He dove, hair streaming behind him, eyes stinging and nose running from the slap of wind against his skin, hand outstretched and entire body thrumming with focus and adrenaline. The ground rushed toward him, fast, faster than he’d thought these antique 1940s brooms could manage, and the Gryffindor seeker was falling farther and farther behind. The snitch darted left, then right, then left again, and Harry stretched, almost over balancing, and caught the snitch with the tips of his fingers. He pulled his broom up frantically, scant inches away from a head on collision, and rolled neatly off, tumbling to his feet. His broom stopped once he left it, the magic gone lax without a rider, and Harry stooped to grab it, holding his arms triumphantly over his head, snitch in one hand, broom in the other.