----------------------------------------------------------AUDITIONS-------------------------------------------------------------
Draco had fallen off to sleep on the couch to that girl's singing. He looked down at his uncovered body and mentally scoffed. She hadn't even covered him with a blanket, when he had so courteously done it for her just two days ago. But then again, how was she to know that he had covered her? He picked up his wand from the table, pointed it at the curtains, and flicked it. The curtains pulled apart from each other, and a picture of bright blue sky shot forwards to meet Draco's eyes. Draco inwardly smiled. Today was going to be a perfect day for Quidditch.
He sat up, and groaned. Pain shot through almost every part of his body. How would he be able to perform at his best at the practice? The team would think he was useless. He would just have to endure it. He got to his feet, and crossed the room to the windows. He flipped the latch, and the windows were thrown open. A delightful gentle breeze sailed through, and Draco squinted at the blood-orange sun. Not a cloud in sight.
A perfect day indeed.
His watch read six o'clock. Practice was at ten.
A thought stopped him cold.
He had no broomstick. He had burned everything he had owned, everything that had brought joy to his life; he had burned that all to nothing. Before he had been able to cast a Repair Spell, he had flung it all into the fire. He closed his eyes, resting his thumb and index finger on the bridge of his nose, thinking. What could he do? He couldn't use one of the school's broomsticks. That would be shameful. It wouldn't even show what potential he had.
He opened his eyes, staring at the Black Lake. A large tentacle broke the surface, and danced in mid-air before sinking back into the deep waters.
What were his options?
Just then, Granger entered the Common Room. He glanced at her. Her hair was all over the place, and she looked more awake than an animal in hibernation. He realized that he shouldn't really be commenting on her outward appearance seeing that, presently, he hardly had one of his own.
She played with a tendril of her hair distractedly, and walked towards their little kitchen. Draco didn't think that she had noticed him yet. She had taken out a packet of biscuits from one of the cupboards, and was now making herself coffee. With milk. She had milk with her coffee. Draco felt his mouth turn down at one corner. Which sane person had milk with their coffee? That would taste disgusting.
It was when she was carefully measuring level teaspoons of coffee and dropping them into her cup that he decided to say something. "Granger," he started, keen to see how she'd react. She didn't disappoint. She jumped, letting out a muffled startled noise, and accidentally let a heaped teaspoon of coffee slide into her cup.
She whirled around to face him; and Draco took on a blank expression. "Malfoy!" she complained. "Now I have one too many teaspoons of bloody coffee in my cup!"
He didn't say anything. What could he say? The girl turned back to her cup and emptied its contents into the sink. She started again.
"Granger," he said again.
"What?" Granger growled.
"What time does Hogsmeade open?"
"How would I bloody know?" she grumbled, pouring hot water into her cup.
Draco felt like laughing, but seeing that he couldn't ... well, he couldn't. "You must know," he insisted.
He heard her sigh. He watched as she poured the milk into the cup, and he suppressed a shudder. "It opens at nine, Malfoy."
That was perfect, then.
Draco nodded his thanks, even though he knew she couldn't see him. He didn't feel like voicing his thanks. She walked to the couch with her cup of steaming coffee and her biscuits. She looked up at him. "Do you want anything?" Was that reluctance in her voice?
"No, I can help myself," he said. He crossed the room, and tried not to limp or hobble. His legs really hurt. He blocked the pain, and entered the kitchen. He looked at the bottle of coffee. Empty.
"Granger," he spat.
"What, now?"
"The coffee is finished," he stated.
"You know, Malfoy, many would envy your eyesight," he heard her say. He gritted his teeth. "Next time, don't startle me so, and then maybe you'll have some coffee for yourself."
He had his sack of Galleons in his pocket, and he was walking through Hogsmeade. Seeing that it was a Saturday, the place was rather busy. He avoided touching anyone – old ladies who shuffled passed him, children whose screeching laughter almost made Draco turn around and head back to the school, drunken men who swaggered clumsily. Hogsmeade was thick with people, and it made him feel uncomfortable.
