The days seemed to have flashed by like a feral snitch pelting across the Quidditch field in a wild frenzy in the desperate endeavours of not being caught by a grubby hand, each one holding a precious memory that Merlin was bound to remember— if not a little forcefully. It was undoubtedly better memories that served the worthiness of being remembered consistently instead of other more sinister ones hiding beneath his delicate facade. God, just how fragile was he? He had only come to the realisation when he thought back on his earlier meltdown in Minerva's arms, the tears that were spilt, the emotions that had burst forth and overcome his rationality in composing himself, everything just falling apart all together again. Even he had to admit that it was rather consoling though, to release his sentimental feelings and bottled up frustrations.
But now, at this very moment in the middle of a Flying Lesson, he was terrified. Not for himself, no of course not— well, maybe a little— but his fear was more in depths with the wellbeing of the students he was primarily teaching this lesson. The Gryffindors and Slytherins; an abominable combination really, suitable enough in comparison to a cauldron blown up with the wrong ingredients tossed in. With the students as the unfortunate ingredients, they were practically hurled into the cauldron that would inevitably melt into the ground of the earth or explode one huge chunk of the castle in one go.
Merlin had taken a mental note that every class that had a mixture of Gryffindors and Slytherins were bound to become tedious and riddled with unruly taunts and insults tossed between the two houses. Snape seemed amused at the young Malfoy continuously bullying the Potter boy and the Weasley redhead, while his assistant glared at the side of his head before promptly scolding the lot of them for their poor behaviour. Being the mother hen was quite a difficult job.
"Sir," Harry called with his hand waving in the air animatedly as Ron parroted his gesture just as enthusiastically. They both held a broomstick in their hand, something that made Merlin inwardly cringe before forcing a grin on his face. Oh, Lord have mercy and spare me from this brewing disaster already. He thought grimly, widening his smile like a bloody lunatic as he shook his head to himself. Damn broomsticks.
Giving a casual wave, Merlin stopped a good distance away from the duo and their brooms, his eyes scanning them meticulously with a gulp. "There anything you need help on? Afraid I'm not all too… friendly with broomsticks, but I'll help where I can." Another gulp. Harry knitted his brows down vaguely, exchanging looks with Ron's concerned expression before looking back up at the warlock.
"Why? Thought you were gonna join us in the sky," Ron queried, shooting a broad and beatific smile towards their professor. "It'll be fun, promise! There's nothing wrong with my broom, you can take it if you want, I'll just get one of the spare ones down the back, no biggie."
Merlin stared at the red-haired boy blankly, examining the two of them as their smiles only widened pleadingly. I'm not getting out of this, am I? Merlin sighed, running his hand through his untamed hair repeatedly before allowing himself to muster a small smile towards his students.
"I can't ride broomsticks," he stated simply. "Well, I mean- I can, of course. I just, uh, well you see it's a little complicated to explain—" Just to his utmost luck, Professor Hooch came sauntering down the gap with two broomsticks in hand as she called out his name. Whirling around like a kid caught in the act of some malevolent act red-handed, he felt himself freeze at the brooms she was holding, a peculiar dread drilling into his stomach relentlessly. "Oh, no."
"Mr Evans! We're moving onto the next stage shortly, up and at 'em," she held up one of her hands holding a broomstick. "I'm going to need your assistance while we're in the air for the next stage, can't have them zooming across the fields without any firm supervision see; lots of accidents are prone to happen. I'll holler once the other students manage to get on their brooms properly."
Just as he was about to protest and haphazardly throw himself into a stuttering mess of explaining why he was so against the subject of flying, the broom was forcefully thrust into his chest, nearly knocking the wind out of him altogether. The coaching witch was already half-way down the line of students still trying to board their brooms, giving enthusiastic advice to each of her pupils. The Slytherins were struggling the most it would seem, Merlin noted in the back of his head.
Now, back to the main problem at hand. His broom was trembling under his touch, violently, very violently. He winced at the thought of the object exploding in the palm of his hands right then and there, suppressing his urge to throw it as far as he could like it was some sort of vile cockroach climbing all over his hand. Looking back at the duo, it appeared that they had taken notice of his broom as well, furrowing their brows together at it. Harry was the first to call it out, taking a cautious step back.
"Sir, your broom," he pointed out, alarm taking over his once enthused expression, Ron parroting him at the same time. "It… It looks like it's gonna explode!" It was surprising that Harry even had the partial insight of the aggressively quivering broom in comparing it to that of an explosive bomb. Unfortunately, he was correct.
As the shaking of the object intensified with each passing moment, more eyes began to divert their attention to their brooms and to the occurrence happening down the bottom of the lane. Students whispered a little fearfully, muttering under their breaths as some took attentive steps back from the group of three. With a sigh, Merlin listlessly discarded the handle of the broom before conjuring a delicate, transparent shield around the heating broomstick with his stick— wand, he reminded himself.
