6. Quidditch

It wasn't long after what quickly became known as 'The Troll Incident' that the excitement in the castle shifted from the potential threat to their lives at the Halloween feast to the first Quidditch match of the year.

Unfortunately for Draco, both events revolved around Harry Potter. Which meant the brat was the talk of the castle for weeks.

It seemed that in the run-up to the match anyone who wasn't a Slytherin was purring over the prospect of the youngest seeker in a century, including most of the professors. He felt an irrational stab of petulance run through him; it wasn't fair. If he'd been born a mere two months later, he'd have been the record-breaker instead. As was its custom, the universe conspired to make Potter the centre of attention.

The more logical part of his mind reminded him that, as he ought to be twenty-six, he shouldn't hold a grudge against an eleven-year-old for being younger than him. He sulked anyway.

Once again, Potter should have been expelled. He'd run off and fought a troll, for Merlin's sake, endangering the lives of two other pupils as he did so. Yet once again, due to scarcely believable strokes of fortune and favouritism, he had barely a scratch to show for it. Draco had been forced to put up with his antics for seven years already; despite his best intentions, he didn't know if he had it in him to put up with seven more.

That was why the upcoming game was even more important than usual; not only was it the biggest rivalry of the season, pitting the two houses that disliked each other the most against one another, but it drew in the two most famous first years in student memory. It also gave Draco the gift-wrapped opportunity to give the Boy-Who-Lived the crushing reality check that Hogwarts so dearly needed.

He knew his plans for his reputation after the upcoming war required that the two of them didn't fall into the same spite-fuelled hatred as they had last time. But giving the most annoying brat in the school a bloody nose during a perfectly legitimate contest? That was fair game.

The only reason that captain Marcus Flint didn't have the Slytherin team practicing from end of lessons until curfew every night the week before the game was that his opposite number Oliver Wood had apparently had the same idea, and since the two teams couldn't be trusted to train at the same time without a good few fights breaking out, the two captains were limited to three days each.

However, they soon learnt that this meant that at the times which Flint did have his hands on them, he pushed them twice as hard, and it was a couple of days before the match that Draco collapsed exhausted onto one of the dark couches in the Slytherin common room, Crabbe and Goyle beside him. An adult he may be, but the crazed captain's drills were pushing his eleven year old body to the limit, and by the time the day was over he found himself entirely knackered.

Having been run through hours of Quidditch drills in preparation for the match, and then having run back to the common room just in time to make curfew (and avoid Filch), he was much too tired to feel like starting a conversation, and instead lounged back in the sofa and decided to let the others talk.

A full two minutes later, he realised that if he didn't speak, his two henchmen were most probably going to sit silence until it was time for bed.

He groaned, which coaxed a grunt from Crabbe, before trying to decide whether it would just be better to go straight to sleep after all. But other than a few dour conversations at the start of term, Draco felt that he'd been neglecting his efforts to transform the two bruisers into functioning members of society, and despite the growing feeling that it was all going to be a waste of time, convinced himself that he owed his companions another attempt.

A change of tact, perhaps. After all, repeating the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result was practically the definition of idiocy, and if this venture was ever going to work, he'd need to be smart about it.

"Thanks, for your help this week."

There. An acknowledgement of gratitude. That was something he normally didn't bother with.

Another grunt from Goyle. But from Crabbe...

"Why?" He asked, with a puzzled look.

He might have been confused, but at least he was making the effort to participate, Draco mused.

"Well, what have you been doing for me recently?"

That could have been an unfair question. Draco made constant demands of his two companions, from "Don't put on those robes, there's juice spilt all down the front" to "Finish that essay, it's due next period and Snape will blow his top off if you lose Slytherin any more points". But that was done for the duo's own benefit, not Draco's. There was only one thing he'd specifically requested (well, ordered, but with Crabbe and Goyle it basically boiled down to the same thing) for himself.

This had stumped Crabbe, so it was Goyle who answered.

"Oh, oh, only chew with our mouths shut!"

Draco's face dropped into his palm.

"No, that was to stop the two of you from looking like savages, and to give you both a small chance at not disgracing the good name of Salazar Slytherin. What did I ask you to do for me?"

"Look after you between classes!" Crabbe jumped, looking disturbingly similar to Granger on the hundreds of occasions she answered a professor's question in class.

"There we go!"

