Time passed quickly. By the time November arrived, winter had settled firmly over Hogwarts. The mountains surrounding the school were grey and dusted with snow, and the lake had hardened into something like quenched steel. Each morning, frost covered the ground in a glittering sheet.
At breakfast, Malfoy stifled a yawn so wide it nearly cracked his jaw. He had stayed up far too late reading the previous night—after all, today's Quidditch match meant there would be no classes, so he had allowed himself an indulgent few extra hours. Unfortunately, Pansy had taken it upon herself to drag him out of bed at dawn.
"First of all," he muttered, shoving bread into his mouth mechanically, "why can girls stroll into the boys' dormitory whenever they please? And second, why is everyone so worked up about this ridiculous game?" His eyes were heavy, with dark circles like bruises underneath them. Complaining in his head, he moved as though on autopilot.
"Today's match is crucial," Pansy said beside him, full of energy. "If we lose, Gryffindor will overtake us in House points."
Malfoy knew that perfectly well. "In any case," he thought bitterly, "Dumbledore will make sure Gryffindor wins the Cup to boost Harry's reputation." Of course, he wouldn't say that out loud.
"Besides," he mused privately, "that boy's got the protagonist's halo. The Golden Snitch will probably fly straight into his mouth. How are we supposed to compete with that?" Out loud, he simply muttered, "With those little Gryffindors? Our team will crush them easily. Don't worry."
"I heard that the so-called Saviour is their Seeker," Pansy continued, smearing jam on her toast. "Their captain's calling him a secret weapon. What can a first-year possibly do? Isn't that cheating?"
"Miss, when people talk about cheating, they usually think of our House first," Malfoy said drily, fighting a smirk. Slytherin's reputation in Quidditch wasn't exactly spotless. Their "creative strategies" were infamous, and though they weren't outright cheating, it was close enough that few outsiders saw the distinction.
"You should go," Pansy urged, eyes bright. "Show them their place."
"Stop it. I'm not interested. If you hadn't dragged me here, I wouldn't even be watching today," he replied flatly.
"Not interested? That means you're actually good, doesn't it?" she said, pouncing on his words.
"Don't talk while eating," he countered and promptly shoved a piece of bread into her mouth. She let out a muffled squeak, glaring daggers at him.
"Trying to murder me, are you?" she said once she finally swallowed, gulping down tea to wash it away.
"You tried to murder me first—forcing me to watch this nonsense," Malfoy retorted.
"Time is life," Pansy said in a singsong tone. "So what if I murder you? You're coming with me, whether you like it or not."
"Alright, alright," Malfoy surrendered with a sigh.
"Just think of it as gathering intelligence on the Dark Lord," he muttered to himself, trying to find a shred of purpose in the ordeal.
"That's more like it." Pansy beamed, victorious.
By eleven o'clock, nearly the entire school had gathered in the stands surrounding the Quidditch pitch. Even the professors were present. Many students had brought binoculars, and the towering stands stretched so high it was still difficult to see everything clearly.
Thanks to Pansy's enthusiasm, they had arrived early and found decent seats near the front. Though, as Malfoy soon realized, in Quidditch it didn't matter much where you sat—everything was chaos no matter the view.
"Oh no," Pansy groaned suddenly, slapping her forehead. "I forgot my binoculars!" She turned to Malfoy expectantly, clearly hoping he would produce a miracle.
"Don't look at me. What do you expect me to do—summon them from the dormitory?" he asked dryly.
"Go to hell," she said, rolling her eyes. She knew he was joking; the Summoning Charm had distance limits, and the dormitory was far too far away. Maybe Dumbledore could manage it, but certainly not them.
"It's probably better not to see clearly anyway," Malfoy muttered. "That way the loss won't sting as much."
Then, after a brief pause, he said softly, "Close your eyes."
Pansy blinked at him, then obeyed without question.
"She's not half as arrogant when she needs something," he thought with a smirk, drawing his wand. "Clear Vision!" he whispered.
For a wizard serious about progress, creating a spell of one's own was a milestone. It marked the divide between those who merely studied magic and those who contributed to it. Even Lockhart—mediocre as he was—had earned a name for himself with his modified "Obliviate."
"Innovation is the primary productive force," Malfoy mused. "And yet, my first self-made spell is used for... Quidditch viewing. Brilliant."
If given the choice, he would rather invent something powerful and lethal, like 'Sectumsempra'. But one had to start somewhere.
"Supportive spells are fine too," he told himself philosophically. "You can open your eyes now."
Pansy blinked, then gasped. "I see everything! I can even see Flint's spit when he shouts orders." She stared at the Slytherin team huddled on the pitch, their emerald robes glinting in the sunlight. "Now I understand why you spend so much time in the library."
Malfoy shrugged modestly. "So-so."
"I want to hear what they're saying too," Pansy said wistfully.
