Title: Seeker, Chaser, Keeper
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling. I do not claim any ownership of the characters or settings contained within. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Warnings: Contains mature language and sexual content
Rating: M
Summary: Rumor has it that a wealthy investor is starting up a brand new professional Quidditch team and he's looking for players. Harry and Draco both want to make the team, but there can be only one Seeker. Will competing for the position bring them closer or drive them further apart?
Author's Note: I can't get enough Drarry. This pairing is the perfect romantic writing challenge, and there are so many ways to envision their relationship. After finishing the first draft I spent about a month re-reading, revising, and restructuring this piece, but in the end I think the effort was worth it. Enjoy!

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"Malfoy! Have you heard?"

Draco looked up from his breakfast and eyed Gregory Goyle with weary tolerance. His friend's moon-faced enthusiasm was the last thing he wanted invading his space first thing in the morning. He was exhausted and he wasn't in the mood for guessing games.

"Heard what, Goyle?" he sighed. "What, of all of the innumerable happenings at Hogwarts, am I supposed to have heard about?"

"About the Quidditch recruiters!" Goyle looked so eager to please. It sickened Draco enough that he had to look away.

"I haven't the foggiest notion what you're talking about."

"Here," Blaise Zabini slipped a Daily Prophet across the table with an understanding grimace. "There's a group of investors starting up a new team for the pro circuit. London based."

Draco scanned the sports column for the rest of the details. London based, signing players, looking to buy out contracts and recruiting from highly ranked school teams.

"They've been at Durmstrang for the last week," Blaise added, smugly emphasizing his inside scoop. "They picked up a couple of Beater draftees, I hear."

"How do you know that?" Millicent was not so subtly eavesdropping and couldn't keep her mouth shut any longer.

"I've got connections at Durmstrang," Blaise said vaguely.

"A cousin is not a connection," Draco corrected him.

"The recruiters are supposed to arrive this week," Goyle said, trying to bring the conversation back to a topic he could contribute to.

"Buying up little school children for their rosters," Draco snorted.

"Just final-years," Goyle said, using the parlance that had replaced "seventh-years" now that Hogwarts was hosting a class of eighth-year students whose previous term had been interrupted by the war.

"Don't pretend you're not interested," Blaise leaned forward on his elbows.

"Why would I be interested?" Draco sneered.

"The chance to play for a professional Quidditch team? The adoration of fans? The publicity? Yeah, that sounds like the kind of rubbish you'd hate."

"I'd much rather own a team than play on one," Draco said. He scooped up his satchel and strode from the great hall before he could be questioned again. He was lying. His friends knew he was lying. He knew his friends knew he was lying. But he wouldn't be caught dead aspiring for something he wasn't sure he could get.

He made his way to his first class of the morning and arrived well in advance of his classmates. He sat back with his leg crossed over his knee and read the paper as other eighth-year students gradually trickled in. His robe was unfastened and draped to the floor in billowing folds, his white button-down and tie with its silver Slytherin pin were on display. He was as comfortable here as he would have been in the drawing room back at the manor. Perhaps more so, given how much of his life he had spent at a Hogwarts desk.

As the start of class neared the door clattered open as Weasley tripped across the threshold, his attention fixed over his shoulder rather than ahead. Behind him, of course, were his sodding Gryffindor counterparts, equally graceless and oblivious to their surroundings.

"-sign the contract," Weasley was saying as they entered. Granger shushed him and Harry glanced furtively around the room to see if anyone was paying attention.

Fortunately, Draco was quite skilled at listening without looking. He scanned the classified section of the paper, his ears tuned to the front row where the threesome were settling in.

"I didn't say whether I would or not," Harry said under his breath. "I need to find out what my options are first."

"It's a good offer, Harry," Granger said quietly.

"I know," Harry's voice was flat.

It didn't take a clairvoyant to know what they were talking about. If Goyle had known about the Quidditch recruiters, the whole school must be buzzing about it. Draco frowned to himself. By that logic he should have known before Goyle. It annoyed him to think he might be the last to find out.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," Harry sighed and combed his fingers through his hair. He hunched down in his seat like he was trying to hide from the conversation.

Draco couldn't blame him. If he had to contend with Granger's insufferable opinions, he'd try to hide from the conversation, too.

