I've Always Told You I Was A Rover
Draco rose early that morning to get ready for the quidditch game. This was important: if he didn't catch the snitch today, Slytherin would never advance to play Gryffindor. He skipped the shower, since he would only get muddy, and probably beaten, at the game. Instead, he brushed his teeth and rinsed his face in the sink. He stared at himself in the mirror as he combed his hair back. Blond hair, pale skin, green eyes: he was practically the image of his father, right down to that perfect cupid's bow of a mouth. He scowled at the reflection and everything it meant.
Breakfast was the same old Saturday meal. Draco sat with the same old goons, and stared at the same old teachers. The constancy was today, though, a source of comfort: just another game at Hogwarts school.
"Ravenclaw'll be a cinch to beat today, Goyle," he muttered. The thug grunted back. "I know we'll move on to Gryffindor, and to the cup."
He left early to arrive first at the pitch, pulling his robes up on his shoulders and smoothing his sweater down. He had always loved the feeling of quidditch gauntlets on his hands, the way they covered everything but the tips of his fingers. They made him feel like one of the figures from the tapestries, like a knight errant or a valiant warrior. They made him feel powerful and important, in a very real way.
The thugs followed him to the dugout, where Draco sat for several minutes staring at the pitch, imagining the game he was about to play - about to win. Soon the rest of the team began to arrive, and Draco dismissed the goons. He didn't need their backup on the pitch, not with a Nimbus 2006 beneath him.
After reviewing the plays with the team, Draco led them out to the pitch. The stands were already full of Hogwarts students of every house: teachers, parents, and staff were positioned in their respective stands. Draco wondered for a brief moment if his father was going to be there, but he saw no white blond head among the parents and so was calm. The Slytherin team was excited: Draco had spent a ludicrous amount of time over the summer putting together their plans, and he was sure that his hard work would eventually let him triumph over the Ravenclaws, smart though they were.
Madame Hooch gave the signal and released the bludgers, quaffle, and snitch. The players kicked off from the ground, and Draco signaled the Slytherins into a v-formation to start out. As they passed over the centerline of the pitch, they broke their form and began pursuing their individual goals.
Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw seeker and an experienced seventh year, suddenly broke with her own team's formation. Draco paused prudently to see if she had seen the snitch: a flicker of gold told him that her chase was in earnest.
Any means to an end, Draco told himself, and began to follow her. He caught up to her easily, and in a rare moment of blagging, he took hold of the tail of her broom and pulled her backwards. Fortunately, Warrington had just caught the quaffle and was moving in for a goal against Ravenclaw, distracting the crowd. They came up and around, almost hovering over the centerline before the snitch shot straight up into the sky. Draco released his hold on Cho's broom and followed the ball, urging his broomstick ever faster into the morning sun.
And there he lost it, for in the glare he couldn't see its glittering. He dove down at a breakneck speed, using the purely non-magical gravity to his advantage, and swung out over the Ravenclaw stands. The gasp he got was incredibly satisfying, and as he hung over their heads, seeing Cho do the same on the other side of the pitch, he stole a glance down for Ophelia.
She was in the front row, and staring directly back into his eyes. Her sable hair was blowing in the wintry wind, catching in her face and partially cloaking her smile. Oh, but sure as he floated there it was a smile.
A sparkle in the corner of his eye and Draco broke the moment's gaze: he regretted it even as he did it, but to let Cho grab it first because he was looking at a girl - he'd never live it down. The other seeker darted around him as if to distract and then took off, but Draco kept his eye firm.
After a few loops around the pitch, it seemed that Cho had lost sight of it. A brilliant idea came to him, and he flew to the open field. Cho followed: it almost made him laugh how easily she was deceived. She should have expected nothing else from a Malfoy. He dropped the tip of his broom and sunk toward the ground, hearing her robes flutter as she followed. But Draco knew what he was doing, and pulled up just in time: Cho, on the other hand, ran hard into the grass. She shrieked, and rose from the ground shaking her wrist out. Pity it wasn't broken, he thought.
"Malfoy performs a flawless Wronski defensive feint," Lee Jordan called over the loudspeakers. "The dirty bastard ."
Draco laughed so hard at McGonagall's reprimand he almost forgot what he was looking for: the golden snitch shone in the easy sunlight as it flew just out of reach in his peripheral vision, and Draco followed, Cho not far behind.
