Saturday 19th Nov (Early Hours of)
While Georgette maintained a sarcastic—and sometimes cutting—demeanour for the majority of the year, it was around Quidditch matches that her friends would see a more vulnerable side to Georgette McLaggen. As Gryffindor Captain and seeker, she already faced a heap of pressure from her House to perform. But this wasn't helped by her father—Cormac—who seemed to live vicariously through his daughter on the Quidditch pitch. He was constantly sending Georgette five page long Quidditch strategies in his letters, and turning up to see the games whenever he could. Though it was obvious Georgette loved the game, her face always darkened when she spotted her father in the stands. Georgette had even confessed to Rose, that if Gryffindor lost a game, her father's letters grew noticeably shorter in the weeks following.
Rose had asked her mother if she knew of Cormac McLaggen—by Rose's calculations they would've attended Hogwarts together—but her mother's face had scrunched up, and she'd muttered some very un-Hermioneish words under her breath, so Rose hadn't pursued it.
Rose was struggling to sleep, her own nerves surrounding the game catching up with her. Though she'd known the prat would try to psych her out, Scorpius' taunting words—promising Gryffindor's imminent loss—rung in her ears.
"Rose? Are you awake?" Georgette whisper was barely audible over Tessie's snoring, and Rose shifted to face the girl.
"Yes, what's wrong?"
There was a silence, and Rose could just make out Georgette shuffling to a sitting up position,
"Do you think we drilled Paterson on his play enough?"
Rose tried not to sigh, "Yes, Georgette. He'll be fine."
Georgette paused again, and Rose's eyes adjusted to the dark a little better. She could just make out Georgette's eyes in the limited light, which looked unusually young not lined with their usual makeup, "But at yesterday's practice he messed up the feint. Dad said the feint is absolute crucial, as it triggers a chain reaction that will distract the left Slytherin Beater and open a gap—"
"—that will allow our left Chaser to slip through their defensive flank, yes." Rose finished, "It's going to be fine, Georgette. What we need now is sleep, so we'll be well-rested for the game tomorrow, yeah?"
There was another long silence—Tessie let out a grunting snore—and Rose sensed that Georgette had something else to say. But the girl seemed to think better of it, shifting around so she was lying down again.
"Goodnight Rose."
"Night Georgette." Rose whispered back, rolling over in her bed. Ignoring the clock on her bedside table—proudly showing it was quarter past one in the morning—she squeezed her eyes closed, attempting to will herself to sleep.
The Gryffindor team gathered in a circle on the pitch, brooms tucked at their sides in a cluster of bristles and handles.
"Right, team." Georgette started, her eyes flicking up to a specific spot in the stands. Her eyes kept drifting back there, as though magnetised, and Rose knew exactly who occupied the spot. Rose felt a twinge of sympathy, and she wanted to say something, but knew Georgette wouldn't appreciate it right now—she needed to project an aura of confidence, so the team would mimic it.
"Remember your drills. If we all work as a united force, we can easily break through Slytherin's defence. I know they've caught us in the past, but we're more polished now, and I think this game is completely winnable."
They threw their hands in the centre, with a quick chant before Hooch called the team captains forward for handshake—Georgette grimaced her way through a bone-crushing—before both teams took to the air.
Rose was relieved when she finally kicked off the ground, broomstick clutched tightly beneath her. She'd never get over the swooping in her stomach, the sudden feeling of lightness and complete freedom of movement. She needed to fly more often; she could feel tension draining from each muscle, loosening the line of her shoulders, as though lack of usual gravity was giving her body a break.
A call from the stands distracted Rose from her reverie,
"EYE ON THE SNITCH, GEORGIE." The booming yell was a little fainter on the pitch, but Rose's eyes found Georgette's face just as it flushed red with embarrassment. But then the balls were released, and Rose was too preoccupied with the Quaffle to keep a careful eye on her friend.
