Chapter Text
June–July 1997
“Laywizards, gentlewitches, and esteemed wixenfolk, welcome back! For those just joining, we’re Gwen Davies and Lee Jordan, live with Quidditch Weekly in Manchester. And just a few miles away at the National Quidditch Pitch, the Team England roster has officially touched down for the Quidditch World Cup training camp. There are seventeen superb players, but all eyes are on the rookies.”
“Right you are, Gwen! First, we have Harry Potter, our prodigy seeker. He’s got the kind of natural talent that comes along once in a generation. He was the youngest seeker in a century at my alma mater, and now he’s the youngest player ever drafted into the Quidditch World Cup by Team England! He beats out Alicent Montgomery in the 1961 match by three weeks. History is being made in our skies today!”
“And what strikes me about Potter is how quiet he is about it. No flash, no bravado, he just shows up and does the work. That’s a focus that’s rare for someone his age.”
“And I’ll tell you, as a former Gryffindor myself, he’s like that off the pitch too. Keeps to himself. He might not be the most social, but he’s observant! Nothing gets past Potter.”
“Useful trait for a seeker. Now, the other rookie, Draco Malfoy! He joins us from Beauxbatons Academy, and by all accounts he’s one of the most charismatic players we’ve seen. Maybe he can get Potter out of his shell! He’ll be playing chaser, which is interesting given his background.”
“Interesting is one word for it. Malfoy’s a seeker at heart, but when the committee asked him to adapt, he stepped up and got to work. That tells you something about his mindset.”
“Certainly! He’s serious about being here. He even officially chose to represent England over France last year, and we’re thrilled to have him! The boy’s got ambition.”
“He’s also got style, both in and out of the sky! He was wearing these silver-lined robes at the portkey depot into London, did you see? And a deep blue silk–”
“Lee!”
“Sorry, sorry! Where was I…? Uh– yes… So we’ve got two rookies, both still students, and there’s four weeks of training before the match with Croatia. Should be interesting to see how they settle in.”
“Should be interesting to see if they settle in, Lee. Rookies have a way of either sinking or soaring once they get going.”
“If anyone can rise to the occasion, I’m sure it’s these two! Either way, we’ll be on the edge of our seats. So stay tuned, everyone, training camp is officially underway!”
***
“Take a breather, everyone!”
The players of 1997’s Team England descended from the hall’s high ceiling like a flock of birds, landing heavily on the indoor pitch. Panting and still a bit dizzy from the drills Coach Wei had put them through, they stumbled to the back wall to hang their brooms on their respective hooks and scoop up their water bottles. Some of the players, who already knew each other from the professional league, fell away together to catch up in the corners, while others simply collapsed into heaps on the cushioned mats, crying out that Coach Wei must want them dead. Ten Brunworth Dives in a row, Coach? You’re mad!
There were smiles all around, though, even through the exhaustion.
Draco allowed himself a moment at the edge of the hall to take everything in, his heart still hammering in his chest and sweat dripping from his forehead in a way that didn’t even bother him because, well, he was here.
Here in England. Here training for the Quidditch World Cup. For real.
He’d pushed himself through the gruelling warm-ups and subsequent sky drills on that thought alone, managing to keep up with the more experienced players even as his lungs burned and his muscles protested. Because now that he’d made it, Draco would be damned if he let this go. This was his team now, at least for the next month until the match, and he wouldn’t let a moment of the experience go to waste.
His team. Circe, that would take some getting used to.
The roster was like something that had been curated directly from one of Draco’s dreams. There was an age cap of 25, but that still left room for many of the new greats in the sport. There was Oliver Wood, Gwenog Jones, Samson Fields, Cho Chang, Winmor Sable… the list just went on. And Draco was expected to simply train with them and act like his head wasn’t exploding every few seconds as he turned and again processed where he was.
But he just squared his shoulders, reminding himself that this was where he belonged.
Needing a breath of fresh air that didn’t taste of sweat and broom polish, Draco pushed through the back door into the narrow courtyard at the side of the Kneen Training Centre. From the outside, you would never be able to tell that the interior was roughly the height of the Eiffel Tower. It was a clever bit of magic.
Once he was outside, though, Draco found it very hard to be impressed. Billington Brook, a small magical town just outside of Manchester, was just as visually underwhelming as his friends at Beauxbatons had teased him it would be. Even under the afternoon summer sun, everything was oddly… dull. There was an abundance of grey, so much so that even the small ferns that dotted the yard were barely holding onto their colour.
It was quiet here, though, and somehow mercifully cooler than the humid training hall. Draco leaned against the wall and let his eyes close.
After a moment, he heard the door push open again. When he opened his eyes, Harry Potter was standing twenty feet away.
Draco’s breath caught before he could stop it.
Potter hadn’t noticed him yet. He was leaning against the same wall on the opposite side of the door, head down, staring at some silver object with attached dangling wires that he was holding close to his face. All Draco could make out was that it was rectangular and dotted with smaller rectangles. Some muggle contraption, probably. He’d heard Potter was raised by muggles before Sirius Black had gotten involved, the knowledge tangled up with everything else he knew about the boy in front of him.
He’d studied Potter– just the appropriate amount, of course. He’d watched footage, read articles, gone through stats, that kind of thing. He knew Potter’s wingspan, his average catch time, his preferred broom model, et cetera.
