There is nothing quite like the stillness of the sky when a Seeker spots the Golden Snitch.
All the roaring, the cracking of the Beaters' bats, the hoarse fans— instantly, as if a great wave had washed over the pitch, the sounds fall away. There is only that tiny little flash of gold and wings.
Your vision narrows, your body stretches and strains, and every single nerve alights itself to your goal. Every great crashing beat of your heart seems to push you faster through that silent tunnel, and there is nothing else in the entire world. Have you ever wanted something so badly?
The distance closes. You stretch out your arm—your reach is so incredibly enormous—you could reach the stars, how have you never realized before?—but the snitch that is almost at your fingertips seems miles further than the stars in this moment.
And then suddenly there is more than air at your fingertips. There is the furious beating of tiny wings—don't grab it by the wings, it can slip away—and then, then, there is hard cold metal and you have won.
Draco tumbles down to the ground, his face flushed with victory, and there is a giant groan of defeat from the blue-robed Ravenclaws.
He lands, holds the Snitch up high. Ready for the cheers of his teammates.
"Guys, I—"
But their backs were turned from him. They were already walking towards the locker rooms. Macnair turns around, his face hard.
"It doesn't matter if you catch the fucking thing or not, Malfoy, if you can't ever win against Potter."
Macnair disappears with the rest of the team.
The Snitch has stopped struggling in Draco's hand. His fingers go slack, and it falls to the ground.
Harry's door is blasted open. Draco stands in the doorway, shaking and pale and still in his Quidditch things.
Harry looks over his glasses at him. "Come to gloat about your win, Malfoy?" he asks quietly.
Draco grabs Harry by the collar. Up close, Harry sees his face is high with color and tears are pooled in the corners of his eyes.
"Fuck you, Potter," Draco hisses.
Harry says nothing. He has never seen Draco crying. He didn't think Malfoys could.
The tears are falling freely now. Draco's voiced is choked with the sobs he isn't letting out.
"Do you have to have everything? Being the Boy Who Lived isn't enough for you? Being loved by everyone—fucking everyone—isn't enough for you?"
Draco lets go of Harry's collar, and pushes him against the wall. Both boys are breathing heavily—Draco shuddering and Harry slow and measured.
"I'm a good fucking Seeker, Potter," Draco says softly. Sadly. "Why do you have to take that away from me, too?"
They stare at each other. Like on the Quidditch pitch, sound falls away. But this Snitch—the goal of being this golden boy—is something Draco will never be able to reach. And no matter how many real Snitches he closes his fingers over, they will all be overshadowed by this one. The one he'll never catch. The boy he'll never beat—the boy he'll never be.