This is how you imagine the future:
You’ll have a nice flat somewhere, in London perhaps, or Edinburgh, or Glasgow. Someplace small but not too small, in the middle of the city, above a bakery maybe, or a barber shop. You’ll still be playing Quidditch professionally, he’ll be working for the Ministry.
Or perhaps not.
Maybe you’ll have a little house on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, a blue house with curtains and a dog, a Rottweiler maybe, or a German Shepherd. You’ll be older, maybe not playing anymore, but coaching or something, because you can’t imagine not playing the game. He’ll work in town, or maybe at Hogwarts, as a professor. You’ve heard he’s quite good at Defense Against the Dark Arts, though you’d prefer not to think about why.
It’s possible that you’re thinking a bit too far ahead.
Concentrate on the now, then. You are here: behind the locker room, after practice, standing in a patch of overgrown grass. Marcus Flint is kissing you; you are kissing him back. It should be strange, but it isn’t. It should feel wrong, but it doesn’t.
It feels like a beginning.