Snitch

I've vowed to myself, thousands upon millions of times, that I will catch that damned winged golden ball before you.

And every time, I don't.

It's not that I'm not a good flier; I'm one of the best. I've been told by retired Quidditch stars that my stance is perfect, my posture beautiful, and my direction graceful. I can fly wonderfully, execute tricks and moves flawlessly, and manage to look utterly casual at the same time.

I have beaten all other House Seekers that have come across my path - Cho Chang, Cedric Diggory, even Terrence Higgs, who was the Slytherin Seeker before me.

In all the casual or House games I have played, I have always beaten the other Seeker.

Except for with you, Potter.

And once more, the night before the Gryffindor-Slytherin match, I vow to myself - I will be dead before I allow Harry Potter to catch the Snitch before me.

Father sends his best regards, telling me that he will be attending the match tomorrow. I am humbled - for Father to take time out of his work to come and attend my Quidditch match means so much to me.

Blaise and Pansy fuss, telling me to get a good night's sleep if I want to trounce Potter tomorrow. I can't sleep, though, and walk from my prefect dormitories down the familiar steps to the dungeons to gather the team together.

Time for a last minute strategy talk.

I remind the Chasers - Blaise, Lucrezia Nott, a fifth-year Slytherin, and Mikolaj Sienkiewicz, a Polish seventh-year transfer - to remain in their formation at all times, and to remember to shoot for the Gryffindor Keeper's lower right side.

They don't have to worry about the Beaters, thankfully. Gryffindor did a terrible job of picking out Beaters this year - scrawny younger-years with terrible hand-eye coordination. I wonder how they can even pick up the Beater's bat.

I speak to Vince and Greg - our Beaters - but they knew what they were doing, anyway. Aim and hit, was really all there was to it. Aim and hit.

Johanna DeValle is a seventh year girl - not too bulky, but definitely stable - and our Keeper. She has a quiet smile but packs a very strong tirade when someone angers her.

She is wonderful at blocking when the opponent was in her line of vision - she has never let a single Quaffle through under those circumstances - but if the opposing Chasers approaches from too steep an angle from the left or right, the chance of her blocking it is little more than seventy percent chance.

And me? What was I to do?

Look for the goddamned Snitch, pray for a miracle, and catch it before Potter.

The day before, Father had sent me a broom right to my dorm by way of WizardEx, wrapped in soft tissue and paper. I hadn't had time to look at it yesterday - now was a good time as any.

The broom was beautiful - a glossy ebony handle fitted with silver, and birch twigs trimmed to a tidy finish. Lovely, light, balanced build.

HellWing 1.0, it read in emblazoned silver script.

It was a personalized broom.

Oh, those were expensive, even for Malfoys.

I put my hand over it, intending to order it up, but at my slightest thought, it jumped into my hand, beautifully responsive. I laugh, and grab my Quidditch robes in one hand, the other still clasping the HellWing, and run down the stairs of the prefect dorms to the Quidditch changing rooms.

The Slytherins arrive first on the pitch, and we do a few practice laps, holding our heads high like the pureblooded aristocrats we were. We know we look regal - wearing our emerald robes, riding our top-of-the-line brooms, with confident, haughty looks on our faces.

When the Gryffindors come on, even they gulp slightly.

We touch down, and I walk to the center of the field where Madam Hooch is standing.

Hooch glares at me sternly, before switching her glare to Potter.

"I'll have no cheating or bad sportsmanship today, young men, is that clear?"

I nod, plastering a pretty smile on my face. Hooch's glare falters a bit, and her cheeks flush involuntarily.

Ah, my wondrous Veela powers kick in.

Potter just keeps on glaring daggers at me, his eyes dark.

"Captains, shake hands!"

I hold out my hand first, waiting for Potter to take it. Déjà vu, this is, fucking déjà vu. This is so much like the time in first year when I offered Potter my hand of friendship.

Except this time, he took it, and we mount our brooms.

I flash the handle of my HellWing at him, and see his mouth open in shock.

Personalized brooms are expensive to come by, even for those of us rolling in Galleons. No one at Hogwarts had one, and very few professional Quidditch players even dreamed of owning one.

"Players, mount your brooms!" And the whistle blows.

We're off.

I feel that adrenaline rush when I take off into the air.

