BLOOD DONOR
Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM
Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Favorite Review: Came from Camille, who could not leave a signed review, or else I would have emailed her this, too, but she left me one of the nicest reviews I ever have received. As a writer, I got this warm glow, just reading it. Thank you so much, Camille, for the inspirational review. If you find your account, feel free to email me. I'd love to talk to you.
A/N: Hope you all had an excellent holiday! I'm so happy, you all really seemed to like the plot I've included so far…I was sort of worried that I didn't explain things well enough, actually. To those who don't feel this story has enough Harry/Draco in it, relax. Patience. I am working on it, but I'm also trying to include a plot, rather then just slash. It will come, I assure you.
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"Come in, Mr. Malfoy," Professor McGonagall said to Draco, a sharp clip accentuating her voice. The tone was undeniably angry, but then, McGonagall never expressed even remote happiness upon seeing a Slytherin student outside of class; particularly Draco, who was widely regarded as the epitomic Slytherin.
McGonagall moved aside to allow Draco to pass through the elaborately carved wood doorway. He expected the intricately decorated entry was a testament to McGonagall's Transfiguration skills…none of the other professors had such opulent entrances to their personal rooms.
Rows of books decorated the walls inside the first room, and a grand fireplace occupied another wall. A large window created the final wall. Through the glass, Draco could see the faint outlines of the Quidditch pitch fading slowly into the darkness of the night. Everything in the room, obviously used as a study, was meticulously arranged, with the same rigorous neatness McGonagall's tightly bound hair and straightforward robes exhibited.
Draco did not speak as he entered. He was no more enamored of McGonagall than McGonagall was of him. Everyone outside of Slytherin House believed Snape was the only prejudiced professor in Hogwarts, but McGonagall and the other professors had other, more subtle ways of expressing their disdain of the Slytherin portion of the school.
"Well, sit down, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said curtly, gesturing to a well-worn couch that probably once had possessed some semblance of the elegance imbued in every curl of the entryway, but was now long faded from use.
Draco's mouth curved into a slight sneer as he sat fastidiously on the couch. "Of course, Professor," he replied with as much arrogance as he could muster while still retaining a modicum of deference. Best to keep the illusion of respect preserved while he endured this farce of an investigation. Draco Malfoy, the message delivered by a terrified Hufflepuff Second Year, had begun. Three Sixth Year Hufflepuffs accompanied the younger student, clearly acting as a sort of guard. They had glared at Draco with hate in their eyes. Report to Professor McGonagall's rooms immediately for an audience with the Minister of Magic about your activities this past Saturday. He knew exactly what they wanted to question him about, especially after having listened to Scrimgeour's fetid speech against dark magic only two hours prior.
The investigation of dark magic always stemmed from fear.
Fear of power, fear of subjugation, fear of death, life, battle, blood…None of the excuses mattered. In the end, cold, numbing, horrifying fear festered like a wound, growing in both complexity and prevalence, until nameless, faceless, terror overwhelmed an entire population, and the people clamored for the extinction of the cause of their fear.
Turn on a light, and the dark disappears.
But, eventually, with the departure of the dark comes the inevitable realization that the darkness still lurks, just out of reach of the light. And so, the fear grows again, becoming relentlessly pervasive, until it transforms into hatred, just to mask the fear.
And with the Dark Lord gaining power, flaunting dark magic, the Ministry was undoubtedly afraid. The Mudbloods and half-bloods who invaded the wizarding world and never even attempted to conform to tradition, comprised the real problem. They spread their petty judgments and fears like the muck for which they were named. And then they had the gall to wonder why pureblood families like the Malfoy's despise them so much. Their filth was collapsing the very foundations of the wizarding world, their introduction into the old bloodlines weakening new generations of magic, slowly destroying the wizarding world.
A plague everyone saw, yet still persisted in feigned blindness to the destruction it created.
The Dark Lord realized the importance of preserving the bloodlines, of annihilating the ineffective sham that disguised itself as the Ministry. He knew that ignoring and fearing dark magic was illogical to the extreme. How inconceivably stupid, for the wizarding world to ignore half of its heritage, merely because the Mudbloods deemed it improper.
A loud knock sounded at the door. McGonagall ceased her silent contemplation of Draco, and walked to the door. She welcomed the Minister of Magic with almost the same amount of controlled antipathy she had greeted Draco with.
"Come in, Minister. Mr. Malfoy has already arrived."
"Thank you, Minerva," Scrimgeour replied courteously, and stepped inside. For the first time, Draco had the opportunity to examine the new Minister. Of course, he had met with Fudge several times in the company of his parents, before his father had been arrested, and the Malfoy name had suffered a severe political blow as a result.
