Chapter 9

The first Quidditch match of the season was fast approaching, and the school was already buzzing with anticipation. Marcus Flint had been louder than usual, endlessly boasting about Slytherin's undefeated streak and how he fully intended to uphold the legacy this year.

At the lunch table, Felicia sat beside Adrien, one brow arched as Marcus launched into yet another round of self-congratulatory commentary.

"Is he always like this?" she asked coolly, not bothering to lower her voice. Her tone was mild, but the edge of dry amusement was unmistakable as she listened to Marcus bask in the sound of his own voice. He reminded her of Draco when he was posturing—except, unlike Draco, she didn't think Marcus was posturing.

Adrien snorted, spinning an apple lazily in one hand as he leaned back in his seat. "Oh, absolutely," he said with a smirk. "Flint eats, sleeps, and bleeds Quidditch. I'm convinced he'd sell his own grandmother if it meant getting the Cup."

Across the hall, Marcus's voice rose over the ambient hum of student chatter.

"We're going to crush Gryffindor first," he declared, slamming a fist into his palm. "Then the rest of the houses will fall in line. Not that I expect much from Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw."

Felicia chewed slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly.

Nearby, Draco sat with his usual bored expression, but Felicia noticed how closely he was paying attention. His posture, the way he stiffened slightly at the mention of Gryffindor—it all gave him away. He'd been unusually focused on the team lately, more so than normal.

Felicia allowed herself a small, knowing smirk.

Adrien followed her gaze to Draco, then grinned. "Malfoy's desperate to get on the team next year," he murmured. "Kid's got something to prove."

Adrien took a bite of his apple, then nudged Felicia lightly with his elbow. "But you—not even tempted to try out? Or is Felicia Forester too refined for Quidditch?" His tone was teasing, but the curiosity in his eyes was genuine.

Felicia considered for a moment. "Mm… I'm decent at racing on a broom," she said thoughtfully, "but I doubt I'd be much use in a Quidditch match. Still... maybe I'll try out next year."

She hadn't really thought about joining the team—it had always seemed more Draco's obsession than hers.

"I do wish they had a proper racing sport, though. That, I'd actually be inclined to join."

Adrien raised a brow, clearly intrigued. "Racing, huh?" A smirk tugged at his lips. "Now that would be fun to watch."

Draco, who had been pretending not to listen, finally scoffed. "Please, Forester," he drawled, turning toward her. "You think you could beat me in a race?"

Felicia smirked, meeting his gaze. He could read the look on her face instantly—and he bristled. She'd beaten him in races before. On his turf.

Adrien leaned in, clearly enjoying himself. "Oh, I like this. Malfoy versus Forester—head-to-head. I'd pay to see that."

Draco straightened, smoothing his expression into one of cool superiority, though his pride was visibly stirred. "If Hogwarts had races," he said smugly, "I'd leave you in the dust. You wouldn't even see me take off."

Felicia dusted crumbs from her fingers, her smirk deepening. "Oh, please. You'd embarrass yourself when you realized I'd already lapped you twice."

Adrien looked between them, his grin wide with mischief. "Well, no racing league yet... but there's always after-hours flying." His voice dropped into something conspiratorial. "Unless, of course, you two are too scared to get caught."

Draco smirked, but his eyes flicked toward Felicia—waiting. If she backed down, the moment would die. But if she didn't...

"Count me in," Felicia said smoothly, not missing a beat.

Adrien let out a sharp laugh, clearly delighted. "Oh, this is going to be good," he said, leaning back with satisfaction. "Well, Malfoy? Can't back down now."

Draco's smirk twitched, and for a flicker of a second, something unreadable passed through his eyes—annoyance? Excitement? Maybe both.

"As if I'd back down from a challenge," he huffed, lifting his chin. "We'll see who's eating whose dust."

Adrien clapped his hands together, his grin widening. "Excellent. Midnight, then?" He glanced between them, eyes gleaming with amusement. "I'll even referee—make sure Malfoy doesn't mysteriously develop broom issues when he loses."

Felicia snickered.

Draco rolled his eyes, but didn't take the bait. He simply crossed his arms and smirked. "Fine. Just don't start crying when I win, Forester."

Adrien chuckled under his breath. "Somehow," he said, eyeing Felicia with obvious amusement, "I really don't see her being the one who cries."