Even when he had been a scrawny preteen in both mind and body, Draco would have been the first to admit that his two associates hadn't been good for anything other than looking intimidating and taking light spellfire for him. However, with the upcoming Slytherin-Gryffindor match, and two theoretically easy-to-bully first years filling the two most important positions, those skills had suddenly become rather marketable. Neither seeker was much to look at, but since Potter had filled an otherwise empty hole in the team whereas Draco had actually displaced an existing player, the whispering said that Slytherin were the slight favourites, though the odds had narrowed significantly since the other whispering claimed Potter had taken out a troll.

The upshot of all this was that both of them had been subjected to numerous nudges, shoves, and minor jinxes in the corridors, and as such Flint had assigned Crabbe and Goyle actual bodyguard roles. Even as first years, they were easily large enough to absorb any physical knocks, and were so clumsy that it was hard to tell when they were hit by a tripping jinx and when they'd just fallen over themselves.

"Dumb Gryffindors, cheatin' already."

While Draco heartily agreed, part of the point of the exercise was to prevent any development into sycophantic yes-men, and hardening the house divide now would prove detrimental in the long run.

"That would be true, Goyle, if we didn't have our upper years giving Potter the exact same treatment." With a good dose of interest added on top, he thought. "The point is, I asked you to do something, and you're both performing well. Thank you."

Quiet descended back on the small group.

Then...

"Thanks," Crabbe said. "For saying thanks. It makes us feel 'preciated, it does."

For once, Draco smiled warmly. That was two sentences strung together! He'd have them holding a conversation in no time.

"You're welcome, Crabbe. You're very welcome."

Maybe this wasn't to be so futile after all.

"Everyone clear?" Came the question.

"Yessir!" Everyone shouted back to him. Really, it was hard not to be clear, after the instructions had been bellowed at you so loudly.

Draco stood in the Slytherin huddle in the changing room, new green robes hanging off his thin frame. Dwarfed by Marcus Flint and Terence Higgs on either side of him, his arms around their waists as theirs drooped down over his shoulders, he got the feeling that if it had truly been his first Quidditch match, he'd be feeling rather intimidated by now. The former seeker had swapped to chaser after Draco had displaced him, bulking up significantly in the process, and the captain was... well, Flint.

Of course, the fact he hadn't actually played in a decade coupled with Flint's promises of immediate evisceration if they didn't win ("Don't worry, he says that every game. Not that I've lost yet." Pucey had grinned at him after the threats) meant there was still a little room to be nervous. With a slight start, he also realised that, with a petrifying serpent, a Triwizard Tournament, and Draco's own, er, extra-curricular activities, he'd only actually completed two Quidditch seasons in the previous timeline. As nerves slithered through his system, he wondered if maybe his return to childhood had made an impact on his mind as well as his body...

"Then let's go crush 'em!" Flint finished.

Draco clutched his own Nimbus 2000 that his father had bought for him (as a congratulations-for-making-the-team present) tightly in his hand, as they emerged to find their scarlet opponents already waiting for them on the pitch. This was unsurprising, as Flint had deliberately dallied to ensure the Slytherin team came out nice and warm whereas the Gryffindors had spent almost a quarter of an hour waiting outside in the brisk November chill. Every little edge counted.

Draco watched as the two captains did their best to wrench each other's arms off. Then, at a shrill blast of Madam Hooch's whistle, the fourteen players shot off into the air, chasing after the four balls that had been released just before.

"And Angelina Johnson gets the Quaffle, soars through the air; what a girl, great talent, great looks - um, looks very natural on a broom, born to fly, sorry Professor -"

Draco gave a mental sigh as he heard Lee Jordan's voice wilt under what he imagined to be a particularly stern stare from McGonagall. He didn't know quite why they kept on such an immature and partisan student as their commentator; he could only think that if they used one student from each house they'd be too busy fighting each other to talk about the match.

"- Spinnet with the Quaffle now, trained with the team last year, now making the starting seven, nips under Flint and heads towards the goal, c'mon Alicia, show'em how it's done!"

At least with such an in depth knowledge of their opponents, and his enthusiastic cheering for Gryffindor, the Slytherin team were well-flagged for whenever they were in trouble.

Sure enough, at Jordan's unwitting warning, the Slytherin beater who had been tailing Draco turned off and whacked a bludger towards the Gryffindor chaser. At Johnson's shout, Spinnet was able to spiral away from the danger, but dropped the Quaffle as she did so, and Flint snapped it up eagerly.

"Slytherin captain in possession, darts past the Weasley twins, wake up boys, you can stop him..."