Like, he knew Potter had been made the youngest seeker in a century at Hogwarts. He knew Potter was being called the “golden boy” of quidditch, a title that made Draco’s teeth clench every time he encountered it. He knew that if Potter had been born only two months later, Draco himself would have been the youngest player on the roster. Two months. That was all.
And, of course, Draco knew Potter had gotten the seeker position. The position Draco had desperately hoped for.
But then, there were also things that Draco knew about Harry that weren’t in any Quidditch World profiles.
Like how Potter lived with Sirius Black, Draco’s estranged second cousin that Draco had never really met save for a few Yules as a toddler. He’d pulled his godson from whatever corner of muggle England he’d been in and moved the boy into Grimmauld Place around six years ago now, which Draco could remember well since his mother had been in a fuss over it for months. He’d been eleven then and just about to begin at Beauxbatons, and even now he could remember his mother being on long floo calls and talking to stern-faced solicitors in formal English, a language Draco was fluent in but wasn’t used to his mother speaking. It wasn’t that she’d wanted to live in the old Black house, they had been settled comfortably in Lyon for years at that point and she’d always told Draco that muggle London was horribly ugly, but it was the principle of the thing. Needless to say, all that frustration had never amounted to much. As far as Draco knew, Potter and Sirius still lived there.
Potter still hadn’t looked up.
In photos, Potter looked every inch the prodigious seeker he was purported to be: graceful, watchful, all the things that made a strong player. But in person, and off a broom, standing in the training hall with his ridiculous hair, his too-large training jersey, his muggle joggers, and his quidditch goggles… Well, Draco had initially thought he looked a bit plain.
But then he’d watched Potter move through warm-ups and drills.
It was like watching someone who existed on a different plane entirely. The way Potter read the pitch, the way he anticipated movements before they happened, the way he made everything look effortless, it was the kind of stuff that defied what should have been possible for a school-aged player. Which Draco did not relish admitting, even in the safety of his own mind. Draco was a strong player, he knew he was, but he’d had to work for every inch of that skill. It seemed different for Potter, like he’d just been born that way.
After watching him, Draco understood the articles.
He pushed the thought away.
He was Draco Malfoy, Beauxbatons’ own star seeker. He’d earned his place here. He’d worked for it. And he wasn’t going to stand in a courtyard like a coward, watching his teammate from a distance.
He pushed off the wall.
Potter looked up at the sound of footsteps. His expression didn’t change, just shifted focus from the thing in his hand to Draco’s face. He wasn’t wearing his goggles anymore, but there were still faint red indentations on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Without any glass in the way, those green eyes were startling. Draco hadn’t expected that.
He didn’t speak as Draco approached, and didn’t even give a nod of acknowledgement like Draco had gotten from players like Jones.
Draco’s smile clicked into place automatically. It was the one his mother had taught him for business settings. Pleasant and polite.
“Harry Potter,” he said. “I’m Draco Malfoy. We haven’t been properly introduced.”
He stuck his hand out.
Potter blinked.
He stared at Draco’s hand, long enough that Draco became aware of the weight of his own arm hanging in the air like an idiot. What’s wrong with him? They shake hands to greet people in England, don’t they? But Draco wouldn’t drop his hand. He wouldn’t break first. And finally, full seconds later, Potter lowered the water bottle he held in his other hand to the ground, and a calloused palm met his. The hold was brief, seemingly as brief as Potter could make it, and soon Draco’s hand was cold again.
Well then.
“Hi.” It was the first word Draco had heard from the boy all day, and it was said flatly.
Is that it? Draco waited for a beat, thinking surely Potter would say more. He didn’t.
Draco pushed on. “So… is it your first time training with a professional team, then?”
Potter’s eyes flickered to the door leading back into the training hall, and he gave a strange kind of half shrug. Was that supposed to be a ‘no’? Did this boy know how to use his words? The articles had often called him quiet and observant, but surely this inability to form real responses went a step beyond ‘quiet’.
Draco pushed on. “Well, I’ve trained with some before. My mo– my manager arranged it.”
Potter reached down to grab the water bottle again. He took a swig. “That’s nice.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. Git. “Yes. It was.” He kept a thin smile, but his voice was cool. “You must be enjoying the facilities here. I read that Hogwarts hasn’t updated anything in decades.”
Potter’s brow furrowed, and his voice was low when he replied. “We manage.”
Before Draco could plan a response that would wring more than two words out of this wooden plank of a person, the door banged open again, and Coach Wei’s voice rang through.
“Break’s over!”
And without even a beat of hesitation, Potter pushed off the wall and walked past Draco toward the training hall.
Draco stood there for half a second longer, staring at Potter’s retreating back in indignation.
***
Harry tried to force the interaction in the courtyard from his mind once they got back in the air.
That was the thing about flying, there wasn’t much room for distractions. You were always one slip from plummeting to the ground or crashing into a teammate. You had to focus on what mattered, and what mattered was the pitch.
He could admit it had gotten a bit under his skin, though.
Honestly, he hadn’t even realised who had walked up to him at first. Without his goggles or glasses, people were just shapes and blurred colours until they were close enough. But there were only so many white-blond people running around, so he’d figured it out pretty quick. Malfoy.
Sirius had talked about the Malfoys plenty over the years, and dramatically at that. Harry had absorbed maybe half of his rants, enough to know they were rich, lived in France, and were somehow a significant sore spot for reasons he’d never fully tracked. But he’d never met any of them, and never even really thought about them. Malfoy being picked for the team had aggravated Sirius to no end, but Harry had been happy enough to join him on the pitch as long as he helped get them to the win.
