Draco Malfoy was present when Elai Brown hurled the slur "Mudblood" in the Great Hall.
On any other day, Draco might have egged him on, sneering at Harry and scorning Colin as a pureblood supremacist. But today, he wasn't in the mood to join Crabbe and Goyle's guffaws or Pansy's amused giggles. Noticing his silence, Pansy, who usually shared his laughter, spoke with concern.
"What's wrong, Draco? Are you ill?"
"I'm perfectly fine, Pansy," Draco replied smoothly. "Sorry to worry you. I just don't want to waste time on Muggle-borns. Can't be late for class. How about sitting together next lesson?"
"Oh, Draco, how bold!" Pansy said, blushing but pleased, trailing after him.
Draco didn't dislike Pansy. Their families' ties had made them friends since childhood, and she was the only one who openly showed him affection. But when she congratulated him on his Seeker appointment—on that hollow victory—something felt wrong.
It's not right.
Draco wanted to defeat Harry on his own terms. He'd trained relentlessly, his Quidditch knowledge surpassing Harry's. I could've won fairly.
He longed to return to that match, to redo it. But the Seeker role was his now, and stepping down would disgrace Flint, Pansy, and the team who'd backed him.
What's so Slytherin about this? "Mudblood"? There was no such thing in the sky above the Quidditch pitch.
His parents had taught him purebloods were superior, entitled to treat others as they pleased. But reality contradicted that. Slytherin's team wielded brooms bought by his father's wealth—hardly a level playing field. Victory would be tainted by accusations of bought success; defeat would be humiliating.
Draco had studied magic his whole life, yet Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born he'd inwardly despised, outscored him. Worse, she'd saved his life last term. If she and Harry hadn't stalled that monster in the forest, who knows what would've happened? Harry's words from last Halloween echoed in his mind.
"I couldn't beat her in studies, and now she gets to walk away victorious. Is it fine for a noble Slytherin to lose to a Muggle-born?"
He'd lost. He'd won battles he didn't care for and lost the ones that mattered. Boasting to Lucius about teacher favoritism didn't erase his responsibility for losing to a Muggle-born. The fantasy of pureblood superiority crumbled.
"You beat me!"
During Potions, Draco's quill slipped, recalling Harry's words. Slytherin's virtue—victory by any means, using every tool—was his worldview. Yet, from the back of the class, he saw Harry covertly exchanging magical notes with Weasley, defying the unspoken rule that Slytherins and Gryffindors didn't share tables. On the surface, Harry sat with Zabini, keeping up appearances. Draco laughed with Pansy, but his heart wasn't in it. Was Slytherin's cunning, its pureblood pride, the root of his turmoil?
Don't think about it. That's betrayal—to Father, to Pansy.
He buried the thought. Such doubts were a liability in Slytherin. Crabbe and Goyle weren't friends he'd chosen, but they were his friends nonetheless.
Draco's doubts couldn't change the fact: he was Seeker. Time didn't pause for anyone.
He and Harry arrived early at the Quidditch pitch for joint practice, checking brooms and warming up. Slytherin's team had limited group sessions, focusing on strategy and passing drills, leaving individual skill to personal effort—a standard in student sports. Chaser Adrian Pucey and Keeper Miles Bletchley were already there.
"Morning, Adrian, Bletchley," Harry greeted.
"Our Seeker and Chaser arrive," Bletchley said with a grin.
"Keen as ever, Draco," Pucey added, acknowledging only him.
Pucey's coolness toward Harry likely stemmed from Harry outplaying Cassius Warrington to claim a Chaser spot. Undeterred, Harry tossed the Quaffle to Pucey mid-air with a smile, sticking to basics—easy catches first.
Fundamentals first. Passes he can handle.
Harry knew Pucey wasn't talkative in matches but saw his skill. He's better than this.
Next, a fast, spinless pass he can take straight to the goal.
Trusting Pucey, Harry sent a challenging pass. Pucey caught it, charging the goal and scoring past Bletchley. In return, Pucey fired a high-speed pass to Harry, who caught it at his chest, slid his broom, and shot. Bletchley's fingers grazed the Quaffle, but it sailed through.
"That was a reckless shot," Pucey said. "Thought you could make it?"
"It was a great pass," Harry replied. "I couldn't resist."
"That won't work on Gryffindor," Pucey said. "In that situation, pass to me or Flint."
Like Harry, Pucey spoke through Quidditch. Harry felt a spark of respect. Playing with skilled teammates feels amazing.
Draco and Cedric were equals or superiors, but rivals. Teammates like Pucey were a different kind of strength.