His fingers almost closed around it as the snitch darted hastily out of range yet again. Cho slammed into him, nearly knocking him off. Draco was surprised that Hooch didn't say a word about it, but there wasn't exactly time to complain. He held his ground, so to speak, and pursued: both their hands seemed to touch the ball at the same instant.
Cho yanked at it, and Draco felt that his arm might come out of the socket, yet was he insistent, holding tight. Cho was shouting, screaming in his ear: it was quite the struggle just to maintain his broomstick.
"Come on, Ravenclaw. Is that any way for a lady to speak?" he hissed at her. As if in punishment for his feint, she scratched him; she actually dug her nails into his cheek and tore the flesh. He felt a trickle of blood down his cheek, and then caught sight of the Ravenclaw keeper. As if on a possessed broomstick, he dangled from the bottom of it as it barreled straight towards their little mid-air scrap.
Draco, hands still firmly around the snitch, ducked, wrenching it from Cho's fingers as her own team member crashed firmly into her and both of them went hurtling toward the ground.
"Malfoy's got the golden snitch! Slytherin continues on to play Gryffindor for the House Cup," Lee called. "Though everyone know they'll lose just as badly as -"
Draco didn't need to see McGonagall's reprove this time: he had caught the snitch, and that alone was cause enough to smile.
Pucey and the rest of his team congratulated him with smacks on the back as they returned from the pitch. Appreciative as he was, Draco was muddy and sweaty, and even a bit bloody, so he rinsed his face in the Slytherin dugout sink. He was still grinning like an idiot in the mirror. He examined the marks Cho had left on him: blood has run backwards into his fair hair; a few scratches by his emerald eyes; and one that looked deeper than he thought it ought. He had gotten the blood and dirt off, and looked very nearly attractive, he thought. This one scratch was bothering him, though: he considered it closing it then and there.
"Nice battle scar, Malfoy," Baddock called from across the room: that settled that.
Broom in hand, Draco started back to the castle. He hoped only to avoid his goons, if only for a few minutes. He had won the game, had proven that he did not need their backup all the time: the last thing he wanted was their physical presence to remind him that this feeling would disappear.
"Mr. Malfoy," rumbled a voice he knew all too well. Draco turned around. "Nice work," Snape said, lingering just that moment too long on that s.
Draco managed a smile again, forgetting how furious he was at this man for just a moment. "Thank you, sir."
The corridors were cool and empty: everyone else had gone to lunch after the game, leaving pools of melted snow everywhere, but Draco wanted a shower more than any meal. Suddenly, he heard a familiar tapping of heels on stone floors behind him.
"Well done, Draco," Ophelia said. "Heading back to your room?"
He stared back at her without a word. "Why do you ask?"
"I'm heading to mine. Want to walk me?" She was smiling, that same smile that she had worn during the game. "Do you believe in runes now?"
Draco stopped. "What does that mean?"
"The broom. It was mine." Well that explained the grin.
"You sabotaged your own team," he said, incredulously, as he began to catch back up with her.
"It would have been too obvious if I'd helped Ravenclaw, of course," she giggled. "It was complicated to get just the right blend: I almost used a few words I'd been saving to name the runes. I thought you'd be happy, Draco."
She had helped him, but it had been only a matter of time before he overpowered Cho. His anger drained away when she said his name; so much gentler than his surname. "What words?"
"Laetha gael," she said, dismissively. "You're not mad at me, are you?"
He shook his head, tucking his rage away. Anyone else he would have cast a good spell at, but Ophelia .
Another pool of water waited for them outside the door to Ravenclaw. He should have told her sooner, but Ophelia didn't see it and slipped: he caught her with a slightly dusty hand beneath her arm.
She nodded and turned to look at him.
"What happened to you?" she asked, looking at the scratch on his cheek. He still had a hand on her arm from where he'd caught her.
"Your seeker's a bitch," he said, jocularly.
"I know." She drew out her wand and touched it to the mark. "Abracadabra."
"It still stings," he whispered, moving a bit closer to her. She backed into the tower door.
"I don't have any phoenix tears to give you."
"Maybe yours would do the trick," he whispered, bending down to kiss her.
She turned her head to evade. "My tears wouldn't satisfy you, Draco. Good night. Repetitio," she whispered, and the door opened for her and she disappeared inside.
No one had ever refused him. As Draco stalked away from the Ravenclaw tower, the Grey Lady materialized over his head. "She's right, of course," she called.
