Quidditch

~~~~~

He creeps up on me in my room. When I feel a hand on my knee I spin, my black robe tangled and half hanging off my shoulders.

"Dobby! What are you doing?"

"Dobby can help Miss Leila. If Miss Leila wants help from Dobby."

"Help to do what?"

If I didn't know house elves better, I'd call that expression on his face 'sly'.

"Help to see Mister Malfoy play Quidditch, Miss Leila."

Heavens. He is being sly.

"You can get me to the match today?"

"Yes Miss Leila."

"How?"

"Miss Leila can hide inside the stands, and peek through the banners."

"But Dobby, shouldn't I just ask Professor Dumbledore? He might let me - "

The elf shakes his head, ears flapping.

"If Master Dumbledore says Miss Leila cannot watch the game, then Dobby cannot help her watch the game."

"I see, you can't disobey your master."

At the very mention of disobedience he begins to wring at one ear.

"Stop that!"

"Dobby is sorry Miss Leila."

"It's alright." I fasten my robe at the collar and sit down on the bed to put on my shoes. They are second hand, but these ones fit, and are plain black leather boots, not white canvas sneakers. My jeans are a little too long, and the white shirt needs to have the sleeves turned back. I will grow into these clothes soon enough.

"How can you get me on the pitch without being seen?"

"Mister Potter does not own the only invisibility cloak in Hogwarts School."

"Who is Mister Potter?"

"The great Harry Potter, Miss Leila. He is the Gryffindor Seeker as Mister Malfoy is the Slytherin Seeker."

Ah. HP. The penny drops.

~~~~~

Elfish habits are making me nervous. But since when did breaking rules ever bother a Malfoy?

I'm in the Slytherin stands, about halfway up. It's dark in here; the cobwebs and shadows make me feel almost at home. But it's windy, with cool breezes sliding through the cloth banners that surround the wooden framework that in turn supports the stands above me.

A roar. Hundreds of voices cheer as one.

I straddle a horizontal beam near the edge of the frame, inching forward I stretch out along it, reaching an arm to part two green banners enough to peek through. I seem to do this a lot don't I shadow?

Far below me the players are marching out onto the pitch. A witch in unprejudiced white is standing near a dark box. I hear a boy's voice call out the names of each side, but only two of them register.

" . . . Draco Malfoy! And as Gryffindor seeker, everybody's favourite Harry Potter!"

A whistle blows. As if with one mind, the fourteen green and red figures rise from the ground. My brother and his enemy fly highest, circling the pitch as the chasers begin to toss the Quaffle back and forth. It's amazing. That boy sings the commentary; an uneven rhythm of names. A blur of green flies toward the red hoops and throws, but the ball is caught and thrown back into the waiting grasp of a red chaser. The beaters work as if playing a different game, ignoring all things but the two brown balls zooming about at random.

But my eyes are on my brother. He's beautiful. Not in a feminine sense, but in a way that is just . . . his. He flies very well. Unfortunately his focus is on the wrong goal. He should be watching for the snitch, not mocking the other boy. If only . . . if only he were more like me. If I had the power to fly, I would have the drive to win the game. I would have the determination to best Potter on his own grounds. I would catch that golden sparkle.

I scan over the field. Gryffindor has scored the first goal, the crowd thunders louder. But above me all I hear are boos and hisses. Of course. I am hiding in a Slytherin stand after all.

Why is it that they play dirty? Why do they have to cheat to get what they want? Don't they know that true ambition means that they must strive to be better than the best?

Cheating doesn't work. Because all it does is provide shaky foundations which are so, so easy to break.

My brother doesn't understand that. To really destroy your enemy you have to do so on his terms. That way he knows that you are truly better than he is, and that there's nothing he can do about it.

The game goes on. After 'accidentally' ramming into a Gryffindor chaser, a Slytherin scores. I bite my lip to stop a sound. Stupid. They're so stupid. If only I could fly . . .

I look back up to my brother, who is laughing in triumph. Fool. Focus on the game curse you!

Harry is circling again, the wind riffling through his black hair, sunlight glinting on the warm shine of his broom. He plays well. He would be a worthy adversary, or an excellent friend. Everybody's favourite Harry Potter. I don't understand why my brother hates him.