As practice continued, the Beaters and Captain Marcus Flint arrived. Harry noticed Draco's expression harden, though he couldn't pinpoint why.
Flint, a gorilla-like figure, blew his whistle, gathering the team. Surveying them, he declared, "You've come a long way. Our first match is against Hufflepuff at month's end, and frankly, I don't see us losing. Right, Bletchley?"
"Strongest team yet, Captain," Bletchley said with a smirk.
"Let's crush them by two hundred points," Pucey added.
"With our Nimbuses, it's a sure thing," Flint said. "Now, about Hufflepuff. Their Seeker and captain, seventh-year Frederick Neet, leads a team of talentless fools. They waste time on pointless drills, got thrashed by us last year, and have no new players or strategies. Perfect for a warm-up."
"But they've got Cedric Diggory," Harry interjected, challenging the team's optimism. He knew it wasn't his place as a rookie, but it needed saying. "If the Quaffle goes to him, even our Nimbuses might not stop him scoring."
"I know that!" Flint snapped, then softened, impressed. "Not bad for a rookie, Potter. Keep pointing out what matters. Share intel."
"Yes, Captain," Harry said.
"Beaters, Hufflepuff will funnel the ball to Cedric," Flint continued. "Harry, Pucey, you're nimble. Use the Nimbus's speed to intercept and keep the ball from him."
He turned to Harry and Draco. "The season's long. To win the Cup, we save new tricks for Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. First half, we build around you, Potter. Hufflepuff has no data on you, so they'll focus on you, making later matches easier for us."
Harry's role was bait and scorer. His first official match was daunting, but the thought of unleashing the Nimbus's potential thrilled him.
"Draco, when you spot the Snitch, wait until we're up by fifty points," Flint said. "We need a point differential to pressure Ravenclaw and Gryffindor."
"Understood, Captain," Draco replied.
Flint's strategy looked beyond Hufflepuff, a true captain's foresight. "Potter, you score no matter what. No whining, even if another rogue Bludger comes for you."
"Yes, sir!" Harry said.
At practice's end, Flint hoisted Draco onto his shoulders, rallying the team. "Listen up, lads. Our job—everyone but the Seeker—is to set the stage for our new Seeker to shine."
His voice boomed. "The Seeker decides the match. They're the star. They stay calm, think ahead, and we trust them. Draco's the only one for the job. Give him everything in the match!"
The team erupted, cheering for Draco. Harry clapped, swept up in the fervor, as the seniors headed back to the dorms.
Harry and Draco lingered on the pitch. Harry practiced turns, stops, acceleration, deceleration, climbs, and rolls. Draco's broom was slower but moved with precision, wasting no motion.
"Laugh at me, Potter," Draco said as the sun set.
"This is a team built on my father's gold and influence," he continued. "You're part of it. How's it feel, knowing you can't lose?"
His words carried a rare edge. Harry, stung by losses to Draco and Ron, tossed back a verbal dodgeball. "Pretty rich coming from someone who beat me and earned the Captain's praise."
"What more do you want?" Harry asked.
"The Captain?" Draco scoffed. "That trial was rigged, wasn't it? Think I'm too dim to notice, Potter? You think I'm happy winning because of a tampered Bludger? I could've won without it—on my own!"
Harry was stunned. Draco hadn't moved past the victory, and he thought Flint was behind the Bludger? To clear the air for the team, Harry spoke up.
"Wait, Draco. The Bludger wasn't Flint's doing."
"How would you know? You were dodging it for dear life."
"The culprit confessed," Harry said, irritation flaring at Dobby's memory. "When I was in the hospital wing, a house-elf named Dobby came to check on me. He tampered with the Bludger to 'protect' me by driving me out of Hogwarts. Annoying as hell."
Draco's silence unnerved Harry, but he pressed on. Sirius had said the Chamber's threat wasn't tied to Voldemort, so he shared more.
"Dobby said the Chamber of Secrets was opened. Right after, Creevey was petrified. Maybe Dobby's telling the truth, or maybe he's the one who petrified him."
"What… for that?" Draco muttered, dazed.
"Yeah, opening a chamber and turning people to stone? That's bad news," Harry said. "I hope Dumbledore or Snape sort it out, but if not, I'll have to—Draco, what's wrong? You look pale."
What's gotten into him? Is this even Draco?
Draco seemed different. The usual arrogance in his eyes was dim, replaced by a strange glint. If someone claimed he'd been slipped Polyjuice, Harry might've believed it.
"I'm naturally pale, Potter," Draco said curtly. "If you've time to worry about me, worry about yourself and Granger."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Realize how lucky you are," Draco said, mounting his Nimbus and flying back to the castle.
Harry followed, Draco's words lingering.
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