𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭 & 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 | drarry

9

The buzz around Hogwarts had been steadily building since the announcement of the Quidditch match between Professors Potter and Malfoy. The castle seemed alive with excitement, with students whispering in the corridors, their eyes lighting up whenever they caught sight of either Harry or Draco. It was as if they were about to witness a legend unfold before their eyes—a rivalry that had been ingrained in Hogwarts history.

In the staff room, the reactions of their former professors-turned-colleagues were just as varied. Professor McGonagall, despite her stern demeanor, couldn't hide her amusement. She eyed Harry with a faint smile one afternoon, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses.

"Mister Potter," she said, her voice holding a hint of warmth. "I trust you'll make Gryffindor proud."

Harry chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "I'll try my best, Professor. Though, it's not like Malfoy is going to make it easy."

"Malfoy?" came a voice from the corner, and Harry turned to see Professor Flitwick looking up from his parchments, his eyes wide. "I remember those matches—always very... spirited, if I recall correctly."

Sprout laughed, shaking her head. "Spirited is putting it mildly. I seem to recall quite a few fouls from both of you."

Harry gave an exaggerated sigh, throwing his hands up. "It was all part of the game, Professors. Just good, clean fun."

Across the room, Draco rolled his eyes, his lips quirking into a smirk. "Clean fun, Potter? That's rich coming from someone who didn't hesitate to ram me with his broom when things didn't go his way."

Harry turned toward Draco, the challenge lighting in his eyes again. "Funny, Malfoy, I seem to remember you were just as guilty of that kind of play."

Their exchange drew laughter from the other professors, and for a moment, it felt almost like old times, as if they were students again, preparing for a big match—only this time, without the underlying hatred, without the weight of the worlds bearing down on them.

As Saturday finally arrived, the excitement around the castle reached its peak. The stands surrounding the Quidditch pitch were filled with students from all houses, bundled up against the cool autumn breeze, their scarves proudly displaying their house colors. They chattered excitedly, their eyes glued to the pitch, waiting for the appearance of their professors.

Harry stood in the Gryffindor changing room, pulling on his Quidditch robes. He couldn't help but smile at the familiar weight of them. He took a deep breath, the scent of leather and grass bringing back memories—memories of his first match, of soaring through the sky, of the wind rushing through his hair. It had always felt like freedom, a release from everything else in his life. Today, it felt like a chance to reclaim that feeling.

As he stepped out onto the pitch, the cheers of the students filled the air, and Harry couldn't help but grin, waving to the crowd. He mounted his broom, kicking off from the ground, feeling the rush of exhilaration as he rose into the sky. He circled the pitch, his eyes scanning for a glimpse of Draco.

Then he saw him—emerging from the opposite changing room, his silver-blond hair glinting in the sunlight, his robes crisp, his broom held casually in his hand. Draco looked every bit the part of a Seeker, his posture confident, his expression focused. He always looked good on a broom, Harry had to admit—poised, graceful, as if he belonged in the air more than on the ground.

And even back then, during all their rivalry, Harry had always secretly admired that about him. The way Draco flew—fluid, effortless—it was almost artful, and Harry couldn't help but remember those days when he would watch Malfoy zoom past, a flicker of envy mixing with something else, something he couldn't quite name.