Ron is going to get what's coming to him, cocky git, thought Harry as he ambled down to the Quidditch pitch. He'd been telling anyone who would listen that all Harry's success on the broom came from his superior models, so Harry bet him 10 Galleons that he could beat him without the Firebolt.
Of course Ron thought it was only fair that he get the Firebolt.
Well Harry wasn't short of Galleons, but he wasn't going to let Ron beat him. It was the principle of the thing. He figured he'd just let Ron off on the 10 Galleons once he won so he didn't feel too bad about the little bottle of Felix Felicis tucked into his robes. Slughorn had given it to him just before he resigned from his teaching post. He had recovered from the discovery that his prize student wasn't actually any good at potions, the Chosen One was too big a catch to lose from the Slug Club after all.
The sky above Hogwarts was so blue it hurt to look at. Great weather for Ron to get his ass handed to him, Harry surmised happily.
It seemed as if half the school had filed into the stands, eager to watch two of the eighth year heroes from the Battle of Hogwarts fight it out in the air. News travelled fast. They'd planned the confrontation in the Gryffindore's free period, but from the look of the crowd, not everyone was there on their own time. Headmistress McGonagall wouldn't be happy.
Not just Harry and Ron were getting attention. Since Voldemort's downfall, almost all the students who had fought in the battle received fan mail. Especially poor Neville, who was constantly being hounded by giggly first years. Seamus had also become very popular, people would follow him around and swoon at his irish accent.
When he reached the pitch, Dean, the self-imposed mediator of the bet called him over.
"Oy Harry, be a dear and fetch yourself a nice broom from the equipment room. Not a swanky one either. Cleansweep or slower, got it?"
Grumbling about bigheaded gits, Harry jogged over to the store room, pausing to take a quick swig of the bottle in his pocket.
Maybe I'll get lucky and the broom won't fall apart in the air.
Harry pushed the door open and closed it behind him. He grabbed the first broom he saw (a Cleansweep so old it predated Merlin) trusting to the bubbly feeling from the luck potion. Just as he turned to leave the door swung open and an irate Draco Malfoy crashed into the room.
"I'm warning you Peeves!" Roared Malfoy.
"If you don't want the full force of Slytherin house against you-and that includes the Bloody Baron-you'll bugger off."
"His usually immaculate blonde locks were soaked and covered in what looked like bits of water balloon.
"Had a water fight Malfoy?", remarked Harry, heartened by his bedraggled appearance.
Malfoy turned to Harry and his eyes hardened as he noticed his happy expression.
He continued, happy to annoy the pompous prick, "I thought you purebloods were too superior to be affected by something so Muggle."
"Superior to you maybe, Potter," retorted Malfoy, spitting out the last word like it had a nasty taste, "But that's not hard is it?"
Something's off about Malfoy, Harry realised. He seemed very hassled, more so than you'd usually be after a prank by Peeves (the troublesome ghost was something every student at Hogwarts had come to terms with by this point) and if there was one thing Harry had learnt from following Malfoy all through 6th year, it was what he looked like agitated.
The distinctive click of a lock interrupted Harry's musings and both boys glanced sharply to the now-locked door.
Peeves' voice could be heard drifting down the corridor,
"Poor Malfoy and Potty, locked in all alone!" He let out a raucous laugh that audibly trailed off as he sped away.
Quidditch reflexes kicking in, Harry instinctively drew his wand and tried Alohomora. He tried the door. Still locked. Harry let out a low groan and slid down the wall. "Great. Just fucking great."
Malfoy glared at Harry as if it was all his fault.
"Now I'm going to bloody miss my first lesson. Did you put that damn poltergeist up to this? It reeks of the famous Gryffindor idiocy."
"In case you haven't noticed Malfoy, I'm just as stuck in here as you are," replied Harry, all the joy gone out of baiting the Slytherin. strong"I had plans as well, not that you care."
"Ah yes. The much anticipated one-on-one Quidditch match between The Chosen One and his trusty sidekick The Weasel. Batman and Boy Wonder. The Whinging Ginger and The downfall of Vol-" Malfoy's spiteful sneer turned into a grimace as he realised what he'd almost said.
"Whats the matter Malfoy? Scared Voldemort will get you from beyond the grave?"
When Malfoy's face lost what little colour it had, Harry almost felt bad for probing at this wound. You Know Who was still a sore spot in the wizarding world; most people had lost family members in the paranoia-filled times after Dumbledores death and in the ensuing Battle of Hogwarts. Everyone knew someone who had died. Harry looked at the ground and his eyes grew a little moist as he thought back to all those he'd never see again. Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred, all go-
No. He refused to cry in front Malfoy of all people.
"He's done it before.
There must have been a questioning light in Harry's eyes because Malfoy explained.
"Vol-You Know Who. He's come back from the dead before."
Then, as if to make up for his for this moment of vulnerability, Malfoy followed up with a jab.
"I guess you didn't kill him well enough the first time did you Chosen One? Your parent's wouldn't be too proud."
"Shut up Malfoy."
"No one seems to be missing you do they? No one concerned that the Great Potter hasn't turned up. Maybe they've realised what a complete bloody waste of space you are. No use now you've done the wizarding world's dirty work for them."
"I said SHUT UP!" All of Harry's anger, anger that had been raging and growing and boiling since the war pushed him forward, fist first, into Malfoy's nose. Malfoy yelped in pain as blood spurted from his nostrils. Harry's hand hurt like hell but he wasn't going to him know that. It was the first real satisfaction that he had felt since the hunt for the Horcruxes.
How's that for a bloody waste of space?