And without another passing moment flying by, the wood clambered around as if it was trying to pick itself up from the ground, the surface of its timber literally tearing itself apart into broken fragments with splinters falling prostrate around the grass in an ear-piercing snap. The straw hairs of the broom began to wither off from the end, vaguely giving Merlin the impression that it was like watching hair fall out of his scalp — it was unpleasant to say in the least. He actually felt bad for it, actually. That was until it exploded when he started to get closer to it, giving him a nasty fright as he muttered a curse under his breath and took a few steps back again.
Well, that was just rude.
"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed loudly, having backed up a good few feet away with his hand clutched around Harry's arm as if it was his life support. Hermoine, the bushy-haired girl closest to them, would have sternly scolded him for his exclaim but found herself just as shaken as the others were. Mentally, she was going over in her head of all of the possible situations where a broomstick could explode. She didn't think that they were supposed to that, at least not to that extent. In the corner of her eye, she could see students practically throwing their brooms away from themselves, others following their example like mindless sheep.
Merlin turned himself around to face the rest of the class, a look of understanding and what almost appeared to be a sheepish grin dawning across his features. He absently returned his stick — wand, curses— into his sleeves, clapping his hands together sharply which immediately drew in everyone's uneasy stares. Even Madam Hooch seemed to be a little frightened, an odd achievement of some sort.
"Sorry about that," he announced with a nervous chuckle. "Sort of an, uh, what do you call it? Occupational hazard most of the time, you know? Good stuff, good stuff…" he trailed off, scratching behind his neck feverishly as his eyes darted everywhere from the sky to the forest. "Anyways, um, lets just uh, carry on, yeah? Everything's fine, your brooms won't explode or anything too… uh, too dangerous or life-threatening." I think.
Harry simply gaped at the professor, sparing a small sideways glance to the broomstick that was pulsing in the palms of his hand. Of course, he did feel a little fearful of what may or may not happen if he so chose to carry out the task of continuing to even hold this destructive weapon, but it also gave him a little excitement in actually mustering the courage to do so. Actually, he felt rather determined, the complete opposite of what a majority of the others were feeling.
Sealing the open gap in his mouth, he tightened his grip around the handle, positioning it between his legs with a steady and focused expression. Ron started to mirror his actions like a parrot, although, his movements were a little staggering as if it looked like he was about to stumble at any moment. No doubt the shock of witnessing a broom exploding — that was impeccably familiar to his own one and many others — was still riding on his mind. He heard Madam Hooch ushering the other students to hasten themselves and do the same as he was doing, followed by a few encouraging shouts by Merlin to accompany her orders.
"Right-so! Oh, for the love of— Pick up your brooms now, hurry up, don't be so overly dramatic! They will not, and I repeat: will not explode, nor will they bite you. Come now, up and at 'em! Straighten your backs, tighten your grips- don't want none of you falling to your deaths." A few students actually paled at her last words as she hurried to follow her exact orders precisely, young Neville seeming to be struggling a lot more than others when it came to just holding his broomstick in his hand. This was where Merlin came in and introduced himself, earning a few ungrateful sneers but also puzzled expressions from both Slytherin and Gryffindor.
"You'll be okay, Mr Longbottom. Don't think about it too much, just talk to me. It won't explode, it won't bite, just like Madam Hooch said, yeah?" Merlin tried patting him on the back with whispers of encouragement, desperately trying to persuade the boy to mount his broom, as the others had already found themselves doing. "Yes, there we go," He chuckled lightly, his voice toned with a pleasant manner as he aided Neville into adjusting his seating posture for more comfort, cautious in making sure the child was well-secured. "Well done, you'll be fine, see?"
Madam Hooch, as well as the already situated members of the class, turned their gazes to latch onto the scene before them. Professor Evans, a person that showed up out of the blue, completely out of nowhere. Whether it was only just him doing his job as a professor in assisting and actually being helpful towards his students, there was, without a doubt, a very friendly effervescent twinkle that sparkled in his eyes every time he appeared even the slightest bit happy.
The Gryffindors, for their part, were simply confused and taken aback by the whole ordeal. They didn't understand, mostly. For the constant babbling of the infamous House of Snakes spread the most known rumours that revolved around the same words; 'Slytherins are, and always will be, evil.' Or at least, something close to that, which was really just idiotic if one was to think about it deeply with a rational mind. 'No Slytherin could be kind for the benefit of others,' and yet there Merlin was. 'All Slytherins are evil, or dark,' Merlin was probably the next Helga Hufflepuff.
