I do not own Harry Potter. None of my personalities go by the name of J.K. Rowling.
THE QUIDDITCH PITCH In every fluffy one-shot (no matter how wonderfully-written!), Draco Maloy manages to save Ginny Weasley from falling to her doom on the Quidditch pitch. Well, what if the roles were reversed? D/G one-shot...for now... ___________________________________
Draco Malfoy scanned the pitch urgently, waiting impatiently for that tell-tale flicker of gold. Potter was mounted on his broom at the opposite end of the field, his eagle-eyes just as determined and piercing.
THERE! Malfoy didn't have to glance down; he knew instinctively that Potter had spotted the Snitch at the exact same moment he had, hovering high above the pitch. He rocketed toward it, spiraling higher and higher, fighting gravity and murmuring sweet-talk under his breath...though whether it was to the Snitch or his own broom, it was hard to say.
"C'mon pet, c'mon love, let us win, my angel..."
He was neck-to-neck with Potter now, shooting upward and forward. Silvery hair plastered itself to his brow and whips of frost-colored locks slashed at his cheekbones and eyes. His green robes snapped behind him in the wind, and everything in his world narrowed and converged until there was no Slytherin, no Gryffindor, no game, no Harry Potter-just wind, motion, and that tiny gold orb just ahead. He watched his hand stretch out-the fingers flex-almost-
Someone yelled to him from below, but he ignored it. He was ahead of Potter now and could feel the Snitch's fluttering wings just brush his fingertips...
Far below, Ginny Weasley-one of the best players on the Gryffindor Quidditch team-had just been saved from a Bludger by one of the Gryffindor Beaters. He clocked it with his club, and Ginny watched it arch upward over he pitch. It sailed past one Slytherin beater and continued its ascent, climbing, climbing-
The Bludger caught Draco Malfoy in the back of his head, smashing him forward and into his own broomstick. The world exploded, black with red sunbursts, all dark and blood and pain. Something wet gushed from his nose onto his robes and soaked him through to the skin, and the inside of his mouth was a mess of pulpy tissue against his teeth. He tumbled backward off the broom in slow-motion, his reflexes suddenly too sluggish to grip the broom handle, and he was vaguely aware of the cheers that erupted when Potter caught the Snitch high above him.
He plummeted downward as unconsciousness enfolded him, freeing him from the pain and cold wind and dampness.
Ginny Weasley had drawn a hissing breath and winced in empathy when the Bludger had taken out Malfoy, then had released a gasp when he'd been flung forward on his broom. But it wasn't until he tipped backward and fell that she closed her eyes and forced her broom to move.
She was breathing heavily, panting as she lunged forward on the broom, shooting diagonally across the pitch. Her arm shot out, gripping his wrist as he plummeted past her. His weight pulled her broom, made her flip, and for a minute they were suspended like that-Draco Malfoy dangling from the hand of an upside-down Ginny weasley, who clutched the broom with her free hand and wrapped her legs around it as though it were a long-lost lover. A sickening pop filled the air and Malfoy groaned softly, then whimpered through his unconsciousness.
Ginny grunted, forcing the broom topside once more and hoisting the boy across her lap. He was heavier than he looked. She gasped at the sight of his face-it was swelling and bruising already, blood gushing from the nostrils and torn lips.
Slowly, they drifted to the ground. She tried to lift him into a semi-standing position, his arm draped heavily over her shoulders. She staggered under his weight, breathless and drenched in his pure blood as Madames Hooch and Pompfrey hurried toward them.
____________________________________
His right eye flicked open. The left was swollen shut, painful under healing spells that had not quite finished their jobs. It was dark and cloying in the warm room, and the cot he was lying on was stiff and unyielding. For a minute, he was sure he'd died and gone to hell.
"Hullo, Malfoy. You look like hell."
The voice slicing through the darkness was bland and yet skeptical, with a rich and feminine tone that was somehow familiar.
::Well, old boy, you're not in hell:: Draco thought. ::There are no women with voices like THAT in hell::
He stiffened anyway. "Where am I? How did I get here?"
