Seekers
The air in Hogwarts was electric.
It wasn’t just the usual springtime buzz, the warmth creeping back into the castle after months of bitter cold. This was different. This was Quidditch fever.
The entire school was holding its breath for the final match of the season: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. The match that would decide the House Cup. The match that would mark the end of Harry Potter’s Quidditch career at Hogwarts.
Harry had spent weeks drilling his team into the ground. Rain, wind, even a freak hailstorm in mid-March—nothing had stopped Gryffindor from training. The pitch had become a second home, the sky their battlefield. The team was faster, sharper, more ruthless than ever. And they had to be, because Slytherin was just as determined.
Draco Malfoy had made sure of that. She didn’t need to be captain—she had enough presence to act like one anyway.
Every time Gryffindor took the pitch for practice, the Slytherins were there watching. Silent. Calculating. Malfoy perched on her broom like she was already playing, eyes tracking their every move. She never said a word, but Harry could feel the smirk behind her sharp, unreadable gaze.
It only made him push his team harder.
"Again!" he barked as Ginny barely dodged a Bludger in their last practice before the match. "Faster this time!"
"Harry," Seamus groaned, hovering slightly off-kilter near the goalposts. "We’ve been at this for hours!"
"And we’ll keep at it until we’re ready," Harry shot back, adjusting his grip on his Firebolt. "Because you know Malfoy’s out for blood tomorrow."
Ron sighed dramatically, only to yelp as he fumbled his gloves, nearly drop them. "Bloody hell—hang on—"
Ginny snorted, tossing her sweat-soaked hair over her shoulder. "Malfoy’s always out for blood. Specifically, yours."
Harry didn’t answer. He knew it was true. Their rivalry had burned hot for years, but this time, it felt different. There was an edge to Malfoy, a controlled aggression that hadn’t been there before. And maybe—just maybe—Harry wanted to beat her more than ever.
Because this was his last match. His last chance to leave a mark on the pitch.
And if he was going to remember anything about Hogwarts, it was going to be this.
The Hogwarts Quidditch pitch was roaring.
Banners shimmered in the morning sun, spells flashing between them as Gryffindor and Slytherin fans shouted themselves hoarse. The House Cup was on the line, and the tension in the air was thick. This wasn’t just a match—it was war.
Harry strode toward the center of the pitch, rolling his shoulders. His heart was hammering—not with nerves, but with anticipation. His last match. His last win.
Malfoy was already there, arms folded, looking obnoxiously composed. The Slytherin captain, a burly sixth-year, stepped forward to shake Harry’s hand, but Draco stood just behind him, arms crossed, smirking like she was the one leading the team. Her platinum hair was tied back into a high ponytail, not a single strand out of place. Her uniform was immaculate, gloves fitted perfectly, lip balm probably imported from France.
Harry’s smirk was instant.
"Here for ballet, Malfoy?"
Draco's nostrils flared, but the smirk never wavered. "Oh, Captain. If you can catch me, I’ll let you buy me dinner first."
"Generous," Harry shot back. "But I don’t date sore losers."
Her jaw twitched.
Madam Hooch cleared her throat. "Captains." Harry grinned, letting go. "Try to keep up, princess."
The whistle blew. Then the Quaffle was up, and the game began.
Brooms shot into the sky, players weaving, dodging, and chasing like arrows loosed from a bow. The Quaffle was snatched by a Slytherin Chaser within seconds, their formation razor-sharp as they tore toward the goalposts.
High above the chaos, Harry kept his eyes on Draco. She was already circling like a hawk, scanning the pitch with a look of infuriating confidence. Not happening, Malfoy.
"—and off they go!" Luna’s dreamy voice drifted over the stands. "Gryffindor appears to be attempting to score, though the Slytherins are flying rather like a flock of angry Thestrals. Oh—oh dear, that one nearly took off Finnigan’s head—"
"That was an illegal Bludger hit!" Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice cut in, barely masking her outrage. "Hooch, are you watching this?!"
Slytherin played ruthless.
Their players were precise and brutal, passing like a well-oiled machine. Every hit was calculated, ruthless, designed to shake confidence, to rattle nerves, to force mistakes.
Slytherin didn’t play fair. They played to win.
"Another goal for Slytherin," Luna announced serenely. "That brings them to—oh, 160 points ahead of Gryffindor. Quite unfortunate, really."
Professor McGonagall made a sound like she was dying inside.