The pitch had erupted in movement. Spectators were screaming and chanting, Bludgers were flying, like a chaotic dance routine. But for all the madness, Rose's senses were entirely narrowed on the Quaffle. She loved how her whole world was blindered off to passes, movements and interception, an almost meditative state.
Slytherin had earned possession—for now, Rose smirked—and she calculated their next move. Parkinson—one of Slytherin Chasers—lingered outside the main formation, and Rose saw she had a direct line to the goal posts. The Chaser with the Quaffle saw the opportunity to pass, but Rose was already there, intercepting neatly and making a swooping turn.
Dodging a Bludger, she raced up the pitch, gaining ground that Slytherin had taken. But their Chasers were shadowing her, there was no straight shoot. She made a risky pass to Emilia Spinnet, but the girl managed to catch it, keeping ground. Attention now off her, she kept up alongside Spinnet, trying to keep herself open to catch. They were nearly at the posts now, and Rose felt a familiar anxiety bloom in her gut.
Malfoy lounged lazily on his broom before the goalposts, as though he were the king of his domain. He almost looked it too—the pale sun of late autumn playing with the platinum shades in his hair, which had been scraped back by a leather hair tie. Strands had escaped in the wind, but he didn't seem to notice, for all his concentration was narrowed in on the approaching Quaffle.
To the untrained eye his posture could've easily been misconstrued as lazy, but Rose knew—from hard earned experience—that Malfoy's reflexes were not to be underestimated. The gentlest tap to his broom, a slight shift, and the Quaffle would be in his hands. She hated to pay Malfoy anything resembling a compliment, but he was unnervingly fast. One moment the Quaffle could be sailing for an empty hoop, and in the next it would be wrapped securely in Malfoy's broad arms.
Rose didn't have to wait long to see him in action—Spinnet flicked the Quaffle for the left hoop, and suddenly Malfoy's right hand had grabbed it straight out of the air, interrupting its otherwise perfect trajectory.
"Are you even trying, Spinnet?" Malfoy called, flicking the Quaffle to Slytherin's right Chaser.
Emilia Spinnet returned with a very dirty word, which—luckily—Madame Hooch didn't catch.
But they were off again, struggling to find a gap in Slytherin's passes as they raced for Gryffindor's goals.
"DON'T LET HIM PULL AHEAD, GEORGIE! I DIDN'T BUY YOU THAT BROOM FOR NOTHING!" the familiar roar sounded from the stands, and Rose found her eyes searching for Georgette on the pitch. She wasn't hard to find—her face as red as her robes at her father's words.
But then Spinnet was flicking her the Quaffle, and Rose cut and wove around Bludgers and Chasers back to Malfoy, who grinned nastily at her from his perch.
"Let's cut out the middle man, Roza—just hand the Quaffle straight to me." He taunted, as Rose squared to throw.
But—as Malfoy had intended—his words had thrown her off, and he easily scooped the Quaffle out of the air.
"You're so sexy when you fail, Roza." He called, flicking the Quaffle off.
"Shut up, you wanker!" she replied, her face warming as she caught the commentator's words,
"And Weasley-Granger misses the shot—Slytherin has possession once more."
Slytherin scored three goals in quick succession, and the frustration in Gryffindor was palpable. When one of their Beaters aimed a Bludger at Parkinson's head, Slytherin were awarded a penalty, which they landed.
That, and Cormac and Malfoy's increasingly abusive taunts, had Rose practically seething when she next rolled up to the goalposts, Quaffle in hand.
"You know, Roza, I can help you work out some of that tension, post-match. Just make sure you bring a paper bag. You know, for your head."
Shifting her body, squaring up, Rose angled so that it looked as though she was aiming for the far left hoop. She watched as Malfoy's concentration locked onto her, shifting himself in the seat of his broom.
