Chapter Thirteen : The Runaway Broom
Draco Malfoy had not wanted to come. The roar of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind, the laughter spilling across the stands — all of it pressed against him like ghosts of the war he remembered. Every cheer reminded him of faces that had once smiled, only to vanish beneath rubble and ash.
He feared joy. He feared its fragility. And yet, he came.
He came because this match was more than Quidditch. It was proof. Proof that Quirrell was not the harmless, bumbling professor he pretended to be. Proof that Hermione's trust in Draco's suspicions was justified.
When Harry's broom began to buck and twist, Draco's heart clenched. He knew this moment. He had lived it before. He rose, calm and deliberate, slipping behind the stands where Quirrell and Snape sat. His telescope lifted, his eyes fixed on Harry's flailing figure. He waited. He knew she would come.
And she did — Hermione, breathless, furious, terrified. Her wand shook in her hand, her voice trembled with outrage. "Professors — attacking a student! How can this be?"
Draco steadied her, his hands firm on her shoulders, his voice sharp but grounding. "Listen. Break the line of sight, and the curse fails. Quirrell first. If not him, then Snape. Trust me."
Hermione's eyes widened. A Slytherin willing to confront his own Head of House? It was unthinkable. Yet Draco's resolve was iron.
She struck first — reckless, brilliant. A kick, a spark of blue fire, and Quirrell fled in chaos, his turban aflame. Draco watched, half‑amused, half‑awed. She was wild, but she was brave.
Then came the moment that shook him most: Hermione pressed close, peering through his telescope, her hair brushing his cheek, her warmth invading his carefully guarded space. She trusted him without hesitation. And when Harry caught the Snitch, she turned and embraced Draco — fiercely, joyfully, as if he were part of her victory.
Draco's heart, frozen for so long, stuttered. A feather's touch, a phantom beat. He had not expected to feel again.
Hermione fled before he could speak, embarrassed by her own boldness. Draco stood alone, whispering to the empty air, "Congratulations… truly." His pride in Slytherin warred with something new — a fragile wish to be cheered for, to be trusted, to be seen.
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Extra Scene II : The Awkward Slytherin (Harry's Perspective)
Harry Potter owed Draco Malfoy a chocolate frog.
He remembered Hagrid's words: "Don't judge a man by appearances." Yet Harry had judged. He had assumed Snape's sneers meant malice, that Draco's arrogance meant cruelty. He had been wrong.
Hermione explained it clearly: Snape's muttered words had been protective, not destructive. Quirrell had been the true danger. And Draco — cold, aloof Draco — had been the one to guide them toward the truth.
Harry struggled to reconcile it. Draco was proud, sharp‑tongued, forever demanding secrecy about his good deeds. He never admitted kindness, never sought thanks. It was maddening. But at the critical moment, he was there. Always there.
"Maybe all Slytherins are like that," Harry thought. "Too proud to admit they care. Too awkward to show it." He shivered at the idea: perhaps Snape himself was just Draco grown older, embittered, hiding his loyalty beneath layers of sarcasm and grease.
Harry hoped Draco would never become that. He hoped the boy who steadied Hermione, who risked himself against Quirrell, would remain something better.
And though he still bristled at Snape's favoritism, Harry could no longer deny the truth: even the harshest Slytherin might carry a shard of goodness. Even the most reluctant ally might be a guardian in disguise.