Young (Drarry Fanfic)

This Feeling

I'll tell you a story before it tells itself.
I'll lay out all my reasons, you'll say that I need help.
We all got expectations, and sometimes they go wrong.
But no one listens to me, so I put it in this song.

They tell me think with my head, not that thing in my chest.
They got their hands at my neck this time.
But you're the one that I want, if that's really so wrong.
Then they don't know what this feeling is like.

I'll tell them a story, they'll sit and nod their heads.
I tell you all my secrets, and you tell all your friends.
Hold on to your opinions, and stand by what you say.
In the end, it's my decision, so it's my fault when it ends.

— This Feeling (The Chainsmokers)

~oOo~

Its nostalgic, Draco thinks as he stands in the Team's private box with the rest of the non-coaching staff. He feels someone walk up beside him, but he doesn't turn to see who it is. He's too caught up in the moment.

The atmosphere is electric. Draco could almost taste the magic hanging thickly in the air. He inhales deeply, reveling in the sensation of his own magic thrumming through his veins. The deafening roar of the crowd sweeps through him like a tidal wave; the stands shaking from the force of it. He knows that magic is the only thing holding these towering wooden platforms in one piece. He looks up towards the sky, eyes tracking the charmed fireworks as they bloom and dance, forming massive banners of the two opposing teams' crests and colours.

Puddlemere United and Montrose Magpies.

2004 League Cup Finals.

Although his face remains impassive, even bordering on boredom, a look he'd mastered at the knee of Lucius Malfoy, his heart is anything but calm. Its racing like a mad thing in his chest, hammering against his ribcage. He's anxious. Terrified even, which startles him. Draco could never have imagined he'd become so invested in a Quidditch Team he's only been a part of for less than a full season. But then, Draco supposes, its not entirely that surprising for him to feel this way. He knows his ties to the team are deeply rooted in one person and one person alone.

And that man is currently flying hundreds of feet above the pitch, a mere streak of blue and yellow as he feints against his opponent while searching the skies for that elusive glint of gold.

Draco has watched Harry Potter fly for nearly his whole life, but the stunning vision of him sitting astride his broom never fails to take Draco's breath away. Potter makes everything seem so effortless. Every single motion is seamlessly natural. Its as though the broom isn't just a mere tool, but an extension of him; a part of his very being. Even the air surrounding Potter seems to bend to his will, aiding him in his flight.

Draco blinks, forcibly shifting his gaze away. He exhales slowly and finally slants a sidelong glance at the man standing silently beside him.

Blaise quirks an eyebrow in greeting, pointedly raising a tumbler of firewhisky to his lips. Draco smirks, but shakes his head at the unspoken question. Blaise knows he can't drink. He's on the clock after all, but predictably, the arsehole still decides to rub that fact in Draco's face anyway. Blaise grins widely and downs his glass. Draco merely rolls his eyes.

Blaise sets his empty tumbler on a tray carried by a passing house-elf. He stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets and turns, staring thoughtfully at Draco. The blond arches an eyebrow at his friend; his face a study of blank indifference. He tamps down on the sense of unease twisting his insides at the pensive look on Blaise's face. Draco is familiar enough with that particular expression to know that whatever Blaise is pondering can't be anything good.