A Game and A Brawl
//~Harry~//
The match against Slytherin was today.
Angelina wasn't as much pressuring us because of the events with Umbridge lately, but she knew how to be stern at certain times. She was strict with schedules practices, but always made up for lost time. Refreshing. At least she wasn't as obsessed as Wood—he'd sell his life to win the Quidditch cup. And that wasn't sarcasm.
Quidditch was the only thing keeping my mind away from Umbridge's punishments. It kept me away from the problems of the Wizarding World which weighed on my shoulders because a prophecy prophesized that I was the chosen one. Why did I have to be the chosen one? It was a question that went through my head every single day since the day I woke up in the Hospital Wing after Quirrel and I's meeting.
"Hey, Harry," Hermione walks up to me, tossing me my maroon and gold scarf.
"Thanks, 'Mione."
"Stay warm. It's freezing outside." She reminds me, waving at Ginny from my peripheral vision and back at me. "I'll be in the stands."
I nod at her words, watching her scurry off to Ginny and whispering something in her ear and laughing quietly. Gryffindor versus Slytherin, this could end up badly. I knew how much the Slytherins despised me for Merlin knows what, and I knew that their beloved seeker would do anything in his capability to get a rise out of me. Could it be because they somehow knew I was supposed to be in their house, but didn't want to? Who knew. The root of their hatred always led back to Malfoy. No matter how many dots I could connect, the lines always led back to Malfoy.
Bloody Malfoy.
Godforsaken Malfoy.
Prince of Slytherin Malfoy.
"Heya, Harry, you ready?" Angelina pats my shoulder in a gesture for us to go down to the field. "Maybe."
"You'll jinx yourself with 'maybe', Harry. Say definitely." She chuckles, blending into the sea of maroon.
She was right. Maybe was probably a bad word to say before a game with Slytherins. But I used the word too many times and it always ended up as definite. Maybe was a 50/50. A probability that weighs on you when your fingers are barely holding onto the cliff you'll fall off from. Will you fall or not? 50/50. Will I fall or not? 50/50. Will I find myself in awkward silence with Malfoy? 100%.
I walked into the Quidditch Pitch like I did times before. Watched the swarms of red, green, yellow, and blue fill the stands and wave their flags. I watched as everyone prepared themselves. I should have been. Am I?
Am I really that distracted by the chances of getting into an awkward situation with Malfoy?
...
//~Draco~//
The match against bloody Gryffindor was today.
I eyed the crowd as they chatter amongst themselves, harmonizing in the loud roars of nonsense that builds up in the Quidditch pitch. My eyes and subconscious mind searching for familiar hair, searching for emerald.
Bingo.
I eyed Potter as his eyes dart around, never reaching mine. How unfortunate. I could've given him an arrogant smirk of taunt to mess with his head a bit. Mess with his head and take advantage of his vulnerability. I kept my eyes on him, waiting for him to lock eyes on mine and trap him into my spell.
"Ready to bite down some lions, Draco?" Flint smirks, nudging my shoulder with an almost smug glint in his eyes. I snap my eyes from Potter, to the captain. "More than ready." I feel the corners of my lips twitch in anticipation, adrenaline slowly pumping into my veins and traveling through every fiber of my body.
Wonderful. How fucking wonderful.
No words can describe how much I'm more than prepared for this match. To use Potter and I's current tension to my advantage as the undertone in a Quidditch match? A tick off my bucket list. I knew he'd be troubled for this match. To fly alongside I? I, who suddenly cares about the carvings on his hand? I, Draco Malfoy, who suddenly cares about his wellbeing? Well.. Cross that off.
"Look how stupid he looks—wearing a scarf. Think he'll forget that he has it on and probably chokes himself when he falls—"
"Shut it, Goyle." I cut him off, shooting him a glare.
Goyle chuckles cockily, nudging my shoulder with his elbow. Merlin's beard, do people have a thing for nudging my goddamn shoulder?
"Just bring the lion down." Goyle says with a chuckle, walking off.
Bring the lion down.
Bring the lion down.
"Bring the lion out! Bring the, bring the lion out!" The sea of red roars in the pitch, in the pathetic hopes of enlightening the players and boosting their fake egos. How enthusiastic. How helpful. How utterly pathetic.
"Bring the lion out! Bring the lion out!"
"Bring the lion down! Bring the, bring the lion down!"
A smirk creeps up my lips as the sea of green chants. I watch as the Gryffindors and Slytherins yell at each other, chant and roar at each other like they'd murdered each other's families. The chants die out as Lee Jordan's microphone comes to life, and when our teams march out onto the field.
//3rd//
The quidditch pitch was filled with newfound roars and yells from seas of green and red as the teams walk into the field. Each gaze of every player both fierce and filled with disdain. The gaze of each player was set on each other. However, for both seekers of lion and snake, their gazes were locked like the North and South pole of a magnet. They weren't negative poles, they weren't positive poles.
And not a soul noticed.
Not even a ghost would.
Per usual, Jordan reminded players of the basics, of what needed to be done to win the game. And per usual, his commentaries were highly targeted to Gryffindor captain Angelina Johnson.
The sound of brooms dashing throughout the stadium built up with each point scored, with each throw, with each curse from the opposing teams.
