Sportsmanship
All Madam Hooch had wanted was a show of good sportsmanship: a press of sweaty fingers into leather padded palms, a quick smile, and a nod of acknowledgement. But the Slytherins weren't good sports; they'd mutter a curse, bare teeth in feral smiles, spit in their gloves before offering their hand. They'd left slugs in the Hufflepuff locker rooms and strode by Ravenclaw, laughing, noses in the air and hands folded under arms.
As the familiar push of cushioning charms lifted him off the ground, Harry wondered what it would be today. He kept a watchful eye on Crabbe and Goyle, who managed to make it through the entire game without using their bats on other players. He listened avidly for strains of "Weasley is Our King," but the only snippets he heard were from the Gryffindor stands. He cross-checked the Slytherin team's every move with the list of fouls he knew, but they came up stunningly clean every time. It was putting him on edge, and he didn't like it.
Harry and Malfoy were slowly circling the pitch, Malfoy pretending to be innocent and Harry so intent on making sure that Malfoy wasn't cheating that he almost missed the fluttering ball of gold that flew so close to his head it almost clipped his ear. The buzz of the tiny wings threw him back into the game, and he dropped into a lazy spiraling dive. Malfoy never really had a chance, Harry smirked, and neither did the snitch. It landed in his palm with a heavy smack against his glove, and as he triumphantly coasted out of the dive with it pinched tightly between his fingers, raised above his head for the whole world to see, Harry sought out his opponent.
He'd never admit it, but the look of defeat on Malfoy's face was sometimes worth more to him than the weighty feel of the snitch and its frantic buzzing wings. He liked to smile at Malfoy and see him scowl, to know that Malfoy knew he wasn't better than everyone else on blood alone. Harry's eyes scanned the pitch as he alighted on the ground, tucking his broom under his arm. He took the snitch to Madam Hooch, who put it away, and joined his team where they waited for whatever antics the Slytherins would perform.
First, the Keepers met. Ron extended his hand and it was gripped firmly, shaken, and dropped. Next came the Chasers, starting with Ginny. Her hand was shaken, as well, and though she winced a bit at the force of the Slytherin's grip, it was uneventful. The Beaters were next, and Crabbe and Goyle somehow managed not to crush Harry's teammates' hands as they, too, shook. There wasn't a slug in sight, and for all appearances they were planning on being on their best behavior. Of course, Harry didn't believe this for a minute, and when Malfoy reached out his hand, still covered with a fine leather glove, Harry crossed his arms.
"What are you up to, Malfoy?" he demanded.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Malfoy answered smoothly. He wiggled his fingers to emphasize that his hand was still out.
Growling, Harry grabbed it, pulling Malfoy closer to snarl, "I'm going to find out what you're up to. I don't buy this gracious loser act."
Malfoy's eyes hardened slightly, but, shaking his head, he smiled slightly. His grip shifted suddenly, and Harry felt the surprisingly warm press of fingers on the inside of his wrist, almost like a firm caress on the small strip of skin above his gloves. With a wink, Malfoy pulled his hand back, repeating the stroke unmistakably. "Good game, Potter," Malfoy's tone was oddly victorious. Harry watched him saunter back toward his team, and he tried to ignore the tingle that had spread up his arm.