Merlin may have been their professor and not a student like themselves, but as much as he was a Slytherin, none of them could bring themselves to feel any of the usual resentment or suspicion that was brought about with a majority of the members of the snake house. It was an odd thing, really. The Slytherin students themselves were found to be oddly charmed to the young man — as was proved in most of their potion classes. What was even more surprising was the fact that the man was actually able to get along with the only living resident that dwelled in the castle dungeons, aka 'Sir Greasy Git'.
On the other hand, said warlock was completely oblivious to the fact that the entirety of the class was apparently staring at him with calculating eyes, even Madam Hooch was — but she eventually fixated herself with assisting the other students with a shake of her head.
As the lesson continued on, Neville was shockingly one of the first students to successfully take to the sky. That in itself made Draco disgusted that he had been the second to set flight into the air, much to many of the Gryffindors' amusement as they hid their snickers at the indignant look now marring his features. Unluckily for Neville, who was now splendidly — if a little nervously — zooming across the grounds above the other student's heads, he didn't take notice of the absence of his Remembrall that was now in the possession of the blonde-haired boy.
Merlin was occupying himself with watching Neville with something akin to awe and childish wonder, the charm of a levitating spell on the tip of his tongue. Brooms may not agree with him, he knew that from first-hand experience, but that didn't limit his options for flying — far from it. After all, it was going to take a lot more than petty explosions to stop him from taking flight to the air.
It was only when he turned around to notice the flock of students forming a crowd with two notable individuals standing in the middle of it all that he felt a groan riding up his throat. Really, Merlin thought with a roll of his eyes, a fight? Already? Children seriously don't change, huh.
"Come and get it, Potter!" Malfoy sneered, mockingly waving Neville's Remembrall in front of his enemies face before mounting his broom sideways and taking off.
I sense another King Arthur Prat, Merlin mused sardonically, must be a distant descendant perhaps.
—
At the end of the whole commotion — which was undoubtedly going to be included in the rumour mill that day — Harry managed to pull off a gallant and quite frankly, incredibly impressive (but also extremely reckless) stunt that landed Neville's small Remembrall in his hands. Draco seemed peeved at his success — but also strangely relieved that the boy didn't end up plummeting to the ground — but didn't say anything otherwise, silently admitting to his defeat with a pout as he watched grudgingly of the crowd of Gryffindor's surrounding their precious Golden Boy.
The grip on the handle of his broom momentarily tightened harder once he caught sight of Potter approaching him, the beginnings of a snarl curling up the side of his mouth as he stood in front of him with a stoic expression. It was with some apprehension that he spoke first.
"What? Come to rub it in my face, have you?" he spat disdainfully, narrowing his eyes tentatively at the all-too-thin boy in his sight. God, he really is too thin. Now that he was looking more closely this time, it became rather apparent that his abrupt thought was quite accurate — even his wrists looked abnormally thin.
Potter simply shook his head with a raised eyebrow, the tugging at the corner of his lips giving him away to the open amusement that was showing in his eyes. "No, actually. Unless you want me to," he added with a good-natured grin. "I just wanted to compliment you on your flying, that was pretty good you know."
Draco took a double-take on that, eyebrows shooting to the top of his hairline with his jaw unclenching itself slightly. Was he really being complimented for his flying skills straight after using them to his advantage to do some — even Draco had to concede that it was quite petty and pathetic after reflecting on it — cynical thieving act? And this was coming from Potter— a bloody Potter!
"But," a serious look flashed across the green-eyed boy and it almost took every pride that Draco had not to take a step back from the tingling sensation of magic filtering through the air. "I'd greatly appreciate it if you don't go stealing my friend's stuff, please. I get that there's some sort of rivalry going on between our houses and all, but I think it'd be better for the both of us if we tried to keep things civil."
With a frown, Draco opened his mouth to say something petulant but thought better of it and averted his gaze, furrowing his brows together in thought. In a way, he knew that Potter had every right to blow up in his face and accuse him, but here he was complimenting him with a brief warning that was really just coming off as a deal that would benefit both parties equally. It was basically; "Don't do anything stupid to my friends and we won't do anything to yours." All in all, he thought that it was a really Slytherin way of bargaining.
Finally, he looked back up with a somewhat pleased expression that hid the residue of his confusion up. "That sounds fair. Tell me, Potter, how is it that you weren't sorted into Slytherin? You sure don't act like an idiotic lion," he dismissed the slight disapproval the boy gave him with a roll of his eyes. "You're actually quite rational and level-headed really. And no, I am not going to repeat that."
