The wind whipped through the Slytherin formation as the team moved in a tight, practiced circuit around the pitch. Draconia gripped the handle of her broom, her knuckles white against the dark wood, feeling the familiar vibration of the bristles as they cut through the cold spring air. Above her, the sun was high and bright, casting long, sharp shadows across the grass below. Everything felt too vivid, too loud, and too permanent to be a warning of the end. She watched the way the light caught the gold of the Snitch as it darted through the air, a tiny, frantic speck that seemed to mock the slow, inevitable approach of the season's conclusion.
Flint stood at the centre of the formation, his eyes fixed on the distant goal posts. He was a man built of granite and stubbornness, and today his focus seemed more intense than usual. Every player on the team knew the stakes; the seven-year winning streak was the only thing that mattered to the house, and the pressure was a tangible thing that sat on their shoulders like a heavy cloak. Draconia felt that weight as she dove, the wind rushing past her ears, the sensation of speed enough to make her stomach flip. She was a Seeker, and she lived for the moment the game tightened, for the singular second where the world narrowed down to a single point of pursuit.
"Keep the formation tight!" Flint shouted, his voice cutting through the whistling wind. "The Quidditch pitch isn't a playground, so stop flying like you're on a Sunday stroll."
Greta drifted near her, the Beater’s heavy hitter, looking uncharacteriously tired. Her nose was still slightly swollen from the previous week's collision, a pale bruise marking the bridge of her face. Draconia watched her briefly, noting the way Greta gripped her Beater’s bat, her movements slightly more rigid than usual. The team was a machine, one that had functioned with precision for years, yet Draconia could see the microscopic fractures in the rhythm. Fatigue was a silent thief, and it was stealing the sharpness from their turns and the snap from their dives.
Harry flew a few yards to her left, his broom cutting a clean line through the air. He was faster than she had been a year ago, his reflexes honed into something lethal and precise. She watched him closely, noting the way he anticipated the movement of the Bludgers before they even swung. He looked like a man who had found his centre, a man who belonged in the sky. It was a sensation that both exhilarated and irritated her, because she knew that his flight was a prelude to something larger, a departure that would leave her behind in the grass.
"Don't lose focus now," Harry called out, his voice barely audible over the rush of the wind. "We aren't finished yet."
"You're never finished," Draconia replied, a sharp grin tugging at her lips as she banked hard to the right. "You just run out of air."
The team converged towards the centre of the pitch, the sounds of clashing wood and heavy breathing filling the air. The captain moved toward the centre, bringing the entire squad to a halt in a hovering cluster. Flint looked at them, his expression stern and unyielding. He did not offer praise or soft words; he only offered the reality of their position. The atmosphere was taut, a wire stretched to the point of snapping, as they waited for the final directives of the season.
"This is it," Flint said, his eyes sweeping over the faces of his teammates. "The final practice before the championship match. The streak is seven years old, and we aren't letting it die on our watch. Every turn, every dive, and every catch has to be perfect. We are not just playing for a cup; we are playing for the history of this house. If you have a moment of doubt, find it now and kill it. We don't have time for hesitation."
The command was a heavy thing, a directive that demanded absolute perfection. Draconia felt the tension in her thighs as she adjusted her posture on the broom, her legs tensing against the wood. She looked at the empty stands, the vast, silent expanse of the stadium that would soon be filled with the roar of the crowd. The silence of the morning felt deceptive, a temporary lull before the storm of the final game. She knew the ritual of these weeks, the way the practice sessions became more desperate as the deadline drew closer, yet this felt different. This felt like a closing of a door.
"Are we ready?" Wood asked from the sidelines, his eyes scanning the team with a professional, scouting eye. He was no longer just a player or a captain; he was a man looking for the next great thing, and his presence reminded them all of the world outside the pitch.
"We're ready," Greta said, her voice steady despite the exhaustion she had been hiding.
"We're ready," Harry echoed, his eyes meeting Draconia's for a fleeting second.
Draconia looked away, focusing instead on the way the grass seemed to ripple in the breeze. She knew the arithmetic of the season. She knew the exact number of drills remaining, the exact number of sunsets left before the final whistle. It was a calculation she ran in her head every night, a private tally of the time she had left to be exactly who she was before the world demanded she become something else. She watched the way the light shifted across the pitch, the shadows growing longer as the morning progressed, a silent clock ticking toward the end.
"One last drill," Flint commanded, his voice ringing with a finality that made her heart stutter. "High speed, low altitude. Let's see if you can still handle the turns."
The team broke apart, the frantic energy of the command sending them diving toward the turf. Draconia felt the rush of adrenaline, the familiar burn in her lungs as she pushed herself harder. She pushed the broom to its limit, her muscles straining as she leaned into a sharp, punishing turn. She wanted to feel the friction, the resistance, the sheer physical reality of the flight. She wanted to lose herself in the movement so she wouldn't have to think about the countdown.
The wind roared in her ears, a constant, deafening presence that drowned out the world. She saw the way Harry moved, a blur of green and red, and the way Greta's Bludger swung with a fierce, protective intent. Everything was in motion, a whirlwind of activity that seemed to defy the stillness of the morning. Draconia felt the exhilaration of the chase, the way the air felt like a solid thing against her skin, a barrier and a bridge all at once.
As the drill concluded and the team slowed their pace, the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. The sun was higher now, the warmth of it hitting her face as she hovered in place. The silence of the stadium felt heavier now, more permanent. The joy of the flight was being replaced by the cold reality of the calendar. She looked at the empty benches, the weathered wood of the stands, and the vast, open sky. The season was a finite thing, a loop that was nearly complete. She began to count the days left in her head, a rhythmic, silent tally of the remaining hours. She counts them and doesn't like the number.