The voice held undercurrents of laughter. "Tsk, tsk, Malfoy. One question at a time. You're in the hospital wing, levitated here by Madame Pompfrey. You got knocked out by a Bludger-it really wrought havoc on your pretty face. But don't worry; Pompfrey already fixed your broken nose. You cut up your mouth pretty badly, too-"
He stared at the ceiling. "I remember. Mashed my face right into the broom. Dammit, Potter probably won, too."
She laughed softly from the darkness. "You and your priorities, Malfoy."
He wanted to grin, but his lips were too swollen and painful. Whoever this girl was, she had a sexy laugh. "So why are you here?" he asked. "You a healer's apprentice or something?"
She sounded amused. "Not quite. I just stopped by to check up on you."
He wanted to grin again, give her his trademark Malfoy smirk-the one that made girls drop at his feet. Not that she would be turned on, anyway-he probably looked like he'd just been bait for two hippogriffs and a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Still and all... "Who are you, anyway?"
Her voice mocked him. "Weaslette."
His blood ran cold. THE Weaslette? The sister-of-Weasley? Why the ruddy hell was she here? To mock him? To sneer at his clumsiness on the pitch? To jeer at him for losing the game? To kick him while he was down?
He struggled to retain some of his good-nature, not wanting to set her off while he was helpless in a cot. "So how hard did I hit the ground?" he asked, trying to sound light. "My shoulder's bloody KILLING me...did I break that, too?"
He could sense her blushing. "Um, actually, I...uh...I dislocated it."
"WHAT?"
She sounded panicked, frantic to explain. "I pulled your arm out of its socket when I caught you by your wrist."
"YOU CAUGHT ME?!?!"
"Sh, sh," she begged. "I'm not supposed to be here, Pompfrey'll kill me-"
He tried to sit up, groaning and swaying when the headache swelled over and submerged him. In seconds, she was beside him, her cool hands cradling is head and lowering it back onto the pillow.
"What do you mean, you caught me?" he hissed fiercely once he'd regained his senses. Forget the good-natured crap-he was humiliated.
Gone was her bravado. "You were falling. So I caught you."
He stared hard through his right eye, barely able to see her in the shadows. "Light a candle," he ordered. She hesitated. "NOW!" he barked, straining to see her. Gods, of all the shame-this silly little redhead had to rescue him. He'd almost rather have splattered on the pitch. It didn't help that two seconds ago he'd been attracted by her husky, sexy voice. In fact, it only magnified his embarrassment.
"Damn," he hissed once the candle was lit. She was silhouetted against it, a tiny girl twisting her hands nervously like a woman condemned. "Of all the ways to ruin my reputation-"
Her head shot up and her fury cracked like a whip. "You ingrate! I should've let you snap your stupid spine! I would've, too, if I had half a brain and wasn't worried about who would have to clean up the thumb-sized slivers of Malfoy sprayed all over the pitch!" She had risen, her harsh whisper moving toward the door. "Merlin, I was soaked in your blood!" she grated out, almost to herself. Tears glittered fiercely in her jewel-hard eyes. "I was so worried, and for what?"
Her voice cracked and Malfoy straightened, his mouth a perfect "o" of surprise.
"For what and for why? For a stupid, stuck-up, buggering little bastard-"
"I'm sorry," he blurted without thinking. She was just outside the rim of candlelight, her thin shoulders stiff with rage, the light glinting in her red hair. She paused, eyeing him dangerously in spite of the pools of tears that had collected on her lower lashes.
"Look," he started, lifting one hand. "I just..." He paused and dropped the hand in resignation. She would leave now, and he was too beat to go after her. He just couldn't understand what she'd been thinking-noone else would've cared if he'd broken his bloody neck. In fact, if Ginny Weasley had let him fall, the Gryffindors probably would have knocked Potter down a peg or two and made her their Queen. They might have even thrown a party-Three cheers! No Malfoy!
At last, when she didn't leave, he managed to speak in that timid voice he loathed. "You were really worried?"
She hesitated, then stepped back into the pool of light thrown by the candle. There was an expression of bewilderment and perplexed pleasure on his bruised face. She sighed. "Yes." It was the understatement of the century.
