Draco – POV
Harry was, as always, chasing the Snitch.
Trailing behind him was Milo Duskworth, the new Slytherin Seeker. And clearly, he was struggling.
Being new to the position had left him at a severe disadvantage. He was fast, sure, but his timing, instincts, and turns were still rough.
Draco could already hear the murmurs around him—whispers tinged with disappointment and frustration. Slytherin students muttering under their breath, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
Some of them even looked at him.
They didn't say anything, but they didn't need to.
He saw it.
The disdain.
He knew what they were thinking.
After all, he had given up the Seeker position.
Yes. He left it.
Just one week into term, he had walked into Snape's office with the team captain and said it plainly.
"I want to resign."
Snape hadn't responded immediately. He just stared at Draco in that unreadable, hawk-like way.
Then asked only one thing:
"Why?"
Draco had answered calmly and honestly.
"I want to focus on my magic. Quidditch is a distraction."
There had been a pause. Then Snape asked something unexpected.
"You no longer wish to beat Potter?"
It had surprised Draco a bit, but he answered without hesitation.
"Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. Chasing Potter at what he's best at is a waste of time. I'd rather focus on excelling where I have the advantage."
Snape had gone quiet at that. And then he nodded. A trace of approval. Slight disappointment, yes, but understanding.
So Draco had walked away from Quidditch.
But that didn't mean he was giving up flying.
He still planned to train on a broom, just not now. Not when there were better uses for his time. Flying was a skill. Magic was power.
In fact, even today, he hadn't planned to be here.
Since leaving the team, he hadn't attended a single match.
This was the first time.
Why?
Because today, the Dementors were supposed to attack.
He remembered it clearly from the movie in his past life. In that version, Draco had faked an injury, and Slytherin hadn't played. Ravenclaw had taken their spot.
But here, Slytherin was playing.
Only the Seeker had changed.
Duskworth had replaced him.
That meant the timeline was shifting slightly, but the event should still happen.
The Dementors should come.
"Are you feeling cold?" someone whispered behind him.
"It's raining. Of course it's cold."
"No… not that. It's different."
Draco's eyes narrowed.
It was happening.
His fingers curled slightly against the stone railing.
Even with the rain and the noise, he could feel it now. The cold wasn't just surface-level. It was sinking deeper, bone-deep, hollowing.
Someone shivered nearby. Another exhaled sharply, like they'd just stepped into a freezer.
Across the field, Harry was still chasing the Snitch, but his flight had turned erratic.
Draco swept his gaze across the sky. There, just above the northern goalposts.
Black shapes. Floating. Hooded.
Merlin.
Three. No—four of them.
A few students gasped. Someone screamed.
"Dementors!"
Panic rippled through the stands.
Draco's head snapped toward the professors' box.
Dumbledore was already standing, wand raised. A brilliant stream of silver light erupted from the tip, intense and radiant, expanding outward like a great dome of sunlight.
"LEAVE!"
His voice rang through the storm, thunderous and ancient. Magic bled from every syllable.
The Patronus light swelled, its brilliance crackling with fierce energy. The creeping black mist recoiled from it instantly, scattering like ash in the wind.
The Dementors shrieked. Not with mouths, but with presence. Their twisted forms writhed as the light drove them back, smoke fleeing fire.
Draco stared in awe.
"It's completely different from mine," he muttered.
This was why he had come. To see the old man in action.
He could cast a Patronus himself, but barely. Just a thin shield. Dumbledore's light, on the other hand, covered hundreds. Protected everyone.
A voice near him mumbled, "I feel warm…"
Draco nodded silently.
So did he.
Warm. Like sunlight on the skin.
A strange comfort in the middle of cold terror.
"Bloody hell," someone whispered behind him.
Draco followed their gaze, eyes flicking upward, and froze.
Potter.
He was falling.
His broom had bucked, spinning out, plummeting.
Dumbledore moved again.
Faster than anyone Draco had ever seen.
Another spell burst from his wand, and just like that, Potter's fall slowed. As if time had thickened around him. Slowing him. Saving him.
Gasps turned into sighs of relief across the stands.
Harry landed gently. No crash. Just a dull thud against the pitch.
Unmoving.
But alive.
The broomstick, however, wasn't so lucky.
It spiraled out of control and smashed into the Whomping Willow with a snap. Wood cracked. Leaves flew.
Draco slowly sat back down, exhaling long and slow.
His eyes drifted toward the dispersing Patronus light, and to Dumbledore, who now lowered his wand, his expression grim.
Even from this distance, Draco could feel it.
The Headmaster was furious.
And he had every reason to be.
Let's hope it settles things down… at least for a while.
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