Everyone in the stadium thought Draco Malfoy played to win.

They didn’t know the truth.

He played to ruin Harry Potter’s life—and lately, that meant making sure you never looked at Potter the same way again.

He’d seen it during the first match of term—Potter catching your eye in the stands, blushing like a schoolboy every time you cheered for him. Draco noticed. Noticed too when you clapped for every one of Potter’s plays and none of his own. Noticed when you called out “Nice save, Harry!” while he was inches from catching the Snitch.

That was all it took.

Since then, he’d turned every match into a bloody spectacle.

Today, it wasn’t enough to win.

He waited until the game was at its peak—tied score, breathless crowd, the Snitch darting near the Gryffindor goal. Potter was closing in. So was Draco. Neck and neck. Shoulder to shoulder. And at the last second, when most players would pull back or risk collision—

Draco slammed into him.

Potter went spinning into the grass with a crash that drew screams from the stands. Draco didn’t even glance down. He caught the Snitch mid-tumble, veered sharply, and coasted toward the sidelines like he hadn’t just committed a foul worthy of Azkaban.

The crowd exploded—but Draco wasn’t listening.

He was already walking toward the Gryffindor section, broom still in hand, face shining with sweat and victory. Straight toward you.

You were on your feet, furious, shouting something he couldn’t hear over the noise. So he climbed the stands, two steps at a time, until he was in front of you—close enough to see the anger in your eyes and the way your chest rose with each breath.

He held out the Snitch between two fingers, then dropped it into your hands like it meant nothing.

“You might want to cheer properly next time,” he said, voice low, arrogant. “Your favourite player could’ve broken his arm.”

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he leaned in, eyes gleaming.

“Still think Potter’s the one worth watching?”