twitter limiting the amount of tweets you get to read per day is ridiculous but if tiktok limited the amount of videos people got to see per day it would be the biggest win for mental health since ssris
Literally had a feral moment and had to sketch this out before I forget it-
Malfoy saves harry from could’ve been a real bad fall during quidditch without really thinking vibe. Which shifts their dynamic~
soooo I was very obsessed and decided to write a little blurb for it. I hope that’s alright!
There was more than a bit of irony in it, Harry thought, in dying this way.
Surviving six years of plots, a resurrected Dark Lord, and a bloody War. All for him to die in a Quidditch accident. The Boy Who Lived taken out by just a little bit of hubris and quite a lot of gravity.
McGonagall had finally been worn down by Harry’s excessive whinging about Eighth Years not being permitted to play on House teams. “But Professor,” he’d moped on more than one occasion, “don’t we deserve to have some fun after everything we’ve been through?” The stern lines of her face had slowly drooped into fond exasperation, allowing Harry—all Eighth Years, rather—this silver lining.
It was only now, his fingers slipping off the sweaty, glistening wooden handle of his Firebolt, a cry of “Fuck!” tumbling from his lips, that Harry wished he’d just let it go and committed himself to a year of diligent study like Hermione had suggested.
The snitch had pulled down at the last moment, and Harry — overconfident, overeager, and very much underprepared — had tried a move he was a good month or so away from having back in his arsenal. Biting November wind nipped at his cheeks, thrashing against his ribs and burrowing in his bones as he hung there. There’d be no Dumbledore to stop his descent this time.
Harry’s fingers cramped and he knew he’d fall, could feel the realization settle over him like some macabre veil. He felt the air rush through the still-growing gap that now existed between his fingers and his broom. He squeezed his eyes shut, flinching away from the sunlight that shone directly into his eyes, when he felt a pressure on his forearm.
Opening his eyes, Harry peered up, gaze zeroing in immediately on the long, nimble, fingers wrapped firmly around him. Sliding up further, he felt his eyes widen at the sight that greeted him: a similarly wide-eyed Draco Malfoy, ruddy and panting, shoulders and chest heaving under the leathers of his kit. His hair glowed against the backdrop of the sun and clouds behind him, illuminating his face like some kind of god, or at least the subject of a revered renaissance painting.
Harry swallowed, mouth suddenly very dry. “Malfoy…?”
Malfoy said nothing, opting to stare at Harry for a few raw seconds before he began lifting. Dance with Death evaded, Harry jolted into action, extending his free arm towards the free space at the back of Malfoy’s broom. They managed to pull him up onto the broom where Harry lunged forward, wrapping his arms frighteningly tight around Malfoy’s waist, cheek and ear pressed up against his back.
Eyes screwed shut once again, Harry heard only the gasping of his own shallow breaths and the thundering heartbeat of the body against his. He shivered, images rushing in unbidden of the reverse from only five months ago. A room aflame with acrid air.
Wind stung his cheeks, his nose. They were moving. After some indeterminate amount of time, he felt the gentle press of a hand against his knee pad. He opened his eyes to Malfoy’s head angled back towards him. He jerked his chin towards the unassuming Firebolt hovering in the air next to them, as if the blasted twig hadn’t just thrown Harry off.
Harry nodded against the solid muscle of Malfoy’s back before he carefully got back on his broom. The place where Mafloy’s fingers had been burned under the layers of protective gear and robes. They stared at each other, unblinkingly. No words passed between them. The air felt heavy between them, charged with something Harry couldn’t name.
Before long, the fickle snitch appeared in the small space between them, but neither of their gazes faltered.
Harry couldn’t remember how the game ended, couldn’t have been bothered to try, either. He must’ve caught the snitch, though, because he was aware of some hearty back slaps and congratulations among the crowd of mostly worried Professors and students. He barely registered the presence of Hermione and Ron at one elbow, a frazzled Professor McGonagall at his other.
All he had eyes for was the retreating figure of a towering blond in green, flowing robes, who cast a look of his own. Their eyes met for moment, the air stilling around him. Malfoy turned back first, moving into the changing rooms, but Harry was unable to look away long after he was gone.
