The morning sun bathed the Quidditch pitch in a golden glow. Harry's heart hammered as he stepped onto the grassy expanse, broom in hand. The stands were packed with cheering students, banners of red and gold fluttering, their excitement almost tangible. Today was his first Quidditch match, and every step toward the goalposts made his stomach twist tighter with nerves.
Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor captain, was already there, bouncing slightly on his heels, eyes sharp with focus. "Potter! Listen carefully. Your first match as Seeker can be dangerous if you lose concentration. The first time I played, I got hit by a Bludger, lost control over my broom and nearly went through the stands. I was senseless for a week. I couldn't even look at a broom without feeling sick for days. Don't let it happen to you."
Harry's throat tightened. "I... I'll try."
Wood shook his head sharply. "No try. Your job is simple, just follow the Golden Snitch. That is all. Everything else, the Bludgers, other players, they're mere distractions. Keep your head. Trust your broom and mainly yourself. Don't panic, Gryffindor is counting on you."
Harry nodded, gripping the broom, feeling the leather straps bite into his palms. Wood clapped him firmly on the shoulder. "Good. Now go out there and make us proud. Eyes on the Snitch. That's all you need."
Draco perched in the Slytherin stands, arms crossed and lips pressed into a tight line. The moment Harry mounted his broom, Draco felt an almost physical sting of irritation. He had always prided himself on his skill and ambition, on the careful cultivation of his image as the best in everything he did. Yet here was Potter, barely a first-year, flying higher than most of his classmates, granted a chance he would not have at his age. The very thought made Draco's jaw tighten.
The whistle blew. Harry mounted his broomstick, heart thudding, and pushed off the ground. Wind roared past his ears as he rose into the sky, the pitch stretching out below him like a miniature world. From the stands, he spotted Ron and Hermione waving, their cheers lost in the gusting wind. And cross the field, the Slytherin team floated into position. The he was, Draco Malfoy, with his signature smirk, silently challenging him and clearly judging his skills.
As the match erupted into motion, Draco's frown deepened. He tracked every move Harry made, noting the confidence or therefore the lack of it, with which he navigated the air, his eyes fixed on the Snitch. A surge of envy twisted in Draco's chest. How could someone so inexperienced be trusted with such responsibility? It was an opportunity Draco had always imagined for himself, a chance to prove his skill and command on the pitch, yet it had been handed to this 'famous' boy instead.
The stadium roared as Harry shot into the sky for his first Quidditch match. His nerves had been buzzing since sunrise, but once he gripped his broom and felt the wind slap against his face, everything settled into sharp focus. The cheers blurred together as he scanned the pitch for the Snitch. Then something changed.
Harry's broom gave a sudden violent jerk. He tightened his grip, knuckles whitening. The broom twisted again, harder this time, and the crowd gasped. Harry felt the handle pulse like a living creature trying to throw him off. His heart thudded in his ears.
On the stands, Hermione froze. Her eyes widened as she spotted Professor Snape staring directly at Harry. His lips moved rapidly. Ron stood frozen.
"He is jinxing the broom. I knew it. I told you he is dangerous." Hermione shot up, pushed past the students, and raced down toward the staff rows. Her fear made every step louder.
Above the pitch, Harry clung on while the broom bucked like a wild thing. His legs swung in open air. The players below craned their necks, powerless to help.
Across the stands, Draco Malfoy watched with a grin he did not bother hiding. He did not know what was wrong, but the sight of Potter dangling high above the ground warmed his chest with a petty satisfaction.
"Go on then, fall," he muttered under his breath. "Let us see the great Harry Potter fly now."
Every cheer from the Gryffindor stands grated on him, a reminder of the advantage Potter seemed to enjoy without effort. Draco's grey eyes narrowed, flicking from Harry's determined expression to the golden flash darting above. He wanted to glare, to let his irritation show, to make it clear that he would not tolerate such unearned privilege. As the match continued, Draco's glances became sharper, colder, filled with unspoken resentment. He leaned forward slightly, the tight grip on the railing beneath him matching the tension coiling in his shoulders.
For Draco, it was not just the match itself but what it represented: Harry getting a chance he had not earned, the admiration of the crowd, the thrill of flight, the possibility of glory. Each movement Potter made in the sky stoked Draco's jealousy, fueling the dark satisfaction he imagined he would feel when Gryffindor faltered. The frown on his face was a mask for the storm of competitiveness and resentment brewing beneath, a silent vow to prove that he, not Potter, should have been the one soaring above Hogwarts.