Tuning out the commentator, Draco used the opportunity while his protector was absent to climb higher above the pitch, hoping for a glint of gold amongst the grassy green. Half the pitch away, but still much closer to him than anyone else given their altitude, Potter was doing much the same thing.

Suddenly his opposite number looked up, fixed him with a grin, before dropping straight down towards the crowd of players below.

Instinctively, Draco followed, and as they shot through chasers and beaters he frantically turned his eyes this way and that, searching for a bright sheen of gold that would give away what they were heading towards. He found nothing.

"And the seekers have seen something! Ferocious dives, but where's the snitch?"

That, Draco thought, was the question, and he was no closer to finding an answer. So, a feint, was it? Well, two could play at that game. He pushed the broom even harder, plummeting towards the rapidly approaching ground. With inches to spare, the two first years pulled up simultaneously, each clutching a patch of grass plucked from the surface to show the other.

"And it's a feint! Potter and Malfoy scratching the surface, waving turf at each other; our two new seekers can certainly show off! But the dives have disrupted the Slytherin attack, Spinnet again with the Quaffle..."

Sure enough, the Gryffindor girl was streaking through the sky, passing the shattered Slytherin defence and shooting at one of their goals, past the Slytherin keeper, who promptly missed it.

"AND GRYFFINDOR SCORES! 10-0 to the boys - and girls - in red!"

A huge roar went around the stands; as usual, most of the other houses had sided against Slytherin and were heartily cheering on their opponents. Draco groaned as Potter smirked at him; it had been their battle which had set the move up.

Determined not to get caught out again, he spun away from Potter, swirling upwards to try and catch a glimpse of the golden snitch. A short time later, he still hadn't a sight of it, until -

"FOUL! A HIDEOUS BIT OF CHEATING FROM -"

McGonagall's half-hearted response was caught off in the wind, but the two of them were looking equally irate, as Flint had smashed into the Gryffindor seeker. Draco's heart jumped - the only reason for such a desperate manoeuvre would be if the snitch was about to be caught.

Sure enough, as soon as Gryffindor had put away the resultant penalty - "20 points to nil!" - his captain flew past him ominously with a look that clearly said 'don't make me cover for you again'. He redoubled his efforts, tailing Potter more closely.

The teams shared two more goals as the seekers circled high above the stadium, eyes peeled on the grounds and each other. On a bright day such as this, it was easier to see the golden snitch against the green below them than the blue above.

Without warning, his opposite number stopped in front of him, leaned back, and bounced on his broom. Confused, Draco paused to watch him, until -

- The bucking broom! Blurred memories of a match long forgotten resurfaced as Draco remembered how Potter had lost control of his broom in his ever first match before. Seizing the opportunity, he dropped a half dozen metres, and began his search anew, confident that his opposition was distracted for the time being at least.

He wasn't the only one. With the Gryffindor team focussed on ensuring their star seeker avoided a sudden and grisly end, Flint took advantage of the confusion to score several times in succession. That wouldn't matter, though, because Draco had seen the snitch, hovering just above the ground, and Potter was nowhere near it. His Nimbus 2000 put on another burst to bring him racing downwards, a bare metre above the grass, and as he pursued it from one side of the stadium to the other, he could feel the small sphere about to rest in his fingertips, and -

WHAM!

There was a sharp pain in his side, and both boy and broom found themselves tumbling over each other across the earth. They bounced along the rough surface before coming to a painful stop when Draco's head made an abrupt and unpleasant introduction to the beam of wood holding up the Hufflepuff section of the stands. He heard a crack; he hoped it was the wood.

"And Spinnet shows her spine, an excellent block on the Slytherin seeker to save the game for Gryffindor!"

Sure. When Flint collided with Potter, it was a "disgusting bit of cheating", but when the Gryffindors smashed him off his broom, attempted murder became "an excellent block".

To her credit, Spinnet herself dismounted and helped him back to his feet with an apologetic smile that gave the impression that while she didn't regret what she'd done, she was sorry that he was the one who had to be on the receiving end of it. Bruised all over, and side still smarting, he shook his head clear and took off before the approaching Madam Pomfrey could get her hands on him.

The snitch had disappeared; the only spark he could see was from what appeared to be a small fire coming from the teacher's section of he stands. Dazed, he shook the thought out of his foggy mind (how hard had he hit his head when he'd crashed?), not pausing to wonder why the teachers would be on fire, and continued upwards. Worse still than the missing snitch, Potter had regained control of his broom, and had restarted his own search.