Harry swore under his breath. This was bad. Really bad. Catching the Snitch now would mean losing the game.
His gaze snapped to Draco. She was tracking something. Her grip on her broom had shifted—tensed. And then—she moved.
Harry dove before he even saw the Snitch.
He cut across her path, forcing her to veer away as she swore loudly, eyes flashing.
"Oh," Luna said, sounding delighted. "It seems Harry Potter is now—hmm, blocking Malfoy rather aggressively."
"That is called Snitch guarding, Miss Lovegood!" McGonagall corrected, practically vibrating with tension.
Harry almost lost control of his broom.
Draco shot him a glare so venomous it could’ve killed on sight. "Get out of my way, Potter!"
Harry grinned. "Not a chance, Malfoy."
Ginny was on fire. She darted through Slytherin’s brutal defenses like she was born for it—one goal, then another, then another. Three in a row. The Gryffindor stands exploded with every score, the roar growing louder, wilder.
The Gryffindor stands erupted.
"Ah," Luna mused over the roar of the crowd. "That was rather impressive. Ginny Weasley scores for Gryffindor, closing the gap just slightly."
Professor McGonagall clapped. "Excellent work, Miss Weasley!"
Ginny smirked and threw a wink at Harry as she sped back into the game. Harry grinned, eyes flashing as he watched Ginny tear through the game.
Draco wasn’t watching the Quaffle. She was watching him. She saw that look.
That sharp gleam of admiration, the satisfaction in his stupid green eyes. And for some reason, something twisted in her stomach.
What the hell was that?
She scowled and forced her focus back on the game. This wasn’t over.
Slytherin managed one more goal, but the momentum had shifted. Gryffindor was fighting back harder, their energy electric.
And then—Harry saw it.
A flicker of gold.
Barely there, darting near the goalposts. His heart lunged before his body did, instincts kicking in. But Draco was already moving—she’d seen it too.
They shot forward, side by side, the rest of the game blurring around them. Wind roared in Harry’s ears as they pushed their brooms to the limit, muscles screaming, air so sharp it burned.
Draco was fast. Too fast. Her ponytail snapped behind her as she leaned in, fingers stretching— and the light disappeared.
Harry faked a left turn.
Draco followed.
And in that fraction of a second—he turned.
A sharp, impossible twist at the last moment, just enough to break ahead— enough to close his fingers around the Snitch.
The whistle shrieked.
For half a second, the world was silent.
Then—Gryffindor erupted.
Draco yanked her broom into control at the last moment, heart hammering, breath short, rage flooding every inch of her.
Damn Potter.
The Gryffindors were screaming, Weasley nearly knocking him off his broom in celebration.
Draco's grip on her broom tightened. She turned sharply and stormed off the pitch.
Gryffindor House exploded with celebration.
The party started the second they returned from the pitch. Someone had dragged in butterbeer from the Hogsmeade, music was blasting, and the common room was so packed that even Harry—who had seen this chaos before—felt a little overwhelmed.
"To Potter!" Seamus shouted, raising his drink. "For pulling that ridiculous stunt!"
"To Ginny, too!" Dean added. "Three bloody goals in a row!"
Ginny grinned, tossing her hair. "Please, keep going."
Laughter rippled through the room as firelight flickered across their faces, the warmth of victory thick in the air.
But Harry, slumped in an armchair, found his mind wandering back to the pitch—to the look on Draco’s face as she had nearly crashed. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Harry shook his head and smirked. Serve her right.
If Draco wanted to sulk over her loss, that was her problem. Gryffindor had earned this victory.
"Oi, Harry!" Ron’s voice cut through the noise, and Harry barely had time to react before a box the size of a Quaffle was shoved into his hands.
"What’s this?"
"New samples from Fred and George!" Ron grinned, practically vibrating with excitement. "They sent a whole lot over—told me to test them out on willing idiots."
Seamus perked up immediately. "That’s me!"
Dean peered into the box. "What are we dealing with? Nosebleed Nougats? Ton-Tongue Toffees?"
"Nah, something brand new." Ron rummaged through the stash, pulling out a small, glowing bottle. "This one’s called Firewhiskey Fizz—gets you drunk in half the time, double the fun."
"That sounds illegal."
Ron shrugged. "That’s how you know it’s good."
The party was pure chaos.
Seamus, well on his way to being properly pissed, had somehow ended up floating near the ceiling after eating one of Fred and George’s new sweets.
