident in every move. Despite the escalating intensity, they remained composed, leading Gryffindor through the tumultuous match.

As the game continued, the atmosphere grew electric, each Gryffindor maneuver met with thunderous applause from the crowd. Fred and George's determination was unwavering, matching the Slytherin team's aggression with unwavering resolve.

Among the intensity of the match, Fred and George occasionally glanced toward where I sat, their eyes meeting mine with a quick, reassuring smile before returning their focus to the game. Their glances were brief but comforting, a silent reminder of their presence among the chaos.

However, it wasn't just the Weasley twins who noticed these fleeting looks. One of the Slytherin players, a determined glint in their eye, seemed to pick up on this connection. Their gaze lingered a moment longer on me, a calculating smirk forming as if they had found a chink in Gryffindor's armor.

It became clear that the Slytherin seeker had identified me as a potential distraction, a weak point in the Gryffindor team's concentration. Their tactics shifted, becoming more aggressive and targeting the Gryffindor players with renewed fervor, especially when Fred and George seemed to momentarily glance in my direction.

The crowd's cheers and gasps filled the air, but among the whirlwind of action, it was evident that the Slytherin seeker's focus was fixed on exploiting what they perceived as a vulnerability: the connection between the Weasley twins and me.

As the match raged on, the Slytherin seeker, with a sly smile, diverted their course toward where I sat in the stands. Zooming closer, they executed a daring maneuver, flying past so close that I could feel the rush of air from their swift movement. With a wink directed at me, they resumed their pursuit of the Golden Snitch.

Fred and George, engaged in the heart of the game, caught sight of the Slytherin seeker's gesture. An sudden pause in their swift maneuvers revealed the flicker of annoyance on their faces, quickly replaced by determined expressions. The realization that someone tried to seize attention from me had ignited a spark of anger in the twins.

Their determination seemed to intensify as they redoubled their efforts, determined to show more talent not just for the game's sake but also to protect what they perceived as theirs. It was as if the Slytherin seeker's actions had fueled an added determination in Fred and George to secure victory.

The match continued with heightened intensity, the Golden Snitch darting around the field. The events of the game had taken a personal turn for the Weasley twins, transforming the Quidditch match into more than just a pursuit of victory—it had become a matter of defending what they felt for me.

In the midst of the chaos on the pitch, George faced a devastating hit. The bludger, swung with unforeseen force, struck him square on, sending him spiraling off his broom. Panic seized the air as he plummeted towards the ground.

The cheers of the crowd turned to horrified gasps as George fell, and time seemed to freeze for an agonizing moment. The world held its breath, every eye fixed on the scene unfolding below.

"George!" Fred's torture cry echoed across the stadium as he darted toward his fallen brother, his expression a blend of concern and alarm. The match came to an abrupt halt, the field silent save for the rush of panicked breaths.

The medics, swift and determined, raced to the scene. George lay still on the ground, his features contorted in pain. The severity of the injury was visible, and an air of tension gripped the stadium.

All around, the Gryffindor supporters were a mix of shock and worry, their cheers now replaced by a hushed anticipation, hoping for any sign that George would be alright.

As they stabilized him for transport, Fred stood by his brother's side, his face engraved with a mix of fear and determination. The match had faded into the background; all attention was now on George's well-being.

The Quidditch pitch that was once filled with exhilaration and fierce competition was now a site of concern and anxiety, the future of the match forgotten in the face of George's injury.

My heart raced with worry as George was swiftly carried off the pitch. The sight of his injury lingered, haunting my thoughts as I watched the medics rush him toward the infirmary. Without a moment's hesitation, I rose from my seat, my concern outweighing any hesitation.