He stopped outside the store he specifically came to shop at. He looked up at the intimidating building, and he felt his heart warm. The italic gold lettering glittered in the sunlight and welcomed him. It was a new store – well, new to him definitely. When last had he been to Hogsmeade?
However, just before his parents had ... left ... Blaise had told him that there was a new broomstick store in Hogsmeade, and Draco remembered how he had felt mildly excited at the thought of getting a new broomstick that would look better than everybody else's.
Now he just wanted a broomstick – not one that would look better than everybody else's – one that would truly gave him a sense of liberation, one that would give him the adrenalin rush that he used to embrace with open arms, one that would make him forget about raw wounds.
He opened the doors, nodding at the security guard. The store had three floors. What for, Draco didn't know – he would probably only be on the first floor. He hurried to the assistant desk. A lady with light auburn hair had her head bent over a piece of parchment, and she was scribbling furiously across it.
"Excuse me," Draco said softly, hoping not to startle the girl.
The woman looked up, and Draco caught his breath. Her dark brown eyes widened in shock, and then she blinked, and attempted a smile. "Draco," she said in a quiet voice. "It's been too long." Her eyes briefly glinted.
Draco continued to stare at her, dozens of memories rushing back. He almost reached out a hand to touch her, but held back. After some time, when the girl's smile had turned into a soft frown, he said calmly, "Astoria."
She carried on looking at him, and Draco didn't know what to say. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I trust you received my letter?"
She looked away from him then, her gaze falling upon a couple marvelling at a broom set. "I was terribly sad to hear about your parents, Draco," she said in reply. "Sorry," she added.
She hasn't changed, Draco thought. Her hair was now only reaching her shoulders as opposed to her waist, but she still looked the same. Draco wondered briefly how he looked. He couldn't run away yet.
"What are you doing here, though?" he asked out of genuine curiosity.
"It's our half-year holiday now – back in Australia. I thought I'd do a bit of world touring, and Britain was the first place I thought of," she said, her gaze returning to him, looking at him meaningfully.
He cleared his throat. "I need a new broomstick," he said, by way of changing the topic.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she got up from her seat. "Do you mind finishing off this letter, Galorina?" she asked the girl next to her. The girl – Galorina – nodded, and Astoria walked around the counter so that she was on the same side as Draco. She had also grown a bit. Just a bit.
Astoria squared her shoulders and began walking to the corner of the shop. Draco followed her silently. She pointed towards a slick broomstick that was bent slightly at the end. "This is from one of our top ranges. Its fastest speed is three hundred and fifty kilometres per hour –" Draco raised his eyebrows in surprise, impressed, "—and is very easily maintained." Draco nodded. "It's made from a very unique tree- there are only two of its kind. Why didn't you reply to any of my letters?" The abrupt change of topic caught Draco off guard, and he didn't know if he had imagined her last question. He chose not to say anything.
Astoria shot a look over her shoulder. "I asked a question."
So he hadn't imagined it. "I...I didn't reply to anybody's letters, if that makes a difference." This was true.
"No, it doesn't," came her sharp reply. Before Draco could say anything else, she said, "This broomstick is made from Muggle cherry wood, yet it's been magically enhanced to such a state that it can better the Firebolt. Its speed averages at about two hundred kilometres per hour, yet its powers are completely dependent on the rider." She was holding up another broomstick, looking at Draco the whole time she spoke. Draco refused to look at her; instead he pretended to marvel at the broomstick. She placed it back in its place.
"I waited, you know, for months, for at least one reply. How could you, Draco?" She didn't let him reply. "We were going out for a whole year, you know that? Did you know that the day you sent that letter happened to mark the one year for us? No, I guess you didn't. I was expecting something romantic, you know?"
Draco didn't know what to say.
