Chapter 1
The wind howled through the crisp autumn air, carrying spots of rain and the scent of wet, freshly cut grass. The anticipation of the game about to start was high, the arena thick with tension. The place was alive with energy, its stands packed to the brim with eager Super fans and loyal team followers, their voices a cacophony of cheers and chants. It was the most anticipated match of the season: Bulgaria versus Ireland.
Ever since their last stand off eight years prior at the Quidditch World Cup, which Harry didn’t have the fondest memories of, everyone has been eager to see them return to face each other again. Now, with ‘The Harry Potter’ and Draco Malfoy joining the opposing teams, no one could sit still in their seats. It was Gryffindor versus Slytherin all over again but, this wasn’t the World Cup, it was meant to be a charitable game between the two highly competitive teams.
The locker room was buzzing just moments before, players pacing, stretching. Everyone filled with that same nervous energy. No time for the normally rallying speech from their captain leaving them off kilter. Potter and Krum side by side as they get ready to walk through the tunnel to the pitch, the loud hum from the crowd always made him feel worse.
Viktor nudged him, arms crossed. “Trust your instinct.” Was all he said in the moment, his accent thick. Wether it was to help fend of nerves or just a command, Harry wasn’t sure but he nodded either way.
The roars from the crowd got louder as they drew closer. Harry glanced back for a moment, only to catch Draco’s smirk from far behind him, which was only a front to mask his own nerves.
“Try not to embarrass yourself out there.” Draco mouthed, Harry shooting back a glare. This was meant to be his out, his thing. His place. Malfoy invading it just pushed him over the edge. His hand tensed around the handle as they moved forward.
The Bulgarian team stepped out onto the soft grass of the pitch, each step leaving a slight imprint as they walked to the sounds of shrieks and screams of their fans. Harry Potter pressed his Firebolt to his forehead as he shut his eyes for a moment, a ritualistic action he did before every game. A breath left his lungs and he got on, whooshing into the air. He hovered in the air on his broom, his grip tight around the handle, the wood already damp with the cold rain. Cool droplets stinging against his skin, making his breath come out harder, but the thrill of the match kept him level headed but that didn't last long as his eyes darted towards the Irish team. Searching for the one player who had become as much a rival to him as the game itself, he huffed. That teenage attitude still there years after. The blonde would do anything to get under his skin, he knew that. He had followed after him to the Pitch when it first came out Harry was at the try outs. Draco Malfoy just had to do the same. Harry didn't know if it was just blatant jealousy or a ploy to save the ex-Deatheater’s reputation, but it got on his nerves anyway and that was the last thing he had wanted. Draco Malfoy, the new sneering face of Ireland and barely three months on the team, was already in the air, hovering near the centre of the pitch, his platinum blonde hair shiny wet in the rain. He was ready for battle and Harry was pissed. Soaked from the downpour, he got into position the the pitch. The air was thick with tension and the earthy scent of the field. Harry’s breath was rugged, the sound of droplets tapping against his robes blended in with the distant hum of the crowd and drowned out the murmurs of his teammates. There was a buzz in the air, a mixture of nerves and excitement, as the game drew closer but Harry could only focus on one thing. The blonde before him, face to face, just like it had been back at Hogwarts.
"Ready to lose, Potter?" Draco's voice cut through the wind, sharp and full of that unmistakable sneer. He shot rage through Harry like no other and he met his gaze, his jaw clenched just to make sure he didn't say something that would send him to the number one spot on the bench.
“In your dreams, Malfoy,” Harry huffed out, fingers itching to grip his broom tighter.
Draco's smirk deepened. "We’ll see about that.“
Harry wanted to respond and wipe that smirk off his rival’s face but a sharp whistle pierced the air, signalling the start of the match. The players shot off, zooming into the sky with a collective roar of adrenaline. Harry’s heart raced as the crowd’s cheers echoed around him. The golden Snitch shimmered high above, taunting him, but Harry’s attention was divided.
Draco was right there—right in his space, challenging him with every turn, every dive. The icy Seeker wasn’t just fast; he was relentless, pushing Harry to keep his eyes sharp and his reflexes even sharper. Harry wasn't admiring is skill, of course not. That would be daft.
As the game unfolded, it became more than just a rivalry—it was a battle for pride. Each time Harry and Draco locked eyes, the animosity between them flared, making the game feel personal. Draco wasn’t just after the victory for his team; he was after something else, something deeper—a sense of superiority, a reminder that Gryffindor-Bulgaria and its hero could never quite measure up. The childishness of it flying right over his head.
But Harry wasn’t about to let Malfoy get away with it. He sped through the air, dodging Bludgers and weaving in and out of other players, determined not to let Draco’s taunts or tricks distract him like they used to. They were both more skilled now, but Draco was everywhere—at his tail, almost as if the game was nothing more than an extension of their long-lasting rivalry.
Viktor Krum, now seasoned professional, played with calculated precision on Harry’s side. Now taking up the role of Chaser. His movements were deliberate, his focus unshakable. He’d outmanoeuvred many Irish players so far with sharp dives and aggressive feigns, using his expert ace to dominate the air. His presence imposing to Draco. Watching the dynamic between Viktor and Harry form with a mix or respect, rivalry and sheer determination.
Using his keen instinct and speed, Harry almost matched Krum’s skill and daring play. Unpredictability unmatched. They didn’t share many words- just intense eye contact and quick glances, actions he would barely spare Malfoy. This was their first real match since Draco joined and being put against each other, as they often did, made it much more riveting for both players.
