Chapter Six

Day Three

Quidditch and Hangovers

Harry had never been so glad to have a nightmare in his life. At least if he was dreaming about Voldemort, he couldn't dream about Malfoy. And that's when it hit him, Draco Malfoy that is. He scuttled from the undergrowth, grey eyes wide with fear, and quidditch robes in disarray. He didn't see the rock and tripped, falling on top of Harry, who had paused to check his direction. The killing curse flew above them in a flash of green a few inches above Malfoy's hair.

Harry watched Malfoy's terrified eyes dart forwards, to what he knew was the crumpled body of a death eater hit by the curse. Then the eyes met his again, showing a look of understanding that continued to haunt Harry.

With a faint smirk, Malfoy hurled himself up, and began staggering in the direction of the castle. And Harry couldn't even call him a coward, because he would have run too, if he had the choice.

***

Harry refused, in any way, to let his life revolve around Malfoy and that stupid bet. It was for that reason he had decided to spring a surprise early morning quidditch practice on the team. He'd forced himself out of his unproductive moping, and was currently standing in the middle of the quidditch pitch, surrounded by six disgruntled Gryffindors, not known for their early morning good moods. He looked up at his glaring teammates. Perhaps disgruntled was an understatement; Ron looked ready to kill, though that might have had something to do with Hermione.

Harry had ended up sleeping on a couch in the common room, due to the still unconscious girl in his bed – one of the reasons he'd been up so early. When he'd gone upstairs to change out of yesterdays clothes and shower, Hermione had been kneeling with her head in the toilet of one of the stalls in the boys' bathroom. She had grunted something that he presumed was `good-morning`, and thrown-up. It must have been one hell of a hangover, because she didn't even react when the rest of the seventh year boys traipsed in – not even to Ron. They, however, reacted quite violently, especially Neville, who was in his underwear.

Harry snickered, remembering the horrified look on the poor boys face as he squealed and fled the room.

"Harry," Ron growled.

"Oh. Sorry. Right. Ron, I want you by the goals. I'm going to have the chasers working on their Petrie passes."

*

"To the left, Mason! LEFT!" Harry bellowed at the hapless chaser, fifteen minutes later.

"Oh for god's sake." He winced as Mason narrowly avoided Seamus, for once glad that he was standing at the side of the pitch, and not in the air.

"Really, Potter," an annoyingly familiar voice said from behind him, "Your team are playing worse than first year Hufflepuffs. And they don't play at all."

Harry didn't bother turning around.

"I'm not in the mood, Malfoy."

"Come, come, Harry, what's wrong with a little friendly banter?"

Harry rolled his eyes and turned around to tell Malfoy exactly where he could stuff his `friendly banter`, instead he ought sight of Malfoy's companion, a sickly looking Parkinson in over-sized sunglasses.

"What do you want?" He asked, resigned.

"Only the pleasure of you company," Malfoy replied, with far too little sarcasm for

Harry's comfort.

He flushed – something that was becoming an uncomfortable habit around the ferret. Malfoy smirked, and Parkinson perked up behind her dark lenses.

"You don't deserve my company," Harry snapped.

He was angrier at himself than at Malfoy, you can't really blame someone for being who they were; and Malfoy was naturally a git. He watched Malfoy forcibly trying not to react to Harry's goading before replying:

"Give me a chance to prove I do," without even missing a beat.

Harry looked away from the almost sincere face, to Parkinson's curious expression, then back.

"Why?" Harry asked, "why should I?"

Malfoy took a step forward. Harry felt the front of his body heat up. He flinched away from Malfoy's breath on his ear.

"You're blushing like a virgin, Potter."

This, of course, only made him blush more.

"Keep it up," Malfoy told him, "And agree, before it starts to seem like I'm begging for you attention."

Malfoy stepped back, taking the uncomfortable heat with him.

"So what do you say, Potter?"

Harry tried, he really did, not to look resentful. Judging by the angry glint in Malfoy's eyes, he wasn't entirely successful.

He opened his mouth, determined to control himself and get it all over with as soon as possible.

"Mason!"

"What the fuck!"

"Arggh!"

Harry had turned at the first yell, just in time to see Mason heading for the middle goal post. He looked forward again, perhaps wondering what all the shouting was about, and his eyes widened comically. He tried to pull up, but it was too late.

Harry winced as Mason hit the post with a crunch. He heard Malfoy snicker.

There was a second cry and Ginny yelled "Ron!"

Harry looked up to the top of the goal post Ron must have been napping against. He seemed to fall in slow motion. Harry had to hand it to his friend, Ron had good reflexes when he was plummeting to his doom. He reached out desperately and grabbed the bottom of the hoop.

"Ron!" Ginny cried again, rushing to the aid of her brother.

Mason was already being steadied by Seamus and Keane.

"Oh for the love of…" Harry trailed off with a sigh.

Five minutes. He takes his eyes off them for five sodding minutes…

"Well," Malfoy, at least, was entertained, "you may be the best flier in school," Harry had the vague impression that the words almost choked the Slytherin, "but you're a bloody useless coach."