Astoria pointed at another broomstick that looked slightly vintage-styled. "This broomstick is unique in that it is a combination of classes from a few centuries ago, and the century that we're presently in. It took approximately a year to make, so I can assure you that it is not flimsy. It travels at an impressive two hundred and seventy kilometres per hour. However it doesn't turn easily. The rider has to be extremely strong, and he has to know what he's doing." Draco tried to ignore the double meaning in the last sentence.
"Look, Astoria, I don't have enough time..." He had roughly half an hour left until ten.
"That's always the case, isn't it?" she smiled bitterly at him. They walked in silence. She stopped before another broomstick, yet if she hadn't stopped, Draco would have done so just to admire the sheer beauty the broomstick possessed. It looked powerful. It looked majestic. He could see himself on it. "And then there's this. It travels at a speed of –"
"I'll buy it," he said, staring at the broomstick. He ran a finger gently across the broomstick's handle. So smooth.
Astoria blinked. "Don't you want to know anything about it?"
"Not at all," he replied. This was the broom. He could tell. At the end of the broomstick, in delicate silver lettering, read the words Whip-Crack. He wasn't too impressed with the name – it sounded ridiculous – but he didn't care. "I'll buy it," he repeated.
Astoria shrugged, and he followed her back to the counter, the broomstick over his shoulder.
"One thousand Galleons, please," she said, her hand held out before her.
Draco nodded, and took out his sack of Galleons. He had packed exactly one thousand Galleons. He handed the sack to her, and she waved her wand at it. A second later, the number "1 000" appeared at the tip of her wand. She nodded at him. "You're good to go."
He was just about to turn around, when something stopped him. He looked at her, really looked at her, and said quietly, "Take care, Astoria."
She narrowed her eyes at him, and turned around to talk to one of the shop assistants.
Draco sighed and turned around. He still had to buy a Quidditch outfit as well.
He jogged to the Quidditch field, and was there at ten o'clock on the dot. The pain that spiralled through his body he hardly noticed. The rest of the team was assembled in a tight circle around Blaise Zabini. They hadn't noticed Draco yet.
"Why would you invite him back—?"
"He's going to quit again—"
"He has probably forgotten how to play—"
"What were you thinking, Zabini—?"
"Now we're going to lose –"
Draco was shocked at all these comments. To spare Blaise the trouble of explaining anything, he cleared his throat loudly. They stopped talking, and turned around to face him. All but one sported the same hostile expression. Some crossed their arms over their muscled chests.
Blaise walked towards him. "Draco," he said, a hesitant smile on his face, "you're here."
Draco nodded. He scanned the looks of his former friends. None of them looked all that friendly. Draco took a step forward, and someone let out a low snarl. Blaise shot a look at the boy. "Grayson, that is unnecessary."
Draco clenched his jaw, and walked towards the group.
"You'll be taking your former position as Seeker, Draco," Blaise instructed. Draco nodded.
Draco caught someone – Rellis Glirt – staring at his broomstick. "Is that a... is that a Whip-Crack?" Awe coloured his voice. The boy next to him elbowed him roughly. "What?" Rellis said defensively. "Just because we don't have to talk to him, doesn't mean we can't admire the broomstick. Patrick, it's a Whip-Crack."
"And so?" the boy named Patrick said. "My mother is buying me that next month." He cocked his head, facing Draco. "Oh, Draco," he said mock-pityingly, "You don't have a mother to buy your things, do you? You bought that?"
"Patrick, ten laps around the field. Go. We never disrespect another team player," Blaise barked out. Patrick smirked, and he started his laps. Draco clenched his fists tightly. "In the air, everyone. Now." Before Draco could mount his broom, Blaise placed a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to do this, you know."
"I know, but I want to." He kicked off from the ground.
