Hello! Chapter 4 here. I tried this one several times and decided not to post any version until it came out properly, hence the delay. It is set somewhere in the middle of their fifth year, otherwise it wouldn't have worked, it's one of those evil but necessary linking chapters. And, er, the title is not at all pertinent anymore, I got carried away. coughs But everything that happens has some purpose or another...
Thanks so much to all the reviewers from last time. I love you. :-)
Slash hints. Not too bad in this chapter, but, as always, don't like slash? Don't read.
Note: Draco POV, takes place subsequent to the third book, the aftermath of the Slytherins' first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson with Professor Lupin.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling and is being used without permission, but not for profit.
Boggart Fantasies: Quidditch and Surfaced Rumors
By: J.J. the hinkypunk
I watched him walk out of the room.
From then on, Harry and I recovered our usual relationship--I went back to tormenting him about dementors and the like, while he ignored me, with his posse right behind his back. I was worried that things might have been a little awkward between us to say the least, but neither he nor I wanted to show any signs of caring. If anyone were to find out about us kissing, I'd be dead and he'd be dead, so we went along on our ways in denial. For all I knew, Ron Weasley would use my boggart as a blackmailing device. Come to think of it, I wasn't even sure he was in on the whole thing; it was between Crabbe, Goyle, Hermione, Harry, and me. The Slytherins outnumbered Gryffindor in this case, so I suppose we didn't have anything to worry about. Besides, Crabbe alone looked more than twice Harry and Hermione's added size. I had protection.
Defense Against the Dark Arts went well--in other words--we didn't have to fight a boggart again. It could have been a mess. I remember thinking, Hm, will my boggart be Father, Harry, or McGonagall? It was quite a frightening thought, and I prayed that professor Lupin would not force our class to practice against boggarts another time. Alas, he didn't. Rather, we moved on to the study of banshees (how absolutely boring).
Potions was going well also, which doesn't come as a shock. Gryffindor was working for the world's record in points subtracted, while Harry was doing all the hard work for me (it wasn't my fault that stupid hippogriff annihilated my right arm). As a matter of fact, third year as a whole was going along smoothly. I couldn't have asked for more, perhaps with the exception of a Firebolt broomstick. Father kept telling me that my current broom was just fine, and that if I was a good enough flier, I'd pummel Gryffindor anyway. I wanted to beat them too, but in my fourth year they revived the old Triwizard Tournament instead of Quidditch, you know the deal...
Problems didn't arise until my fifth year at Hogwarts. By this time, Harry's fame exploded beyond all expectations, first the whole Voldemort incident, then the Voldemort incident again, then he won the tournament, and faced Voldemort once again. I wasn't sure as to how I should react--I wanted to show some superiority and kick his ass, but at the same time, I wanted to shout out, I kissed him! I kissed Harry Potter!
I never even had to do that. Apparently, since Weasley and Harry were best friends, Harry had told Weasley every detail. He informed him on my adventures in the old broom closet in the east wing, and my (horny) boggart. Weasley was able to retain the information he had for a few years, but nobody can keep a secret for very long...
It was Quidditch season at Hogwarts, Slytherin was at it's strongest. We'd nearly worked ourselves to death practicing new tactics and strategies. I was made captain. On this occasion, Father bought me a new Firebolt Platinum (the newest technology in broomsticks at the time). He was quite threatening, though. He fully expected Slytherin to take the Quidditch Cup this year, and because Harry's broomstick was merely a Firebolt, he anticipated my triumph over the oh-so-amazing seeker. Ron Weasley was on the Gryffindor team as Keeper this year. What a laugh. I suspected a team full of Weasleys couldn't do too well, but then again, Harry was a stud at seeker.
In the final match of the season, Gryffindor and Slytherin were tied in the lead. The Quidditch Cup could go either way at that point--it was all dependent upon our last match. I relished in that sense of anticipation and thrill, the feeling that shoots through my limbs before a Quidditch match, especially a match of such importance. Nevertheless, my palms were sweating waterfalls, honestly. Last time, Harry had come up with an amazing save in the Quidditch final and ended up winning it for Gryffindor. I couldn't let him do it again.
Our team was dressed in brand new green Slytherin robes adorned by the silver serpent. We stood tall with our noses in the air as we stampeded out onto the Quidditch field. All of Hogwarts seemed to be watching intently from the stands, the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw teams both jealous--because they were losers--and cheering madly for Gryffindor (Hufflepuff wasn't too happy when one of our beaters nearly killed their seeker by whacking him with a Bludger for fun). I could pick out Professor Snape, who sat down and had a certain inquiring look in his face. He was really in need of a Slytherin victory this year and he made sure that I knew it. Over the announcements, Lee Jordan called, Here comes Slytherin, lead by Captain Malfoy. I think he tried to stifle a sickly gag. The Slytherin side of the stadium erupted into applauds, waving green and silver flags in passion. I was beaming. My name sounded wonderful after the word .
The Gryffindor team soon pooled onto the field clutching their broomsticks with smoldering fists. And the Gryffindor team! Potter, Bell, Spinnet, Johnson, Weasley, Weasley, and Weasley! yelled Lee. The rest of Hogwarts flared with rabid cheering.