Though these movements and interaction were mere milliseconds, pitch time was entirely different. An hour of fast-paced Quidditch could pass in a minute, but moments like these seemed to extend to unreasonably long bouts of time; like someone had filled each second with a thousand more frames than necessary.
Rose let Malfoy fall for the feint, and shifted her throw as the boy began to move. It was one of her more powerful throws, fuelled by frustration and contempt for the human barrier before the goals. She'd aimed for the centre hoop, as Malfoy was moving for the far left. She could see the second in which he recognized his mistake, but the Quaffle was flying straight for the goal.
It was, perhaps, the only instance where Malfoy wasn't fast enough. His head, unfortunately, happened to coincide with where the Quaffle was heading. In all his zeal to block the wrong hoop, he'd put his fat head in front of the right one. Malfoy was good, but he wasn't good enough to catch a hurtling Quaffle with his head, and his head alone.
The was a resounding crack, as the ball made contact with his skull. Malfoy's face went completely slack, eyes rolling back into his head. Sliding off his broom, entirely unconscious, his slump body hurtled toward the pitch floor.
The whole incident only spanned a few seconds, but Rose's intestines felt as though they'd been transfigured into writhing snakes. As soon Malfoy started for the ground, logic kicked in, and Rose fumbled for her wand to break his fall.
But she never saw him hit the ground, as the stadium suddenly erupted in sound. Rose caught snatches from the barely audible commentator,
"And McLaggen catches the Snitch for a Gryffindor victory!"
Monday 21st Nov
Malfoy wasn't in class. Rose arrived in Transfiguration, surprised to find Albus sitting in the seat next to hers. She and Malfoy shared access to Albus in class—he sat with her every second day, and Malfoy the rest. It was Malfoy's turn with him today, but after a cursory glance at the back of the room, she noted an absence of an overly-inflated, blonde head.
Albus caught her look, and his face tightened a little as she took her seat,
"Scorp is still in the Hospital Wing—his skull was cracked pretty badly, he's still concussed."
The niggle of guilt that had been chewing at Rose all weekend seemed to expand, and she stressed at her bottom lip with her teeth. She'd been trying to write the guilt off as a lingering hangover since yesterday morning—the Gryffindor celebratory party had gotten a little out of hand—but hearing the seriousness of Malfoy's state had sent it into overdrive.
It took her a minute to gauge Albus' silence, and she frowned in realization,
"You don't think I did it deliberately, do you?"
Her cousin was stubbornly facing the front, refusing to look at her.
"It sure looked like it, Rose." His voice was taut, and Rose was dealt another punch of guilt to her stomach.
"Al… it wasn't like that at all." She tried to disguise the hurt in her voice, but she'd always been terrible at controlling her emotions, "I was just trying to get it in the hoop. I didn't aim for him. Al… for Christ's sake, you don't think I'd do something that… malicious, would you?"
The tense line of Al's shoulders loosened, and he finally met her eye,
"No, I don't." his green eyes were serious, "But Scorp is all but convinced it was deliberate. I know it might be asking too much, given your history, but you really need to apologise."
It was reflexive to refuse. Being vulnerable in front of Malfoy, showing weakness, it was akin to smearing bacon grease on herself and walking into a wolf den.
"Can't you just tell him?"
Albus shook his head, "He'll think I'm just peacekeeping—he needs to hear it from you."
"Al—"
"Rose, please. I know he's bullied you in the past, but this is a whole different thing. He thinks you grievously injured him, intentionally. Just talk to him."
Their conversation was cut short as Professor Zhou entered the room, her navy robes billowing majestically behind her. The silvery prosthetic that functioned as her right hand lifted—flicking her wand with a casual air. Each of the students completed essays flew to her desk, arranging themselves in a neat stack.
"We'll talk about this later." Albus finished, his attention shifting to the impending lesson.