The unspoken challenge hung in the air—set, sealed, and already crackling with anticipation.

It was just before midnight when Felicia slipped out of the Slytherin common room and made her way toward the Hogwarts grounds. The castle by night was a different world—quiet, vast, and heavy with shadows. With no Astronomy classes scheduled for the weekend, the grounds were unusually empty, leaving space for only the most determined rule-breakers and night-dwellers.

As she approached the Quidditch Pitch, she spotted Adrien already waiting beneath the faint glow cast by the distant castle windows. The light stretched long shadows over the field, casting the pitch in a moody sort of stillness. He had two brooms in hand—his own, and a spare school broom for himself while he refereed.

He held out the better one to her. "Try not to break it," he said, wearing a lazy smirk. Of course, he knew full well Felicia could fly.

She reached for it—and paused.

It was a Nimbus 1700. A vintage model, but one still highly sought after, even among professional Quidditch circles. She ran her fingers along the polished wood, noting how immaculately it had been maintained. It was a well-loved broom, worn in all the right ways. The kind used by someone who didn't just fly for sport—but for freedom.

"Thank you," she said, and the words came softer than usual, edged with rare sincerity.

In high society, even lending a book could feel like a power play. A prized broom? That was personal. Felicia understood that.

Adrien blinked, just once. The surprise flickered across his face before he reined it in. His posture relaxed again, casual and unreadable—almost.

"So," Felicia said, resting the bristle end of the broom gently against the grass while holding the handle, "what's the course?"

Just then, Draco arrived, striding across the field with his usual self-assured gait. He carried his own broom—a Nimbus 1998, the last model his father had begrudgingly purchased.

Felicia couldn't help but note the details.

Lucius Malfoy likely didn't even realize how often new models were released. Had he known, he'd have bought Draco a broom every year just to maintain appearances. People liked to believe Draco asked for everything he had—but the truth was quieter, more strategic. He had to frame his wants as family elevation, make it seem like legacy, not indulgence.

Felicia knew better than most how much effort went into appearances.

Draco approached with a familiar smirk tugging at his lips—smug as ever—as he stepped up beside Felicia.

"Well, now that you're both here," Adrien said, his own smirk deepening, "let's lay down the rules."

He gestured toward the shadowed expanse of the Quidditch Pitch, its boundaries barely visible under the soft glow of distant castle light.

"Three laps," he began. "First lap: low altitude. Second lap: high. Third lap, you weave through the goal hoops—both sides of the pitch—and the first to tap my hand wins. Simple enough, yeah?"

Felicia nodded, eyes narrowing with focus.

Adrien turned to her, arching a brow. "That broom's faster than any school model, but it's built for control—tight turns, sudden stops. More of a Beater's broom than a Seeker's. Still, should give Malfoy a decent challenge."

Draco, already astride his Nimbus 1998, let out a smooth chuckle. "Please, Queensbury," he drawled. "Forester could be riding your broom, Flint's broom, or the Bloody Baron himself and she still wouldn't keep up."

Felicia raised a brow, amused by the confidence—but not impressed.

Adrien grinned. "Big talk, Malfoy. Hope you can back it up."

He swung his leg over the school broom and rose into a hover, positioning himself ahead to officiate the race. Felicia followed suit, mounting the Nimbus 1700 with practiced ease. As she lifted off the ground, she felt it immediately—the broom's magic—responsive, alive, and deeply intuitive. It hummed beneath her, attuned to the subtlest shift in her balance.

Adrien hesitated a moment. It looked—just for a second—as if Felicia's eyes caught the light and glowed, faintly golden.

He blinked.

Probably just the castle's glow playing tricks on him.

Shrugging it off, he raised his hand.

"All right, you both know the rules—three laps, no cheating, no crying when you lose. Got it?" Adrien called, his tone playful but edged with challenge.

Draco shot Felicia a sidelong glance, his smirk razor-sharp. "Oh, I got it."

Felicia met his gaze, cool and composed. Her answering smirk made his falter—just slightly.

Adrien's grin widened. "Good."

He raised his hand higher, letting the silence stretch and the tension crackle in the night air.

"On my mark… three… two… one—Go!"

In a flash, both racers kicked off from the ground, shooting into the air like arrows released from taut bows.

Felicia was anything but slow.