The gleam of surprised delight brightened in his good eye. "No kidding? Even though I bled all over you?" He sounded like a little boy eager for a treat.
She sighed again and perched on the edge of his cot. "Bled all over me? You don't know the half of it. My robes were soaked. I was soaked. My skin was literally stained with your blood. I spent an hour and a half in the shower trying to scrub it off me, terrified-TERRIFIED, Malfoy-that you would die on me." She didn't look at him, frowning at the ceiling instead. "I CRIED for you, you stupid sod. You really looked like death warmed over." Again, her voice cracked.
He stared at her, wanting to grin once more-not the Malfoy smirk this time, the guaranteed-seducer...but a big, dopey, boyish grin. "When my face isn't so beat-up," he teased, "will you promise to kiss me?"
Her eyes fastened on him, big and brown and solemn. "I'd kiss you anyway, you git. God only knows why."
"Really?" he asked, intrigued. He was amazed by her capacity to give, especially when he knew his face looked like Quasimodo's.
"Well," she amended, "if I wasn't afraid you'd push me away or laugh in my face."
He hesitated, his voice low. "I'm hardly in the position to push anyone away, Weaslette," he said at last, quietly, his right eye flicking pointedly to his weakened arms.
She stared at him, then tossed back her resplendent curls and laughed, quickly slapping one palm over her mouth to stifle the sound. "I don't believe this. Are you suggesting I take advantage of you? Big, bad Malfoy wants me to take control and demand his kisses?"
"You might as well," he responded dryly. When a smile quirked her lips, he held his breath and hazarded, "After all, once I'm better, I'll be the one demanding kisses, Weaslette."
Her eyes glowed briefly and she shivered delicately-::What a delicious thought!:: she reflected exultantly-before she leaned down and gently brushed her lips over his swollen mouth. He groaned at the teasing, mingling sensations of pleasure and pain.
Careful to avoid his injuries, she kissed him again. "We'll see about that, Malfoy," she whispered huskily. "We'll see." ____________________________________
FIN
THE QUIDDITCH PITCH In every fluffy one-shot (no matter how wonderfully-written!), Draco Maloy manages to save Ginny Weasley from falling to her doom on the Quidditch pitch. Well, what if the roles were reversed? D/G one-shot...for now... ___________________________________
Draco Malfoy scanned the pitch urgently, waiting impatiently for that tell-tale flicker of gold. Potter was mounted on his broom at the opposite end of the field, his eagle-eyes just as determined and piercing.
THERE! Malfoy didn't have to glance down; he knew instinctively that Potter had spotted the Snitch at the exact same moment he had, hovering high above the pitch. He rocketed toward it, spiraling higher and higher, fighting gravity and murmuring sweet-talk under his breath...though whether it was to the Snitch or his own broom, it was hard to say.
"C'mon pet, c'mon love, let us win, my angel..."
He was neck-to-neck with Potter now, shooting upward and forward. Silvery hair plastered itself to his brow and whips of frost-colored locks slashed at his cheekbones and eyes. His green robes snapped behind him in the wind, and everything in his world narrowed and converged until there was no Slytherin, no Gryffindor, no game, no Harry Potter-just wind, motion, and that tiny gold orb just ahead. He watched his hand stretch out-the fingers flex-almost-
Someone yelled to him from below, but he ignored it. He was ahead of Potter now and could feel the Snitch's fluttering wings just brush his fingertips...
Far below, Ginny Weasley-one of the best players on the Gryffindor Quidditch team-had just been saved from a Bludger by one of the Gryffindor Beaters. He clocked it with his club, and Ginny watched it arch upward over he pitch. It sailed past one Slytherin beater and continued its ascent, climbing, climbing-
The Bludger caught Draco Malfoy in the back of his head, smashing him forward and into his own broomstick. The world exploded, black with red sunbursts, all dark and blood and pain. Something wet gushed from his nose onto his robes and soaked him through to the skin, and the inside of his mouth was a mess of pulpy tissue against his teeth. He tumbled backward off the broom in slow-motion, his reflexes suddenly too sluggish to grip the broom handle, and he was vaguely aware of the cheers that erupted when Potter caught the Snitch high above him.
