Quidditch Match Day Incident (6)

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the spectators at the sidelines holding umbrellas and wearing raincoats, over the Gryffindor students waving flags in the rain, over the thin curtain of water beneath the Ravenclaw stands, before finally returning to Harry's face.

"So many people are waiting to see your genius performance."

When he said the word "genius," he deliberately drew it out, as though savoring a piece of candy, slowly chewing it apart bit by bit, swallowing it, then relishing that sickeningly sweet taste.

Harry's fingers tightened around the Nimbus 2000.

Icy rainwater trickled down his neck and into his robes, gathering into a cold little stream against his chest before running down his spine. But his chest was hot. Not a warm heat, but a scorching one, as though a fire were burning inside him.

That fire was not anger, though anger was certainly part of it. It was more like an unyielding, stubborn refusal to admit defeat. You mock me for being soaked? I don't care. You flaunt your magical barrier? I don't care. You stare at me with those scarlet eyes? I don't care.

I only care about the Golden Snitch.

Harry raised his head and looked at Draco through the curtain of rain. The mist on his glasses blurred Draco's face beyond recognition, leaving only a silver-green outline and that mouth that was still moving.

He did not answer.

He merely gave Draco one look, then turned around, gripped his broom tightly, and strode toward the center of the pitch.

Mud splashed beneath his feet, leaving dark streaks along the hem of his robes. His back was held straight, and his steps were quick, as though he were hurrying somewhere—or running away.

Draco stood where he was, watching Harry's retreating back. The smile at the corner