The broomstick was more than he could have asked for. It gave him everything and more. He was able to ignore all the insulting comments shot his way. He focused on the power of the broom that turned at his will. He focused on its speed. He focused on himself. And then he saw a glint of gold. Rushing forward, the broom faster than the speed of light, he curled his fingers around the snitch.
He hadn't lost it. He could still play. He hadn't lost it.
Meanwhile, in the Great Hall
Professor Pinkle stared at the five people seated before her. She licked her lips, and held up her hand to look at her watch. It was ten-past-ten. "Ahem, well, seeing that there we are already ten minutes into audition time, I suppose we should start." She looked at one of the boys and asked him, "Do you know if there are any more people coming?"
The boy shook his head.
Professor Pinkle heaved a deep sigh. "Very well." She looked down at her clipboard. "Donovan Relney, you're up first."
Hermione hadn't seen the professor look so unenthusiastic before. She hadn't even smiled. Hermione glanced around her. Besides herself, there were only four other people. A proper musical required a large cast. Five was a very dismal number.
Donovan Relney conjured a few instruments from his wand, and as soon as the instruments started playing by themselves, he started singing. And Professor Pinkle wished he would stop. He let out a few shaky notes, missed out words, and inserted his own lyrics. A few of the students coughed to hide their laughter, and Hermione glared at them. At least Donovan had the nerve to sing.
Professor Pinkle clapped her hands. She smiled sweetly up at Donovan who was shivering with fear. "Right, my dear, you can go now." The poor seventh year ran off immediately.
The next few auditions went off just like the first one – horrible, tasteless and disappointing. Well, according to Professor Pinkle. Just before Hermione got up from her seat to have her turn, Professor Pinkle sighed loudly. She stood up, and faced the few students. "I'm sorry to say, children, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to postpone ... auditions." Hermione's jaw dropped open. "I'm going to find another means of doing this. Surely this cannot be the talent of the school."
"Professor, I haven't even had a turn yet!" Hermione cried out.
Professor Pinkle smiled at her, almost all of her teeth showing. "I'm sorry, dear, time is up."
"It's only been ten minutes, Professor. You scheduled the whole day."
Professor Pinkle fidgeted with her blouse. "Right, then, toodle-doo," and she walked right out of the Great Hall.
Hermione looked down at her dress. She had wasted so much of time practising. She could've been studying during that time!
She got up from her seat, and stalked out of the Great Hall.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Monday morning arrived quicker than Hermione had hoped for. She crawled out of bed and hurried to the bathroom. She bathed in record time. Why did she get late almost every morning? After she had changed quickly into her school robes, she hurried to her room, flinging any school-related thing into her schoolbag. Admittedly, half of it needn't be in her bag, but she was running late so she didn't have time to sort through it all.
She banged open the portrait door and rushed down to the Great Hall. She spotted Harry and Ron and squeezed herself between them on the bench. She let out a long sigh.
"Morning, Hermione," Harry said, handing her a glass of juice.
"Morning, and thanks," she gulped down the juice. "So what's for breakfast?"
"Well, I think Ron finished half of it, so good luck finding something to eat," Harry said in a teasing voice.
Ron rolled his eyes, and swallowed whatever food was in his mouth. "He's lying, Hermione. Here, you're welcome to anything," he pushed his plate towards her, and Hermione's lips curled in disgust at the mounted food on his plate.
She pushed his plate back towards him. "No, thanks, Ronald," she said, not attempting to hide the disgust in her voice.
"Girls," Ron rolled his eyes, shrugging. He forked more food into his mouth. Hermione shook her head. She reached forward for a slice of toast and buttered it.
"Oh, yeah!" Harry said suddenly. "How was your audition? I didn't get to see you this week-end."
Hermione frowned. "My audition? It didn't happen. Professor Pinkle called it off."
Harry looked surprised. He sipped his juice. "Why?"
"Who knows what goes on in that woman's head?" Ron said. "Hermione, don't worry about it. Some things just aren't meant to happen."