He plummeted downward as unconsciousness enfolded him, freeing him from the pain and cold wind and dampness.
Ginny Weasley had drawn a hissing breath and winced in empathy when the Bludger had taken out Malfoy, then had released a gasp when he'd been flung forward on his broom. But it wasn't until he tipped backward and fell that she closed her eyes and forced her broom to move.
She was breathing heavily, panting as she lunged forward on the broom, shooting diagonally across the pitch. Her arm shot out, gripping his wrist as he plummeted past her. His weight pulled her broom, made her flip, and for a minute they were suspended like that-Draco Malfoy dangling from the hand of an upside-down Ginny weasley, who clutched the broom with her free hand and wrapped her legs around it as though it were a long-lost lover. A sickening pop filled the air and Malfoy groaned softly, then whimpered through his unconsciousness.
Ginny grunted, forcing the broom topside once more and hoisting the boy across her lap. He was heavier than he looked. She gasped at the sight of his face-it was swelling and bruising already, blood gushing from the nostrils and torn lips.
Slowly, they drifted to the ground. She tried to lift him into a semi-standing position, his arm draped heavily over her shoulders. She staggered under his weight, breathless and drenched in his pure blood as Madames Hooch and Pompfrey hurried toward them.
____________________________________
His right eye flicked open. The left was swollen shut, painful under healing spells that had not quite finished their jobs. It was dark and cloying in the warm room, and the cot he was lying on was stiff and unyielding. For a minute, he was sure he'd died and gone to hell.
"Hullo, Malfoy. You look like hell."
The voice slicing through the darkness was bland and yet skeptical, with a rich and feminine tone that was somehow familiar.
::Well, old boy, you're not in hell:: Draco thought. ::There are no women with voices like THAT in hell::
He stiffened anyway. "Where am I? How did I get here?"
The voice held undercurrents of laughter. "Tsk, tsk, Malfoy. One question at a time. You're in the hospital wing, levitated here by Madame Pompfrey. You got knocked out by a Bludger-it really wrought havoc on your pretty face. But don't worry; Pompfrey already fixed your broken nose. You cut up your mouth pretty badly, too-"
He stared at the ceiling. "I remember. Mashed my face right into the broom. Dammit, Potter probably won, too."
She laughed softly from the darkness. "You and your priorities, Malfoy."
He wanted to grin, but his lips were too swollen and painful. Whoever this girl was, she had a sexy laugh. "So why are you here?" he asked. "You a healer's apprentice or something?"
She sounded amused. "Not quite. I just stopped by to check up on you."
He wanted to grin again, give her his trademark Malfoy smirk-the one that made girls drop at his feet. Not that she would be turned on, anyway-he probably looked like he'd just been bait for two hippogriffs and a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Still and all... "Who are you, anyway?"
Her voice mocked him. "Weaslette."
His blood ran cold. THE Weaslette? The sister-of-Weasley? Why the ruddy hell was she here? To mock him? To sneer at his clumsiness on the pitch? To jeer at him for losing the game? To kick him while he was down?
He struggled to retain some of his good-nature, not wanting to set her off while he was helpless in a cot. "So how hard did I hit the ground?" he asked, trying to sound light. "My shoulder's bloody KILLING me...did I break that, too?"
He could sense her blushing. "Um, actually, I...uh...I dislocated it."
"WHAT?"
She sounded panicked, frantic to explain. "I pulled your arm out of its socket when I caught you by your wrist."
"YOU CAUGHT ME?!?!"
"Sh, sh," she begged. "I'm not supposed to be here, Pompfrey'll kill me-"
He tried to sit up, groaning and swaying when the headache swelled over and submerged him. In seconds, she was beside him, her cool hands cradling is head and lowering it back onto the pillow.
"What do you mean, you caught me?" he hissed fiercely once he'd regained his senses. Forget the good-natured crap-he was humiliated.
Gone was her bravado. "You were falling. So I caught you."
