Draco's POV

Why in Salazar had I agreed to a Quidditch match with Potter?

What had been going through my mind to make me agree to such a thing? Willingly, without being pushed or forced or anything like that? I'd actually just went along with it. I couldn't believe myself.

This could be dangerous; Potter looked hot as fuck in Quidditch robes. There was no way this was going to turn out well for me. No way at all. How was I going to be able to hide how hopelessly in love with him I was if he was smiling and being friendly and looking amazing about ten feet away from my face?

This was going to be impossible, never mind hard, never mind difficult. The Potions exams? They were hard. This? This was just not possible. At all.

Yes, I would get to stare at Potter with a reason now that I would be competing against him, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he had destroyed my resolve to try and keep him out of my life so easily, effortlessly. He'd thrown my petty, pathetic attempt to get over him right out the window, along with any hopes I had left of ever regaining my mother's recognition.

It was like I just crumbled when he spoke, no matter what I tried to do, no matter how many walls I put up. It wasn't how I was supposed to act at all. I was supposed to be composed and in control, that was how a Malfoy should be, and yet, all of that shrivelled up and died with just one of those musical laughs, just one glimpse of that lopsided smile.

It was ridiculous.

I shook my head slowly as I walked towards the pitches. Why was I even going? What was the point in showing up? It wouldn't end well, how could it end well? How could it be anything but bad?

I gripped my broom tightly in my left hand, trying to force myself to relax without much success.

Despite all my worries, I was still going towards the pitches, I still hadn't made any attempt to turn around and head elsewhere instead. Had he hexed me or something? That would make more sense than me actually wanting to go to this stupid match.

I had already gotten into more appropriate clothing for Quidditch while in my dorms. I figured that if I got changed there it would just be better for the both of us.

The pitch looked empty when I first walked out onto it. The stands were all completely desolate, no one to be seen in any of them. It was a strange sight, even though I'd practised in here many times before without an audience.

"Malfoy? I'm surprised you actually showed up."

His voice came from right above me, which I hadn't been expecting at all. I flinched back at the sudden noise from so nearby, hating myself for doing so almost immediately.

Great. This was already going just amazingly.

I tilted my head up to glare at Potter, smirking smugly at me from about fifteen feet up in the air. His glasses were askew, like they always seemed to be, typical of him. The way he sat on the broom, like he'd just been born with the grace of a thousand swans. It really wasn't fair. How could anyone make flying a broom attractive? How could he look so ridiculously gorgeous with his hair an absolute shitshow? His robes a mess? His smile as dazzlingly infuriating as always?

There had to be something up here, these couldn't just be my feelings towards the prick. It was just too much. Everything would make so much more sense if I'd been drugged, hexed, something, anything other than conjuring these ridiculous thoughts from my own mind.

I glared at the git, my usual sneer slipping easily back onto my face, as it generally seemed to do near Potter. "You don't think I am capable of keeping my word, Potter? Or do you just not want to lose?"

It wasn't difficult to pretend to hate him, either. That also seemed to come so naturally to me. Our conversations, the insults, the making fun of each other, it was all just so familiar, so comforting to me, which was surprising since everything else had turned to shit all around me. My entire life had collapsed with the war, and before that I guess too.

Really, it had all been fragmenting slowly for years, starting with The Dark Lord's rebirth.

He rolled his eyes at me as I mounted my broom and kicked off from the ground. I shook as I tried to get my balance, swerving from side to side without any discernible pattern, showing just how rusty I was at this.

It had been a while since I'd been on a broom, a while since I'd last flown.

Actually, the last time I'd flown at all had been on the back of Potter's room, out of a burning room, surrounded by fire and clinging onto the Golden Boy himself for dear life.

Even back then, amidst all that chaos, I can remember thinking how warm he was, how nice his abs felt beneath my hands. Of course, I hadn't wanted to hold onto him, I'd have happily just burned to ash in that room, that would have saved me a lot of pain, a lot of suffering.

But of course, Potter had had to go all hero and save me like a useless damsel in distress. Pompous prick.

"I don't think I'll lose Malfoy, considering you're just about falling off already, we've not even started yet." He retorted, leaning back, relaxed and completely at home, and watching me amusedly as I circled the pitch, getting the hang of flying again, of how it felt, how to lean and steer without spinning in an unintended circle.

"Fuck off, Potter." I snarked, eyes narrowed in deep concentration. How dare he. I'd show him, the arsehole. I'd win this fucking match and see who was taunting who then.

I couldn't fall, or do anything stupid infront of Potter, he'd never let me live it down, and I'd have to live with the embarrassment of it for the rest of my life.

I swung a tight circle, then shot across the pitch to the middle, pulling up alongside my nemesis, copying his relaxed position to show just how confident I was of winning.

We were kind of close, I began to realise, only a few feet apart, close enough to reach out and touch each other's hands at least, which was a disturbing thought.