No. She keeps herself just for Snape.
Draco rose early that morning to get ready for the quidditch game. This was important: if he didn't catch the snitch today, Slytherin would never advance to play Gryffindor. He skipped the shower, since he would only get muddy, and probably beaten, at the game. Instead, he brushed his teeth and rinsed his face in the sink. He stared at himself in the mirror as he combed his hair back. Blond hair, pale skin, green eyes: he was practically the image of his father, right down to that perfect cupid's bow of a mouth. He scowled at the reflection and everything it meant.
Breakfast was the same old Saturday meal. Draco sat with the same old goons, and stared at the same old teachers. The constancy was today, though, a source of comfort: just another game at Hogwarts school.
"Ravenclaw'll be a cinch to beat today, Goyle," he muttered. The thug grunted back. "I know we'll move on to Gryffindor, and to the cup."
He left early to arrive first at the pitch, pulling his robes up on his shoulders and smoothing his sweater down. He had always loved the feeling of quidditch gauntlets on his hands, the way they covered everything but the tips of his fingers. They made him feel like one of the figures from the tapestries, like a knight errant or a valiant warrior. They made him feel powerful and important, in a very real way.
The thugs followed him to the dugout, where Draco sat for several minutes staring at the pitch, imagining the game he was about to play - about to win. Soon the rest of the team began to arrive, and Draco dismissed the goons. He didn't need their backup on the pitch, not with a Nimbus 2006 beneath him.
After reviewing the plays with the team, Draco led them out to the pitch. The stands were already full of Hogwarts students of every house: teachers, parents, and staff were positioned in their respective stands. Draco wondered for a brief moment if his father was going to be there, but he saw no white blond head among the parents and so was calm. The Slytherin team was excited: Draco had spent a ludicrous amount of time over the summer putting together their plans, and he was sure that his hard work would eventually let him triumph over the Ravenclaws, smart though they were.
Madame Hooch gave the signal and released the bludgers, quaffle, and snitch. The players kicked off from the ground, and Draco signaled the Slytherins into a v-formation to start out. As they passed over the centerline of the pitch, they broke their form and began pursuing their individual goals.
Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw seeker and an experienced seventh year, suddenly broke with her own team's formation. Draco paused prudently to see if she had seen the snitch: a flicker of gold told him that her chase was in earnest.
Any means to an end, Draco told himself, and began to follow her. He caught up to her easily, and in a rare moment of blagging, he took hold of the tail of her broom and pulled her backwards. Fortunately, Warrington had just caught the quaffle and was moving in for a goal against Ravenclaw, distracting the crowd. They came up and around, almost hovering over the centerline before the snitch shot straight up into the sky. Draco released his hold on Cho's broom and followed the ball, urging his broomstick ever faster into the morning sun.
And there he lost it, for in the glare he couldn't see its glittering. He dove down at a breakneck speed, using the purely non-magical gravity to his advantage, and swung out over the Ravenclaw stands. The gasp he got was incredibly satisfying, and as he hung over their heads, seeing Cho do the same on the other side of the pitch, he stole a glance down for Ophelia.
She was in the front row, and staring directly back into his eyes. Her sable hair was blowing in the wintry wind, catching in her face and partially cloaking her smile. Oh, but sure as he floated there it was a smile.
A sparkle in the corner of his eye and Draco broke the moment's gaze: he regretted it even as he did it, but to let Cho grab it first because he was looking at a girl - he'd never live it down. The other seeker darted around him as if to distract and then took off, but Draco kept his eye firm.
After a few loops around the pitch, it seemed that Cho had lost sight of it. A brilliant idea came to him, and he flew to the open field. Cho followed: it almost made him laugh how easily she was deceived. She should have expected nothing else from a Malfoy. He dropped the tip of his broom and sunk toward the ground, hearing her robes flutter as she followed. But Draco knew what he was doing, and pulled up just in time: Cho, on the other hand, ran hard into the grass. She shrieked, and rose from the ground shaking her wrist out. Pity it wasn't broken, he thought.
"Malfoy performs a flawless Wronski defensive feint," Lee Jordan called over the loudspeakers. "The dirty bastard ."
Draco laughed so hard at McGonagall's reprimand he almost forgot what he was looking for: the golden snitch shone in the easy sunlight as it flew just out of reach in his peripheral vision, and Draco followed, Cho not far behind.
