WICKED GAME || D.M

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧

"... and Draco Malfoy!"

Draco Malfoy.

Of course it had to be Draco Malfoy.

I stood in the middle of Great Hall, my mood uplifted once Professor Dumbledore had called my name. Everyone had clapped, even Harry Potter who everyone thought was going to be in my position instead. I stood from my bench, a wide smile on my face, and started walking forward to stand beside the goblet of fire. This had chosen my fate.

But I heard his name and stopped in my tracks, my heart pace increasing, my skin developing a sort of feverish sweat. A cloak of horror enveloped me. It suffocated me from behind.

Draco Malfoy.

It could've been anyone but it was him. And that just made my nerves grow into a tree inside of me, branching out against my ribs, forcing me to breathe heavier just to get the air I needed.

Being called forward was obviously a great honour– only two names had been selected from the cup– but it was also terrifying. I tried not to think of the possibilities that lay ahead.

I forced my legs to move, with Malfoy already standing at the front I looked like an idiot for not joining him. Even if it was the last thing I wanted to do.

Two names had been called and these people had to undergo a round of duels over the next few months to decide a champion. A champion who would represent our school in the Triwizard Tournament next year.

I'd have to be the best of the best to win. So why did the goblet of fire choose me anyway?

For a Gryffindor I was rather ordinary, always average with grades and everything else. Whereas I knew why it picked Malfoy. He was top of all of his classes except the ones which he shared with Hermione, though even then it was very close. He knew combat like the back of his hand, like he'd been trained for this very moment.

I could see the glint of satisfaction in his eyes as I finally stood next to him, the whole hall falling silent upon Dumbledore's orders.

"One of these two students will emerge victorious from the duel and compete for Hogwarts in the famous Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore spoke, his voice bellowing across the hall with what seemed like little effort.

Everyone shuffled forwards in their seats, all engrossed in the drama of it all.

I suppose the only thing that could make the duels worse was if it was to the death. Apart from that, they were quite unpleasant anyway.

I'd read up about them in the weeks prior, never once thinking my name would be picked. But I put it in anyway, thought myself a dreamer who could do anything I put my mind to. At this moment I knew I had been wrong.

They were no ordinary duels, but even though I'd researched them it still didn't mean I was any more prepared than I would be if I didn't. They changed, evolved through the years. No two were the same.

My palms grew sweaty, my fingernails digging half-moons into my skin.

Draco Malfoy. Of course it was Draco Malfoy.

Even if I thought I had a chance of winning, his family could bribe whoever they wanted to make sure Malfoy emerged victorious at the end. They might even be willing to do worse than bribe.

Dumbledore still spoke, but I couldn't concentrate on his words. I looked up at my opponent whose face was fixed somewhere in the crowd. He was the resemblance of confidence, and me like a rag about to fall to pieces.

No, I couldn't. I willed myself not to cry, not to get too overwhelmed. I could do this.

If I was up against any person they'd seem like a better choice. Of course they would. In a situation like this you tend to spiral to the worst possible outcome, and that usually starts with your company.

Malfoy was of course in the same year as me, so how could he know more than me? How could he be on a higher playing field? How could he be better equipped?

We were both going into this blind. But maybe in some way that was worse.

Perhaps I was scared because I knew he'd take no mercy on me. Whatever they threw at us, he would keep going without me, not looking back. Not even at the final hurdle. Not even if something truly horrible happened.

It's just how he was raised, I suppose, but it doesn't change anything. Draco Malfoy was cruel. And he would rip me apart. It was no excuse– at least not one that I could look over.

I looked at him again now, his face still lost in the crowd, simple thoughts probably running through his head. I could tell that he knew he would win.

Actually, I don't know why I was so nervous. We'd never actually crossed paths; surely it would be worse if we were mortal enemies or something. Or maybe this is just as bad.

If we were properly acquainted then I'd know what he was like– maybe I'd be able to predict what would happen. But I couldn't.

And when he glanced at me, a smile pricked up at the corner of his lips. My skin grew cold.

Let the games begin.