𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐒 - Slytherin Boys

Quidditch Star~D.M

The roar of the crowd was Draco Malfoy's oxygen. The Friday night lights, a halo above his head as he led his team, the Slytherins, onto the field - that was his church. He was a god here, a force to be reckoned with. The snitch felt like an extension of his arm, each catch a defiant act, a way to scream without making a sound.

He slammed into the opposing seeker, the impact jarring him, but he relished it. Physical pain was a welcome distraction from the constant ache in his chest, the one that never truly faded. The ache that reminded him of his bad grades and the father who blamed him for it every single day.

He was the captain, the star seeker, the golden boy everyone looked up to. But beneath the pale skin and the carefully cultivated swagger, Draco was a tightly wound spring, ready to snap.
His father's voice echoed in his head, "Don't you ever embarrass me, boy. Your mother would be ashamed." The words were acid, burning away any sense of self-worth. He pushed the thought away, focusing on the game, on the rhythmic chant of the crowd.

Later, after the Slytherins secured another victory, the back-slapping and congratulations felt hollow. He peeled off his sweat-soaked jersey, the weight of expectations settling back on his shoulders.

He saw her then, standing near the edge of the field, clutching a well-worn book to her chest. Y/n. The bookworm. The quiet girl who always seemed to be observing everything from the shadows. He usually wouldn't give her the time of day but there was something about the way she was looking at him - it felt like she could see through him. See the truth he tries to hide.

"Nice game, Malfoy." She said, her voice barely a whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, surprised she even knew his name.

"Thanks." He mumbled, already turning away.

"You know," She continued, her voice getting louder, "for someone who's supposed to be so smart, you make some pretty stupid decisions on the pitch."

He stopped dead in his tracks, turning back to face her.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying," She shrugged, her dark siren eyes glinting with amusement. "You could've made that pass to Crabbe. He was wide open. Instead, you tried to force it to Zambini, and almost got intercepted."

Rage, hot and familiar, flared within him.

"And what do you know about quidditch, Y/n? I didn't see you out there when everyone was screaming. Did you even get out of your book for a minute?"

"More than you think," She retorted, her chin lifting defiantly. "Maybe if you spent less time posing for the cameras and more time studying the playbook, you wouldn't be making such amateur mistakes."

He scoffed, taking a step closer to her, his height towering over her small frame.

"Why don't you go back to your books, Y/n, and leave the quidditch to the people who actually know what they're doing?"

She didn't back down.

"Maybe you should try reading one sometime, Malfoy. You might actually learn something."

With a final glare, he turned and walked away, the echo of her words stinging more than any fall he'd taken on the pitch. He hated that she saw more than he wanted her to. He hated that she wasn't intimidated by him. Most of all, he hated that she might actually be right.

Y/n hated quidditch. Correction, she hated everything it represented at their school: the shallow popularity contests, the inflated egos, and the way everyone seemed to worship Draco Malfoy like he was some kind of demigod. He was arrogant, entitled, and infuriatingly attractive. She despised him.