All characters belong to JK Rowling

Fairly AU oneshot. There's a slight extension to this, but I am debating whether or not I should add it.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

An Unfit Son

A good friend would have continued cheering on with the rest of the crowd – after all, when would Ron ever make such a miraculous save again in his life? Hermione Granger liked to consider herself a good friend, and in many ways she was. But the second Ron knocked the Quaffle back towards the Slytherin end with remarkable strength and speed, a shadow fell over her and left everyone else illuminated in the sun. She turned around.

At first, all she could see was a single silhouette hovering motionless above and behind the stands, haloed and faceless. She shielded her eyes, ignoring Neville's excited grasp on her arm, demanding that she look at all the sour faces in the Slytherin section.

The look of shock on Draco Malfoy's face mirrored her own. He was staring down at his hand, where the snitch lay trapped in the cage of his fingers, beating its tiny wings helplessly. Even from where she sat, Hermione saw the distinct gold flash that normally would have been in Harry's triumphant palm by now. But Harry, like everyone else, was still applauding Ron's save, and hadn't even begun looking for the snitch yet.

Draco glanced around uncertainly, as if unsure of what to do now that he had won the match. Hermione watched him, unable to make a sound. She could hardly believe it herself. Draco had won matches before – really, he wasn't that bad of a Seeker – but never fair and square against Gryffindor. Never against Harry, said to be the greatest Seeker Hogwarts had seen in a century. Draco, considered among his peers to be something akin to royalty, never seemed to stand a chance. No matter how much money his father spent on state-of-the-art brooms, Harry always remained one step ahead in the Quidditch pitch.

His father.

As if sharing the same thought, Hermione and Draco both looked to the guest stands, where a distinctive head of white blond hair stood out from the rest.

Lucius Malfoy was busily flipping through a file of papers, no doubt related to the company he owned, occasionally scratching down something with an expensive-looking quill. By all appearances, he hadn't even noticed the ruckus happening around him in response to Ron's rare display of quick thinking. Hermione looked back up to Draco, her heart twisting inside at the look of unmasked hurt and anger on his face. She had never seen him look so young before. Anger swelled inside, outrage at Lucius' callousness. Why bother showing up to the match if you were not even going to watch your son play? Why try to keep up appearances if there was nothing to see?

Draco was again regarding the little golden ball in hand. He stared at it for a very long time, and where he had looked like a lost child only a moment ago, he was suddenly looking far older than any teenager Hermione had ever seen. She nearly stood up and screamed at him when he let go of the snitch.

It was gone in an instant, before she could allow herself a sliver of hope that Draco would come to his senses and reclaim it. But he simply watched it disappear, and did not move from that spot for the rest of the game.

Later, when Harry at last caught the snitch, Hermione only clapped half-heartedly. She felt as though she had just witnessed a crime, though Harry certainly couldn't be blamed for being a good Seeker. No one, not even the commentator, had seen Draco's victory. She felt like a fool for not having said anything. But that's what good friends do, she supposed with a sigh.

Instinctively her eyes sought out Draco down on the field, where he was walking behind his teammates towards the change rooms. Lucius was watching him with a bored look of disgust. Draco shivered suddenly and looked up to meet his father's disapproving gaze. He seemed to diminish on the spot, as if worn away by Lucius' disdain. Hermione clenched her fists. Lucius glanced down at his pocket watch.

As Draco crossed the threshold into the change rooms, his tired, defeated posture only confirmed what the world had been telling him all along; that he was, and always had been, simply not good enough.