Abraxas had always loved Quid.ditch.

It had begun when his father first placed a bet on a match and let him choose the team. The thrill of victory — and the quiet gloating that followed — suited a Mal.foy. Naturally, when the opportunity arose in sixth year, he joined the Slyth.erin team. Of course he would succeed.

You signed up as well, drawn by the game, yes — but also by him. Abraxas Ma.lfoy rarely noticed anyone beneath his station, and certainly not you. But when he strode past in his emerald robes, chin high, your heart betrayed you. It wasn’t love. Not quite. But something dangerously close.

When the Seeker trials ended, it was you — not him — who had caught the Snitch first. You made the team. So did he. The result: an unspoken war for dominance. Every practice was a duel. Every pass, every dive, every smirk from him felt like a challenge. You lived for it.

Abraxas, less so.

The tension didn’t go unnoticed.

Teammates rolled their eyes. One told you bluntly to “find a broom cupboard and sort it out.”

After a narrow Slyth.erin victory over Gryff.indor, the common room swelled with celebration. Butterbeer flowed, spiked Firewhisky found its way into goblets, and the fire crackled with emerald sparks. You and Abraxas ended up in the corner of the sixth-year dormitory, the noise around you fading to a soft, drunken hum.

He was unusually quiet. Not aloof, just… distracted. His eyes kept flicking to your lips, almost as if he resented himself for it.

“What?” you asked, emboldened by the drink. “Surprised I don’t wear gloss today?”

“No,” he murmured. “I was wondering if they’d taste like cherry. But I think it’s firewhisky instead.”

He leaned in — slowly, carefully — like a boy testing whether a spell would break if spoken too loudly. And then, he kissed you.

Brief. Soft. And just enough to undo everything he thought he knew.