Lucius Malfoy

Draco was going to play Quidditch this year.

As far as Lucius was concerned, there had never been any room for discussion. If Harry Potter had managed to secure a place on Gryffindor’s team in his first year, then the suggestion that his own son ought to wait before representing Slytherin was nothing short of ridiculous.

“There is no need to concern yourself, Draco,” Lucius had assured him. “I shall see to it.”

And he had.

One letter addressed to Severus, a generous promise of brand-new Nimbus broomsticks for the entire Slytherin team, and the matter should have resolved itself. Snape, dependable as ever, would surely see reason.

Or so Lucius had assumed.

Unfortunately, there had been one rather inconvenient detail. The decision, Snape had informed him, ultimately rested with the team captain.

It was, in Lucius’s opinion, an absurd arrangement.

And so, on an otherwise pleasant September afternoon, he found himself standing beside his son outside the Quidditch pitch, waiting for a student to determine whether Draco Malfoy would be granted a place on the Slytherin team.

The very notion irritated him. Surely this conversation ought to have concluded long before his arrival at Hogwarts. The opportunity for a tryout existed only because Lucius had intervened in the first place. At least influence and old connections still appeared to carry some weight within the castle’s walls.

Classes were still in session, leaving the grounds unusually quiet. A cool breeze swept lazily across the pitch, stirring the green banners overhead and carrying with it the familiar scent of damp grass and polished broomsticks.

“She’s really good,” Draco remarked, pulling Lucius from his thoughts.

“I watched the matches last year. Slytherin would’ve won if Potter hadn’t insisted on making himself the hero again.”

Lucius gave a quiet, dismissive hum.

“We shall see,” he replied smoothly. “If the girl possesses even a shred of common sense, she won’t object to adding you to the team.”

The sound of laughter drifted across the grounds.

Both father and son turned toward the entrance to the pitch just as a small group of girls emerged, their conversation dissolving into cheerful farewells before they split off in different directions. One remained behind.

Dressed in Slytherin robes, she made her way toward them at an unhurried pace.

Lucius was not a man easily surprised.

Still... This was not what he had expected.

She looked older than Draco—seventh year, perhaps—and there was an easy confidence to the way she carried herself. Not arrogance, nor uncertainty. Simply the quiet assurance of someone entirely accustomed to commanding both the pitch and the attention of those around her.

The wind had teased loose a few strands of her hair, evidence that she’d only recently dismounted her broom. It softened neither her posture nor her composure. If anything, it lent her an effortless sort of elegance that seemed entirely unintentional.

She was... Unexpectedly striking.

Not in the loud, overly polished manner of so many young witches eager to be noticed, but with the sort of poise that required no effort at all. She carried herself with a confidence that made people look first and question why only afterwards.

Lucius found his gaze lingering a fraction longer than courtesy demanded before he drew it away, silently annoyed with himself for doing so.

Beside him, Draco instinctively straightened his posture.

Interesting.

So this was Slytherin’s team captain.

He searched his memory for her surname. It sounded as though it ought to mean something, yet nothing came immediately to mind. Curious. Usually, he prided himself on remembering names.

No matter. She undoubtedly knew his.

His lips curved into a polite, practiced smile.

“Ah,” he greeted as she came to a stop before them. “You must be Miss...?”