Scrimgeour had definitely been a field Auror, Draco gathered from the silvery scars running across the older man's face. That, and the fact the new Minister boasted a noticeable lack of bodyguards. So not only had Scrimgeour been an Auror, he must have been a good one, too, but Draco could have determined that from Scrimgeour's prior position as Head of Magical Law Enforcement.
"Mr. Malfoy," Scrimgeour growled in way of a greeting.
Draco stood. "Minister," he replied coolly, not bothering to offer his hand. Scrimgeour, as was evident from the harsh glare he leveled at Draco in return, would not have shaken it, anyway. The unspoken insult involved would have made Draco appear weak, in addition to giving Scrimgeour the position of power in the upcoming conversation. Draco did not want to be burdened by even the slightest disadvantage. If he did not defend himself properly, it was very conceivable that he could end up in a cell in Azkaban before the night was out.
Draco did not wish to rot his life away in Azkaban.
Of course, he would probably die in the prison before a month had passed, without any blood to drink. Mentioning that little problem to the Azkaban guards would result in Draco's execution, rather than mere imprisonment. No, Azkaban was not an option.
Draco allowed himself to relax slightly. Scrimgeour did not possess any real evidence; otherwise, he would have launched a Binding Spell at Draco as soon as he had entered the room.
Scrimgeour regarded Draco for a minute. "Your actions on Saturday have landed you in a very bad position, Mr. Malfoy." Draco could see the Auror emerging, scattering Scrimgeour's carefully contrived politician veneer with cracks. What would the Wizarding world think, to know their precious Minister still possessed a type of vigilante mentality?
A few more minutes passed.
Scrimgeour was trying to get Draco to incriminate himself. Inwardly, Draco jeered at the tactic. It would take far more than an unspoken threat and prolonged silence to discomfort Lucius Malfoy's son.
Draco did not speak.
"A student has come forward, testifying that you attacked them this past Saturday, with dark magic, without provocation." A hard glint entered Scrimgeour's pale blue eyes.
"With all due respect, sir, that student is lying." Draco wondered exactly what to say. He decided on a half-truth. After all, McGonagall still stood in the corner of the room, supervising the conversation, and by the decidedly angry fold of her arms, she was not pleased to have the Minister interrogate one of her students. Whatever her prejudices against Slytherin House, McGonagall was unyieldingly fair about punishments.
They must have looked strange, the grizzled politician and lean schoolboy facing each other with identical hatred blazing in their eyes.
"I was indeed involved in a fight, sir," Draco tacked on the honorific with a slight sneer, "But they cast the first curse, and I did not use dark magic." He had, of course, considered denying the fight entirely, but even he could not explain away the injuries on the students in the Hospital Wing.
"The witness gave a different account, Mr. Malfoy."
Of course they did, Draco thought angrily, though he kept his face carefully devoid of any emotion. As for the identity of the witness, it could only be Carmichael or one of the other Seventh Year boys in the corridor…or Potter. Granger and the Weasel had arrived well after the fight was finished, and had been too concerned with Potter's collapse to bother a professor about a fight they had not been involved in, and had not seen.
But Potter…Potter had seen.
"They said you used dark magic to bind them in stone, and then tried to suffocate them," Scrimgeour said, trying and failing miserably to speak dispassionately, for his expressionless voice was completely at odds with the fury blazing in his expression.
McGonagall's face mirrored the disgust in Scrimgeour's voice. Instinctively, Draco knew he had lost his only supporter in the room.
He was dangerously close to falling off the precipice, onto the Devil's Snare which lurked with deliberate patience below, praying for him to fall.
Enough.
Draco deliberately straightened his stance, unfolding his arms from across his chest. His posture, he knew from years of pureblood etiquette lessons with his mother, was immaculate, and the particular set of his chin made him appear appallingly upper-class. Draco made certain to infuse his voice with as much angry disbelief as he could muster. "You may check my wand, Minister." His voice lost any illusion of warmth, thrumming with cold fury. "You will not find any dark magic spells."
The statement, of course, would register as undeniably true, even when checked with Veritaserum. Draco had spelled away all traces of dark magic on his wand just minutes after the fight had occurred.
The mane of yellow-grey hair around Scrimgeour's lined face shook unexpectedly. It was not immediately obvious whether the Minister was laughing or merely shaking his head. Both possibilities unnerved Draco, for both reactions were unanticipated. Scrimgeour should be enraged, furious, not laughing as Draco purposefully insulted him.