By the time Harry had processed all this, though, the handshake had already gone strangely wrong. And it had only gone downhill from there.
But Harry pushed all that from his mind and adjusted his grip, ready for the next leg of practice.
“Fire-offs next! We’ll do pairs. Flynn, you go with Marks. Sable, with Chang. And we’ll put the kids together.”
The kids. That meant Harry, then. Harry and–
“Hello again.” Malfoy was still smiling, but his grey eyes were narrowed.
Great.
Harry gave him a small nod of greeting.
At Coach’s whistle, the pairs flew off.
Harry turned off everything in his brain except for the part that controlled his broom, and the start of the drill went well enough. Harry did it the way he always did: efficiently and without much thought beyond solid execution. And once Harry moved past the irritation of their first meeting, he found Malfoy was a decent enough partner. He was fast, his turns were sharp, and his movements were aggressive but still controlled. The only issue was that he rushed a bit on the release.
By the fourth reset, when Malfoy surged ahead a breath early, Harry figured it was worth mentioning. “Don’t rush it.”
Malfoy shot him a look through his narrowed grey eyes. “I’m not rushing.”
“You’ll burn out,” Harry pointed out.
Malfoy’s chin raised ever so slightly. “Don’t try slowing me down just because you can’t keep up.”
Harry blinked. “I can keep up.”
Coach’s whistle sounded, and the pairs flew back to their starting points. As they got into position, Malfoy smirked at him. “Then prove it.”
And let it never be said that Harry Potter ever met a challenge that he didn’t face head on. When the whistle sounded again, they were off.
It went like that again and again, their professional grade Firebolts pushed to their absolute limits as the pair accelerated then pulled back in rapid succession. By the time Coach called for a cool down lap, even Harry’s hands were sweating. He reached into his chalk pouch, dusting his hands so his grip wouldn’t slide.
The pairs all broke up for the lap, but Harry still ended up beside Malfoy. And when he saw Malfoy leaning low over his broom as he awaited Coach’s call, Harry did the same.
It wasn’t meant to be a race, but that’s what it became. They flew neck and neck, the world blurring until the only thought in Harry’s head was faster.
The next set of drills passed in a similar fashion, with Harry and Malfoy beside each other for the whole afternoon. Harry’s bursts of speed became Malfoy’s bursts. When Malfoy cut sharp, Harry cut sharper. Every time one of them dove, the other was right there. Somewhere along the way, Harry realised he had fully stopped trying to pace himself and started trying to win.
By the end of practice, they were both breathing hard and leaning on their brooms. Harry felt sweat dripping off him and making his jersey stick to his back. In his palms, though, where Harry had been gripping his broomstick, he felt that thrum of magic that came when he really pushed himself. It was an exhilarating feeling, a single touchpoint for the condensed experience of being alive. It was what made him love quidditch.
Coach Wei was beaming.
“See these two?” she called out to the rest of the team, who were locked in similar states of exhaustion. “That’s what hunger looks like! Take notes, all of you, these two schoolkids just ran circles around you!”
There were good-natured grumbles all around, none taking offense since it was clear from Wei’s grin that she wasn’t at all displeased. Harry himself wondered if he ought to be offended at being called a schoolkid, though he supposed that was technically true. Only for one more year, though.
She clapped Harry on the shoulder, hard enough to stagger him. “Good work, both of you. Keep that energy. That’s how you win Cups.”
Harry nodded, pulling up the hem of his jersey to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
She gave Malfoy a similar smack on the back, and Harry could see him looking up at her with proud eyes even as he was still doubled over and panting.
Harry didn’t quite know what to make of him. Competitive, obviously. But he had the talent to back it up, Harry could admit that.
Maybe they really did have a chance at the Cup.
***
“Listen–” Draco read the wizard’s name tag, “–Glenn, I was explicitly told I would have my own room. My manager confirmed it with the league office before I arrived.”
The desk clerk, a tired-looking young man with mousy brown hair, kept his smile fixed in place. “I understand that, Mr. Malfoy, but we simply don’t have extra accommodations available. It gets busy in the summer. We’ve had to move you into a double with a teammates.”
“Then move me back.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“I don’t see how–”
A throat cleared behind him.
Draco turned.
Harry Potter stood there, holding his team-issued duffel, expression as unreadable as ever.
“Problem?” he asked.
Draco’s smile snapped back into place. “No problem. Just a minor clerical error.”
Potter looked at Glenn. Then back at Draco.
“They put us together,” he concluded.
Glenn nodded, extending a key card over to Potter. “Room 822.”
Potter nodded once, reaching around Draco to accept the card. “Okay.”
Okay. That was it. Just okay. Like this hadn’t just ruined Draco’s entirely reasonable expectation of privacy.
“Right…” Draco said, because someone had to say something. “Well. If you’re both just fine with this arrangement, I suppose I have no choice but to–”
“Great,” Potter said, and walked toward the lifts.
Draco stared after him, feeling his face burning.
Glenn cleared his throat. “Your key, Mr. Malfoy?”
Draco snatched it from the desk and followed.
The room was… fine. Two beds, two wardrobes, a small sitting area with a charmed mirror and a window overlooking a humble garden. Nothing special, but it was clean and spacious enough.
Their bags were already there, stacked neatly near the wardrobes. They’d all dropped them off at the training centre that morning when they’d arrived.
Draco stood in the doorway of the sitting area watching Potter, who’d kicked his shoes off at the door and dropped his duffel beside the bed further from the window.