Harry chose to ignore what seemed an aweful lot like a back-handed insult if there was such a thing.

"Mason!" He yelled, "do that again and you're off the team. Ron-" He sighed, "stop being such a prat." Well, he'd warned him about napping during practice.

His team glared back at him, all but Mason, who was blushing furiously and refusing to look his way.

"You may have a rebellion on you hands, Potter."

Harry turned around and scowled.

"Didn't Goyle throw his bat at a crow in you last game?"

Malfoy twitched.

"He has a phobia. Does your team have a phobia of staying airborne?"

Harry glared. Malfoy glared. Harry glared some more. Malfoy kept glaring. Harry turned his back and walked over to his team, something he knew would infuriate the Slytherin.

"That's enough for today," he shouted, then muttered to himself, "wouldn't want anyone to lose a limb."

****

The nerve of that, that pleb! Turning away from Draco Malfoy! No one turned their back on a Malfoy? Draco forced himself to relax. It was all for the greater good. The bet would start soon, and then in three short months…

"As mush as I'd prefer you to lose this bet, Darling," Pansy muttered, "at least try and give yourself a sporting chance."

"Pansy, dearest," Draco smirked, "trust me. I know how to play Potter, I've been doing it for years."

That, at least, was true. And fighting had to be part of it. It wouldn't be realistic for he and Harry to suddenly become best friends, so the fighting had to be built into the relationship…In a reasonably diluted fashion. Bickering was acceptable, hexing into tiny, tiny pieces, unfortunately, was not. Draco's wand hand twitched as he watched Potter argue with his team. No hexing, his mind chanted; no hexing, no hexing. Maybe just a little- No! No hexing.

"Whatever you say," Pansy said, Can I go to bed now? My head hurts and that freckly weirdo's glaring at me."

"You're not showing much dedication to our wager."

"I'm tired and hung-over, Draco. If you want vim and vigour, let me get back to bed and you shall have it tomorrow. I'd rather avoid the rest of today if that is at all possible."

"You really are a light-weight."

"I'm not a light-weight. Now take me to bed."

"An order," Draco smirked, "I most certainly cannot refuse."

"Really, Draco, as if I'd ever open my legs for you."

"Oh, you don't need to open you legs, just you mouth."

He imagined that behind the glasses, Pansy's brown eye were glaring at him, as her mouth worked uselessly trying to form words.

"You!" She growled, pink talon directed somewhere to the left of him. "Agh," she cried and stormed off without him.

Draco chuckled to himself, and turned back towards the castle. Breakfast seemed like a good idea, and he'd better find Pansy before she walked into something.

***

"Are you sure you're not hungry, Hermione?" Harry asked for the fourth time since they'd sat down to dinner.

Hermione glared at him from beneath the hand she had fastened to her forehead.

"You," she said in a low voice, "utter bastard."

"Hermione!" Ron gaped.

She groaned.

"Oh, come on," Harry grinned, "a hangover can't last this long."

"I do not," she enunciated, yet again, "have a hangover."

He had taken great pleasure in finding out she remembered very little of her night's exploits, including her claim to know his `secret`.

"Of course, and you weren't singing-"

"All the things I've done for you, and this is the thanks I get!"

"Hermione-"

"Don't you `Hermione` me Harry Potter! Next time you get yourself into one of these absurd situations, don't look to me for support!"

"I don't know what that Slytherin bitch thought she was doing, forcing you to drink like that-"

"Ronald! Shut up!"

He did. She glared at them both, before `Pulling a Malfoy`, and storming out of the Hall in a suitably girly fashion.

"What the bloody hell did we do, Harry?"

Harry shrugged and went back to eating his shepherds pie, tuning out Ron.

"I just don't understand her sometimes."

***

"Pansy would you stop ogling Snape, it's disgusting."

"Oh please," Pansy smiled, "as if you'd never wondered what he looked like under those thick robes."

Pansy had woken up an hour ago and apparently decided she was ready to face what remained of the day. Draco was beginning to wish she hadn't.

"Firstly, he's a man. Secondly, I've known him all my life. Don't be so disgusting."

"So? I've known your father most of my life, it doesn't stop me wondering."

Draco made a strangled noise and tried to wipe the last statement from his brain.

"If you don't shut up, witch, I'm going to hex you mouth closed."

"Be like that, Draco. And while you're at it, you can keep denying that you fancy Potter."

"I do not-!" Draco stopped himself, and ignoring the glare sent his way by Snape, continued in a more civilised tone, "I don't fancy Potter."

"You know," Pansy said, eyes trained on the Potions Professor, "I saw him without those robes once. His trousers are surprisingly tight."

"Pansy," Draco groaned, "I'm trying to eat my dinner."

"No," Pansy corrected, "you're trying to eat my dinner. You finished yours ten minutes ago."

"I'm a growing pureblood-"

Yes," she smirked at him, "but growing in which direction."

Draco glared. "I resent that implication. Malfoy's do not get fat."

"Of course not," she turned back to her Snape watching. "You know I have the strangest feeling I've forgotten something."

TBC