I pull back from the banners as someone flies close to where I'm hiding. For a second I pause in the dark, hoping they didn't notice my eye.

Nothing. The crowd continues to cheer and the commentary goes on.

BAM!

A bludger slams through the beam above me, ripping fabric. I almost fall as it slows, then zooms back the way it came. The breeze of it's passing moves my hair. It must have been following that chaser who went by before. I hug the wood tightly, then force myself to move. The cannonball left a hole in the banners, I could be seen.

But wait. I don't need to move. I'm wearing that cloak Dobby found aren't I? I'm safe, so long as I keep it over me.

I part the curtain again and go back to my watching.

"Gryffindor leads by fifty points, but Slytherin still have time . . . "

My brother looks worried. Keep calm, I try to tell him. Just focus.

But then Harry dives.

"Gryffindor Seeker's spotted the snitch!"

I almost laugh; I can see he's faking. But my twin follows anyway.

No, don't! That's a Wronski Feint!

Harry pulls out of his headlong dive easily before soaring up again. But my brother isn't so quick. The cloak of his Quidditch robes brushes the grass as he swoops, the back of his broom skidding like the rear wheel of Hagrid's motorbike as he turns hard then shoots skyward. He's furious for being fooled.

I warned you. I did warn you Draco.

His eyes are fixed on Harry, his platinum hair swept back by the wind. What does he think he's . . . ? Oh no. My fool brother is going to try ram Harry Potter head on.

The commentator realises this and yells something unrepeatable. The umpire witch leaps on her broom and makes for my twin.

But she doesn't need to.

A red haired, red clad beater has slammed his club into a bludger. Draco's going to be hit.

I don't want to watch. But I can't help myself.

I hear it. I feel it. I double over as I feel his ribs crack, I gasp as the air is expelled from his lungs.

And there, so close to him, the snitch flutters, desperate for attention.

Grab it brother! It's right in front of you!

His arms are wrapped around the struggling cannonball, his head lolls. That perfect hair falls in his eyes. Harry is flying toward him, the umpire urges her second rate broom to go faster.

I struggle to stay upright, holding onto the beam with my legs as I hug the pain within myself.

Why can't you see it Draco? Just look!

I shake my hair out of my eyes and catch a breath.

He raises his head, groggy.

I lift my arm.

One hand raises as if to fend off the opposing seeker's approach, but then -

I grab a handful of air. All eyes are on my twin.

Yes! His gloved fingers snatch the golden sparkle from right in front of his nose.

Then he topples.

And I fall.

I'm gone. I can't see; I can only feel.

Ah! Arms!

I grab, catch myself against wood. Safe, I won't fall.

Where's my brother? I look for him through the curtain of green.

Harry Potter has caught my twin. Luck, it seems, is not without a sense of irony.

The umpire flies alongside them as they coast to the ground. Landing, Harry kneels and gently places my brother on the grass. Someone takes the bludger away; the game is over now.

Quickly I climb down out of the stands. My invisibility cloak is still wrapped tight around me, and I hurry to my brother's side.

No one has noticed what he holds in his fist. Harry is doesn't look up as I kneel opposite him. I reach out my hand and I lay it over my brother's. He stirs. I uncurl Draco's fingers, and Harry gasps as he sees a flash of silver wings.

"Well, well Malfoy," he smiles. "You won."

My twin opens his eyes a crack.

"I did what?"

I pull back my hand.

"You caught the snitch Malfoy."

There is the sneer; there is my brother.

"Well don't sound so surprised Potter."

I get to my feet, intending to quietly slip away, but my foot catches on something. A fold of the cloak. And as I stand it falls from my shoulders, pooling on the ground. Harry stares up at me. Draco swears.

"What in the name of Merlin?!?"

Damn. Just, damn.

Here I stand in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, with the whole school staring at me, utterly speechless at this girl appearing out of nowhere.

I put all my energy into wishing I were a house elf.

It doesn't work.

~~~~~

Woohoo! CLIFFHANGER! Don't worry, it'll be over by tomorrow. I just couldn't resist stopping here, even though this is exactly what I hate to read.

And every Harry Potter fic needs a Quidditch match right? :)

There's also a blatant rip off of a line from The Matrix. See if you can find it.