Harry feigned ignorance at his last remark, smiling thoughtfully despite the silent protests from his friend and the rest of the Gryffindor's that were gawking at the two with a sense of bewilderment. "I had other options, so I took them. I was actually almost sorted into Slytherin- see, it was where I was supposed to go. Or whatever the hat told me." This time it was Draco's turn to stare at him in disbelief, his eyes widening at the statement. "But I asked it to sort me into Gryffindor so I could be with Ron."
Draco lowered his chin a tidbit with a raised eyebrow, a nauseated frown resting across his mouth. "You chose to go to Gryffindor? For him?" Draco didn't even bother trying to be formal like his father had often told him to be, manners be damned, this was revolutionary to him. "Seriously? WHY?" Nevermind the fact that he actually managed to convince that bloody old piece of ancient garbage.
If it hadn't been for the infectious grin that crawled along his lips, Draco truly may have been persuaded that he was lying. "He's my friend, that's why," he explained. "I heard my parents were sorted into Gryffindor as well, so…" Draco squinted his eyes when he trailed off before continuing on a second later. "Yeah," he ended eloquently, leading Draco to believe that if it wasn't for the fact that his hands were currently occupied with the two objects he was holding onto, he would undoubtedly be swinging them back and forth to wave off the sudden awkwardness that entered the conversation.
Thankfully, the two of them were saved from the uncertain situation when a pair of the most familiar teachers to their year came striding through the field. One donning a look of absolute loathing with the other wearing the sternest expression that was bound to cause wrinkles.
It was Professors McGonagall and Snape. Pending on who was worse to see of the two approaching professors, Draco eventually settled on his Head of House.
"Mr Potter!" Much to the surprise of many, it was McGonagall who was the first to take up the chance of reprimanding the Golden Boy. Snape was looking a little displeased at his chance of scolding the boy (quite harshly) had been snatched away from him at a moments notice, instead, sparing a glance towards his godson that was standing side-by-side next to Potter. His brows seemed to knit together with a cold, yet calculating gaze that flickered from Potter to Draco, suspicion written all over his face.
Potter, on the other hand, cast his gaze downwards to the floor with an appearance of regret. Draco almost immediately felt a pang of guilt stab him in the heart — which was almost completely foreign to him. With McGonagall chastising her lion cub in a tone that really just sounded soporific to Draco, he decided to intervene at one point of her monologue. It was truly a wonder that Harry — Potter, damn it! — hadn't yet complained about the injustice of it all, claiming that he wasn't to be blamed. Which he had every right to say, so… why was he just taking it like this?
"Professor McGonagall, if I may," Draco interrupted with the politest of tones he could muster up, carrying on without either of their permissions to even do so. "Potter— Harry, was only trying to save one of his… his friends' so-called gifts." He couldn't help but naturally sneer before snapping himself out of his usual behaviour, thinning his lips into a line, absently impersonating Snape's impassive visage.
The two professors stared down at the young, first-year Slytherin in shock, Merlin — who had been oddly quiet in the background for the hopes of watching the scene unfold by itself — chuckling to himself out on the field where he was keeping an eye out for the Longbottom boy that was now descending down to the ground, curious in what was happening. Of course, he visibly paled at the sight of Professor Snape, before settling down when Mr Evans rested a hand on his shoulder reassuringly.
"Really now?" McGonagall cocked a dithering eyebrow up, glancing from Severus to the eagerly waiting warlock that stood a little far in the background with his hand grasped around Longbottom's shoulder. She could tell, just from bloody looking at him, that he was simply enjoying the show in front of him — which gave her the impression that he wasn't actually all that worried about the petty fight that had just recently taken place not even minutes ago. He let it happen. Where was Madam Hooch when you needed— ah, she too, is watching in the distance.
Well now, this was just irresponsible.
"Nonetheless, that does not excuse this outrageous performance!" She barked sternly, waving her finger in the air at the both of them for extra measure. "Both of you will be coming with me, to my office." She turned slightly to face Snape. "If you don't mind? I'd appreciate having the troublemaker's Head of House present for this particular punishment, he is your godson after all."
Harry's eyes widened considerably as he took that selective information in to absorb for later thoughts, perhaps even questions once their consequences have been dealt with. If we even survive them, that is, he thought dully. For all he knew, they might get permanently banned from laying a finger on a broom ever again. He'd rather not think about that, actually.
Snape snarled at the Scottish woman, "Lead the way, Minerva." He spat venomously, waving a hand towards the castle with narrowed eyes. "By all means."
"Gladly," she said, unaffected and quite frankly, momentarily amused by his cranky demeanour. Suddenly remembering the warlock behind them, she looked over her shoulder and called, "Mr Evans! Do join us, if you would. You are one of the key witnesses, I suppose. Your input will be greatly appreciated."
—
A/N : Sorry for it being so rushed, I figured that it was about time this story got an update instead of being left for dead, so yeah. So sorry! Review!