The golden flash darted low, then shot high again. Marcus surged, closing in, but the Snitch twisted just beyond him. Harry leaned with every ounce of his strength, timing his snap perfectly, and caught the Snitch in his mouth. For a heartbeat, the world froze, wind roaring past and Bludgers whistling nearby. Then the Gryffindor stands erupted in triumphant cheers, banners waving, the house roaring with excitement.
Harry's chest heaved, adrenaline flooding through him. He had flown, dodged, and captured the Snitch. Victory washed over him, overpowering fear and tension. For a brief, shining moment, Harry savored the triumph, the golden prize between his teeth, the thrill of flight, and the joy of proving himself in the air.
Draco sank into the Slytherin stands, jaw tight and nostrils flaring. The roar of the Gryffindor supporters filled the air, a wave of triumph that he could not ignore. Harry Potter, a first-year, had just caught the Snitch and won the match for Gryffindor. Draco's grey eyes narrowed, and a vein of irritation throbbed at his temple. It was not merely that Potter had succeeded, it was how easily it seemed to come to him.
"That's ridiculous," Draco muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with disdain. He leaned toward Crabbe and Goyle, who were watching the celebrations with eager interest.
"Did you see that? The boy literally snapped it into his mouth. No skill, no finesse. Pure luck. And the thought of him slobbering all over the golden Snitch, absolutely revolting. Anyone with a shred of class would have used their hand, not their teeth." His tone was sharp, cold, precise, the perfect blend of snobbery and simmering anger.
Crabbe blinked, uncertain. "Potter caught it, though, Malfoy."
"Yes, he caught it," Draco hissed, flicking a hand in annoyance. "But it's pathetic. Look at him, grinning like a fool, thinking he earned it. That's not talent. That's accident masquerading as achievement."
His eyes followed Harry as he floated back toward the Gryffindor stands, clutching the golden Snitch proudly with a wide child-like grin.
Draco's lip curled in contempt. "I'd expect nothing less from that famous Potter nonsense. He's riding his name, not skill. And the audacity, first-years shouldn't even be allowed near the pitch let alone the Seeker position. It's absurd."
Goyle shuffled uncomfortably. "Do you think he'll get more chances?"
Draco smirked, a cold, calculated expression. "He will, mark my words. And each time, it will be irritating. But don't confuse this 'victory' with actual ability. Luck runs out, and when it does, Potter will look exactly like the overhyped, sloppy child he is." He tapped a finger on the railing, eyes fixed on the Gryffindor stands.
"Watch closely, Crabbe. This is the sort of thing that people call miraculous. I call it incompetence with a gilded finish."
Draco leaned back, arms folded, frown still etched deeply across his face. The match was over, the cheers fading, yet the irritation within him had not diminished. He had witnessed Potter soar where he himself had not been allowed, and it burned with every fiber of Draco's pride. Luck, chance, circumstance, he would not forget that today, Potter had been elevated above him by something so trifling, and it stung more than any Bludger ever could.
Harry, oblivious to the specifics of Draco's internal commentary, felt the subtle weight of the Slytherin stares on him. Some irritation flickered in his chest, a silent acknowledgment of the rivalry that was already sparking. He let himself bask in the moment, victorious but aware that the green eyes following him carried resentment, jealousy, and the promise of future competition. Draco's irritation, sharp and precise, was only the first wave.
The match was over, but the tension between them remained, invisible yet palpable. The golden Snitch gleamed in Harry's hand, a symbol of triumph, while Draco's frown deepened, a silent vow that this first loss would not stand unchallenged.
Hurt pride and irritation battled in Draco's chest, but beneath them lurked a quiet unease. The thought of his father hearing that someone else had been trusted with the Seeker position before him made Draco shift uncomfortably. Lucius Malfoy demanded excellence and would not tolerate anyone outshining his son, even by chance.
Draco imagined the sharp words, the cold reprimands, and the disappointed look that could freeze him in an instant. He knew that even his mother's subtle show of concern could not shield him from his father's scrutiny. His mind tightened around the idea that he must always be perfect and above all others. Potter's unexpected victory was a stain, a challenge to the image of superiority his father expected him to maintain, and Draco knew he could not let it happen again.