"What are you waiting for Potter? Are you going to let the snitch go or do you need the Weaselette and the rest of your fanclub to come out and cheer you on before you do anything even remotely interesting?" I asked him venomously, one eyebrow raised in question.

Potter shoved his glasses up his nose, shooting me a slight smile. "Just waiting to make sure you're not going to go face-first into the ground Malfoy." He replied, now opening his hand to reveal a neat little golden sphere resting in his palm.

The snitch flicked its wings out a few seconds later, and then began whirring as it always did. I could barely follow it as it shot away from his hand and into the sky, careening away from us at speeds that would never be expected from something so small. It was a golden blur arcing across the sky, the ground, around the hoops and up past the towers.

"Prepare to lose, Potter." I growled, leaning forwards again and starting away from him.

"Hah. You wish, Malfoy." He laughed, dashing forwards and up the side of the stadium, obviously hoping to search higher up for the snitch.

I scoffed, watching him go, telling myself I wasn't staring at him, I was just looking to see where he was planning to search, so that I could make sure I stayed as far away as possibly from him, of course, why else would I care?

Leaning forwards further, I began to speed up, making my way around the pitch once, eyes scanning below and around me for any sign of the snitch. I could just see Potter out of the corner of my eye, high above me, looking over the entire pitch, his hair buffeted by the wind, even more of a bird's nest than usual.

'Enough. Focus on the snitch, not that git.' I chided myself, glaring at the ground now, annoyed that I'd lost concentration again.

This really was just all ridiculous. Couldn't I stop thinking about him for one second? Apparently not. It was all his fault, being so distracting. He didn't have to be, he could just... leave me alone, stop bothering me and keep to himself. But nooo, not Potter, no, he had to try and talk to me and get me to agree to this stupid thing, and now it was too late to back out without seeming like a coward, like I doubted my own skill. Which, of course, I could never let him believe.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it; a glint of gold backgrounded by the dark green of the pitch.

The snitch.

It zipped right past my face, tracing a quick circle around me before dashing away around the front of the stands.

For a second, I was stuck still, kind of stunned I guess from something so close to my face, something bright and glinting.

It reminded me of the fire in the library, of the roaring flames so close I could reach out and burn my hand to a crisp if I'd wanted to. It had been almost surreal, seeing your own death approach in a blinding sea of read and white and orange and gold. I could still remember the heat, the raw power I could feel from that blaze. It was like nothing else, not like fire was described at all, way more wild, less controlled than I could ever have expected.

It was like it had had a life all of its own, kind of like this snitch.

I shook my head in annoyance, shooting forwards in pursuit. Distracted, again. I couldn't let Potter win, I had to catch this thing before Potter caught sight of it.

Potter.

There was a whoosh beside me, a flapping of deep red robes, the gleam of sunlight on glass, and suddenly he was beside me, pulling ahead with his body pressed against his broom.

I glared my hatred at him. Of course he'd seen me, he'd been watching from above. He hadn't been watching for the snitch, he'd just been waiting for me to start chasing it, just like he'd done before, I should've realised. Curse you Potter, distracting me from thinking straight.

In more ways than one I guess, but that wasn't really the point.

He was pulling ahead of me now, which gave me no choice but to stare at him, glaring furiously at his back.

His head was bent low, almost like he was trying to streamline himself to go faster.

I found myself looking at his back as he slowly but surely gained speed. I traced the curve of his spine, the way his hair was ruffled by the breeze, the way he gripped the broom. Why was it so attractive to me? How did that make any sense at all?

Wait. He was beating me. No way could I let that happen!

I gritted my teeth, eyes narrowed by a fierce competitiveness, the kind only Potter had ever been able to get out of me, the kind that shot thrills of excitement through me with the sheer intensity of it. I leaned forwards, as low to the broom as I dared to go, willing myself to speed up. I had to catch him, I had to best him at his own, moronic little game.

Soon, I started gaining ground on him, just as he pulled away up and out of the circle, chasing the snitch right up into the sky.

Now, we were neck and neck, our brooms even, completely side by side.

It was exhilarating. The wind made my eyes water, I could feel its chill roaring through my robes, only adding to the sense of glee I could feel from this small pleasure of playing Quidditch.

The snitch was right between us, it's small wings fluttering desperately, flickering from side to side as it attempted to veer away from us, feigning left, them right, then continuing straight up again.

Potter had his arm outstretched now, as did I, determined not to let him get the win here, determined to beat this arsehole at his own game.

It was so close, I barley even realised how close me and Potter were, that was in the background now.

All that mattered was the wind screaming in my ears, that little golden ball and the broom beneath me.

I had to be close enough now, all I had to do was reach out just a bit more.

I stretched my arm out to its full extent in a last desperate effort to catch the snitch, fingers spread to encompass it in my palm.

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