Just a cute little fic I typed up last November. Mild Draco/Harry. Enjoy!
What a stupid game, Draco concluded. What a stupid bloody game.
What kind of person would take a stick, put a tightened net on the end of it, and hit a ball back and forth over another net? And not only that, but the ball had to stay in the lines drawn on the ground. Oh right, insane muggles play this game, Draco remembered.
The ball didn't even fly. Unless you counted when you hit it with the racket (Is that what it is called?) and it spun off in the wrong direction fifty feet in the air.
And don't even get Draco started on the scoring. From what he had gathered from the hurried instructions given to him before the game, each point was worth fifteen! Stupid muggles can't even get basic arithmetic correct.
Even worse, "love" meant the player hadn't earned any points. What were the muggles trying to say about love? That it's worth nothing? About right, according to my father, Draco grumbled to himself.
Draco leaned down; his tennis racket hung loosely by his side. He followed the movements of his opponent closely. His opponent seemed to be more at home with wearing the dumb muggle shorts and white shirt that this game required. Draco's opponent gazed off at his friends playing at adjacent courts. Draco gave him a quick once-over up and down. The dark haired man had a lithe, yet strong, build with round glasses and a rather nice tan.
Draco frowned. No. He mustn't think about Harry Potter in that way, especially now. Draco had a stupid muggle game to win, and win it he would. He would show the Golden Boy purebloods can play any game insane muggles could dream up. How the Chosen One lived in a mundane world like this for eleven years showed Harry's lack of intelligence.
"Now," the announcer using a Snorgify charm said to the gathered crowd, "We commence the charity tournament for Hogwarts' alumni!"
Harry nodded, stretched, and was handed the nonmagical ball used to play the dull game. He lifted both the hideous neon green ball and racket above his head. Draco tensed, focusing on the not yet served ball. His entire being was focused on beating the Boy Who Lived. Really, Draco thought, how hard could this game actually be?
Abruptly, Harry threw the green ball and slammed the racket downward, sending the ball sailing over the net to Draco's side of the court. Draco, taken somewhat by surprise, retaliated and sent the ball back in a flash inside the line and past Harry.
Draco smirked in victory, twirling his racket in hand. "What's the matter Potter? Need new glasses?" Draco goaded.
"Love, fifteen," announced the scorekeeper.
Harry wrinkled his brow and adjusted his glasses before the ball collector handed him another ball.
A swift serve, and the ball was sent back quickly; Harry missed.
"Love, thirty." Another miss. Draco was gaining confidence. "Love, Forty." And then, "Match winner: Draco Malfoy."
Draco gloated. "This is so easy, Potter. Just like hitting a Bludger." He was finally proving himself. He was beating the Boy Who Lived… and longtime unrequited love. Draco frowned to himself slightly again.
The match coordinator wizard looked at his clipboard and then whispered to the announcer. A booming voice announced the standings, "Parkinson: 1, Granger: 0," (The muggle-born looked crestfallen), "Weasley: 1, Goyle: 0," (Draco saw Gregory crack his knuckles menacingly), "and Malfoy: 1, Potter: 0." (There was a hiss from the crowd.)
"Thanks to every witch and wizard that has come to witness this charity event!" the announcer continued. "Refreshments will be sold at the snack counter during every break between the matches. Just to jog your memory, there will be six matches, one of which that has just completed. Stay in your seats for the next round!"
Draco was slightly worried. He was already showing his happiness at his victory. But… If the Golden Boy saw Draco pleased, Merlin forbid, Harry would come back to win - with a vengeance.
Draco caught green eyes glaring at him. Suddenly, Draco got the urge to anger Harry Potter further – a completely normal feeling – and Draco winked, then walked with swagger back to the court.
Draco was handed a ball. It was lighter than expected.
And it flew a lot higher than expected when being served too.
"Love, fifteen. In Potter's favor," announced the bored scorekeeper. Draco could hear the audiences' sigh of relief.
What a stupid, bloody game, Draco confirmed.
Now Harry looked overconfident. Every time Harry served, Draco won, and every time Draco served, Harry won. It had nothing to do with Harry's skill either. Draco was just shite at serving. (Or the more likely scenario, in Draco's opinion, the ball was bewitched not to fly into Harry's side of the court when Draco served the ball.)
However, they were tied at the moment. Or, they would be once Draco lost the match; they were 'Malfoy: 3, Potter: 2'. And Draco couldn't stand that. He couldn't tie with the Chosen One. He had to win.
Draco's serve. Using every reserve of focus possible, (Damn the event coordinators for taking their wands) Draco aimed, tossed the ball, and slammed his racket down.
A deafening roar from the Slytherin side alerted him to his victory.
"Fifteen, love."
Harry looked ready to throw his racket.
How do you like that now, Potter? Being compared to the nothing that is love? Draco felt witty comparing the two - love and nothing.
Draco had the game in the bag, he could feel it. Just three more serves, how hard could it be? Tremendously hard added a voice in his head.
Tossed ball. Haphazard swing.
"Fifteen all."
Damn.
Tossed ball. Unbalanced swing.
"Fifteen, thirty."
Harry looked slightly relieved and very determined. Bloody Potter.
Whack. The tennis ball hit Harry in the face.
"Thirty all."
Harry actually did throw his racket this time. The ball-getter had to retrieve it for him.
Then Harry ran the wrong direction to get the ball.
"Forty, thirty."
The crowd was on its toes, hanging onto the game swing by swing. Finally the game was picking up speed. It was if Malfoy and Potter finally decided to get their act together for the final round.
And both of them wanted to win.
A soft plink and the tennis ball rolled back towards Draco.
"Deuce."
C'mon Draco, it wasn't ever a good sign when Draco started talking to himself. And even worse a sign when Draco didn't care that the silly word meant they'd tied at forty. Two more points and you've won.
What he wasn't counting on was Harry barreling across the tennis court with his wand drawn. There was screaming in the audience.
"Oi Potter! I know you're angry but-"
Yet Harry was fixated on something behind Draco. "Immobilus!" Harry shouted, and Draco vaguely registered a looming shadow above him before being tackled by a very determined Gryffindor.
"It was amazing Harry stopped the scoreboard from falling so quickly! They should really check the safety requirements for having hovering boards at charity events..."
Draco heard Granger's words but was not paying attention. He was more interested in the mess of Golden Boy that was residing on his chest.
"...Harry?" Draco asked, and then slapped his hand over his own mouth. Potter, call him Potter, damn it.
"Yes, Draco?" Harry responded with a smile. Not a smirk, but a genuine, happy smile.
And suddenly Draco understood. Or rather, he realized what he knew all along.
"How long have you liked me, Harry?"
"Since we were fifteen, love."
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