"Mate," he called down to Dean, blinking slowly. "I think I’m dying."
Dean took a sip of his drink, completely unfazed. "Nah, you’re just upside down."
"That’s worse."
Right then, the enchantment wore off.
Seamus yelped, crashed onto the couch, and promptly knocked over three drinks, a plate of biscuits, and Neville.
The room exploded with laughter.
Neville groaned from where he’d landed. "Why does this always happen to me?"
Neville, Ron, and Harry were feeling overheated from all the drinking and chaos, so they slipped out for some air. The corridors were quiet, the party’s noise fading behind them as they stumbled down the hall.
That’s when Neville frowned.
"Oi, Ron," he pointed at Ron’s pocket, where something small and glassy glinted in the dim torchlight. "What’s that?"
Ron pulled it out, squinting at the tiny violet-tinted vial.
The corridor was quiet, the distant hum of the Gryffindor party fading behind them. Ron was still shaking his head, inspecting the tiny vial in his hand.
"I’m telling you, it’s a joke," he muttered. "Fred and George are taking the piss. Drink this, kiss someone you have feeling for, and—what? Suddenly, you can hear their thoughts? Absolute rubbish."
Neville nodded in agreement. "That’s not how magic works."
"That’s what I said!" Ron huffed. "Fred just called me a fool and walked off."
Harry, who was already past the point of making good decisions, squinted at the vial. Then, with zero hesitation, he snatched it from Ron’s hand.
"Let me drink it."
"Harry, no—"
But it was too late.
He tipped the vial back and drank it all in one go.
Ron and Neville gaped at him.
"You absolute—"
Footsteps.
Someone was at the end of the corridor, standing under the dim torchlight.
Platinum blonde hair. Arms crossed. A familiar scowl.
Draco Malfoy. Harry's lips curled into a dangerous smirk. "Perfect." Before his friends could stop him, he stalked forward.
Draco barely had time to react before Harry backed her against the wall, caging her in with an arm on either side. She glared up at him, jaw tight.
"What the hell do you want, Potter?"
Harry didn't answer. Instead, he tilted his head, eyes trailing over her face. "Huh," he muttered, almost to himself. "Your eyes are really grey."
Draco blinked. "Excuse me?"
Before she could shove him away, Harry closed the distance and kissed her.
Draco made a startled noise, hands pushing against his chest—but not with all the strength he’d built from years of training. Her palms lingered, fingers curling slightly, pressing into the solid muscles beneath his robes.
Harry, drunk and entirely too pleased with himself, slid a hand up her side, lips moving against hers with a lazy sort of confidence. When he finally pulled back, Draco was breathless, her silver eyes wide—and her hands were still touching him.
His gaze dropped to her neck.
Smirking, he leaned in again, his lips grazing her jawline before trailing lower. Draco sucked in a sharp breath, nails digging into his robes.
Harry moaned softly against her skin.
"Mmm. Delicious."
Draco shoved him—hard.
His back hit the opposite wall, but he only grinned.
Before she could hex him into oblivion, Ron and Neville yanked him back.
"Harry, what the actual—"
"Sorry—he’s so drunk—" Neville rushed out.
"He's an idiot," Ron added.
Together, they dragged Harry away, still half-laughing, half-horrified.
Draco stood frozen, hand pressed to her tingling lips, her skin still burning where he'd kissed her.
Draco couldn’t sleep.
She lay in bed, staring at the canopy above her, heart pounding too fast, too loud. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt it again—the heat of his mouth on hers, the scent of Firewhisky on his breath, the solid weight of him under her hands.
She scoffed, rolling onto her side, scowling at nothing.
It wasn’t even a good kiss. Too sloppy, too impulsive, too much like Potter—reckless and irritating.
And yet—
Her fingers twitched, remembering the feel of his robes clenched in her grip, the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric. He’d moaned into her neck. She felt it, right against her pulse.
Draco squeezed her eyes shut.
Stupid.
He was drunk. Stupid and reckless, same as always. He probably wouldn’t even remember it in the morning.
She gritted her teeth. Of all the things to haunt her, why did it have to be him?
Him and his ridiculous grin, his rough Quidditch-calloused hands, the way he looked at Ginny Weasley when she scored—
Draco scowled at the ceiling.
It didn’t mean anything.
But her traitorous body still felt it. She shoved her face into her pillow and groaned.