The wind over the pitch was a cold, biting thing that whipped through the Slytherin stands. Draconia sat on the edge of the bench, her fingers tracing the rough wood of the seat. The Gryffindor team was already warming up, their scarlet robes bright against the grey sky of the afternoon. She watched them with a detached sort of focus, noting how the Gryffindor Seeker hovered low to the grass. Harry was already on his broom, circling the pitch with a frantic, kinetic energy that seemed to pull the attention of everyone in the stadium.
"You look like you are calculating the trajectory of a collision," Pansy remarked beside her.
Draconia did not look at her friend. "I am looking at the wind, Pansy."
"The wind is not going to kill you, but a Bludger might if you do not pay attention," Pansy said. She leaned back, her eyes scanning the Gryffindor side of the pitch. "They look fast today. They look ready to win."
"They are always ready to win," Draconia said. She felt a strange, hollow sensation in her chest. It was not the fear of losing, but a tension she could not quite name. The match against Gryffindor was the one they had been preparing for all term, the one that would define their season.
The whistle blew, sharp and piercing, and the game began. The Quidditch pitch became a blur of movement and sound. The crowd roared, a singular, booming entity that rose and fell with the movement of the Quaffle. Draconia felt the rush of adrenaline as she dove for the first ball. She caught it cleanly, spiralling her broom into a tight turn to avoid a Beater. The wood of her broom felt solid and dependable beneath her.
"Nice catch, Draconia!" Wood yelled from the stands, his voice carrying over the din.
She ignored him, focusing instead on the path of the Quaffle. She saw the Gryffindor Chaser approaching, a tall boy with a grim expression. She pushed her broom harder, feeling the strain in her thighs as she banked left. She intercepted the ball, her movements precise and calculated. The game was fast, a chaotic dance of heavy balls and flying bodies. She could hear the clatter of Bludgers hitting players, the shouts of the captains, and the rhythmic beat of the wind against her ears.
Harry was a streak of gold and green in the distance. He was chasing something invisible, his eyes fixed on the air above the pitch. She watched him, her gaze tracking his every move. He was so close, yet he seemed to exist in a different world entirely. He was a creature of the air, while she was a creature of the ground and the goal.
"Watch your left!" Greta yelled, her voice a command that sliced through the roar.
Draconia dodged a Bludger that hissed past her ear. The wind caught her hair, pulling it back from her face. She felt the grit of the air on her skin, the coldness of the damp atmosphere. She was focused, her eyes never leaving the Quaffle. She drove the ball through the hoop, the sensation of success a brief, sharp burst of heat in her stomach.
"That is one!" a Slytherin supporter screamed.
The game proceeded with a brutal, honest intensity. There were no lopsides, no unfair hexes, no sudden shifts in luck. It was a game of skill and stamina. Draconia felt every muscle in her body working, the ache in her shoulders growing with every pass. She saw Harry dive, a sudden, violent movement that sent him plummeting toward the pitch before he pulled up at the last second. He had seen something.
"He has it!" someone screamed in the Gryffindor section.
The tension in the stadium reached a fever pitch. The Quaffle was a secondary thought; the entire world was waiting for the Snitch. Draconia watched the Seeker-battle with a fierce, unblinking stare. Harry was everywhere, a blur of motion that defied the wind. He was a shadow given substance, a ghost in the sky.
"Come on, Harry," she whispered, the words lost in the roar of the crowd.
The match was a grueling test of endurance. The Slytherin Chasers were playing a perfect game, their coordination flawless. Draconia felt the exhaustion setting in, the weight of the damp air pressing against her lungs. She pushed through it, her eyes searching for the next opening. The score was close, a tight, brutal scramble for every point.
Finally, the moment arrived. Harry pulled a sharp turn, his broom dipping dangerously low. He was diving, his eyes fixed on a point near the ground. The crowd rose to their feet, a wall of sound that felt as though it might crush the pitch. Draconia watched him descend, her breath catching in her throat. He was fast, a streak of lightning in the grey afternoon.
He reached out, his fingers closing around the golden Snitch. The moment he caught it, the game was over. The Gryffindors erupted into cheers, a cacophony of joy that filled the air. The Slytherins were silent, a heavy, stunned quiet that settled over the stands.
"He got it by a hand-width," Wood said, his voice sounding strangely hollow.
Draconia sat still, her hands gripping the edge of the bench. She watched the Gryffindor team celebrate, their faces bright with the triumph of the win. She saw Harry hovering above the pitch, the Snitch clutched in his hand, a small, golden spark in the gloom. He looked up, his eyes searching the stands, and for a moment, she thought he saw her.
"That was a clean win," Pansy said, her voice devoid of any particular emotion. "They played well."
"They played perfectly," Draconia replied.
She felt the dampness of the air on her skin, the exhaustion in her limbs. The match had been won on a single, decisive moment, a tiny margin that had changed everything. She watched the Gryffindor players descend to the ground, their joy a sharp contrast to the stillness of the Slytherin side.
"Are you alright?" Pansy asked, turning to look at her.
"Fine," Draconia said, though the word felt hollow in her mouth.
She watched the way the light hit the pitch, the way the players moved as they left the field. Everything felt normal, yet everything felt different. The loss was a physical weight, a sensation of emptiness where the triumph should have been. She looked at the scoreboard, the numbers final and unyielding.
"It was a good game," someone shouted from the front row.
Draconia watched the Gryffindors disappear into the tunnel, their voices fading into the distance. She stayed in her seat, her gaze fixed on the empty air where the Snitch had been. The stadium was emptying, the crowd dispersing into the evening. She felt a strange, calm clarity. She was not angry, and that was the first unnatural thing about her.