Then: “I’m going to shower.” He spoke without looking up.
“You already showered,” Draco pointed out. They’d all cleaned up before heading off to the team introductory dinner.
“I’m just going to rinse off.”
Draco frowned. “Okay…”
And then Potter was disappearing into the bathroom.
Draco stood there for a moment, then shook his head. Potter was a bit odd, but it wasn’t worth dwelling on.
Instead, Draco focused on unpacking; he hung his robes in the wardrobe and arranged his toiletries in the small shower caddy his mother had bought for him. Four weeks of stuff wasn’t very much at all, and Draco was done in no time. While Potter was still rinsing off, he pulled on his pyjamas and the book Pansy had given him for his birthday earlier that month, Advanced Seeker Tactics: A Century of Winning Strategies, and settled onto his bed to read while he waited for his scheduled call with his mother.
He was partway through the chapter on distracting your opponent when the bathroom door opened.
Draco kept his gaze dutifully on his page, but his traitorous peripheral vision supplied details he hadn’t asked for. Potter was in nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips, skin damp. He was digging through his trunk, which was propped open on one of the armchairs. His back was to Draco, so he saw the way Potter’s shoulder muscles moved and tensed under his skin as he pulled out his sleep clothes. They were nice shoulders, he supposed. If you were into that kind of thing.
Draco turned his eyes back to the page with renewed attention. Drawing your opponent’s attention away from the snitch can buy you precious time. Distraction is key.
Potter was pulling a pair of sleep shorts up his legs. The towel was still on, but it was riding up his thighs. Draco snapped his eyes away again. Did Potter have no sense of propriety?
Once the shorts were on, he pulled on a pair of white socks and a baggy shirt that made it impossible to tell that his shoulders were carved from marble. Or something.
Then, still not having looked up at Draco even once, Potter crossed back to his bag and started unpacking. Methodically. Almost reverently. He lined up his shoes by the door, hung the single pair of formal robes he seemed to have packed, and even went so far as to refold several items that were already folded before sliding them inside the wardrobe drawers.
Draco watched all this from the corner of his eye. Just to understand what he was dealing with. Strategically.
Seemingly satisfied with his work, Potter quietly climbed into bed with a book of his own.
Draco caught a glimpse of the cover. Advanced Seeker Tactics: A Century of Winning Strategies.
The same book. The exact same book.
He angled his own copy away, hiding the cover.
Potter settled against his pillows, opened to a page marker, and started reading.
Draco stared.
It wasn’t a big deal, really, when he thought about it. It was just a coincidence, and not even that big of a coincidence. This was a popular book, and they were both seekers. Or, well, Draco was usually a seeker, at least.
The silence stretched. Pages turned. Outside, the street lights flickered on as the summer night settled in.
Then Draco’s bracelet warmed against his wrist: his mother.
He stood, neatly sliding his book under his pillow. “I have a call.” He said the words in Potter’s general direction, but didn’t look at him directly. He still caught the nod Potter sent his way, though.
Draco walked into the sitting area and closed the door behind him. He cast a silencing spell over the space, enjoying his newfound magical freedom now that he was seventeen.
With his wand still out, he tapped his bracelet twice, then muttered the activation charm softly as he flicked his wand toward the mirror. He watched the surface of the glass flicker and then slowly come into focus on his mother’s face.
She was in their sitting room in Lyon, the sky in the windows behind her dark and spotted with stars. The only light was from the fire that he knew must have been lit in front of her, illuminating her blonde hair in warm light.
“Maman,” he greeted, sliding into the French they always used together.
“Darling!” His mother’s smile was warm. “How was your first day?”
Draco did his best to answer her many questions about their drills: how many breaks they had, how much water he drank, and how the regulation training broom was treating him.
All of Draco’s obsession for quidditch had been inherited from his mother. She enjoyed it more as a passive observer, but you’d be hard pressed to find anyone in Europe with more encyclopedic knowledge of the sport.
“Well Coach Wei sounds like she’s running everything with the professionalism the committee expected,” his mother nodded, sipping from a glass of white wine. She smiled softly at him. “And it sounds like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“It’s not about fun,” Draco insisted. “It’s about winning.”
She sighed, but it was fond. “Of course it is, darling. But it’s day one; let’s enjoy the journey a bit, okay? Learn from your teammates, see what you can take back with you to Beauxbatons. There’s so much talent there. And… I supposed you’ve met Potter by now?” She asked the question almost absently, examining her nails like she hadn’t a care in the world. Which they both knew was bullshit.
Draco rolled his eyes, fighting a familiar smile.
“I only ask because Sirius surely filled his head with nonsense before sending him off.” Her voice cooled slightly on the name. “I hope he’s not giving you trouble.”
“He’s–” Draco paused. What was Potter, exactly? Rude? Dismissive? Oblivious? “He’s fine. Quiet. We’re roommates, apparently.”
His mother’s eyebrows shot up. “Roommates? I specifically requested–”
“I know. I tried to fix it, but there are no free rooms. It’s… fine. We don’t have to talk about it.”
She studied him for a long moment. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
They talked for another twenty minutes or so, their conversation drifting from quidditch as she updated him about cousin Priscilla’s upcoming wedding, which Draco had already forgotten about, before she finally let him go with promises to write and reminders to eat balanced meals and drink plenty of water.
Draco ended the call and stood in the sitting area for a moment, letting the silence settle.
When he opened the door to the bedroom, the lights were off.