"And Johnson scores again! Two, zero, and as dashing as she is, as I've been saying for years, she still won't go out with me!" Lee Jordan announces on the microphone, causing a barricade of yells and insults to escape the green part of the stands, retorted then by the Gryffindors, and on and on for the entire game.
"Don't let him into your head, Harry!" Angelina yells out to Harry as he had once again been led away by Draco, "I know, Angelina!" He yells back, dashing past her and darting his eyes around the pitch in the search of glistening gold fluttering in the air—buzzing and taunting.
"Scared, Potter?" Draco taunts loudly, heard only by Harry as he swooshes past him, trying to get his ears off the Slytherin.
"In your dreams, Malfoy!" Harry yells back, snapping his head back as the snitch dashes past him.
"Shit!" Harry curses out loud, flying behind the snitch, initiating Draco's attention to be fixated on the Gryffindor seeker. "You're not going anywhere, Potter!"
"Shut it, Malfoy!"
Drowned out by the yells and verbal beatings from below, Draco and Harry's curses and exclaims weren't at all heard. Strings and barricades of insults and curses slip out without filter, all while hunting for the snitch like it was a deer.
Harry bolts towards the snitch once again, reaching out for it in hopes of ending his misery, before he was bumped to by Draco—making his broom stumble aside. "What the bloody hell, Malfoy!?"
"Tactics, Potter!" Draco spat back smugly, launching himself downwards in the direction of the golden snitch.
"Tactics or murder!?" Harry yells back, his temper rising by the second. He hadn't been in such a rouge match ever since, it was both frustrating and insulting.
"Either of the two could work for me, Potter!" Draco barks out with a laugh.
They were feet off the ground, barely scene by the others below. Sure, some had their binoculars up here and there, but majority's attention was on the ongoing brawls between Slytherin and Gryffindor.
Green and red collide from below, launching punches to one another out of temptation. Screams and cries echo throughout the pitch, accompanied by yells and strings of insults and slurs that were bad enough to start a war. Blood splattered here and there, bruises covering students who didn't initiate anything, students getting held back by Prefects, some by teachers.
First years were behind teachers, one of them being Hagrid who held them all back despite his own bruises and despairs. Second years followed Flitwick as he casted charms around the area they shielded innocent students from. Those unfortunate students were trapped in the brawls and simultaneous fights, bleeding against their own wills. Barely any of those innocents were pulled out by McGonagall and Snape, towards the direction of Flitwick and his charms which he occasionally held off to let others into.
And despite the chaos on the grounds, in the aerial grounds, both lion and snake were playing cat and mouse to death.
"What's up with you, bloody Malfoy!?" Harry yells out in frustration, his mind splitting into halves as he was both trying to find the snitch, and finding answers.
"Up with me?! Goddamn adrenaline!" Draco yells back, forcefully guiding his broom towards the snitch with a predatory air surrounding him. "Adrenaline!? Are you sure it isn't lunacy!?"
"Quit talking about yourself, Potter!" Draco spat relentlessly, launching his nimbus wherever he found the glisten of gold to be.
Their aerial arguments and verbal beatings blurred out the commentaries of Lee Jordan, making both seekers oblivious to the havoc in the stands.
The brawls and bloodshed in the stands blurred out the Quidditch game, making students and staff oblivious to the palpable tension set in the air above.
Lion and snake hunt for each other than the fluttering gold, which occurred almost every game. Not even almost.
Both dash in directions of dangers, risking both their lives and dignity for the sake of pleasuring their egos and catch the win. Egos, egos, egos.. Was that all they really cared about?
Draco bolts downwards in the direction of the snitch once again, this time accompanied by the blow of harsh cold wind.
"Shit!" He exclaims out loud, eyes rounding as Harry's broom crashed against his in the air. Before he could even catch his own broom, he found himself in the start of a plummet down to the pitch, nowhere to hold—like he was flying without a broom but it was equally as terrifying—
"You're a bloody idiot!" Harry yells out loud in frustration and strain. His hand shooting out to hold onto Draco by his forearm, his spare hand holding onto his Firebolt like it was his lifeline, the only thing keeping him alive, and away from meeting his fate by crashing onto the ground.
"You better not let go, Potter!" Draco shouts with an undertone of terror.
"I'm not a fucking idiot, Malfoy!" Harry yells back, his firebolt slowly tipping back. At that smallest change of angle, both seekers shout aloud like schoolboys. Oh wait, they are schoolboys.
"I can't hold on much longer!" Harry shouts down at Draco with a hint of pity.
"Don't you dare make me fall to death, Potter!"
"I'm trying to!"
Bickering in the air was enough to get the crowd's attention once again, the stadium below them echoing their gasps and shrieks.
"Do you trust me!?" Harry yells, staring down at Draco.
"Fuck no!" Draco yells back, spitting down onto the ground, out of how dry his throat had become.
"Well now you do!"
Harry grits his teeth, forcefully lifting Draco up and grabbing him by the waist. The sudden collision of seekers on the same broom causes Harry to tip back along with the broom's movement, his hands not even holding the firebolt but onto Draco.
"Folks we've got our seekers plummeting down! I repeat, seekers falling, seekers plummeting down from feet above!" Lee Jordan roars onto the microphone.