But in those fleeting moments where their eyes locked mid-flight, the message would be clear:
This is war, and neither of them intends to lose.
Harry observed from the sky, fast on his broom. His hands clamping around the wood as Bludgers rush past his panicked face. Gasps and yells from the crowd as the Quaffle scores another ten points for his rivalling team. The stakes were high, everyone waiting with bated breath as they watched the players fight for victory. Desperately trying to secure glory. One player’s pride too large. One players ego too exaggerated.
Harry watched as Krum gave him a knowing smirk, telling him the game was far from over even in the seriousness of the moment. The arena going wild as fangirls try to throw themselves onto the pitch, wearing their honoured colours. Harry Potter, in the three years he had been on the team, had made quite the name for himself, only adding to his forever growing fan base. Shocking everyone with his career decision. Draco Malfoy, still apprehended by many fans, had started to make his own following, his own mother idly sitting in the stands.
The droning voice of the commentator brought everyone back to the game, the fight was close. No one ready to give up. Harry could hear the whistle of the wind in his ears, along with the sound of his beating heart hammering from inside his rib cage. The physical toll of the game rough. Weather conditions not helping as the first sounds of thunder shake the sky around them. No lighting yet, they had time to earn their victory. He needed the Snitch. He needed to win.
Everyone felt the pressure. The score was already at a high: 110:140 to Ireland. Knowing Malfoy it would just be another thing to have over Harry’s head. He could hear it already, a whiny, ‘Still riding on luck and borrowed talent, Potter?’, In that infuriating voice. He wanted his fist to meet that smirk already, but right now wasn’t the time. Get your head in the game.
The Snitch gleamed in the distance, it was just out of reach.
And in a blink, Draco made his move.
He shot forward, cutting across Harry’s path in a daring attempt to snatch the Snitch from under his nose. Harry's heart skipped a beat. There was no time to think, only react. Just out of reach turned into a game of cat and mouse.
With a sharp turn, just as he had done in hundreds of trading sessions before hand, Harry followed suit, plunging after Draco with a burst of speed. The Seeker’s silver broom gleamed beneath him, his body a blur of fluid motion, but Harry’s focus was razor-sharp. He could almost feel Draco’s breath on his neck, the way their shoulders rubbed together as they shoved and pushed as they neared the golden Snitch, the fluttering wings of the tiny ball now within their grasp.
Throughout the whole game, Draco overly tried to prove himself, to who? Harry didn’t care. Pushing against him, knocking into him, feigning fast play. It was infuriating to always have that blonde head of hair always in your sights, but Harry got good at keeping an eye on him. Learned from past mistakes. The two men side by side. Inches apart. The Stadium roaring with eagerness and cheers as they watched the two glorified Seekers go head to head.
It was more than a match. Some say it was their destiny to collide—on the brooms, in the air, under the bright blue sky that revealed itself in the moment, just as Harry’s numb fingertip felt the rugged, golden surface. Foul play. And collide they did. Hard metal right into Malfoy’s broom splintering across and into Harry’s vision. Shards of the wood cutting at his face, causing the tip his own broom to hit the ground with two crack, propelling him forward.
One crack being his sacred Firebolt tearing in two.
The second crack being his arm breaking on impact.
In overwhelming mix of adrenaline, energy and raw survival instinct, Harry shot up off the floor. Heart pounding like a drum in his chest, almost drawing out the noise of the crowd. His limbs shaking, dull and filled with a burning sensation in his arm like his nerves were on fire but hadn’t caught up to the damage.
Draco, landing almost unscathed against Harry’s legs, pushed himself up as well. His breath fast and uneven like he couldn’t get the air into his lungs, suddenly hyper aware of everything around him. The scent of grass, sweat, his vision blurring just to snap back to focus, too sharply on Harry who had suddenly swung the non-broken arm right to his jaw in a fit of pure aggression. The third crack. Why? He wasn’t sure himself but he had knocked him several yards back. Draco landed on the already aching muscles of his arms, to taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.
Draco doesn’t think, he just moves. Scurrying up to tackle Harry to the ground. What’s a few more bruises and fractures?
Body against body, fists were flung everywhere they could reach. Draco half straddling Harry and he tugged at his disheveled black hair. Harry doing the same to pull Malfoy off by his slick robes, using his knees to kick away at him. It was a tussle between the two adults, rolling around in the now muddy pitch. The air had been knocked out of him, not that Harry could notice with the way Draco’s hand found his throat. Warm, sweaty palm fighting to cut off his air flow. The new sensation strange then painful. All players rushing towards the tangled mess of fists, robes, blood and mindless fury.
The distant blare of a whistle didn’t matter. The world had narrowed down to fury, breathless struggle, and the sheer need to win, even off the pitch.
Draco twisted, trying to break free, but Harry pinned him with his forearm against his chest. They locked eyes—heated, defiant, and something else burning beneath the surface.
For a split second, neither moved. Their breaths mingled, harsh and uneven.
With the exhaustion and their teammates harshly pulling them away from each other, the rush starts to fade. Harry felt the hands grabbing his shoulders, the shout of his teammate barely audible with the blood rushing to his ears. Draco sat up from the floor, wiping his mouth from a few yards away. The pain slamming into both of them at once, like a delayed impact. It all crashes down, and that unstoppable feeling disappears. Any glimmer of sunlight, drowned out by the thick fall of rain. The crowd hysterical.
Groans from Harry. A huff from Draco. Arguments between the teams. Shrieks from the watchers.
Potter versus Malfoy all over again. Quiet realisation falling over the two, this time? Both losers.