Potter was asleep. His book was closed on the nightstand, his breathing slow and even.
Draco checked the time. 10:07 pm.
It was ten o’clock, and Potter was already passed out. Like an old man. Draco rolled his eyes.
In the morning, Draco woke to the chirping of the alarm he’d packed. As he sat up blearily, he found Potter’s bed was empty. Not just empty, but perfectly made. The corners were tucked and the pillows had been perfectly fluffed.
What, did he get up at the crack of dawn? And where was the git anyway?
Draco got ready for practice quickly. As he left the bathroom, his face freshly washed, he considered the beds. His own was a disaster of twisted sheets and rumpled blankets.
He thought about fixing it, just casting a simple bedmaking charm.
Then he deliberately left it exactly as it was, grabbing his things and heading for the door.
Let Potter whine about it.
***
Harry woke before his alarm.
He always did. Sirius said it was against human nature, but Harry thought it was just... efficient. More time in the day.
He glanced at the other bed. Just like everyday for the past two weeks, Malfoy was sprawled across it like he’d just rolled down a hill: limbs everywhere, sheets twisted around his legs, one arm flung over his head, and mouth slightly open. And doubtlessly he’d leave the bed just like that when he left, a mountain of blankets and pillows.
Though there were spells for it, Harry made his own bed by hand. He was still weeks away from turning seventeen and being allowed to use his wand outside of school, but even if he could, Harry preferred to do it the muggle way. That’s the way he’d always done it, after all. Ever since the Dursleys. And beside that, he didn’t like the ozone and heated steel smell left behind on sheets from bedmaking spells, like the smell at the tube when a train rushed by.
He could make his bed just as nicely by hand, anyway.
But Malfoy obviously didn’t care about that. Or anything, it seemed. The boy went through their room like a whirlwind, leaving his trousers thrown over chairs and undershirts sticking out from his drawers. But it was fine. Harry didn’t care. It wasn’t his business. It didn’t bother him. It didn’t.
Like every morning, Harry began the day with a run through the still dim streets. He didn’t push himself very hard on these runs, but even through his light pace he enjoyed feeling the tension melting from his shoulders.
He arrived to breakfast at the hotel dining room feeling loose and warm. He bypassed the buffet of fried eggs and toast and things he didn’t really go for, instead piling boiled eggs into a bowl and grabbing a small plate where he would pour salt and pepper for the eggs. He grabbed a few bananas as well.
Harry found his now customary corner table. He’d just taken a sip from his water when Oliver Wood dropped into the seat across from him.
“Potter.” Wood grinned. “First one down as usual.”
Harry shrugged. “I wake up early.”
“Clearly.” Wood grinned at him. “Mind if I join you?”
“Yeah, of course.” Harry pulled his tray closer to make room.
Oliver looked over the tray as he sat. “Woah there, wouldn’t want Coach to see you cheating with all that junk food!”
Harry looked down at his boiled eggs, and then up at Oliver’s grinning face. Sarcasm. Harry cracked a smile.
Oliver took a bite of his own breakfast, looking at Harry over a piece of toast loaded with scrambled eggs. “Been meaning to get you one-on-one, you know. It’s been a bit hectic though.”
And it had. Each day of practice was more grueling than the last, and that competitive drive with Malfoy had only gotten stronger. Harry was beginning to measure a successful day by however many of their battles he’d come out on top for. Coach was absolutely thrilled, but it also meant Harry was spending more time at the physical therapy hall to make sure he didn’t strain anything. He came back to the hotel everyday just awake enough to eat and shower and read a chapter of his book if he was lucky before he was out like a light.
Harry just nodded.
“How’ve you been finding it?”
Harry considered that. He thought of the way his whole body sang when he was on a broom, the strain he felt as he dove, as he reached out his arm, how his heart raced. “It’s brilliant.”
Oliver grinned. “It is, right! I knew from when I saw you in your first year that you were born for this. And how is Gryffindor? You’re captain now, right? How’s the team?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. After Angelina graduated. It’s great. Ginny’s already getting scouting letters.”
“Oh, I bet,” Oliver said around another bite. “The Weasleys did always have something special.”
Harry didn’t know if he would say that so broadly, thinking of the way Percy could barely sit on a broom, but certainly Ginny and Charlie were gifted players.
“Well, I’m glad it’s all going well. I miss it sometimes, you know? That’s where it all started for me.”
The same was true for Harry. He’d spent the first ten years in a cupboard under the stairs, so not much flying had been happening then, but once Sirius had found him and pulled him away from the Dursleys, it was the skies where Harry first felt real freedom. And then at Hogwarts, when he’d been made seeker by McGonagall, who had been adamant about his talent. That had been the real start of his life.
“Yeah,” Harry muttered, peeling an egg. “I get that.”
“But we’re on to bigger and better, right?” Oliver raised his mug. “This year, the Cup!”
Harry grinned, hitting his glass of water against the mug, and they both drank to that.
“So, what else is there?” Oliver tilted his head consideringly. “You know, I’ve been curious, how’s your roommate situation? Seeing you and Malfoy on the pitch is… really something. You’re cannons. I can’t imagine what it’s like with you two locked in a room, though.”
An image of Malfoy, dead to the world and surrounded by discarded shirts and crumbled sheets came to mind unbidden.
“I… don’t know.”
Oliver smirked into his mug. “You’ve always had a way with words, Potter. But really, how is it?”
Harry shrugged. “It’s fine.”