"If a Malfoy is willingly offering up his wand, it only means you have removed any trace of your guilt already," Scrimgeour's eyes glittered with dangerous black humor. Draco's lips twitched into a faint smirk.
The accusation was true, of course, and both Draco and the Minister knew it, but McGonagall did not, and in her ignorance lay Draco's most viable path to victory.
"Minister!" McGonagall protested angrily. "You can not accuse one of my students, then refuse the evidence he offers to defend himself. You will check his wand, and then, whatever the outcome, this matter is settled."
Righteous Gryffindor indignation was wonderful when it was utilized in your defense.
Scrimgeour waved his wand over Draco's wand, and muttered something indistinguishable. A few seconds passed, then vague shapes of various, curriculum-approved, spells emerged like silent ghosts from the tip of Draco's wand. A translucent book floating over Draco's head imitated the effects of a Summoning Charm as he tilted his head to watch, expressionless.
"No dark magic spells, Minister. Your business here is concluded," McGonagall said curtly, her tone as sharp as the silver knife resting reassuringly in Draco's pocket like a charm.
Scrimgeour threw on his thick wool coat with obvious vehemence, frustration and rage embodied in all his too quick movements. He moved towards the doorway, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Rest assured, Mr. Malfoy, if I receive even one more accusation of dark magic in regards to you, you will be investigated in Auror headquarters, far from any misplaced sense of aid." Scrimgeour glared at McGonagall with far less than his normal courtesy.
"I'll have to make certain you don't hear any more accusations, then, Minister," Draco said blandly. The slight tightening of two pairs of angry eyes informed Draco that the other two occupants of the room had caught the double meaning behind his words, as he knew they would. Scrimgeour left the room without replying, and Draco was left facing McGonagall, who observed him with tightly clenched lips.
"Should I ever discover evidence that you did indeed use dark magic on Mr. Carmichael and his friends, I will personally notify the Ministry. Do you understand, Mr. Malfoy?" McGonagall' strong disapproval was as brittle and staccato as an army marching over a graveyard of fallen leaves. The harsh glare she leveled at Draco possessed all the danger of an invading force, as well.
"Perfectly, professor," Draco replied coldly. He appeared a vision of ice, his grey eyes cool, his hair glinting silver, his expression glacial in its intensity. "Is that all?"
"Leave, Mr. Malfoy." McGonagall said harshly, anger and disgust carving her into fury personified.
Draco left without further conversation, striding through the elaborately carved doorway with a faint sneer of contempt.
--
Draco stalked back to the Slytherin dormitory, something feral twisting in his eyes. He paused in front of the appropriate section of wall, and pulled a silver knife out of his pocket with a deft twist of his wrist. Quickly, he slashed a shallow cut across the pale tips of two of his fingers, and smeared the resulting blood on the carved snake coiled in the corner of one of the infinite number of stone blocks comprising the dungeon passageway with a violent gesture.
When he spoke the password, it resounded through the air like a curse.
The Slytherin common room was conspicuously absent of older students. Two Second Years talked quietly on a green and black couch in front of the fireplace. The space was normally reserved for the older students.
"Where is everyone?" Draco asked them coldly.
The two younger students, one a dark-haired blonde, the other, a brunette, looked up, startled, at the question. They immediately stood, almost falling off the couch in their haste. Something frightening lurked in Draco's tone and demeanor, something that, upon first glance, seemed elegant. Arrogant, but harmless nevertheless. Upon further consideration, though, the silkiness of Draco's voice seemed menacing, a thin veneer struggling to contain the monster prowling underneath the pureblood polish.
"Warrington called a meeting," the brunette finally answered. Her apathetic reply almost, but not entirely, concealed the fear she felt. Draco saw that the blonde's right hand, partially hidden behind her friend, firmly gripped her wand.
Draco smiled slightly. The other girl grabbed her wand, as well. Malfoys were well-known for their vicious tempers, and Draco appeared particularly violent at the moment.
He left without asking any more questions. Of course, he did not need any other answers. All of the older students had disappeared late on the night the Minister had announced his campaign against dark magic…they were in the Green Room.
It took almost five minutes to reach the Green Room. Down a corridor, a sharp right, up another corridor; the path was deliberately indirect. The circuitous route was created to confuse and separate an invading force, so the Slytherins, dangerous familiar with the winding maze, could easily destroy any approaching enemy.
Not to mention all the side paths bristling with fatal traps…
Finally, Draco arrived at a blank stretch of wall in the midst of one of the most dimly lit, unpleasant corridors in the Slytherin dormitory. The foul atmosphere partially derived from the numerous repulsing spells positioned along the wall. The spells were specifically designed to encourage the perception of dank unpleasantness. They also emitted a sense of subtle wrongness which grated on the nerves, making it seem as though every shadow, every noise was dangerous.
