The Malfoy Project

𝟔 - 𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

It rains the following Friday. The smell of wet leaves, soggy wood, and damp clothing hangs heavy in the air, the overcast sky a monochrome painting of greys as it presides over the Quidditch pitch.

New broomsticks slice through the hazy slate like fourteen lacquered knives as the players purl in and out of each other in a dizzying display of red and green.

Fifty other students dot the benches around the green oval, huddled together under shield charms or jackets, shouting and pointing at the players. Next to me, my Self-Writing quill scratches away on parchment as I narrate the game to it. A clean pass from Ginny Weasley to Robins. Zabini intercepts the Quaffle and passes it to Montague. Montague shoots- he scores the goal! Slytherin leads 50 to 40, with fifteen minutes to go.

A flash of blond, so light and quick I mistake it for a glare of sunlight through the clouds. "It seems Malfoy has spotted the Snitch," I mutter excitedly to the quill. "He's going for it! Potter has seen the Snitch too- both Seekers hone in, they're gaining on it fast..."

Harry and Draco speed after the coveted drop of gold. They bump into each other's side twice, arms outstretched. I hold my breath.

Just as Draco is about to close his fingers around the winged ball, it flits erratically towards the ditches, forcing both Seekers to dive into the forest of wooden beams. I stand to try and see what's happening, only making out peeps of green and red as they navigate through the structure.

They momentarily sink out of sight before bursting back up into the air, turning on their brooms and heading straight towards my side of the stands. I glance around, trying in vain to locate the Snitch, but there is only a faint buzzing that cuts through the patter of rain.

Like bulls to a red flag, Harry and Draco hurtle across the breadth of the pitch towards me. They'll stop, I think. They have to, or they'll crash.

But desperation had already wrapped its claws around them. Neither show signs of relenting in their unspoken game of chicken; both are too proud to back down.

Harry leads the races by mere inches, his broom wobbling unsteadily as he races hip-to-hip with Draco. Gryffindor will win this game.

But the very second they cross the threshold of the field, Harry pulls back with a jerk of his broom and rockets up towards the sky.

Draco isn't as fast.

He swivels in an attempt to brake, but inertia is a dastardly thing and had its own fiendish plans. He tumbles through the air. There is a sickening sound of splintering wood, and I let out a shriek as he crashes headfirst into the row of empty benches.

None of the other players realise what had happened. The Chasers continue to race each other for the Quaffle, shouting names and commands. Thump! the dull thwacking of the Bludger. But the sounds are muted whispers above the blood roaring in my ears as I sidestep the debris, calling Draco's name.

I get to him just before Harry does. The impact had pushed his body deep into the recess of metal and wood, crumpling it in an unnatural angle, his head hanging forward limply. I wedge my arm behind his back to push him up, feeling jagged splinters rake my arm as I do. Ignoring the stinging pain, I tear off his goggles and check for broken bones.

"Is he alright?" comes Harry's concerned voice from behind me. Draco's lids flutter and his chest is straining from ragged breathing, but apart from a wide laceration on his neck, everything is intact. I brush the dripping locks out of his face. "I think so."

Harry grasps Draco's feet, and I lock both my arms under his armpits. With a great heave, we drag him out from the hollow space and onto the floor. "We have to bring him to Pomfrey," pants Harry, hunching over his knees to inspect his fallen opponent.