Ten Questions (Harry x Slytherin reader)

The Dark Mark

I had never liked Quidditch. For a couple reasons, actually.

The first being that I couldn't fly on a broomstick to save my life, no matter how hard I tried. Even at fourteen years old, I could hardly grasp the concept, and if you had ever had the displeasure of watching me attempt to fly on a broomstick, odds are you'll likely never forget it due to the sheer horror of the sight. The way the broom shakes violently, the way my eyes bug out of my head as I grasp the handle so tight that it threatens to snap into two. It makes me appreciate Quidditch even more when I can hardly stand watching the games as it is.

The second being that the crowds are absolutely insufferable. Whether it's professional Quidditch or just a simple Hogwarts match at school, I had always hated the way the crowds cheered whenever their team regained possession of the Quaffle, or the way they would boo when the opposing team scored. I could hardly stand talking to a group of people due to the amount of noise, let alone listen to an entire stadium, and not once had I been to a Quidditch match where I hadn't gotten a splitting headache, and this match was no different.

Why people enjoy the sport, I would never know.

"AND THEY'RE OFF!"

The sound of Ludo Bagmans voice echoes throughout the entire stadium as the Irish players throw the Quaffle back and forth to each other, speeding and weaving through the field with their Firebolts with immense speed. I wrinkle my nose in distaste at the sheer volume of his voice, which is much too loud for my liking.

I had been to many Quidditch World Cups throughout my life, but never had I seen a crowd cheer with such enthusiasm. Even my brother Adrian, who is usually quiet and often keeps to himself roars with the crowd as Ireland scores for the second time during match. I had never understood why attending events such as these were so important to my father, especially when I knew that my father disliked Quidditch just as much as I did. I always supposed that it was a display of power, as if to tell every other Pure-Blood family that we too, could afford to go to events as expensive and luxurious as the Quidditch World Cup. It was ridiculous, embarrassing, even, that despite their supposed "friendship", the Pure-Blood families were so competitive with each other, always striving to one up the other, to gain more "power", as my father liked to put it, even when it was obvious that no matter how hard we tried, we'd always be bowing down to families like the Malfoy's no matter how many parties we threw or how big our manor was or how many Quidditch world cups we attended.

I sighed, seemingly bored as I looked to my right. A few seats to the side was Draco Malfoy, who, despite his love for Quidditch, being the Slytherin seeker and all, seemed to share my boredom as well. He had gotten taller over the summer, his features sharper, his eyes darker. I had seen him a few times since our departure from Hogwarts, thanks to the countless parties and gatherings that were expected of most Pure-Blood families. I didn't particularly dislike Draco, unlike some of my fellow housemates, who, even though followed him everywhere he went in hopes that they'd gain something from him, secretly disliked him. I could see why. Even though Malfoy had never really done anything to bother me or make me dislike him, I couldn't help but be annoyed with him from time to time, with his constant obsession with Harry Potter, the boy who lived, and his rude and snide comments that suggested he was above everyone else, specifically muggle borns, or, as my father so kindly puts it, Mudbloods.

But tonight was one of those nights where he was actually tolerable. Probably because he hadn't spoken a word to me yet.

"You've been staring at Malfoy for an awfully long time now, Y/n."