He placed of his hands on the wall. It was grey, lined with a darker stone that looked eerily like veins, traversing bloodily across the hall. He carefully enunciated his name. "Draco Malfoy." A green and silver glow lit the area under his hands with an unnatural witchlight, casting a grey pallor across Draco's face, deepening the shadows under his eyes. An alien hum resonated through the air.
Draco kept his hands firmly positioned on against the stone blocks with an almost religious devotion. He spoke with deliberate formality, carefully coating his words with forced civility. "Allow me entrance." The words rang like chips of ice onto the floor.
Such was the fatal beauty of the wards guarding the Green Room. To enter after the room had been sealed, a person had to place both hands flat against the appropriate stone, effectively disarming themselves. If the wards determined they were, indeed, a Slytherin of the appropriate age, they still had to ask someone inside to deactivate the final ward, thus unlocking the door. Should someone other than a Slytherin attempt to gain entrance, the ward seared their hands to the stone, not with fire but with ice, a bitter cold that burned far worse than any flame.
It was, Draco thought appreciatively, a particularly nasty ward.
The door opened silently, a surprisingly modest comprisal of stone that blended seamlessly with its surroundings, unless one already knew of its existence.
Draco stalked inside.
The Sixth and Seventh Year Slytherins already assembled stared at him with grave intensity. An uncanny desperation hid in their gazes for one brief instant, the type of raw emotion Slytherins never allowed themselves to reveal, before their expressions shuttered.
Draco had clearly interrupted whatever Warrington, a burly Seventh Year physically akin to Vince and Greg who currently stood in the center of the room, had been saying. Draco could not bring himself to particularly care.
"Malfoy." Warrington greeted Draco bluntly.
"Warrington," Draco replied indifferently, more interested in examining the tension in the room, which infused the air like poison. "Have you discussed Scrimgeour's new legislation, yet?" Around the room, faces tightened in cold fury.
"Fucking Ministry bastards," Millicent Bullstrode snapped angrily. "They have to realize they just approved a witch hunt…"
Draco's expression hardened. "Of course they realize," he said silkily. "But when has the Ministry ever really approved of Slytherin House? The recent attacks were all the cause they needed."
Pansy crossed her long legs grimly, haughtily leaning on a black dragon leather couch with an indolent sense of entitlement. "We'll have to put up more protections on the dormitories." Her calmly spoken words were a warning of horrors to come; not a demand, certainly not a question.
A Seventh Year girl with heavily lidded eyes, who looked like a distant relation of Bellatrix Lestrange, nodded slowly. "We have to be careful, though. With every attack, the force acting against us will gain strength. We'll need plans in case of fights, riots, emergencies…just in case." She left the rest unspoken, but Draco could hear the unsaid words resounding through the room on trumpet blasts. Just in case the school turns against us. Just in case sanity implodes. Just in case they hunt us down like animals, just like they did all those years before.
Just in case the old hatred sparks deadly once again.
Draco walked over to the one fireplace in the Green Room, the fire flickering loudly in the grate staining his hair an eerie red, but the color was somehow still cold, lacking any illusion of warmth. He leaned against one of the granite pillars which decorated the fireplace, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he surveyed the room's occupants with cool eyes.
They looked scared, though not in the foolhardy, obvious way the other Houses showed fear, with much bravado and quickly dashed away tears. It was the type of quite terror which lurked in the back of someone's eyes for the briefest of instances, before being banished away into the black mist of obscurity. No eyes glittered with unshed tears, no one sat useless, like a broken doll, in the corner of the room, paralyzed by dread. Draco doubted if anyone from the other Houses would even be able to identify the emotion plaguing his Slytherins right now; instead, they would only see blank faces, and dismiss the entire group as unfeeling, inhuman, once again.
And they looked upon us, and felt hatred, and rose up like fire to burn us to the ground.
"And what do you believe they'll do with the Slytherins who aren't dark magic users?" Adrian Pucey asked from the very back of the room, his slim face shrouded in shadow.
Draco's mouth tightened in anger. "They'll hunt them, too. To everyone else, all Slytherins are dark, all Slytherins are evil." His voice dripped disdain. "And they're certainly not going to differentiate based on our testimony alone. If anything," Draco sneered,"they'll call you a liar and happily lock the door to your cell in Azkaban, if you try to claim innocence." Guilt was merely a matter of degrees in regards to a member of Slytherin House.
Even those who did not practice dark magic came predominantly from the old families, the purebloods who still worshipped tradition.