Professor Flitwick entered in a huff and prattled on about some morning mix-up with his parchments, but Draco only listened with half an ear. He was certain the Gryffindors had been talking about Harry's prospects with the Quidditch recruiters, but from the sound of it, there was already a contract in the offering. Had the recruiters already reached out to him? If so, it meant they had already identified him as their first-string Seeker and entertaining any thoughts of trying out would be pointless. Not that he would be trying out for anything.

Perhaps Harry had been approached by another team. He ground his teeth irritably at that thought. That was all Saint bloody Potter needed, a bidding war to inflate his already oversized ego. It wasn't enough that he defeated the Dark Lord, something Draco would never admit he was grateful for, he had to also be the Quidditch world's most coveted player.

He needed to know for sure. He wasn't going to be last to find out about this turn of events. He didn't have any particularly ruthless plans to get the information- he'd sort of soured on the hostilities of youth- but he still couldn't stand the idea of not knowing something like this.

After class he exited casually behind the Gryffindor trio and acted as though he just happened to be going the same direction as them. Which, come to think of it, he was. Shared class schedule and all. Harry stopped off in the boy's washroom on the second floor and waved his friends on without him. Draco paused at the drinking fountain and after a suitable pause he entered the washroom, too. Harry was zipping up at the urinal as Draco zipped down.

"Not fastening your robe anymore, Malfoy?" Harry looked at him through the mirror's reflection as he washed his hands.

"I'll fasten it as soon as anyone cares," Draco replied. He zipped his trousers and went to the sink. He had planned on asking about the recruiters right away but Harry had broken the silence first, and in such a non-confrontational way that Draco's whole rhythm was thrown off.

Harry stood awkwardly near the door, almost like he was waiting for Draco to finish. Wait, not almost, he really was waiting for Draco. Now his rhythm was way out of whack. He cleared his throat nervously and hefted his bag. Harry exited with him and they walked together down the corridor towards Potions class.

Draco didn't know what to say. Things had been decidedly less antagonistic since the war, but this was going a bit far. He pulled himself together and decided to ask directly before they reached the classroom and the opportunity was gone.

"So I heard-"

"Malfoy," Harry said at the same time. They both paused and gestured for each other to continue.

"A little birdy told me you've got pro Quidditch recruiters fighting for your affections," Draco said confidently.

"Is that news already?" Harry eyed Draco warily.

"Everything Saint Potter does is news," Draco said. "Why would this be any different?" He paused and then continued, "What isn't news is the fact that you've been approached by more than one recruiter." He hoped his bluff would draw information out of the Gryffindor boy.

"The London team hasn't made an offer yet. Just the Caerphilly Catapults."

Caerphilly Catapults? Bile rose in Draco's throat. They were a notoriously good team with eighteen League Cup wins. If they had already made Potter an offer, the scramble to draft him would be intense. Of course, if Potter took the contract, that would leave the London team with a Seeker position to fill.

"Only a git like yourself would pass on the Catapults," Draco scoffed.

"The London team might be good, too," Harry's eyes darkened. He didn't like being called a git.

"Typical," Draco felt his annoyance rise. "Saint Potter needs so much attention that he wants both Seeker positions."

"You only want me to take the Caerphilly contract so you'll have a chance at the London team," Harry shot back.

"Are you implying I can't win if you're competing?" Draco's annoyance sharpened.

"When have you ever beaten me to the Snitch, Malfoy?"

"I'm faster than you any day of the week, Potter. And everyone knows it."

"Well I guess we'll find out when the recruiters get here."

"Beating you will be the easiest thing I've ever done."

"Want to make it interesting?" Harry stuck his hand out to shake. "One hundred Galleons says I make the team."

Not to be outdone Draco seized his hand and crushed it in his grip. "And one hundred says I make the team."

"It's a wager," Harry squeezed harshly in return.

The class bell rang, sending them scrambling for the Potions classroom. Draco kept his expression even but inside he was fuming. His big mouth had gotten him into trouble again. He didn't want to compete against Potter, not when he knew as well as anyone else that he wouldn't win. He'd had a whole deflection plan in place where he would act disinterested unless assured of a win. Now he would have to compete for real. And that meant possibly losing. Probably losing. In public. Bollocks.

Draco arrived back at Slytherin House after lunch and searched the rooms for Miles Bletchley. He found him lying in bed, reading a copy of Witch Weekly, something Draco would never be caught dead doing.