She might not care for Quidditch, might not know every rule or position—but she knew how to fly. And more importantly, how to move.

Draco wasn't slouching either. Years of chasing her in private races back home had honed his reflexes and sharpened his instincts. He flew like someone born to it—fast, fluid, confident.

This wasn't their first race. But it was the first time they were both giving it everything they had.

The first turn loomed—a brutal, narrow curve designed to test finesse over speed.

Felicia moved first, leaning into the shift early. Her broom cut through the air as she drifted sideways into the arc, executing a near-professional maneuver with seamless control.

Adrien's eyes widened from his position overhead. Drifting? That was a technique most players didn't attempt until they were deep into competitive play. Seeing it from a first-year was nothing short of ridiculous.

Draco gritted his teeth as Felicia shot ahead, slicing through the turn without losing momentum.

He hated that.

Her broom wasn't as fast as his, but her control—her instincts, her feel for the broom—was undeniable. She read the air like it spoke to her.

And it was infuriating.

The first lap blurred past in a rush of wind, the two of them flying neck and neck. Adrien remained hovering near the starting point, arms crossed, eyes locked on the sky.

He let out a low whistle. "Merlin's beard... Forester really can fly," he muttered to himself. "At this point, it's not even a race—it's a performance."

Draco leaned forward, his grip tightening on the handle of his broom. He wasn't going to lose.

Not to her.

Lap two.

Felicia dipped low, skimming the field for just a heartbeat before she snapped into a sharp vertical climb. The sudden maneuver forced Draco to veer off course for a moment, caught off guard by her deliberate disruption of his rhythm.

At the higher altitude, Felicia leveled out and began adjusting her angle, catching the wind with a precision that was anything but accidental.

Adrien's brows shot up. "Bloody hell... she's reading the wind?"

And then—she drifted again.

At high altitude, with the wind pushing against every move, the technique was twice as difficult. Most Quidditch players didn't dare try it mid-match.

Felicia didn't just try it—she pulled it off.

It wasn't as tight as her earlier maneuver, but it was still clean, controlled—and effective.

She pulled ahead, gaining just enough distance to make Draco's jaw clench.

No.

He would not let her win.

Not without a fight.

Lap three—the final stretch, aiming for the hoops.

There were three on each side of the pitch, and weaving through them at full speed required tight control and sharp reflexes. No room for error.

Draco surged forward, determined to close the gap. He leaned into the broom, using the superior acceleration of his Nimbus 1998 to slingshot around a turn—risky, but it might be just enough to catch her.

Adrien's brow furrowed slightly as he hovered at a distance, observing the race. He'd been enjoying the spectacle, but now something felt off. Draco was getting too close—not in terms of speed, but proximity. At that distance, the wind tunnel around them would—

Clank!

Draco collided with one of the hoop's poles, thrown off-balance while trying to outmaneuver Felicia. He'd flown too close—there was nowhere left to dodge.

His fingers slipped.

The broom jolted—and Draco was airborne.

Time seemed to slow.

Felicia's eyes widened as she saw his body separate from the broom. Instinct overrode everything else. She reached out—snatching his wrist before he dropped out of reach.

"Draco!"

The force pulled her sideways, the borrowed broom trembling under the sudden shift in weight. For a breathless second, they were suspended midair, the broom barely holding them both.

Felicia's heart thundered in her chest. Her grip was ironclad around his hand, knuckles white, her breathing shallow and fast.

Draco dangled below her, the wind tearing at his robes, his fingers locked around hers like a lifeline. His broom, by some miracle, hadn't splintered—it spun a few feet below, intact but out of reach.

His breath hitched—not just from the shock of the fall, but from the weight of realization.

She caught him.

Felicia didn't even seem to notice the strain. Her hand trembled, but she didn't let go. Couldn't. She wasn't scared for herself. Her fear—raw and unhidden—was for him.

Everything else—the race, the rivalry, even the looming victory—faded into silence.

Below, Adrien let out a sharp whistle, snapping the moment. "All right—hang tight!"

He shot upward, closing the distance quickly, and reached for Draco's other arm to help steady them both.

Draco swallowed hard, forcing himself to regain control as Adrien and Felicia guided him back toward the ground. They each held onto him—steadily, securely—making sure he didn't slip.

He hated this.