"We'll have to be prepared to defend all of them," Draco said grimly, and his solemn words cleaved through the room like a death stroke. "All the First Years, the younger students, they can't defend themselves to this extent, and if we are forced into another fight – "
Pansy finished for him, her face pale. "We don't have enough Healers." Even Baddock and Pritchard's relatively minor injuries had almost overwhelmed Pansy, the most skillful Healer present.
"Professor Snape is gone, as well," Warrington added gravely. A lot of faces turned ashen at the statement, though everyone's expression remained carefully devoid of emotion.
"What are you proposing, then, Malfoy?" Theodore Nott called out arrogantly from a couch across the room. "They won't let us all return home, at least, not while Dumbledore is gone. Even then, that option probably won't be open to us."
"I merely think we should examine all options," Draco said simply. Disbelieving murmurs filled the air with a furious intensity, like the static in the air before a summer storm.
"You can't possibly be suggesting –"One Seventh Year said loudly.
Draco cut him off before he had finished speaking. "I mean exactly that. Only if the situation becomes too difficult for us to viably handle."
Blaise Zabini, so far silent, nodded thoughtfully, his dark features grim. "I don't see any other option, either. Not with the younger students to care for." Zabini's calm concurrence helped lull the outpourings of disagreement. Finally, the room quieted.
"We should return to the Common Room," a Seventh Year girl with wavy brown hair and handsome features said finally. Her voice sounded strangely flat. Dead.
The Slytherins filed out of the room, their faces carefully apathetic. Looking at them, it was impossible to tell they had just discussed something of such grave importance. Draco watched them depart, grateful for the heat of the fireplace behind him. He was not often warm, lately.
Finally, only Warrington remained in the room. The Seventh Year boy, a veritable mass of muscle, stood both taller and broader than Draco.
"Malfoy." Warrington spoke with careful deliberateness. "You should know…all Seventh Year Slytherins will be seventeen by October's end." Draco struggled to rein in his shock. Seventeen. When wizards came of age. When wizards were allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts, without the Ministry's Trace.
Seventeen. The age when Voldemort Marked his newest generation of followers.
Warrington watched Draco closely, something like sympathy flashing briefly in the Seventh Year boy's eyes, come and gone like lightning. Warrington left the room without another word, his message conveyed. Draco knew, without any doubt, that the seemingly innocuous statement had been meant as a warning of events to come. Any defenses Slytherin House erected would have to be completed by October's end.
Something big was coming.
Draco could see it looming on the horizon, an unstoppable tidal wave set to crumble the foundations of the wizarding world. He would not allow Slytherin House to drown with it.
--
Harry stood on the Quidditch Pitch, the goalposts rising like battlements behind him, as he waited with rapidly diminishing patience for the chattering horde of red and gold clad students in front of him to finally quiet. It had started raining fifteen minutes prior, the type of cold drizzle which soaked both the skin and the ground indiscriminately.
A single drop of water trailed down Harry's nose.
"All right, everyone quiet," he said loudly. The group continued chattering, and Harry felt the remaining thread of his patience fraying dangerously. "Oy, shut up!" Harry yelled, using his wand to shoot a brilliant display of red sparks into the air. The red lights danced around the falling raindrops, casting an ethereal glow upon the startled faces on the ground.
At least, Harry thought with relief, the group was finally quiet.
"Okay," Harry instructed as he strode forward, his Firebolt clutched in one hand. "I want those trying out as Chasers to go to the left, Beaters in the middle of the Pitch, Keepers off to the other side." The group diverged slowly, walking over to their respective positions. Harry caught a glimpse of Ron's red hair, vibrant as a flame against the grey rain and mist, moving towards the Keepers' section. In the same way, he spotted Ginny amongst the Chasers.
"I'm going to start with the Chasers first," Harry addressed the group as a whole, before turning back to the aforementioned group. "On my whistle, I want you all to fly twice around the Quidditch Pitch," he instructed in a slightly lowered voice. "Try and keep exactly above the outer edge." The Chasers filed away, assembling single file along the white line which signified the outer boundary of the Pitch. They mounted their brooms. Ginny smiled encouragingly at Harry, who grinned back, before he suddenly noticed…
"Wait a minute, you two. Second Years and above only." Harry grabbed the collars of two First Years' robes as they attempted to fly upwards.
"Aw, c'mon, Potter," the smaller of the two boys whined. "You got to be on the House team in your First Year."
"Yeah, let us have a go," complained the other boy's friend, who possessed an uncanny amount of freckles. He reminded Harry of Ron.
