Bedknobs and Broomsticks
+ Quidditch in the afternoon.
by littlelesslostboys.
DISCLAIMER: I wish.
Harry Potter/Ron Weasley.
Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter one-sided.
-------------------------------------------
"What are you doing here, Potter?" Draco snarled as he turned the corner onto the Quidditch Pitch, broom in hand. One thing he was not expecting to see, well, for one was anyone else. Then he wouldn't have to let anyone know he was having a little trouble handling his new broom (the last time his robe had got caught in the sharp bristles just as it was busy throwing him off and he'd ending up nearly bare ass naked in the middle of the pitch, during a game no less!).
Harry looked up, but seemed to be too busy to care to speak.
"Shouldn't you be off playing your little mind games with Dumbledore?" he hissed again, the octaves snapping shut on any comeback there might be. He took a few steps forward and noticed Harry was running a cloth, smoothly, up and down the handle of his own broomstick. Smothered in some sort of wax with it perched firmly between his thighs.
His glasses looked a little askew. And his hair more of a mess than normal. Frankly, he looked more than a tad flustered. Which only encouraged Draco more.
"What's it look like?" Harry hit back, not so much as glancing at him, "Anyway, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be off guaranteeing a few more of your N.E.W.T's with Snape?"
"That happened once. And it was an accident."
Draco stormed forward and, for a minute, considered grabbing the broom out of Harry's grip. He wasn't sure what he'd do with it after he had it -- but anything, just, something to take his frustration out on.
"Slytherin practise time, actually." and his eyes practically glowed.
Why he decided to come out here in the middle of the day, he had no idea. Other than the fact that his usual entourage would not be around on account of them all having Potions. And he knew Snape wouldn't take points from his own house if, say, one student happened to be missing. And it would mean he could outdo Potter at the next Gryffindor-Slytherin house match. Which is everything he intended to do.
Harry, on the other hand, getting out of the hospital wing after meeting a nasty bludger to the stomach, decided he would much prefer to do, well, anything, than sit through one of Snape's potions classes. And, this time, he had a perfectly valid excuse seeing as though his classmates would have (by now, he hoped) alerted Snape to his presence in the hospital wing. Hermione would probably (most likely, definitely) kill him if she found out. Which is why he'd come to the one place she wouldn't go. The Quidditch pitch. He wasn't, however, intending on anyone else being there.
"Yeah?" he replied, biting his lip, not only had 'someone else' been there, but that someone else had been the one person he had wished wouldn't be, "Well I don't see the rest of your team. Abandoned you, have they? Their dirty little seeker."
"That was once."
"You keep saying that," Harry grinned, tightening his grip on the broom and putting down the cloth in favour of a pair of trim scissors to cut off any loose twigs. A task of which he went about completely methodically.
"That's not a firebolt!" Malfoy hissed, suddenly, upon noticing the rather shabby upkeep and the fading mark of "ShootingStar" on the handle. Breathing it out. And breathing back in with a sharp look at Harry.
"It's-- " Harry started, before thinking better. He didn't want to give Malfoy more reason to tease him than he already did, "it's -- not mine" he settled. Looking remotely uncomfortable. Draco grinned.
"I bet it's your little boyfriend's. What is it they called him again?" Draco's voice was like thick silver, "Oh yes," he growled with a smugness that nobody else could attempt to pull off at the drop of a hat, "Your Wheezy. Frankly, Potter, I'm not surprised."
Harry stared.
"I mean, of course, I'm not surprised that those Weasley's are selling their kids off now," he continued, "I have to say -- they could do with the money a lot more than we could do with another one of those lot at Hogwarts."
"Leave it.
"Leave what?" He asked, "I'm just telling you what you probably already know. So how many -- Weasley brooms have you polished then Potter? We all know Ginny dusts yours."
He laughed. A sharp, heavy sound that made Harry's fingers grasp the fraying twigs a little too hard.
"I said -- leave it." He growled.
Draco, quite expectantly, was nothing more than amused.
"No, no --" he said, "It's not Ginny is it? That wouldn't create enough -- attention -- for the great Harry Potter. Maybe it's Percy," Harry's knuckles turned white, "But he wouldn't, from what I hear. Not too fond of being associated with your league."
Harry's eyes were practically red with anger. His forehead creased and now, he was, back to polishing. Frantically. His hand rubbing up and down that handle so fast he was sure he'd find splinters. In both him and the broom.
"Maybe. Yes. Maybe it's the older ones. All that -- that knowledge. That experience --" Draco's eyes darted to Harry's and he paused, for maybe a second or two, before continuing, yet again, with his tirade, "No. No. They'd have people who'd do it without the reporters there."
He seemed to think for an awfully long time. Or at least remained indifferently silent before the greatest smirk of all plagued his lips just as Harry was, resolutely, packing up the kit. He'd had enough.
"Or, perhaps, it's not Hermione who polishes Ron's broom after all."
Harry flushed bright red as he stumbled over his robes in an attempt to leave as soon as possible. Standing up and pushing past him, gritting his teeth hard as Draco grabbed a fistful of his hair and shoved him away.
"Well, one thing's for certain," Harry said as he finally gained enough composure to storm off, "I'll never be polishing yours!"
Draco smirked, watching as he disappeared behind the bleachers before unfisting his hand and placing the few dark hairs into the polyjuice potion under his robes.
"We'll see about that!"