第14章 章節
dd Ravenclaw Draco used to be seen with regularly, but Draco had pushed away almost everyone during sixth year, for entirely unromantic reasons. Any of those people could’ve been the person. And Draco is bisexual, which doubles the pool of potential candidates.
Brooding on all the beautiful girls and boys that might have caught Draco’s eye is a tiring, frustrating exercise that leaves Harry wanting to shed his skin like an itchy sweater, or possibly break things.
Draco notices. Of course he does. Draco always notices the things Harry wishes he wouldn’t.
They’ve picked a shady spot in the courtyard to research. Draco is working as industriously as ever, but right now, reading about all the deaths and mutations and various other horrible fates people have endured proves too much for his nerves to handle. He doesn’t speak, he’d neverplain, but something in his face or his body language must betray him.
Draco broaches the subject of Harry’s ill humor with characteristic tact.
“Who shoved a broomstick up your arse today, Potter?” he drawls.
Before, that would have been the start of a shouting match. Now, Harry brightens.
“Let’s do that,” he says. Draco raises one eyebrow, and smirks, and Harry rolls his eyes. “Go flying, I mean. I haven’t been in ages.”
Out of fairness to the other students, eighth years aren’t allowed on Quidditch teams. Harry misses it desperately, but not as much as Ron does, and he’s certain Draco’s right there with him. Sure enough, Draco doesn’t hesitate.
“Seeker match?” Draco asks.
“If you’re that eager to have your arse handed to you,” says Harry.
“We’ll see about that, Potter.”
They part ways to dump their books and bags in their dorms, and retrieve their brooms; Harry swings by the kitchens to grab a couple of sandwiches, which they scarf down on their way out to the pitch. Draco digs a Snitch out of the equipment locker and tosses it into the air while they mount their brooms.
Over the handles of their brooms, they meet each other’s eyes, and Harry feels as though he’s finally woken up after a long dream.
Without a word, they take off into the sky after the Snitch, perfectly in unison. When it’s two Seekers alone in the air, with no other players or balls to worry about or the din of a crowd to distract—and when the Seekers are almost evenly matched, the way Harry and Draco are—the game transforms into an adrenaline-pounding, blood-rushing, heart-racing whirlwind of a duel.
“Best out of five?” Draco calls, and Harry gives the affirmative, but they each catch the Snitch so quickly the game stretches into nine, fifteen rounds. They lose count. Neither of them has to pretend at courtesy or sportsmanship; this is purepetition, and from the moment they take off there’s never more than a yard or so of space between them. If Harry tries to shake Draco off, Draco matches his every loop and dive and roll with a careless, manic grin. If Draco tries to catch Harry off guard with dizzying, breakneck laps around the stadium—flyi
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