Oliver laughed out loud this time. “That good, huh?” He took another bite of toast. “Look, I remember my first big tournament. Roomed with Quincy Widdlemore. Don’t tell any of those snakes at the Prophet, but Merlin he snores like a grindylow. Drove me mental. Is it anything like that?”
Harry hesitated. “He doesn’t make his bed.”
Wood stared at him for a long moment. Then he burst out laughing. It was so uproarious that he had to push away from the table so he wouldn’t knock over his breakfast.
“Merlin, Potter,” he laughed even through his words. “I thought he was doing something terrible! Stealing your stuff, locking you out–”
“And he leaves his clothes everywhere.”
Oliver’s eyes were squeezed shut with mirth, though Harry didn’t see what was so funny. Oliver had asked. “The bed and the clothes! He should be locked up! Call the aurors!”
Harry huffed, taking a bite of his banana.
Oliver finally settled, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Mate, it’s four weeks, and by the end, Circe willing, we’ll have the Cup. I think you’ll make it. And if that messy room is what’s keeping you two working the way you have been in practice, then I’m sorry mate, but I hope he never makes his bed again!”
***
“And now, welcome to the moment we’ve all been waiting for! I'm Lee Jordan, joined as always by the lovely Gwen Davies, and we are live from Kings Stadium, where England will take on Croatia in the deciding match for the Quidditch World Cup!”
“The atmosphere is electric, Lee! England is playing host for the first time in decades, and you can tell this team has something to prove.”
“Well, let’s see what they’re made of!”
“–and Jones with the quaffle, she passes to Flynn, Flynn driving toward the goals... Blocked! Saved by Andric!”
“Fast response from the visitors. Novak with the quaffle, passing to Knežević– he’s looking for an opening but Chang is closing fast. Knežević passes back to Novak, Novak shoots... Saved! Wood is a solid wall as always!”
“Now England regroups! Malfoy with the quaffle, he’s weaving through... passes to Flynn, Flynn shoots... Scores! Andrea Flynn puts England on the board!”
“What a pass! Malfoy drew three defenders before releasing. Kid’s a real talent.”
“–and Horvat is circling, she’s spotted something! The snitch might be in play! Potter’s tracking her, staying close...”
“Horvat keeps glancing back at him. He’s in her head.”
“Down below, Malfoy again. He passes to Jones... Jones fakes, passes back– Malfoy shoots... Scores!”
“Seventeen years old, playing out of position, and he just put one past a World Cup keeper! England has just been pushed over the edge, and– Oh! Croatia’s calling timeout.”
“–the snitch! Horvat’s diving– Woah! Potter’s right there! They’re neck and neck! This is– surely they’re going to crash! Horvat pulls back... Potter reaches... And he’s got it! Harry Potter has caught the snitch! England wins!”
“If your money was on England, get your coin purses ready! For the first time since 1977, England takes the Cup!”
***
The pitch was chaos.
Harry had been trying to slip away for fifteen minutes now. The tunnel was right there, twenty feet, maybe less, but every time he took a step toward it, another reporter materialised in his path.
He’d answered the same questions a million times by now. Yes, the catch felt good. No, he hadn’t planned the dive. Yes, the crowd was loud.
He took another step. A hand grabbed his sleeve.
“Potter! Hold on, we’ve got Malfoy here. Let’s get both rookies together!”
Harry looked up. Malfoy was a few feet away, surrounded by his own cluster of reporters, that polished smile fixed firmly in place. Someone was pulling Harry toward him.
He ended up at Malfoy’s side, not quite touching, as the reporters reshuffled to include him.
“Draco, you scored a deciding goal today! What a feat at your age. Walk us through it.”
Harry, scanning past the crowd and the cameras for an exit, barely heard Malfoy’s answer, but it must have been good because he heard the reporters oohing.
“–and Harry, your take on the play?”
Harry blinked, his eyes snapping forward again. “What?”
A few reporters laughed.
“The goal,” the reporter repeated. “What was your perspective from the pitch?”
“Oh.” Harry thought about it. It had been a strong play. Perhaps Jones’s pass could have been more subtle, but it had gotten the job done. And Malfoy had done a good job faking out the Croatian team. He was good at that, at riling people up. “Yeah, it was good.”
The reporters giggled again. Harry didn’t know what was so damn funny.
The reporter opened her mouth to ask a follow-up, but her question was drowned out by a Wizard’s Weekly reporter with long cherry red hair: “Draco! Mary Burk here! You played chaser for this match, but you’re a seeker by training. Was that frustrating at all? Do you see yourself sticking with this role?”
Malfoy smiled indulgently. “It’s been a learning experience, definitely. But this team–” he gestured vaguely, “–makes it easy. And it’s great experience, don’t you think? Maybe I’ll try goalkeeping next.” He winked at the reporter. Winked. Harry could never imagine himself doing anything like that, but he could see that the reporters absolutely loved it. “But to answer your second question, I think seeking is still the path for me.”
“Potter, a question from The Prophet! With Malfoy intending to continue as a seeker, do you expect you’ll be meeting him as a rival, rather than a teammate, in matches to come?”
“Uh…” Harry turned to Malfoy a bit, briefly meeting his grey gaze. He looked away quickly. “I mean, it depends on where we’re drafted.”
The Prophet reporter managed a quick follow up the second Harry closed his mouth: “But you’ve seen him on the pitch now. What do you think? How would you match up against Malfoy as a competitor? If he were seeking against you?”
