#human!harry

The members of the unofficial Quidditch team were Weasley, Thomas, Greg, Blaise, Harry and Draco. Because of the team’s configuration and Harry’s oversized talent as a Seeker—or blatant lack of talent for any other position, Draco would have pettily thought a few years ago—they never played an actual Quidditch game, but rather split the team in two sides of three and passed a Quaffle while Harry on one side and Draco on another tried to catch the Snitch.

It always was—Draco hated to admit it—a lot of fun. All of them were good players, even Weasley, now that the pressure of performance was off. Often, the other Eighth Year students would gather on the stands to watch. There was also the constant side effect of having Harry Potter on the team: the gawking Potter fans. Students from all years huddling on the stands and cheering loudly if Harry so much as lifted his forefinger to push his slipping glasses up on his nose. The one time Draco has caught the Snitch at the beginning of the year—his first win against Harry ever, which was personal cause for celebration—the student body was so furious they had almost caused a riot. Since then, McGonagall had forbidden access to the Eighth Year's Quidditch for anyone who wasn’t an Eighth Year student, and the games had a much friendlier feel to them.

A Quaffle flew inches away from Draco's face.

“Oi! Malfoy! What about you stop gaping and you start seeking the bloody Snitch?” Ron Weasley flew by, his freckled nose wrinkled in exasperation. Exasperation, not animosity, Draco noted. “Pay attention, will ya?” Weasley flew off to chase the Quaffle, followed by Blaise, who was on their side of the team this time.

Draco plunged after them, eyes scanning the Quidditch pitch in the hopes of making up for his momentary absence. Unable to locate the Snitch, he shook his head and steered his broom up, spiralling upwards and closer to Harry. While being close to Harry probably wasn’t the best idea for his concentration, it also increased his chances of leveling the field with the person who’d once been his arch-nemesis and his undefeated rival on the pitch.

Harry grinned when he saw Draco fly up to him, his black hair whipping in the cold wind. In his Quidditch gear, all leather shin guards and Gryffindor shirt and winter cloak billowing behind him, he was so unfairly attractive it made Draco ache. Merlin, how could he have let it happen? How could he have allowed himself to want Harry so much? Could he have picked a better specimen for his unrequited star-crossed crush?

Ways to kill Harry Potter: cast a Confundus charm on his broom, unbalance him, watch him as he plummets to the ground.

“You alright, Draco? You look a little pale,” Harry said, his smile wilting in concern. He flew down to Draco’s level, hand held out. Draco stood very still, willing his broom to behave. He would not let Harry touch him again; experience showed Harry’s touch tended to turn Draco into a flustered, babbling fool. It was just unfitting of a Malfoy and of a professional demon. “I mean,” continued Harry, this time with a tiny crooked smile, “you always look pale. I was wondering—”

“I am perfectly fine, thank you, Potter,” Draco said curtly.

Harry rolled his eyes but dropped his hand. “Merlin, Draco. I thought I asked you to call me Harry.”

“Old habits die hard.” It was the closest to an apology Draco wanted to give him. He felt like being petty. It wasn’t Harry’s fault he felt that way about him; in fact, Harry had never done anything worthy of a crush.

Until the beginning of Eighth Year, that was.

Harry surveyed him from a safe distance of a few feet. A gust of wind swayed their brooms, sending a swathe of hair flying into Harry’s eyes. He lifted a hand to tuck it behind his ear.

“I know,” Harry said with a rueful look at Draco. “Trust me, it would be so much easier to keep calling you ‘Malfoy’.”

“What do you mean, it would be easier to call me ‘Mal—”

“Harry!”

“Draco!”

“Oi!”

“For Circe’s sake, you bloody wankers! the Snitch! THE SNITCH!”

Harry jumped as if burned, frantically looking around. Draco’s stomach dropped. For the second day in a row, he had unwittingly initiated a conversation with Harry. For the first time in his life, he’d have given anything for the Snitch to get lost into the Forbidden Forest, get swallowed by a bloody Thestral for all he cared, if it meant he could continue to talk to Harry.

Their little chat, though, seemed miles away from Harry’s mind. Yards below Draco, spurred on by their teammates’ cries, Harry was barreling towards the fluttering golden ball at a vertiginous speed. Draco, rooted to the spot, didn’t even try to catch up to him.

Mere feet from the ground, Harry’s fist closed around the Snitch, and Draco heard the mixed cries of “Alright! Harry!” and “Malfoy, I’m going to catch you and gut you!”—the latter coming, ironically, from Draco’s good friend Blaise.

With a sigh, Draco rode a warmer, downward wind current and landed a safe distance from the excited little group surrounding Harry.

“Merlin, Harry, should we start looking for a replacement for Malfoy? You’ve caught the Snitch at nearly every game, it’s almost not fun anymore,” Dean Thomas was saying.

“Nah,” Weasley was waving him off good-naturedly, “Malfoy is one of the best there are. Remember how many games Slytherin used to win when he played for them?” He turned to look at Draco and shrugged apologetically. “As much as it pains me, you’re not all bad, Malfoy.”

Everyone laughed and Draco smiled, stupidly pleased by Weasley’s reluctant praise. He was making his way across the pitch towards his teammates when Weasley continued, “Honest, Harry, sometimes I can’t understand why Gin even left you. How can you even still be single? You’re every girl’s dream boyfriend, mate.”

Draco nearly tripped. It felt like swallowing a bucket of ice while simultaneously bursting into flames.

The others hooted with laughter—first of all Harry. Dean Thomas was pushing Weasley playfully, “Hey! What are you saying? I wasn't  good enough to date Ginny?” and Weasley was laughing, “You’re not the worst, but it’s not like you’re not the Chosen One, Thomas!”

And Harry...

Harry stood in the middle of the group, cheeks pink, eyes crinkled with lighthearted laughter, head thrown back. He was laughing. He was laughing about his break-up with Ginny Weasley.

Harry wasn’t dating Ginny Weasley anymore.

Harry was single.

An earth-shattering fact Draco had been unaware of until this very minute.

Harry’s gaze met his across the pitch, and he smiled, brightly, openly, a smile that Draco knew was meant just for him.

Draco felt his knees wobble, his own smile tremble, his ribs ache with the pain of his breaths in the cold evening air. Oh, sweet Lucifer. This was worse than a crush.

Draco was the worst demon in the world.

Dear Mephisto, I can explain, he thought.