His fingers almost closed around it as the snitch darted hastily out of range yet again. Cho slammed into him, nearly knocking him off. Draco was surprised that Hooch didn't say a word about it, but there wasn't exactly time to complain. He held his ground, so to speak, and pursued: both their hands seemed to touch the ball at the same instant.
Cho yanked at it, and Draco felt that his arm might come out of the socket, yet was he insistent, holding tight. Cho was shouting, screaming in his ear: it was quite the struggle just to maintain his broomstick.
"Come on, Ravenclaw. Is that any way for a lady to speak?" he hissed at her. As if in punishment for his feint, she scratched him; she actually dug her nails into his cheek and tore the flesh. He felt a trickle of blood down his cheek, and then caught sight of the Ravenclaw keeper. As if on a possessed broomstick, he dangled from the bottom of it as it barreled straight towards their little mid-air scrap.
Draco, hands still firmly around the snitch, ducked, wrenching it from Cho's fingers as her own team member crashed firmly into her and both of them went hurtling toward the ground.
"Malfoy's got the golden snitch! Slytherin continues on to play Gryffindor for the House Cup," Lee called. "Though everyone know they'll lose just as badly as -"
Draco didn't need to see McGonagall's reprove this time: he had caught the snitch, and that alone was cause enough to smile.
Pucey and the rest of his team congratulated him with smacks on the back as they returned from the pitch. Appreciative as he was, Draco was muddy and sweaty, and even a bit bloody, so he rinsed his face in the Slytherin dugout sink. He was still grinning like an idiot in the mirror. He examined the marks Cho had left on him: blood has run backwards into his fair hair; a few scratches by his emerald eyes; and one that looked deeper than he thought it ought. He had gotten the blood and dirt off, and looked very nearly attractive, he thought. This one scratch was bothering him, though: he considered it closing it then and there.
"Nice battle scar, Malfoy," Baddock called from across the room: that settled that.
Broom in hand, Draco started back to the castle. He hoped only to avoid his goons, if only for a few minutes. He had won the game, had proven that he did not need their backup all the time: the last thing he wanted was their physical presence to remind him that this feeling would disappear.
"Mr. Malfoy," rumbled a voice he knew all too well. Draco turned around. "Nice work," Snape said, lingering just that moment too long on that s.
Draco managed a smile again, forgetting how furious he was at this man for just a moment. "Thank you, sir."
The corridors were cool and empty: everyone else had gone to lunch after the game, leaving pools of melted snow everywhere, but Draco wanted a shower more than any meal. Suddenly, he heard a familiar tapping of heels on stone floors behind him.
"Well done, Draco," Ophelia said. "Heading back to your room?"
He stared back at her without a word. "Why do you ask?"
"I'm heading to mine. Want to walk me?" She was smiling, that same smile that she had worn during the game. "Do you believe in runes now?"
Draco stopped. "What does that mean?"
"The broom. It was mine." Well that explained the grin.
"You sabotaged your own team," he said, incredulously, as he began to catch back up with her.
"It would have been too obvious if I'd helped Ravenclaw, of course," she giggled. "It was complicated to get just the right blend: I almost used a few words I'd been saving to name the runes. I thought you'd be happy, Draco."
She had helped him, but it had been only a matter of time before he overpowered Cho. His anger drained away when she said his name; so much gentler than his surname. "What words?"
"Laetha gael," she said, dismissively. "You're not mad at me, are you?"
He shook his head, tucking his rage away. Anyone else he would have cast a good spell at, but Ophelia .
Another pool of water waited for them outside the door to Ravenclaw. He should have told her sooner, but Ophelia didn't see it and slipped: he caught her with a slightly dusty hand beneath her arm.
She nodded and turned to look at him.
"What happened to you?" she asked, looking at the scratch on his cheek. He still had a hand on her arm from where he'd caught her.
"Your seeker's a bitch," he said, jocularly.
"I know." She drew out her wand and touched it to the mark. "Abracadabra."
"It still stings," he whispered, moving a bit closer to her. She backed into the tower door.
"I don't have any phoenix tears to give you."
"Maybe yours would do the trick," he whispered, bending down to kiss her.
She turned her head to evade. "My tears wouldn't satisfy you, Draco. Good night. Repetitio," she whispered, and the door opened for her and she disappeared inside.
No one had ever refused him. As Draco stalked away from the Ravenclaw tower, the Grey Lady materialized over his head. "She's right, of course," she called.
No. She keeps herself just for Snape.