The wind screamed across the pitch, tugging at the edges of the Slytherin banners that snapped against the wooden uprights. Draconia gripped the broom handle until her knuckles turned white, her fingers stiff from the biting chill of the afternoon. Below her, the grass looked like a blurred smear of green through the haze of the flying mist. Every muscle in her thighs burned with a dull, rhythmic ache that she refused to acknowledge. She leaned forward, her weight shifting as she dove into a sharp turn to follow the flight of the Quaffle.
The Slytherin spectators were a sea of emerald and silver, a solid wall of noise that rose in a singular, deaf a roar every time a Bludger narrowly missed a player. Most of the crowd sat in the upper tiers, where the view was unobstructed and the prestige of the seat was high. Draconia felt the vibration of their cheering in her very bones, a low frequency that rattled her teeth. The tension in the stadium was a physical thing, a pressure that sat heavy on the chests of everyone watching. It was the final match of the term, the deciding game for the cup, and the stakes were far higher than a mere piece of enchanted metal.
A Beater swung a heavy bat, the crack of wood on iron echoing through the air like a gunshot. The crowd erupted. Draconia banked left, her eyes scanning the field for the next opening. The Bludgers were erratic today, darting through the fray with a ferocity that made even the seasoned players flinch. She saw a flash of red and gold from the Gryffindor side, a chaotic swirl of movement that suggested a desperate lunge for the goal. The spectators in the Slytherin section were leaning over the railings, their shouts becoming more frantic as the clock ticked toward the final minutes.
Moving with a precision that was purely instinct, Draconia hauled herself upward. The wind whipped her hair back from her face, stinging her eyes, but she did not blink. A Gryffindor chaser was closing in on the Quaffle, her broom tilting dangerously as she fought to maintain her speed. Draconia felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, the singular focus that allowed her to shut out the noise of the stadium. The world narrowed down to the diameter of the Quaffle and the distance to the hoop.
The crowd was a cacophony of wayward voices, but a strange tension held the Slytherin stands in a state of suspended animation. Usually, the Slytherin section was a disciplined block of silver and green, but a peculiar murmur drifted up from the lower tiers. Draconia caught a glimpse of someone sitting in the wrong place. It was not a common occurrence to see a different colour in the middle of the Slytherin section, especially during a match this vital. The presence of an outsider was a jarring note in a perfect symphony.
She pushed herself harder, her lungs burning as she drew in the cold, damp air. The game was moving too fast for her to process the individual faces in the stands, but the sensation of being watched was unmistakable. It was a prickle at the base of her neck, a feeling that someone was staring through the wind and the chaos. She looked toward the Slytherin section, expecting to see the usual sneering faces of her housemates. Instead, the movement in the crowd seemed to deviate from the predictable rhythm of the game.
The Quaffle was drifting toward the centre of the pitch, a clumsy, wobbling movement that signaled a loss of momentum. Draconia gripped the broom, her hands trembling slightly from the exertion. She needed to intercept the ball before the Gryffindor chaser could gain a clear line of sight. The crowd’s roar reached a deafening pitch, a wall of sound that made it impossible to hear her own breathing. Every spectator was on their feet, their bodies leaning forward in a desperate unison.
A sudden, sharp gust of wind buffeted her, knocking her slightly off her intended line. She fought to stabilise herself, her core tightening as she braced against the turbulence. The focus she had cultivated over the last hour wailed for a moment of distraction. Her eyes darted away from the Quaffle for a fraction of a second, drawn toward a specific point in the stands. The movement in the crowd was a distraction she could not afford, yet it was an irresistible pull.
She saw him then. He was a singular point of stillness amidst the frantic waving of green-clad arms. He sat in the Slytherin section, a stark, lonely figure wearing the wrong colours. He was not cheering, nor was he shouting; he simply sat there, watching her with a steady, unwavering gaze. The sight of him was a physical jolt to her system, a sudden disruption of her entire-being. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the bright colours of the pitch blurring into a smear of confusion.
The Quaffle passed just inches from her reach, a mocking-glimpse of leather and stitching. Because her eyes had strayed to find him, her timing was ruined. The ball bobbed upward, escaping her grasp as she lost her momentum. The roar of the crowd felt distant and hollow, as if the sound were being filtered through a thick layer of wool. The mistake was a heavy weight in her stomach, a sudden sinking sensation that left her breathless.
She had missed the most vital play of the game because of a single, fleeting glance. The way he sat there, so out of place and so certain, made the entire stadium feel small. She felt the sting of the missed opportunity, the frustration of the error, and the sheer, inexplicable gravity of his presence. The wind roared in her ears, but her eyes remained fixed on that one spot in the crowd. She spotted him in the crowd at four hundred feet and misses the Quaffle.