Harry considered this, shifting a bit on his feet. He’d met with a PR firm once, and they’d advised him to tiptoe around competitive statements. What did these reporters want to hear, anyway? “He’s fast.”
“And?”
“Fast is good.” The reporters laughed again.
The next question came from Witch Weekly: “But if you did play, head-to-head, who comes out on top?”
Harry curled his fists where they were resting against his thighs. “I don’t know. We’ve been training as teammates.”
“Humour us.”
Harry glanced over. Malfoy was smiling at him, but this wasn’t the same smile he’d given the reporters. This one was sharper, with one eyebrow quirked up. He was just as curious about what Harry had to say.
Harry must have taken too long, because another reporter pressed: “No prediction? No confidence in your own abilities?”
There was another beat of silence. Harry’s eyes darted around. Surely there was a way out.
And maybe Malfoy took pity on him, because he stepped in smoothly. “What Potter is gracefully avoiding,” he said, flashing his camera smile, “is that we’re both competitive. That’s why we work well together. Iron sharpens iron, et cetera. If we end up on opposite sides someday, I’m sure it’ll be a match worth watching. But for now, we’re just going to celebrate this win!”
The reporters laughed appreciatively.
“And how do you plan on celebrating?” One of the reporters called.
Malfoy tilted his head in dramatic consideration. “Well, maybe–”
***
“Drink!”
In unison, the team drank down their shots. Steam billowed from their ears, and Draco felt a zap over his skin like when one shuffled along a rug in a wool jumper. For a moment all his hair stood on end, and he burst into helpless giggles.
He watched as Jones stepped onto the desk in the corner of the room, Bronston and Marks hovering below her in case she or the desk tipped over.
“Team England!” she called out, and the team all burst into raucous applause. “They doubted us! Bet against us!” There were cries of ‘they did!’ “And what did we do?” she went on. “We made them fucking regret it!” Draco hollered at this, raising a glass that had been pressed into his hand. “So when we leave here tomorrow, we do it with our heads held high! Because that–” she pointed to the Cup where it sat on its makeshift shrine on the side table between the two beds, something Wei had only allowed after they’d sworn on their lives that it would be returned in one piece, “–belongs to all of us now! So let’s drink to that!”
The team roared in unison, then all drank again from their new cups.
Draco’s mother might have a heart attack to see him now, but he figured she would make an exception in the name of celebration, and so Draco pushed away thoughts of responsible conduct and let himself get swept along, floating by on a cloud of conjoured rainbow mist and those sweet pineapple drinks that kept getting pressed into his hand.
Flynn and Vance’s room was not built for seventeen people, but that wasn’t stopping any of them. They’d cast firm silencing charms on the walls and had amplified the sound on Atticus Winry’s hand radio, jumping and twisting to the latest single by the Weird Sisters.
“Malfoy!” Edward Warrington appeared at his elbow, flushed and grinning. He held out his hand like he was holding a microphone. “Your first piña colada! How does it feel?”
Draco took a deep sip. When he spoke, he affected a thoughtful and critical voice: “You know, Warrington, some flavours cannot be described in English.” He switched to French. “It’s marvelous. Sweet and tangy; just delightful!”
Warrington guffawed. “Gracias, Malfoy!”
“That’s Spanish, you toad!” but he grinned at the still laughing beater.
Draco took a moment to look out at the team and let the weight of the moment hit him. This was it. This was what he’d trained for. And it was the start of something. The start of his career. Of the rest of his life.
Across the room, Potter was sitting on the edge of a bed and looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else in the world. Occasionally a team member would come up to him and try to cajole him into a game or a dance, but he stayed firmly planted.
Their eyes met for half a second. Potter looked away first.
Draco took another drink.
An hour later, the party showed no signs of slowing. Someone had spelled soft balls of light to bounce around the ceiling, and someone else had produced some green drink that no one could identify but everyone was drinking anyway.
Draco was playing a game with Vance and Bronston where the aim was to bounce balls into cups of butterbeer, and he was wiping the floor with them. He was going to collect his next prize cup when a voice called out.
“Malfoy.”
He blinked. “Jones.”
“Bedtime.”
“What?”
She pointed at him, then at Potter, who had migrated to the windowsill but was still looking pitifully out of place, then at Chang, who was laughing with Marks near the door. “You three. Out. I’m being a responsible adult.”
“We’re not children,” Draco protested.
“You’re seventeen. You’re children.” She crossed her arms. “We don’t want to have to worry about you lot getting alcohol poisoning. Bad optics, et cetera, et cetera. So get a move on.”
Flynn appeared at her shoulder, waving cheerfully. “Shoo! Shoo, little ones!”
Draco opened his mouth to argue that he was perfectly capable of handling himself, that this was ridiculous–
Jones raised a stern eyebrow.
He went.
In the corridor, Aria Marks supported a still giggling Cho. “I’m gonna bring this one back to our room,” she smiled at them. “You two are good, right?”
They nodded, and she saluted them as she left, her and Chang stumbling and tittering as they rounded the corner.
And then there were two.
“Well,” Draco smirked at Potter, leaning back against the wall, “I guess it is past your bedtime.”
Harry rolled his eyes behind those ridiculous circular spectacles. “Whatever. Let’s just go.”
The corridor was quiet after the noise of the room, and their footsteps echoed. Thanks to the piña coladas, the world felt pleasantly soft around the edges.
Potter was just ahead of him, walking toward their room with that same quiet efficiency he did everything with. Draco caught up to him without thinking about it.