Sunday 27th Nov
The idea of apologising to Malfoy was about as pleasant as a cup of cold sick, but Rose knew Albus was right. She'd rehearsed her apology nearly fifteen times, twice to both Magda and Tessie. She'd even rehearsed it to Georgette, but the girl had told Rose that 'a blowjob would be quicker', so Rose hadn't bothered practicing for her again.
But what Rose hadn't factored in was hunting Malfoy down. She hadn't thought it a problem, as Malfoy often found her just to harass her regularly. But since the Quidditch game, he'd completely frozen her out and, if Rose wasn't mistaken, was deliberately avoiding her.
The normal taunts and calls that came with their interactions were no more. Even when he was forced to interact with her—like when she and Albus walked to classes with one another—he avoided her eyes completely, refusing to even say hello. In a messed up way, Rose found herself missing the attention, finding that she'd prefer snide comments over complete apathy.
In the end, it took quite some effort to get alone with Malfoy.
She asked the Ewan Diggory if he could adjust the prefect roster, so she'd get a patrol with Malfoy—glad for the first time that Malfoy was Prefect for Slytherin.
Ewan had refused, so Magda had promised to let him take her out on one date to Hogsmeade—'and only one date, Rose, I hate that prat'—if he'd adjust the roster.
So, on Sunday night—over a week since the Quidditch incident—Rose organized to meet Malfoy outside the Prefect common room for their patrol.
"Ready?" Rose had asked cheerily, and she'd only earned a scowl in response.
They started down the first floor corridors—Rose pausing to check secluded corners and broom cupboards they passed.
"God, you're sad." Malfoy spat the first time, and Rose fought not to get angry,
"I'm just doing my job." She said with false cheeriness, as though her faked optimism could fight the cloud of gloom that enveloped Malfoy.
"Just let the poor bastards have at it. Got to have some kind of outlet for all those hormones."
Rose was battling viciously with her temper, "School policy says—"
He scowled, and Rose actually missed the infuriating smirks he used to save for her, "Don't pull that shit, Rose. School policy says you shouldn't clock people either, but look at you."
Rose's stomach dropped, as they reached the crux of the matter, "Actually, I've been meaning to say—"
Malfoy's face darkened, "There's nothing you need to say about that. You made your intention pretty clear with that Quaffle."
Her temper was at boiling point now, and her hands flew to her hips, "For the record, you were the one that got in the way—"
"Right," he laughed without humour, "and that's the excuse you used to escape punishment?"
"It wasn't like that—" she tried, but his eyes were glittering with pure, unadulterated malice. Most times, even when they fought bitterly, his eyes still held a degree of humour. But his glare was unrestrained and venomous, and Rose shivered.
"Oh well, what's one cracked skull for Hogwarts' favourite house to win the match?" he spat.
Rose felt the threatening sting of tears; frustrated that he wouldn't hear her out, frustrated that he was determined to see her as the villain, "Malfoy, I'm sorry—"
"Don't! Don't you dare pretend you regret it, Rose!"
Her anger and guilt were indiscernible from one another, especially with how viciously he pointed his finger at her, brandishing it like a wand. Rose's own wand was tightly enclosed in her fist, still half-lit with a lumos, but she hadn't even considered lifting it against him. The tears in her eyes probably glittered in the faint light, but she yelled anyway,
"Right, like you haven't done worse in the last six years! You've ruined so much for me—but you still have the audacity to pretend to be a nice person, to Albus, to everyone else in my life! I hate you, Malfoy! I HATE YOU!"
He stilled, and the silence between them was raw contrasted against Rose's shouted proclamation.
Malfoy's voice was so casual it was icy, "You can patrol the top floors, and I will do the dungeons. Goodnight, Rose."
He didn't wait for her answer, stalking off in the direction of the staircases. Rose waited until she couldn't hear his footsteps anymore, well after his lumos had been swallowed by the darkness of the corridor, before she made any movement to finish her patrol.
A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! I'm about 30,000 words into the fic so far (roughly two-thirds through I think) so I'll try to keep the updates daily.