"No exceptions," Harry said flatly, feeling a headache bludgeoning the area behind his eyes already. God save him from obnoxious First Years. "And that's the school rules, not just mine." Harry half escorted, half dragged, the two to the edge of the Pitch, both of the younger boys complainingly loudly all the while.
Miraculously, or so it seemed to Harry's overburdened grasp on sanity, Hermione waited there with a slight frown to exercise her Prefect status. "You two know the rules perfectly well," she scolded, in the same authoritative tone she frequently utilized to get Harry and Ron to do their homework. She walked the two over to the stands, sitting them down firmly beside her, and smiled wearily at Harry, who smiled back.
"Speaking of which," Harry muttered to himself as he looked again at the two First Year boys beside Hermione. He strode back onto the field. Now that he was looking, it was clearly evident some of the students, especially the ones skulking guiltily behind a taller student, were far too short to be Second Years. "All First Years, off the field!" He roared. Harry lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily as at least five other First Years, all muttering ugly protests, trudged miserably off the field.
"Now then, Chasers…"
The tryouts for Chasers finished fairly quickly, without, Harry thanked whatever deity lurked in the heavens, further problems. He was ultimately left facing Ginny Weasley, Demelza Robins, and Dean Thomas, all of whom had demonstrated a fair amount of potential talent. Still, though, Harry wished for Katie Bell's presence, a faint pang echoing in his gut at the thought.
Harry invited the three to stay and watch the rest of tryouts, and they wandered off towards the stands, talking happily. He turned back to where the Beaters waited with little patience for him to continue tryouts. With a start of alarm, Harry noticed the diminutive Dennis Creevey standing with the Beaters, hoisting a bat at least half his height. Inwardly, Harry grimaced, even as he walked back over to the sturdy trunk which held the practice Quidditch balls. He flicked the gold latches open, the wet metal slick under his fingers. Inside the box, nestled within protective slots, the balls strained for freedom. Harry looked longingly at the Golden Snitch, which lazily curled its wings, and wished the Pitch was empty. Instead, though, Harry turned his attention back to the scarred Bludgers, which fought fiercely against their leather straps.
Harry motioned the potential Beaters up into the air, wincing as Dennis Creevey wavered unsteadily as he rose.
By now, a crowd had formed in the stands, filled predominantly with crimson and gold scarves. A few groups of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, far less in number, and mostly consisting of members of their respective Quidditch teams, sat nestled amongst the Gryffindors, watching the tryouts with keen eyes. Far off to the side of the other students was a rank of Slytherins, both Quidditch players and regular students alike, sitting on the metal benches with what Harry personally considered to be far too much fastidious disdain.
A gleam of white amongst the silver and green immediately advertised Malfoy's presence in the stands. Malfoy looked uncannily like a prince holding court even as he sat amongst his Housemates, everyone else's posture facing Malfoy slightly, like plants turned towards the sun. Parkinson was positioned beside him, with Crabbe and Goyle's massive bulk situated behind the two. All four appeared deeply entrenched in whatever conversation they were having, their heads tilted slightly together, lips moving furiously. Dimly, Harry realized the downpour of rain stopped abruptly over the Slytherin section of the stands, a stream of water like a curtain running down behind them. Every other student from every other House was soaked through; only the Slytherins remained infuriatingly dry.
A loud argument issuing from another section of the stands broke Harry's reverie, and he realized he had been kneeling with his hands on one of the Bludger straps for at least a few minutes, as he stared at the Slytherins. Fighting to control a blush, Harry wrestled the Bludger out of its case, and instructed the Beaters, his voice winded as the Bludger kept shoving into his stomach. "Take turns hitting the Bludgers through the goalposts. Dennis, you start first," he yelled.
Harry released the Bludger.
It flew into the air, whistling faint danger as it gathered more speed. The Bludger barreled straight towards Dennis Creevey, who paled dramatically, his suddenly white face stark against his brown hair.
"Go, Dennis!" A squeaky voice screamed from the stands. Harry did not need to turn to recognize Collin Creevey, cheering on his brother. The rest of the crowd, though, was dead silent, waiting with grim anticipation for the spectacle they instinctively knew was coming. Even the Slytherins had stopped talking to watch Dennis Creevey, although their silence contained far more glee than the rest of the crowd.
Still, the Bludger sped toward Dennis, who, instead of raising his bat, slackened his grip, a look of almost comical horror on his face that even Harry could see from his position on the ground. Quickly, Harry grabbed a Beater's bat one of First Years had dropped in a fit of pique as they had stormed of the field, and jumped on his broom. He accelerated rapidly, the rain stinging his exposed skin like angry bees.