He stared hard through his right eye, barely able to see her in the shadows. "Light a candle," he ordered. She hesitated. "NOW!" he barked, straining to see her. Gods, of all the shame-this silly little redhead had to rescue him. He'd almost rather have splattered on the pitch. It didn't help that two seconds ago he'd been attracted by her husky, sexy voice. In fact, it only magnified his embarrassment.
"Damn," he hissed once the candle was lit. She was silhouetted against it, a tiny girl twisting her hands nervously like a woman condemned. "Of all the ways to ruin my reputation-"
Her head shot up and her fury cracked like a whip. "You ingrate! I should've let you snap your stupid spine! I would've, too, if I had half a brain and wasn't worried about who would have to clean up the thumb-sized slivers of Malfoy sprayed all over the pitch!" She had risen, her harsh whisper moving toward the door. "Merlin, I was soaked in your blood!" she grated out, almost to herself. Tears glittered fiercely in her jewel-hard eyes. "I was so worried, and for what?"
Her voice cracked and Malfoy straightened, his mouth a perfect "o" of surprise.
"For what and for why? For a stupid, stuck-up, buggering little bastard-"
"I'm sorry," he blurted without thinking. She was just outside the rim of candlelight, her thin shoulders stiff with rage, the light glinting in her red hair. She paused, eyeing him dangerously in spite of the pools of tears that had collected on her lower lashes.
"Look," he started, lifting one hand. "I just..." He paused and dropped the hand in resignation. She would leave now, and he was too beat to go after her. He just couldn't understand what she'd been thinking-noone else would've cared if he'd broken his bloody neck. In fact, if Ginny Weasley had let him fall, the Gryffindors probably would have knocked Potter down a peg or two and made her their Queen. They might have even thrown a party-Three cheers! No Malfoy!
At last, when she didn't leave, he managed to speak in that timid voice he loathed. "You were really worried?"
She hesitated, then stepped back into the pool of light thrown by the candle. There was an expression of bewilderment and perplexed pleasure on his bruised face. She sighed. "Yes." It was the understatement of the century.
The gleam of surprised delight brightened in his good eye. "No kidding? Even though I bled all over you?" He sounded like a little boy eager for a treat.
She sighed again and perched on the edge of his cot. "Bled all over me? You don't know the half of it. My robes were soaked. I was soaked. My skin was literally stained with your blood. I spent an hour and a half in the shower trying to scrub it off me, terrified-TERRIFIED, Malfoy-that you would die on me." She didn't look at him, frowning at the ceiling instead. "I CRIED for you, you stupid sod. You really looked like death warmed over." Again, her voice cracked.
He stared at her, wanting to grin once more-not the Malfoy smirk this time, the guaranteed-seducer...but a big, dopey, boyish grin. "When my face isn't so beat-up," he teased, "will you promise to kiss me?"
Her eyes fastened on him, big and brown and solemn. "I'd kiss you anyway, you git. God only knows why."
"Really?" he asked, intrigued. He was amazed by her capacity to give, especially when he knew his face looked like Quasimodo's.
"Well," she amended, "if I wasn't afraid you'd push me away or laugh in my face."
He hesitated, his voice low. "I'm hardly in the position to push anyone away, Weaslette," he said at last, quietly, his right eye flicking pointedly to his weakened arms.
She stared at him, then tossed back her resplendent curls and laughed, quickly slapping one palm over her mouth to stifle the sound. "I don't believe this. Are you suggesting I take advantage of you? Big, bad Malfoy wants me to take control and demand his kisses?"
"You might as well," he responded dryly. When a smile quirked her lips, he held his breath and hazarded, "After all, once I'm better, I'll be the one demanding kisses, Weaslette."
Her eyes glowed briefly and she shivered delicately-::What a delicious thought!:: she reflected exultantly-before she leaned down and gently brushed her lips over his swollen mouth. He groaned at the teasing, mingling sensations of pleasure and pain.
Careful to avoid his injuries, she kissed him again. "We'll see about that, Malfoy," she whispered huskily. "We'll see." ____________________________________
FIN