The Thestral (Draco Lucius Malfoy)

1

The rumbling came through the earth and steadied itself in my feet; the second Quidditch match was in full swing and the mountains around us were paying the price for it. Horns blared tirelessly as members of both Gryffindor and Slytherin were hoisted high into the sky, their screams heard in every crack and crevasse of the atmosphere.

Although my house resides in Ravenclaw, I agreed to Hermione and Ginny that I would show my face at the game. Navigating my way to the Gryffindor section is hard but not impossible as groups of young wizards walk opposite of me. The crowd tonight is already in distress.

Emotions seem high on the red side as I catch sight of Hermione and Ginny. They sit in the dead-middle of the stands and a loud whistle escapes Hermione's lips, as usual.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, taking off my cloak and setting it on the seat below me. My eyes turn to the levitating players as I feel a slight push from Hermione.

"Seems there's a common theme of you always being late." She notices, a teasing tone streaking through her voice. "Don't worry about it. Thanks for meeting us."

I flash her a smile and scan the field for any sign of Ron or Harry, although I realize I can't spot them.

"Are they down there?" I ask. "Harry and Ron, I don't see them."

She points a finger to the Gryffindor side.

"There," she says. "With his back to us. That's Harry."

I study as Harry moves fluidly around the field, his balance always near-perfect on the skinny broom. He levitates in front of Ron as they discuss something, likely the adrenaline of the game to come.

The red team talks as usual and I begin to imagine what kind of discussion is held in a moment like this. Surely, Harry would offer some words of encouragement. If I knew him at all, he would.

"We are totally going to kick their ass." Ginny says. "Especially after Ron told me about Malfoy's choice words at the pub."

My mind flashed back to Hogsmeade, and the conversation between Malfoy and I that could only be described as unnerving. I settled on not bringing it up.

Rather Ginny, Hermione and I shout repetitive chants for Gryffindor as the game nears, and when it's finally time to release the quaffle, we jump to our feet.

I watch as the teammates take their places, and to my utter dismay, see Malfoy and Harry approach the center. They come face to face with each other, their hands gripped tightly around the front of their broomsticks. I can nearly feel the anger bubble up inside of Harry as they examine each other.

Malfoy flies back and fourth slightly, likely to toy with Harry's confidence.

The crowd mixes with chants for Malfoy and Potter, and just before the quaffle is thrown, we let out one more screech.

The echo entices the wrong opponent though, as Malfoy's head quickly snaps to the side.

To say he could spot me from our long distance was a bit of an exaggeration. However, the scowl on his face for the few seconds he looked my way likely proved otherwise.

And that was it; the game was on.

~

Slytherin was ahead, and Gryffindor was just 10 points shy of a win. It was too close for comfort, especially in the crowd of aching fans.

I shift my weight onto my opposite leg, peaking between the crack that is the gap between Fred and George Weasley's heads. Just barely can I see Harry on the field, the quaffle tucked under his arm.