Oh, this HellWing is wonderful. It responds to my slightest thought, and is wonderfully aerodynamic. Very balanced. Sleek and beautiful.

I feel like I'm finally free from the world, when I fly. It's a wonderful feeling - like you've gone to heaven, but you're still on earth.

I wish I didn't have to look for the bloody Snitch.

I wish I could just fly.

Circle the pitch, once, twice, three times, and ignore the catcalls full of innuendo being shouted my way. Blasted Veela genes.

Scan field for any glints of metal. Flashing, shiny objects - aha! No, that's just Lucrezia's necklace.

Nod shortly to Pansy, who is decked out in green and silver, with a large banner flying over her section of the Slytherin stands. Fly around the pitch once more, and nod to Father and Snape, who are sitting together.

Lift head up to see where Potter is, only to be met with a gaze of burning emerald.

The score is already 40-20, Slytherin. Our new Chaser formation is working beautifully, I note.

"And the Quaffle goes from Nott to Sienwickeiz-what's-his-name to Zabini and back to Nott, who gets the Quaffle in the goal beautifully! Almost as beautiful as Lucrezia, I would say, she's got a very nice -" and McGonagall hits Lee Jordan over the head again.

Weasley can't block for his life, I snigger in my head.

"Oh, oh! It looks like Malfoy's spotted something! And he's off diving to the ground, near the base of the Ravenclaw stands, and Harry follows him! But - is that a new broom, Malfoy? - Harry's got the disadvantage here, I'm afraid, and Malfoy - Malfoy pulls out of the dive! Feint, Harry, feint!"

Hah! The wonderful Harry Potter can't even recognize a feint when he sees one!

He's gaining too much momentum, and can pull out barely in time. I flash him a cheeky smirk, grinning at his ashen face. Potter soon gets back in the game, and Jordan's commentary lulls to a soft murmur in the background.

I do not hear the cheering of the crowd as Gryffindor scores a goal, or the catcalls, or the shouts of my fellow Housemates.

I feel only the wind whipping my platinum hair into messy strands around my face. I feel only the cold weather burning my cheeks, flushing them.

I see only the Snitch.

I angle the HellWing down all of a sudden, and I can almost hear the collective gasp of the crowd as I speed off.

I can almost hear Potter's thoughts - Feint. I won't fall for it again, Malfoy, I'm not that stupid. A split second later, he looks, and he sees the Snitch for himself. And he realizes his mistake.

Wind whipping in my hair, biting against my cheeks, oh, Salazar, it stings like bloody hell. But the Snitch is up ahead, a golden ball, white wings fluttering.

I know what Potter is doing - throwing all of his body weight towards the front of the Firebolt, leaning forward, praying against gravity that he will somehow get there before me.

And I'm reaching out, my dragonhide gloved fingers reaching out for the Snitch -

And I almost have it -

And I can feel its wings almost fluttering against my fingers -

And then I feel a piercing pain in my gut. I feel the Bludger slam into my abdomen, and knock the wind out of me. I feel myself falling from my broom - thank Hecate I was already near the ground when it hit me.

I feel my ribs crack, and I feel the blood pool under my head from its sharp contact with the ground. I feel my left hand snap as I throw it out instinctively, desperately to somehow cushion my fall.

And I see the brat who launched the Bludger at me - well, at least he could hit it, I thought subconsciously - being attacked by Vince, Greg, Blaise, and Mikolaj. Lucrezia and Johanna are flying angrily around the pitch, pointing, yelling, and shrieking at the Gryffindors.

Potter touches down, his face concerned.

Everything's turning fuzzy now.

I should have known Potter would rather see if I was all right - the moralistic git - than go after the Snitch.

"You alright, Malfoy? You okay?"

Oh, of course I'm fine, Potter. I've just fallen from my broom, been slammed to the ground quite rudely by a Bludger, and feel like all the bones in my body have broken.

Positively peachy.

I hear Madam Hooch award a penalty shot to Slytherin - there are no rules for such penalty shots if a Seeker is hit by a Bludger, my mind croaks groggily.

Professors Dumbledore, Snape, and Madam Pomfrey are heading onto the field, Father trailing behind them worriedly and angrily.

I imagine how I must look - bloody, bruised, and dirty. This is going to kill my ego.

Ribs cracked, left arm sprained, and head bleeding.

And the Golden Snitch in my right hand.