And Madam Hooch started the game at once, otherwise, I'm sure some of the looks from the Gryffindor players would have burned holes in my skull. I guess they really wanted to win. Harry looked at me, vile. I smiled mockingly, and raised my Firebolt Platinum up for all to see. After all, he only had the old version, and he'd find out shortly that it might be lethal to his game. The Firebolt Platinum was a damn good prototype (it wasn't even available to the public yet; my father had connections and was able to snag me one). It moved as if it were a wisp of air, a breath of wind, rather than a broomstick, and it never shifted direction at my touch--it seemed to obey my thoughts. It was inspiringly fast. I often wondered if, at full speed, the rider was a complete blur to a spectator. Harry looked back at me glumly, as if he wanted to say, Yeah, my broom isn't as good as yours, but you'll still loose anyway. And if you don't, you'll still have to live with that ugly face of yours, Malfoy. I could picture him saying just that. I thought back to the day he wanted me, when he was the boggart, and wondered how things could be so different.
Mount your brooms. Three... two... one, Madam Hooch shouted and her whistle rung through our ears, arousing excitement that only Quidditch can generate. Fourteen bodies darted into the air and began their conquest. The various balls were released. Montague, one of our Chasers seized the Quaffle as I floated overhead, following Harry. The only thing in my head at the moment was to find the Snitch. I had to get to it first. From a distance, I could just make out Montague scoring, already, and the Slytherin crowd exploding in animated shouts of excitement. OH NO! Ten-nothing Slytherin. Don't worry, Gryffindor'll catch up! Lee Jordan exclaimed. I smiled and looked on for the Snitch.
Harry muttered, Oh, poor Ron. He was just learning skills as a Keeper, and I guess he simply wasn't good enough. Snitch, Snitch, Snitch, damn it Malfoy, find the Snitch, I kept telling myself. Harry didn't seem to be have any luck either--he sat calmly on his broomstick suspended directly over the center of the field. He didn't even look worried, and here I was, nervous as hell and stomach churning and lurching.
Through the course of the game, both he and I did a lot of sitting around. The Snitch seemed to have run away. Below us the score was tied fifty to fifty and Gryffindor was taking a beating, though the score did not indicate it. Cheaters always come out ahead.
Then, right on cue, Bole, one of our Beaters took a swing at a Bludger. This was meant to his Harry right in the head; we'd practiced this over and over again in the training season. Wham! With a cracking sound, the Bludger thunked right on Harry's skull. It looked like it hurt like a mother... I felt bad for the guy... No! Find the Snitch, Malfoy!
Harry let go of his broom and started falling to the ground, much like the time when he'd fallen in his second year. The Bludger had knocked him out. He landed on the ground with a thud. His body looked limp, I couldn't really tell since I was still up in the air. The crowd gasped. I looked around frantically for the Snitch. I had to get it...
THAT WAS ON PURPOSE! THROW BOLE OUT OF THE GAME! HE TRIED TO KILL HARRY! Lee shrieked.
Madame Hooch blew her whistle. Damn it, I was supposed to find the Snitch before she called of the match or anything of that sort.
Teachers rushed onto the field and huddled over. I guided my broomstick downwards to see if anything interesting was happening. Madam Hooch stood over Harry, who had apparently awoken. He looked rather dizzy and a purple, swelling lump blossomed from his forehead (it complimented his scar perfectly). He was led to the hospital wing by a furious Professor McGonagall. He looked as if he were drunk, he couldn't walk straight. Must've had a concussion.
Madam Hooch called the players of both teams towards her and announced that the game would be postponed until Gryffindor's full lineup was available to play. With groans, the stadium emptied out. Bole murmured under his breath, I knew that maneuver wouldn't work. Too cliché.
That night, I planned to go see what Harry was up to in the hospital wing. I was on my way over when I ran into Ron Weasley, who looked utterly pissed off. I can imagine why. Malfoy, this has gone too far. By the way, I think you'll find it nice to know that I have enlightened people about a certain incident of your past that you probably wanted to keep hidden. I raised an eyebrow and continued on.
At first I thought he was speaking of my first pair of handcuffs and leather pants, but that wouldn't make any sense. Shrugging, I continued.
For some reason, I ran into Neville Longbottom. When he saw me, he started laughing maniacally. I pulled out my wand and pointed it at him. Got anything to say to me, Longbottom? He stopped laughing.
No sir. He looked scared. He must have changed his mind at some point, because he added, I can believe you screw boggarts in your spare time. That's pretty sad.
I don't screw boggarts! Who told you that? I inquired.
R-ron did.
Oh. The Weasel, eh?
Isn't it true? In your third year, Harry was your boggart, and he was going to screw you. It's true, isn't it, he looked at me earnestly.
Yes, actually. It was, er, pretty steamy. You should try it some time. He was about to laugh again.
I can't. I don't want to fuck my grandmother.
Why not? She's damn sexy, right? He looked terrified. No? Fine, she's all mine. See you around, Longbottom. And do tell everyone about my boggart, will you? And say that the real Harry kissed me shortly afterwards.
He blinked, bewildered, and scampered off. The lesson? Sometimes it's just fun to play around with rumors. Can't take them too seriously.
Now, it was time to go see Harry. You know, offer him some comfort. After all, he looked quite handsome in spite of an ugly scar and a bulging bruise.
end fic
More coming soon to a computer near you. So there. :p
J.J.
promises there will be more boggarts in the next chapter