"I know, but I was really looking forward to it. Anyway," she said, brushing toast crumbs off her cloak, "I need to get to class." She hugged them, and left. She took her time walking to her next class. She had Muggle Studies.
The door was open, and the class was buzzing.
Hermione was the last to arrive, and Professor Pinkle shot her a disapproving look. Hermione tried to look apologetic, but this professor of theirs was really starting to do a tap dance on her nerves. Hermione took her place next to Dean, mumbled a 'hello', and slumped low in her chair.
"What happened?" Dean whispered.
"Nothing," Hermione grumbled. That was the full truth of it. Nothing had happened. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for another tedious lesson on electricity.
Dean, sensing that she was in a bad mood, retracted, and focused his attention on Professor Pinkle instead, who was standing at the front of the classroom holding an odd-looking, oversized ball.
Hermione stared at the large ball blocking half of Professor Pinkle's body. She was holding the ball with both of her hands, and therefore she couldn't clap her hands to call the class to attention. She looked helplessly around the classroom. "Children, children, please calm down ... ahem, children..." Her muffled words were lost in the racket that the class was making. It was a Monday morning after all. People had to catch up with each other.
Hermione could have helped. She could have, but didn't. She could have told the professor to put the ball on the floor, but she didn't. Hermione could be very stubborn, you see, and for her, Professor Pinkle was beginning to take on the same connotation as Professor Trelawney.
However, Lavender Brown at the back of the classroom felt sorry for Professor Pinkle. For her, without Professor Pinkle, she wouldn't have been able to understand the concept of The Plug. "SHUT IT!" she yelled to the class from where she sat. Professor Pinkle sent a startled look in Lavender's direction, but the class did quieten down.
"Uhm, thank you for that, Miss Brown," Professor Pinkle said happily.
Lavender beamed. "You're welcome, Professor."
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She stared at the professor with bored eyes.
Professor Pinkle placed the big ball on the floor, but it started to roll sideways. She hurried over to stop it, but once she straightened up, the ball began to roll again. The professor huffed, and bent down again to stop the ball. She held her hand there for a few seconds as if mentally communicating with the ball, and then let go. The class watched as the ball remained still for a few seconds. Professor Pinkle straightened up again, but just as she did so, the ball rolled again.
"Honestly," Hermione said under her breath to Dean. "It's spherical. Of course it's going to roll." She took out her wand and pointed it at the ball. "Petrificus totalus!" she half-whispered. The ball froze, and Professor Pinkle shot Hermione a grateful look. Unlike Lavender, Hermione didn't smile widely. She simply nodded and waited for the professor to say something.
Professor Pinkle clapped her hands twice, and said loudly in an overly cheerful voice, "Right, children! I have found our solution! All of you should be familiar with the system that the Ministry implemented in your fourth year at Hogwarts. Who can tell me what happened in your fourth year?" she ended off eagerly.
Hermione sighed. How old did the professor think they were? Five? Six?
However, somebody in the back put up his hand and said in a squeaky voice, "The Triwizard Tournament!"
"That's right!" Professor Pinkle exclaimed. "And who can tell me what system the Ministry implemented to select the competitors?"
"The goblet of fire!" someone said.
Hermione massaged her temples gently. Where was this leading to?
"Very good!" Professor Pinkle said in her high-pitched voice. "Now, I have devised a similar system for selecting the actors and singers for the school musical, Snow White and her Prince Charming!"
Hermione sat up straight in her seat, alert.
Many did the exact same thing, too.
When the professor realized that she had the class's full attention, she giggled. "Yes, well, it wasn't just me. I had help from the other members of the staff. Anyhoo, what I did, to make all our lives easier, I got the names of everybody in the entire school to appear on individual pieces of paper, and fed them into this big ball right here which Miss Granger has so kindly frozen for me. Could someone please reverse the spell?"