"Catching up on this season's fashions?" he asked with false sincerity as he flopped onto the neighboring bed.

"Piss off, Malfoy," Miles held the magazine up with a glare, "Have you ever looked at one of these? Loads of birds."

"Pathetic," Draco arched an eyebrow disapprovingly.

"What do you want?" Miles sighed and shoved the magazine under his mattress.

"Want to hit the pitch? Do a bit of one on one?" Draco asked.

"Thinking about trying out?" Miles needed no context, everyone was thinking about the recruiters. "I heard you said you weren't going to try."

"Of course I'm going to try out," Draco snorted. "Who else is going to represent Slytherin's skills?"

"Me," Miles looked offended.

"Then you really need to get down to the pitch with me," Draco stood and socked Miles in the shoulder. "You're a rubbish Keeper."

"Am not!" Miles jumped to his feet. "Come on."

They exited the school and hustled down to the pitch in the warm May air. It would be cooler once they were aloft, but Draco hoped their lightweight kit was cleaned and ready. They hurriedly changed in the locker room and then retrieved their brooms from the shed. Miles' was tattered from lack of care and maintenance. Draco's was pristine.

"Merlin, Malfoy, it looks like you've never flown that thing," Miles said as he mounted and kicked off. The afternoon sunlight glinted off of the green and silver embroidery along his tunic.

"If you ever cleaned and polished yours it would look this good, too," Draco kicked off and immediately sped past Miles to the goal hoops. "Look lively, Bletchley."

They squared off and Draco lobbed a Quaffle at Miles for a while, doing his best to dodge and dart around to test his agility. It was a good warm-up exercise but he needed distance and speed. He tossed the practice Snitch at his teammate and pointed off towards the school.

"As far and as fast as you can," he called.

Miles shook his wand into his hand and tossed the little golden ball into the air. He flicked and with a spark it fired off towards the horizon. Draco leaned forward and was after it like a shot.

His adrenaline surged as he squinted against the glare of the sun, his goggles obscuring just the fringes of his peripheral vision. He could see the tiny glint of the ball as it sailed away into the distance and focused on steady acceleration to close the gap. He knew better than to let go and reach with either hand until he was within range. That was how foolish accidents happened. He was no fool.

Miles must have put something extra behind his deflection spell because the ball was still going. It was well beyond the bounds of the pitch and was heading up towards the castle at full speed. Draco kept his eyes open for casual broomstick riders as he tore toward the gabled rooftops. The ball was starting to lose momentum and arc towards the ground and Draco canted his weight to the side to angle sharply towards an intersection point.

Bollocks, it was heading directly towards the courtyard. He leaned forward and kicked an extra burst of speed from his Nimbus. There it was, right in front of him, if he could just reach it in time. He dove recklessly towards the flagstone lined courtyard and finally outstretched his hand. With a deft sweep he snatched the ball out of the air and hauled up on the broomstick. Students shrieked and scattered in terror as he leveled off mere inches from the ground.

He took a chance and planted his feet, then bailed out and leaped off of the broom to run off the last of his momentum. His boots pounded the stone and he wheeled his arms to slow down, and for a moment he thought he would actually stick the landing. Then his heel struck an uneven crack and he toppled into the lap of a sixth-year Ravenclaw girl who was sitting on a bench beneath a fig tree.

She yelped in surprise as his head plopped into her lap like an adoring suitor. She blushed instantly and covered her face with her hands.

The rest of the courtyard was silent. Draco was stunned for a fragment of a second as he did a quick mental once-over to make sure he wasn't hurt. Miraculously his ankle wasn't even twisted. And, as a bonus, the practice snitch was still in his hand. He beamed up at the girl, who was peeking through her fingers at him.

"Sorry, love," he said winningly. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

He hopped to his feet and bowed, then turned to retrieve his broom. The other students applauded and cheered at the performance as he hopped back onto his Nimbus and kicked off.

He sailed up over the courtyard and circled once, then leaned forward and sped off towards the pitch. He grinned to himself as the wind roared in his ears. He couldn't have asked for a better reaction from his schoolmates. He had to admit to himself that he adored adoration. And for that reason alone, making the pro Quidditch team would be worthwhile. And suddenly, just like that, he wanted it. Not to beat Potter, not for the wager, but because he wanted it. Which meant he had better bloody well beat Potter and win the wager because the stakes were now higher.