When they got back to their room, it felt like a different world compared to the chaos of Flynn and Vance’s room. Draco sat on the edge of his bed, still horribly messy from that morning, and watched Potter hover at the edge of his vision.
“You like the view from up there or something?” Draco called over.
Potter hesitated, looking between his bed and Draco. “I don’t like sitting on my bed with… real clothes. It’s a whole… thing.”
Draco shrugged. That made sense, in a Potter kind of way. “Come sit on mine then. It’s already a mess.”
Potter looked a bit unsure, but then he walked over. He sat in the space beside Draco at the foot of the bed, careful to leave a gap between them. And perhaps Draco should have thought about his offer before making it, because now here they were. Sitting. Inches away. Not speaking.
Surprisingly, it was Potter that broke the silence. “Thanks. For earlier. With the reporters.”
Draco blinked. “What?”
“When you stepped in. When they kept asking about– you know, future matches and stuff.” Potter wasn’t looking at him. “I’m not good at that kind of thing.”
“Oh, that,” Draco sighed a bit exaggeratedly. “I simply had to save you. It was getting pitiful. You looked like a kicked puppy; it’s inhumane at a certain point.”
Harry’s mouth twitched.
“Can you imagine if I hadn’t?” Draco continued. “They’d still be there. Asking the same question. And you’d still be standing there saying ‘fast is good’ over and over–”
Potter made a sound. A small one. It took Draco a second to realise it was a laugh.
A real laugh. From Harry Potter.
“I don’t sound like that,” he said.
“You absolutely sound like that.” Draco lowered his voice again, “‘Fast is good.’ Riveting. Really gives the people something to chew on.”
Potter’s laugh was quiet, barely more than an exhale, but his shoulders were shaking. Draco felt something warm spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the drinks.
“They’d find out how boring you are.” Draco went on, warming to it. “The whole country would know. The golden boy of quidditch, who goes to bed at nine thirty and never has coffee after eleven in the morning.”
And then they were both laughing, doubled over in their joggers and the team shirts that Flynn had made for the celebration. Draco laughed until he couldn’t breathe, until he wasn’t even sure what he was laughing about anymore.
It tapered off into something comfortable, and Draco felt himself relaxing in places he didn’t even realised he’d been tense.
When Draco looked over again, he saw they were somehow closer than before. Their hands on the sheet were only one sideways shift away from meeting.
He looked up, and all he saw was green.
Later, neither of them would be able to say who leaned in first.
But then they were kissing.
Last year, in an ill-advised game of spin the bottle, Draco had briefly pressed his mouth against Tracey Davis, and ever since he’d been calling that his first kiss. But now he saw that had been nothing of the sort. This was a kiss. He sank into it, into him. Potter’s mouth moved against his tentatively at first, just a whisper, but then he leaned in closer, his lips firmer. He felt Potter’s tongue at the seam of his lips, and then his mouth was opening as if taking a breath.
Potter’s hand came up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheekbone, and Draco realised he’d just dived headfirst into a whole new world. His hands. What was he supposed to do with his hands? He tried to think, but his head was completely empty. Of their own accord, his hands rose to the front of Potter’s shirt. He curled his fingers into the fabric, trying to pull Potter impossibly closer.
But then Potter was pulling back, Draco following like a pin to a magnet before he realised what he was doing. Then his heart stopped. Was that it, then? Would Potter realise what they were doing and shatter… whatever this was? Would he–
But Potter just reached up, pulled his glasses off, and leaned back to set them on the nightstand. Then he leaned back in. His hands found Draco again, one settling on his upper back and the other cupping the back of his head. Draco’s hands, which had never left Potter’s shirt, drifted up, first to his neck and then into his hair. That ridiculous hair. Draco let his fingers sink into it, pulling Potter closer.
At the edge of his mind, Draco was aware of a voice screaming that this was a terrible idea, but the thought fell out of his head as they fell back in the bed, landing in the soft cushion of Draco’s bunched blanket and rumpled sheets. In that moment, nothing felt real except the warmth of Potter’s body against his, the press of their lips, and the slide of their tongues.
At some point, they stopped kissing and just lay there, tangled together and breathing hard.
Draco fell asleep with Potter’s head on his chest, his fingers still tangled in the boy’s messy hair.
Draco woke slowly, warm and comfortable and confused. There was a weight against his chest and around his waist.
He opened his eyes.
The first thing he saw was the top of Harry Potter’s head. And then Draco’s brain caught up with his body. He shot up so fast he nearly fell off the bed.
Potter, jostled abruptly to the side by Draco’s movement, woke with a start. He sat up, and it left them at eye level. He stared at Draco. Draco stared at him.
It was a moment of abject horror.
Draco scrambled off the bed backward, nearly tripping, and slammed into his wardrobe, the whole structure rattling.
Potter averted his eyes, looking from Draco’s messy bed, which he was still sitting in, over to his own pristine one.
Neither of them spoke.
Finally, Potter cleared his throat. “So, that–”
“Didn’t happen,” Draco finished. Quickly. Firmly.
Potter nodded. “Right. Yeah. Good.”
Another nod. And then Potter stood, wobbling a bit before steadying himself.
“I’m going to… go for a run. Or something.” And then he was cramming his trainers onto his feet and disappearing into the corridor, still in his joggers and team shirt from the night before.
When the door clicked shut behind him, Draco’s head fell back with a heavy thunk against the wardrobe. He barely felt it. He brought a hand to his forehead, and then let it fall over his eyes.
What the fuck.