Hermione was the first to accede to the professor's request, and she waited on the edge of her seat to find out what would happen next. Dozens of the students had expressions of awe and anticipation across their faces.
The ball started to roll again, but Professor Pinkle ignored it. "I'm going to read out the name of the character, and the name of the student who got the role will shoot out from the ball. Let me assure you that this is a completely fair system, because the ball has been designed by skilled people – namely myself – to select only the best, most suitable person for the role. Of course, it's open to anyone, even if they do not take Muggle Studies. I'm going to draw the names now, so basically, you lot are the first to know about it." She smiled broadly.
Hermione's hands were starting to sweat, and she clutched them both in each other tightly, praying against Merlin's last pair of socks that she'd get the part. She bit her lip.
The professor pulled out a long piece of parchment, along with a pair of goggle-looking glasses. She put the glasses on, but half the class was too nervous too even grasp how hilarious she looked. Draco Malfoy, though, at the back, was neither nervous nor amused. Just bored.
"I will be start calling out the names now," she announced dramatically. She pointed her wand at the ball. "Snow White!" The class followed her look to the ball which was still aimlessly rolling about on the floor. Hermione crossed her fingers tightly. Something popped out from the top of the ball and zoomed straight into the professor's hands. It was a miniature version of the big ball – about half the size of a quaffle. Professor Pinkle read the name that appeared on the ball, and smiled. "Congratulations!" she exclaimed. A few students exchanged looks of confusion. She hadn't even announced who the receiver of her "congratulations" was.
She didn't have to.
The ball hovered above the professor's hands, and then zoomed at lightning speed heading for Hermione and Dean's desk. Hermione ducked, but it was too late.
The ball landed on her lap. Hermione stared at it for a second, and looked up at the professor in shock. 'Go on' the professor mouthed. The class watched as Hermione picked up the ball in her hands. As soon as she touched it, the ball turned a brilliant scarlet, and tiny (harmless) fireworks burst forth from the surface of the ball. Hermione stared at the beautiful mini-display in amazement. Once the fireworks stopped, she saw her name in black, bold letters, under the name "Snow White".
She let out a small squeal. "Thank you so much, Professor!"
Professor Pinkle smiled kindly. "Why don't we all give Miss Granger a round of applause for getting the lead role in the musical?" The class erupted in applause, and Hermione bowed her head, feeling her cheeks and ears heat up.
"Well done, Hermione!" Dean said warmly, giving her a hug. Hermione felt giddy with excitement. She clutched the ball in her hands and waited to find out the names of the rest of her fellow cast members.
Once all the applause died down, the class eagerly waited for more. The professor looked down at her parchment. "Prince Charming," she announced. Another ball zoomed out of the big ball, and landed in her hands. She looked at the name, but instead of saying "congratulations", she raised her eyebrows. Her eyes – one of the most important parts of the body when it comes to body expression – were half-concealed behind her glasses. "Ahem, well, this ought to be interesting," she said, and smiled not unkindly.
She let go of the ball.
The ball raced towards the end of the classroom, stopped abruptly, and fell into Draco Malfoy's lap.
Draco stared mutely at the ball, blankly. Whispers spread across the classroom, most of them audible.
"Him?"
"He can sing?"
"Aw man! I wanted the part!"
Draco lifted his head to look at the professor. He started to shake his head. "Professor," he started. A hushed silence fell over the class – Draco Malfoy never spoke in class. "There must be a mistake," he said quietly.
Professor Pinkle regarded him for a moment. "I can assure you, Mr Malfoy, that this ball is impossible at making mistakes."
Draco didn't respond. His gaze dropped to look at the ball. He still hadn't touched it.
"You don't have to accept, Mr Malfoy," Professor Pinkle said softly.
Every member of the class was looking at Draco.
Draco stared at the ball.
And stared.
And stared.
--------------------------------------------------------to be continued--------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Really hope you liked that I enjoyed writing it, so please tell me what you think?