Slytherin secrets.

The quidditch game.

NOT RELATED TO THE BOOKS OR MOVIES.

FOUL LANGUAGE.

The roar of the crowd thundered in my ears as I took my seat in the Slytherin stands, green and silver banners waving fiercely in the wind. The Quidditch pitch stretched out before me, a battlefield in the making, the air buzzing with anticipation. Today was no ordinary match—this was Slytherin versus Gryffindor, the most heated rivalry in the school.

"Think we'll crush them?" Blaise asked, leaning in with a smirk as he settled beside me. His eyes gleamed with excitement.

I shrugged, my gaze fixed on the two teams preparing on opposite ends of the pitch. "If Draco plays like he always does, I'd say Gryffindor's in for a rough time."

Despite my casual response, I felt a knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach. Draco had been distant lately—more focused, more withdrawn, even when he wasn't in the midst of Slytherin's darker secrets. I could sense something had changed in him, though he hadn't said it outright. This Quidditch match felt like more than just a game for him, and I couldn't shake the feeling that it was a reflection of something bigger—something more dangerous.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and suddenly the teams were off, launching into the sky like arrows. The crowd erupted into cheers, Gryffindor red and Slytherin green clashing violently in the air. Harry Potter was immediately on the hunt for the Golden Snitch, while Draco hovered nearby, his gray eyes cold and focused, waiting for his moment.

Slytherin wasted no time playing dirty. Within the first few minutes, Flint, one of the Slytherin Chasers, slammed into a Gryffindor player so hard that they nearly fell off their broom. The crowd gasped, but Madam Hooch barely gave it a glance. It was typical of a Slytherin-Gryffindor match—ruthless, brutal, and unrelenting.

Blaise leaned over, shouting over the noise, "Draco's out for blood today!"

I could see it, too. Draco's usually smug confidence was replaced with a hard-edged intensity that I hadn't seen before. He wasn't just playing to win—he was playing to dominate. His sleek Nimbus darted through the air with precision as he dodged bludgers and weaved between Gryffindor players. His eyes flickered constantly to Harry, never letting the Gryffindor Seeker out of his sight.

I couldn't help but watch him more than the game itself. His movements were calculated, graceful, even if his tactics were brutal. But there was something more—something desperate about the way he played today, as if winning this match meant more than just house points.

"Gryffindor scores!" boomed Lee Jordan's voice from the commentator's booth. The Gryffindor supporters erupted into cheers, waving their banners as the red and gold Chasers high-fived in mid-air.

But Draco barely reacted. His focus was entirely on Harry Potter, who was scanning the sky for the elusive Snitch. It was as if the rest of the game didn't exist to him. 

The match dragged on, each team fighting tooth and nail for every point. The tension was so thick in the air that I could feel it pressing down on me. Slytherin had clawed their way ahead, but Gryffindor was relentless, their teamwork impeccable. Every goal Slytherin scored was quickly answered by Gryffindor, keeping the gap between them dangerously narrow.

The Gryffindor Beaters, the Weasley twins, sent bludgers flying at Slytherin's Chasers with pinpoint accuracy. One slammed into Flint's broom, sending him spinning out of control for a moment before he regained his balance. The Gryffindor side of the stadium cheered, while the Slytherin stands erupted in boos and hisses.

"Come on, Draco!" Pansy Parkinson screamed from the front row, her voice shrill and frantic. She was clutching a green scarf, her knuckles white from how tightly she was gripping it.

But Draco was calm. His icy gaze stayed locked on Harry, his broomstick hovering high above the action as if he was waiting for something, his every muscle poised for attack.

I leaned forward in my seat, my heart pounding. I knew what was coming. Draco had always been good at waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He wasn't one to panic or rush—he thrived in the chaos, using it to his advantage. And as the game reached a fever pitch, I saw it—the flash of gold darting through the sky, the Golden Snitch, glinting in the sunlight.

Harry saw it too. Without hesitation, he shot forward, his Firebolt blazing a trail through the air. The crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and screams as Draco followed, the two Seekers neck and neck as they raced after the tiny, winged ball.

The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath. My eyes were glued to the sky, my heart racing as the two of them sped toward the Snitch, brooms tilted at impossible angles. Draco was right on Harry's tail, his face set in determination, his hand reaching out toward the glittering prize.

And then, in a move so fast I barely saw it, Draco slammed his shoulder into Harry, knocking him off course. The Gryffindor Seeker wobbled on his broom for a moment, struggling to regain his balance as the crowd booed and shouted. But Draco didn't stop. He pushed harder, his hand stretching out toward the Snitch as it fluttered just inches in front of him.

"Come on, Draco," I whispered under my breath, my heart in my throat. This was it. This was his moment.

But just as Draco's fingers brushed the Snitch, Harry regained control. With a burst of speed that seemed impossible, Harry dove beneath Draco, reaching out and grabbing the Snitch just as it disappeared from sight.

The stadium erupted. Gryffindor exploded in cheers, their supporters leaping to their feet as the realization sank in—Harry had caught the Snitch. Gryffindor had won.

I stood there in stunned silence, my heart sinking. The Slytherin stands fell deathly quiet, the shock of defeat settling over them like a heavy cloud. Draco hovered in mid-air, his expression unreadable as he watched Harry raise the Snitch triumphantly into the air.

The rest of the Gryffindor team swarmed Harry, cheering and laughing as they descended to the ground. Meanwhile, the Slytherin players slowly drifted back toward the ground, their faces dark with anger and disappointment.

Draco, however, remained in the air for a moment longer. His eyes never left Harry, his jaw clenched tight. And then, without a word, he turned and descended toward the pitch, his expression cold and distant. 

Back in the common room, the mood was sour. The Gryffindors were celebrating in the Great Hall, no doubt reveling in their victory. But in the Slytherin dungeons, no one spoke. The defeat stung worse than usual, and I could feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

I watched Draco from across the room, seated in a corner with Blaise and Pansy. He hadn't said a word since the match ended, and his usual arrogance was nowhere to be seen. He was quieter, more withdrawn, his face a mask of cold indifference.

But there was something else in his eyes—something darker. I could feel it, even from across the room.

I stood up and made my way over to him, ignoring the glares from Pansy and the others. "Draco," I said quietly, catching his attention.

He looked up at me, his expression unreadable. "What?" His voice was sharp, almost defensive.

"Are you okay?" I asked, my eyes searching his face for some sign of what was going on beneath the surface.

For a moment, he said nothing, just stared at me with those stormy gray eyes. And then, with a sigh, he stood up, his expression softening ever so slightly. "I'm fine," he muttered, brushing past me as he headed for the dormitories.

But I knew he wasn't. There was something more going on, something he wasn't telling me. And as I watched him disappear into the shadows of the dungeons.