Harry wished he had been intelligent enough to make his glasses Impervious to water, like Hermione had done in his Third Year.
Through a blur of rain and speed, Harry saw Dennis's bat fall to the ground, heard the wet splat as it landed on the muddy Pitch. Another Beater, who Harry thought might be a Fourth Year named Coote, flew protectively in front of Dennis, and swung his bat at the approaching Bludger. The bat connected with the Bludger, the resultant crack echoing across the Pitch like thunder.
Coote turned back to Dennis, a large smile, full of obvious relief, spreading across his face. Dennis smiled wanly back, then, without warning, slipped off his broom. He fell with almost alarming speed, twirling through the air like a limp rag doll.
Harry aimed his broom for Dennis, swooping down under the falling boy's prone form, hoping against hope that he could catch Dennis without sending both of them crashing into the ground. This close, he could hear Dennis fall, the wind flapping the other boy's sodden robes upward with a loud crack. Dennis landed heavily in Harry's arms, the impact driving away Harry's breathe, and the pain making Harry believe the crash had broken both his arms.
Temporarily, for the briefest of seconds, Harry lost control of his broom, and they careened wildly through the air, only barely avoiding the sharp edges of the metal stands. The broom finally stabilized, and Harry brought the broom gently to the ground, struggling to hold a direction without dropping Dennis. He flew deliberately towards Madam Pomfrey, who had somehow materialized on the Pitch already, a bag of medical supplies in hand.
Harry had never been more relieved to feel his boots sink ankle deep into the mud.
"What happened, Mr. Potter?" Pomfrey asked severely as she inspected Dennis. Her wand flashed over the limp boy, performing what Harry recognized, from personal experience, as a series of diagnostic spells. A crowd, comprised of students from the stands, formed around them, necks craning to look at Dennis's still form.
Harry shook his head. "I'm not really sure…He looked fine, and the Bludger didn't hit him. I think he just fainted."
Pomfrey tutted slightly, but the anxiety in the lines around her face diminished remarkably. Abruptly, Harry realized that Pomfrey had suspected a far more serious reason to be the cause of Dennis's collapse.
Pomfrey stood, and levitated Dennis Creevey off the ground. "Right then, Mr. Creevey," she gestured towards Collin, who Harry had not even noticed standing so near, "help me bring your brother to the Hospital Wing. A little rest and he'll be fine." The crowd parted to allow the bizarre group to exit, Collin Creevey trailing despondently behind Pomfrey as she levitated his brother through the air.
The crowd turned their gazes toward Harry, who shifted uncomfortably as his hair dripped water down his glasses. "Dennis'll be fine," Harry said to no one in particular. "He fainted, that's all."
"Yeah, but what caused him to faint?" Zacharias Smith asked unexpectedly from the edge of the crowd, something ugly lurking in his voice.
"He just fainted," Harry said flatly, but crowd around him muttered furiously.
"After all," Smith continued as though Harry had not spoken, and Harry concentrated very hard on reigning in his urge to hex the obnoxious sod. "There aren't just Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors on the field today."
The crowd of students turned silently to look at the stands with all the fatal condemnation of a witness pointing at a defendant, where the Slytherins still sat, observing the crowd on the Pitch with expressionless eyes.
Hermione shoved her way past Zacharias Smith with a slight sneer, emerging to stand near Harry in the center of the crowd. "This is utterly ridiculous," she said angrily, her hair frizzed to monumental proportions because of the rain. "Dennis Creevey wasn't cursed; there was no sign of any spell before he fell. He fainted."
"Just because you didn't see a spell, Granger, doesn't mean there wasn't one," Padma Patil said, oceans of disdain contained in her voice, and Harry remembered that Ravenclaws seemed to profoundly dislike Hermione. "Dark magic doesn't always leave a visible trace."
The angry mutterings increased in volume.
"I bet one of the Slytherins cursed Creevey," a voice containing the hint of an Italian accent shouted over the noise of the crowd.
"Probably Malfoy," another Ravenclaw said matter-of-factly, her scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. "Did you hear what that bastard did to Carmichael and the others?" The mood of the crowd darkened visibly. Almost everyone knew, through one source or another, at least the vague outline of the fight which had occurred on Saturday.
Harry looked back towards the Slytherins, and found half of them suddenly absent from the stands. Malfoy, one of the few remaining, was arguing angrily with Crabbe and Goyle. Parkinson stood slightly removed form the trio, looking severely frustrated. Somehow, Parkinson noticed Harry's gaze, and said something sharp to the three boys. Malfoy stopped speaking, and looked straight at Harry, his grey eyes inscrutable.