The game grew long, and dirty. With the goals Flint had scored while the Gryffindor players were out of position, plus the penalty he'd knocked through for the foul on Draco, Slytherin had an 80 - 30 lead. But after both seekers had been taken out, the gloves were well and truly off, and neither team seemed as interested in winning as in making sure their opponents didn't.

A chaser from each house was now tailing the opposition seeker, spiting them at every turn and getting in little kicks and bumps whenever Madam Hooch's back was turned. Spinnet evidently didn't have the stomach for such work, as Draco was marked by the more experienced Angelina Johnson, while Flint himself was determined to harry Harry. With only two chasers left each, the game became much more open, and with numerous penalties given away by both sides, the scoreline was racking up fast.

Draco could downplay the aching in his limbs, but the growing thudding in his skull was harder to ignore. A glancing blow to his forehead by a bludger added to his woes, and he could feel his reactions slowing as the game went on into the evening. Fortunately, a mixture of fear that his broom would play up again, and the personal attentions of Flint, meant that Potter was having similar troubles, and both seekers seemed more inclined to stay alive than make an effort to catch the snitch.

Ultimately though, it happened all too fast; the seekers were on other ends of the pitch when, out of the corner of his eye, he snatched a glimpse of Potter accelerate, duck under Flint, and pull up triumphantly. Slytherin had been ahead, but not by enough. The game had finished at... actually, Draco wasn't too sure what the score was, but by the celebrations of the Gryffindor players, it was obvious who had won.

Descending, he flinched as the impact of the landing jarred him after so long in the air, and then again as the captain approached him with a scowl fixed to his face.

"Malfoy!"

"Sorry, I know we nearly had them, it was... what was the final result again?"

Just as he said this, he suddenly became aware of Lee Jordan's voice triumphantly proclaiming over the fields to all who could hear him,

"GRYFFINDOR WIN, THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY TO TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY! THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY TO TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY!"

The volume made his head hurt.

Flint muttered something to Pucey beside him, before turning back to Draco.

"Who's the Minister of Magic?"

What a stupid question. Shacklebolt had been Minister ever since the fall of the Dark Lord.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"Who?" asked Pucey.

"It's worse than we thought," Flint said. "Get him up to the hospital wing."

Well that wasn't what he'd expected.

"You're not mad at me?"

Flint gave him a funny look.

"Malfoy, on this team, we win or we die trying, and you came damn close to both today. Next time, we'll flatten the pricks."

After Madam Pomfrey had finished waving her wand over his torso, vanishing the numerous bruises he'd picked up in the match along the way, Harry was somewhat surprised to hear he was free to go. Despite his only previous meeting with this incarnation of the medi-witch coming immediately after The Troll Incident, when she had dispensed hot chocolate to a shaken Harry and Ron, he was much more used to his old memories of the hospital wing, where following every dangerous situation he was generally kept locked up for as long as possible afterwards.

This new freedom was possibly due to her other patient, who was sitting upright on one of the beds, loudly protesting to anyone who would listen to him that he was fine.

The sight was giving Harry quite the shock. Going into the match, he'd focussed on Draco's previous Quidditch career, which wasn't exactly stellar. The first year he'd made the team, Draco had spent so much time taunting Harry that he had missed that the golden snitch was fluttering just above his ear. In third year, their first match had been rearranged after Draco had claimed (rather farcically, in Harry's opinion) that an injury sustained to his arm had left him unable to play, and in the subsequent rescheduling Harry had caught the snitch despite only trying to once Gryffindor had gone the sixty points up they needed to win the Quidditch Cup. Two years later, Harry had once again beaten Draco, who then got Harry banned from Quidditch altogether, before abandoning the sport to focus on his nascent career as one of Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters.

The pattern was obvious; bribe his way onto the team, perform poorly on the pitch, and moan loudly about it afterwards.

Except this time, he hadn't. He'd taken over from the previous seeker in what Harry could only assume was a fair contest, given that (unlike when Draco had last made the team, who were suddenly riding brand new Nimbus 2001s) there were no new brooms awaiting the rest of Slytherin when he joined. Instead of complaining about how their defeat wasn't his fault, he was doing his best to be given a clean bill of health, despite two lumpy bruises on his head (one at the front, one at the back) and how Madam Pomfrey was muttering words like "concussion" and "head impact" under her breath.

It was with some irony that he further realised that Draco was in the very bed Harry had spent so much time in before he'd returned to the past, using the very same excuses as to why he should be allowed to leave.