"I'm not that powerful yet," he replied, hands raised.
"So useless," she teased, pouting.
"Hey, that's gratitude for you," he muttered.
"Shh—the match is starting."
"As expected, female fans are unreasonable in every world," Malfoy sighed.
Madam Hooch stood at the centre of the field, broom in hand, waiting for both teams to assemble. Around them, the stands roared with excitement. Banners fluttered, flags waved, and voices merged into one loud, chaotic hum. Some fans watched through binoculars, some chanted, and one particular Slytherin boy sat there looking entirely bored—Draco Malfoy.
While others watched the players, he scanned the crowd. "There's Snape—still glaring holes into Potter," he thought. "A man who loved too deeply, now doomed to babysit his enemy's son."
He spotted Professor Quirrell next, the ridiculous turban unmistakable. "E-rank luck," Malfoy muttered. "Run into the Dark Lord by chance, and he still treats you like cannon fodder."
His gaze travelled higher, where he found Ron and Hermione with Seamus and the others, waving a hand-painted banner that read Potter Must Win! Hermione's spell made the paint shimmer in shifting colours.
Both teams lined up. Madam Hooch's voice rang out: "I expect a fair and honest game." Her gaze lingered notably on Slytherin's captain, Flint.
"Mount your broomsticks," she ordered.
Fifteen broomsticks rose into the sky as the whistle blew. The match had begun.
"Equipment disparity—unfair from the start," Malfoy muttered. Even without magic, his eyesight was sharp enough to see clearly. Harry's Nimbus 2000 shot into the air effortlessly, far faster than anything the Slytherins were flying. "No wonder the team looks for sponsors later," he thought. "They're miles behind."
The match itself, however, failed to hold his attention. To Malfoy, Quidditch was a deeply flawed game—its outcome too dependent on the Seeker and that infuriating Golden Snitch. "The whole system's broken," he thought. "One lucky catch decides everything. Someone should just score three hundred points with the Quaffle one day and ruin the Snitch entirely."
Lee Jordan's commentary boomed through the air: "What a save by Wood! Brilliant defence! Katie Bell now with the Quaffle—she dodges Flint—ouch, that's got to hurt!"
Malfoy winced. "Biased much? Every Gryffindor move is 'brilliant'; every Slytherin play gets ignored. Is this commentary or cheerleading?"
The match went on. Flint rammed into Harry—clearly a foul—and Gryffindor got a free shot, which they promptly missed. Then, Harry's broom began to shake.
At first it was subtle—a faint tremor—but soon it lurched and twisted violently. Harry clung on as it bucked beneath him, climbing higher and higher.
"Ron, look! Harry's broom's gone mad!" Hermione shouted.
Hagrid, who had just arrived, frowned. "Nah, can't be—must be a tactic—no, wait—what in Merlin's name!" he roared as Harry nearly fell.
The entire stadium was now pointing upward, gasping as Harry dangled from his broom with one hand.
"Did Flint damage it earlier?" Seamus whispered nervously.
"That's a brand-new Nimbus 2000," Ron said, voice shaking.
"It's cursed," Hermione said firmly. She snatched Hagrid's binoculars—but instead of the pitch, she scanned the stands.
Within seconds she seemed to find her target and dashed off.
"The little witch is moving," Malfoy murmured, amused. "Too bad she's got the wrong suspect."
He watched as Hermione crept behind Snape and set his robe on fire. "Her IQ is worrying," Malfoy chuckled. "The actual culprit's right next to him."
Quirrell, startled by Hermione's interruption, broke off his curse. The broom immediately steadied. Moments later, cheers erupted across the stadium. Harry—miraculously—had caught the Golden Snitch… with his mouth.
"Gryffindor wins! One hundred seventy to sixty!" Lee Jordan bellowed.
Pansy slammed her fists against her knees. "Damn it!"
"Miss, you're hurting my leg," Malfoy winced as she vented her frustration on him. "Never again will I sit next to a female Quidditch fan," he vowed silently.
"Let's take a moment of silence for poor Professor Snape," Malfoy added under his breath, glancing at the man now fuming with half-burned robes. "A true victim of friendly fire."
"Let's go," Pansy said sourly, standing up—only to trip and fall right back into her seat.
"Visio Reparatio," Malfoy said, suppressing a laugh. Clearly, the vision spell hadn't yet worn off properly.
"Get up," he said, offering his hand. She took it but didn't move, staring thoughtfully at the pitch.
"They only won by luck, right?" she asked quietly.
"Absolutely by luck," Malfoy agreed instantly.
"We'll win next year, won't we?"
"Of course."
"You'll help us get revenge, right?"
"Yes, yes, yes," he said automatically—and immediately regretted it.
"Good." A smile broke across her face, bright and sudden, like sunlight through clouds. "Let's go."
Malfoy sighed. "Women are terrifying."
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