Malfoy turned away, and nodded something to Crabbe and Goyle. All four Slytherins vanished off the Pitch, and then no more Slytherins remained.
--
Finally, finally, Harry thought thankfully as he stored the trunk of Quidditch balls away in Madam Hooch's office, tryouts were over. The crowd had dispelled after thirty minutes of angry accusations, leaving almost no one on the Pitch to watch the rest of tryouts. The change from the packed, chattering stands, to an almost eerie silence, in which the pattering of the rain was the loudest sound, had been mildly disconcerting.
Coote and Peakes, two of the younger Gryffindors, had made the Beater position. Harry had especially high hopes for Coote, who had launched the Bludger away from Dennis Creevey. Ron, too, was on the team, much to Harry's vast relief. True, Ron hadn't been spectacular, but he had been a damn sight better than some of the other potential Keepers, one of whom had flew backwards and smacked into the goalposts when the Chasers had approached with the Quaffle.
After three hours, Harry was soaked through, his hair dripping rain down the back of his neck. All he was looking forward to now was a nice, warm bath to de-thaw his frozen skin and remove the mud spatters decorating his body like some sort of bizarre splatter-painting from numerous landings and takeoffs. After that, he still had to finish all his homework for tomorrow.
Sometimes, Harry really wanted a Time Turner.
Either that, or an easier life.
Harry turned out of the cluttered office, full of discarded brooms and assorted Quidditch gear, and walked back towards the castle. It was still raining, a steady deluge now, but Harry was so wet already, he figured a little more water would not make any discernable difference.
He opened the castle doors, and walked inside, leaving a puddle of muddy water on the stone floor with every step. Harry really hoped he could manage to arrive at Gryffindor Tower without running into Filch, who hated when students made a mess of any sort inside the castle.
Harry was halfway back to Gryffindor when a voice called his name out suddenly.
"We need to talk, Potter," Draco Malfoy drawled imperiously, leaning against a wall only five meters in front of Harry.
Harry continued to walk forward, pausing less than a meter away from Malfoy, who stood partially hidden in the shadow made from one of the corridor's high arches. The effect was startling; half in, half out of the light, Malfoy looked like a disturbingly beautiful cross between an angel and a demon. Except, Harry reminded himself, the angel was only an illusion, created to lure in those who resisted the demon's charms.
"Why don't you just attack me again, or throw me into a wall?" Harry asked sarcastically, pushing his wet hair out of his face.
Something wicked curled in Malfoy's slow smile. "Why Potter," Malfoy said, mock surprise infusing his voice, "I never knew you liked it when I pinned you to the wall."
Harry was far too tired to deal with this shite right now.
"What the hell do you want, Malfoy?"
With a quick flick of his wand, Malfoy cast Muffliato along the corridor, before walking over to stand in front of Harry.
"Tell me; is it one of the lesser known Gryffindor traits, falling off your broom in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch?"
Harry's fury over Dennis's fall flared to life, making his eyes spark a violent green. "Did you curse him to fall, you bastard?"
A strand of Malfoy's too pale hair fell into his face, which was shadowed with anger. "It always amazes me, how you Gryffindors find it so easy to blame us for your mistakes." Malfoy tilted his head upwards to find the light, and his grey eyes filled with swirls of quicksilver. "Just another form of cowardice, from the House that is supposed to embody bravery," he sneered derisively, looking at Harry once again.
Harry struggled to keep his voice from shaking with rage. "That's not an answer, Malfoy, and you know it."
Malfoy smirked. "No, I suppose it isn't."
Harry supposed, with a surge of hot anger, that that was as much of an answer as he was ever going to receive. "I seriously doubt you tracked me down to talk about tryouts, so either ask a question, a real question, or I'm leaving now," Harry demanded.
"Who exactly did you talk to about the fight on Saturday?" Malfoy asked, and Harry thought he heard real interest tingeing the Slytherin boy's tone, before Malfoy shuttered his emotions away.
"What do you care?" Harry glared hotly at Malfoy.
"Fucking hell, Potter, it's not that difficult a question. Or have I given your intelligence more credit than it deserves?"
"You can go to hell, for all I care," Harry spat. "But I only talked to Ron and Hermione about the fight, and they were there already, so what does it matter?"
Malfoy turned away and walked down the corridor without answering, his footsteps silent on the stone. Harry was left standing in the middle of the corridor, dripping water, and feeling like Malfoy had gleaned far more from that conversation than the little Harry had said.
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A/N: Ha! Another chapter done. Leave some love in the pretty green box…*please*