Hated being caught off guard. Hated needing help.

But with Felicia's fingers still wrapped around his, he couldn't summon the usual sneer. Couldn't mask it with arrogance. Instead, he kept his eyes on the ground, jaw tight, unable to meet either of them directly.

But his fingers tightened around hers.

Felicia glanced over at him, understanding without needing to ask. She knew how much he loathed appearing vulnerable—even if it was only the three of them. This would burn in his chest long after the bruises faded.

So she let out a scoff, easing the tension with a hint of mockery. "Well, I think this makes me the winner. I should get extra points for the catch, honestly."

Her heart was still hammering, though. She couldn't stop thinking about what would've happened if she'd missed.

Draco exhaled—a mix of frustration and reluctant relief. "Tch. Only because I let you," he muttered as Adrien helped steady him back onto his still-hovering broom.

Adrien laughed, shaking his head. "Right. Very noble of you—nearly falling to your death just to hand her the win. Selfless, really."

Draco shot him a glare but didn't answer. His hand flexed slightly, still feeling the ghost of Felicia's grip in his own.

Once they fully touched down, Draco inspected his broom in silence. Nothing cracked, just a dented pride. He huffed, then glanced at Felicia.

"We're doing this again," he muttered—not as a threat, but a quiet promise to himself.

Adrien snorted. "Oh, no doubt. But for now—" He turned to Felicia with a smirk. "—I say we let our champion bask in the glory of her hard-earned victory."

Felicia gave him a flat look. "Don't start with titles again."

Draco rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. Didn't correct Adrien.

Because as much as it gnawed at him—not winning, not being the fastest—he knew exactly who had saved his life tonight.

And he wouldn't forget it.

By the time they finally made it back to the Slytherin common room—after dodging Filch and Miss Norris with some creative maneuvering—Felicia was the first to spot Marcus Flint waiting for them.

He was seated like a king on the emerald velvet couch, half-sunken into the cushions, legs spread like he owned the room. The fire in the hearth cast sharp shadows across his face, making his usual grin look more like a predator's.

Felicia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He's one villain monologue away from becoming a cautionary tale.

"Heard about your little race," Marcus said, his voice low and smug. The firelight flickered across his eyes. "So… who won?"

Before Draco or Adrien could respond, Felicia spoke up, her tone utterly casual.

"Malfoy did."

Adrien's expression froze mid-step. His lips twitched—clearly holding back the urge to correct her. Draco, who had just opened his mouth to say something smug, blinked in visible surprise.

"I'm good with sharp turns," Felicia added smoothly, "but Draco's got the edge on speed."

It wasn't a lie. She just didn't mention the part where he almost fell out of the sky. And she knew exactly what Marcus wanted to hear—what he needed to hear.

Draco wanted to be Seeker. And this would help.

Marcus's grin stretched wider. He turned to Draco and clapped him on the shoulder with a heavy hand.

"Knew you had it in you, Malfoy. Maybe there's hope for you making the team next year after all."

Felicia said nothing, simply moving past them toward the stairs, her face unreadable.

But Adrien glanced over at her—eyes sharp, almost amused.

He knew exactly what she'd done.

Marcus gave Draco one last approving nod before turning and disappearing into the dormitories.

Felicia didn't wait for either of them to speak. Without a word, she turned and headed for the girls' stairs, her steps smooth and silent, leaving nothing behind but the faint echo of restraint.

Adrien watched her go, his expression unreadable—until she vanished from sight.

Then he turned to Draco, eyes wide with disbelief and amusement.

"You owe her your life... and she still let you win," he said, voice thick with a grin he could barely contain. "This is better than I ever could've hoped for."

To most, it might've looked like a generous gesture.

But to a Slytherin?

It was a power play. A velvet-gloved chokehold.

Adrien looked positively gleeful. "Merlin's beard, Malfoy. If you ever doubt she's got you wrapped around her finger... just remember this moment. Because I guarantee—someday—she will remind you."

Draco's scowl was immediate, and venomous. "Shut up, Queensbury."

He dropped onto the couch with a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. He stared into the fire for a long beat.

But then—without meaning to—his gaze drifted toward the stairwell Felicia had just vanished into.

Because no matter what she said, he knew the truth.

And so did Adrien.

And somehow... that unsettled him more than losing ever could.