Overall, the Draco sitting there was not the same one he was used to; far from being bratty, he was one of the most mature students in he year. He had generally held off insulting Harry or, even more impressively, his friends, and was much more polite to the teachers. His skills matched his new attitude; he was still flying through schoolwork with ease in the few subjects they were in the same class for, and he had heard teachers praise him even in the ones they didn't. And in the Quidditch game today, far from being mediocre, he'd flown like a man possessed, knocking off bludgers, disrupting attacks and generally making a nuisance of himself...

Like a man possessed.

He couldn't be, surely?

But he was so different.

"The possessed can show signs of sudden character change, dubious behaviour, and worsening physical condition." Quirrell's words rang through his head. For Merlin's sake, Draco himself had brought up the subject.

Sudden character change, tick. Dubious behaviour, tick. Worsening physical condition? Sneaking a glance at a topless Malfoy, who had sustained a good many injuries during his fall and roll, Harry had to admit that he looked fine (other than the blue bruises which Pomfrey was busy attending to), but he couldn't have been possessed for very long. His behaviour in Madam Malkin's and on the start of term Hogwarts Express ride had been exactly as Harry had remembered it, any change had only occurred after that first night in Hogwarts castle.

It was as if some foreign spirit had merged with the boy, imparting great knowledge and power while mellowing the worst of his arrogance and prejudice.

Could Voldemort have abandoned Quirrell and decided to use a new host? What damage could even the Dark Lord do through a mere first year? But before the question was even fully formed, memories of his second year, the opening of the Chamber of Secrets and the petrification of several students (and a cat) by an unknowingly possessed Ginny Weasley filled his mind. There was plenty of ill to be done, no matter the chosen vessel.

Last time Voldemort had abandoned Quirrell as a host, the man had died. But he had been badly burned by the fight between himself and Harry, and had been under the Dark Lord's influence for a long time. Maybe, by being released so quickly, the Defence Professor had escaped unharmed.

A first year would certainly attract less attention than a teacher, even one as seemingly inept as Professor Quirrell. Harry doubted the Malfoys would be so ignorant as to let Draco be possessed by the diary in the same way as Ginny had, so that was out. Possession would explain Draco's sudden change of attitude, trying to draw closer to him. It would explain his greater knowledge of magic, and how he was so unchallenged academically. It could also explain why he was so keen to get out of the hospital wing; could any of Madam Pomfrey's charms detect a sign of possession?

"Harry! You're alright!"

Ron's voice broke his train of thought, as he and Hermione ran across the room to greet him.

"'Course I am, just a few bruises." He replied with a smile.

"Well then, come on! The party's started, and everyone's celebrating, and Hermione was awesome, Harry, you should have seen her!"

"Just a minute, gotta do something first."

He walked over to where Malfoy was sitting, passing through the wary glances of the other Slytherins surrounding him.

"Malfoy." The boy looked up. "Great game," Harry continued, sticking his hand out. "Looking forward to next year already."

The blond seemed to consider the outstretched arm for a moment, before cautiously taking it.

"You too, Potter. We'll be back, don't worry yourself."

Hmm. No sudden shaking, burning, screaming, or other effects Harry remembered from his final confrontation with the late Professor Quirrell at the end of his previous first year, when the protection of his mother's dying love had left Voldemort's host unable to sustain physical contact. Whatever had gotten into Draco, it wasn't Voldemort.

"That was good of you, Harry. We sat with Hagrid at the match, he invited us down for tea this Friday." Hermione said when he got back.

Hagrid. Harry was slightly ashamed that they hadn't kept in as close contact as he was used to. Maybe with his more confident outlook from many more years of exposure to the magical world, he hadn't seemed to need the half-giant's company this year. Knowing all the secrets from his past, and the current future, Harry hadn't needed to discuss any suspicious goings-on in the castle with him either. His only defence was that it was a long, long time since he'd last been in the habit of wandering down to Hagrid's cabin by the woods after lessons.

"That's great! He showed me around Diagon Alley on my birthday, it'll be good to catch up."

Walking back from the hospital wing, Hermione told him of her adventure to the staff section, where Professor Snape had been muttering suspiciously before being distracted with her bluebell flames. Harry knew that she must have knocked Quirrell, as last time, who was cursing him, before moving on to Snape, who had been going through the counter-curse. Combined with the Defence teacher's continued stuttering demeanour and use of a turban, this similarity to his previous adventure more or less confirmed that Quirrell was up to his old tricks. But with another player in the game, perhaps it was time to revisit the mystery of the Philosopher's Stone.

After, of course, celebrating this victory long into the night with a raucous Gryffindor common room.