AN: This chapter was very annoying to write because I'd just finished reading Order of the Phoenix and I had weird, mixed up ideas about the characters. I also have personal issues with bashing Draco the way I did here. But hey, there is ACTION!! Yay! I broke my action writer's block. But then it's really hard to write about a Quidditch match without some action. And, miracle of miracles, the plot is actually starting. "What?" you say. "There's a plot to this thing?" Yes. There is a plot, and no it is not about Draco and Harry's relationship with each other, though that's a big part of it. Anyway, enjoy.
Warning: THERE ARE SOME MINOR SPOILERS FOR ORDER OF THE PHOENIX! They shouldn't actually give away any plot, but it's introduced in that book, but I thought I'd give a warning anyway. There's some minor swearing, but it's not any of the four-letter ones, so it's not rated anything scarier than PG-13. This is, as usual a slash story, so remember that.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of J. K. Rowling's WONDERFUL creations and I am sincerely sorry about the butchering that they receive at my hands. And keep your paws off Nat. He's all mine!
Parlance of the SerpentChapter 11
"Draco," Nat said soothingly. "Not eating won't help you get ready for Quidditch."
Draco sat in his usual seat at the end of the Slytherin table, across from Nat and flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. It was true that he hadn't eaten anything that morning. It was the day of his first Quidditch match against Gryffindor and breakfast didn't seem like his top priority. After weeks of gruelling practice with teammates and a captain who hated him, he was completely wiped out. He prodded his porridge listlessly and stared off into space.
"Hello?" Nat called to him, flapping his arms in front of Draco's face. "Are you with us Draco?"
"Stop it Nat," Draco said, in no mood to joke. "I'm thinking."
"Apparently not," the little redhead replied, piling sausages onto his golden plate. "A thinking person would realize that unless you eat you'll be too weak to hold onto your broom. Gryffindor will fly all over you if you fall off."
"Don' worry," Crabbe grunted. "We'll pound Potter when he wins."
Nat rolled his eyes as Goyle grinned and rubbed his fist. Draco just hid his face in his hands.
"Great Crabbe," Nat said sarcastically. "That's right, lets just tell Draco what a failure he'll be. But that's all right because we've got you and Goyle to take care of everything when Potter wins. Because there's no chance of Draco winning, now is there?"
"Nat," Draco muttered. "Shut up, will you?"
Sarcasm was lost on Crabbe and Goyle. Draco looked past Nat and caught sight of Potter, Weasley, and Hermione. The three of them were eating and talking animatedly about something. Hermione looked up and caught Draco's eye. She smiled and, with a guilty glance towards her oblivious friends, mouthed "good luck." Without thinking, Draco smiled crookedly, but quickly stopped himself when he saw Potter looking up. Draco's brief smile was replaced by his usual haughty frown. He grabbed a plate of pancakes and heaped them onto his plate, unwilling to show Potter how nervous he was.
Besides Quidditch practices, Draco had had other things to bother him during the last week. His mother had sent him her usual long weekly letter with accounts of the day, conversational ramblings, and questions for her son. There had, however been a postscript that had troubled Draco greatly.
P.S. I forgot to tell you, Draco darling, that I've been spending time with some friends from my Hogwarts days. I'm sure you didn't know that one of my old school friends, and one of my cousins actually, is Sirius Black. Now I know most people think that he's very dangerous and out to kill everyone, but he really is a very sweet man. He and I have resumed our old friendship. Sirius and his special friend Remus Lupin (who was, I believe, your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for one year) will be at Hogsmeade on the first weekend, as will I. I hope that you won't mind, my dear, if I spend a bit of time with them there. I won't ask you to accompany us because I know you and his godson Harry Potter are on bad terms, but he is one of my close friends. Please don't be too upset with me darling. I miss you very much.
Bad terms, Draco thought as he carefully avoided Potter's eye, was a bit of an understatement. Draco didn't relish having to spend time with Potter and his so-called family, but he refused to allow that to stand in the way of his mother's friendship. He knew only too well that Narcissa was alone at the moment with only a pair of house elves for company. Being with another wizard, regardless of their relations, would do her no end of good, and Draco could never bring himself to stop that.
"Right," Draco stood up suddenly, eager to distract himself with class. "I'll see you lot after the match."
As Draco left the Great Hall, he saw Nat move away from Crabbe and Goyle with barely concealed disgust. Not that it mattered; Crabbe and Goyle couldn't read emotions to save their lives. He left them sitting next to each other, grunting quietly in a conversational way.
During his Transfiguration class, Draco had so much trouble paying attention that, he eventually just gave up. As Professor McGonagall tried to explain how to transfigure a book bag into a carpet, Draco stared at the front of the class, his eyes glazed over. His mind was far from book bags and rugs, and out on the Quidditch pitch. The weather, thankfully, was brilliant and the wind was low. Perfect Quidditch conditions really. So why am I so worried about the match? Draco thought angrily. True, he had yet to beat the Gryffindors and Potter was, Draco had to admit, the superior Seeker, but somehow that didn't seem to be it. Perhaps it was the disunity within the Slytherin team. Perhaps it was the new, and often less-skilled players they had been forced to recruit in order to have a team. Or perhaps it was Draco's anger at being treated like dirt by his captain and the rest of the team.
"Mr. Malfoy!" McGonagall stood directly behind him. "Your carpet has a handle and appears to be made of dragon's hide. Would you like to tell me why?"
"I…" Draco sat up straight, surprised. "I made a mistake Professor."
"And why is that?"
"I suppose I wasn't paying close enough attention."
"I can see that young man," McGonagall replied. "Five points will be taken from Slytherin. I am accustomed to much more from you Mr. Malfoy. Please see that this spectacle is never repeated in my classroom."
"No Professor," Draco said quietly, shamefully aware of Slytherins' glares and Ravenclaws' derisive giggles.
McGonagall walked back to her desk and surveyed the classroom as students who had stopped to watch the brief exchange returned top their work. Draco, his face pale, corrected his spell, resulting in a dark green carpet with thick fringes. By the end of the class he was glad to leave for the locker rooms. Every year he hated missing classes to prepare for the games, but this year he didn't mind missing Care of Magical Creatures. Especially not with Weasley lording over the class as a "teacher's assistant." Draco smirked as he thought that this class attracted all lower life forms, and not just the magical creatures in question either.
Draco walked into the Slytherin locker room to change into his Quidditch robes with the other players. He opened his locker and wasn't surprised to see that his uniform was wet and had been ripped across the Slytherin badge. Nor was he at a loss to think of any number of people who might have done it. Biting the inside of his cheek and ignoring the furtive looks his teammates were sending him, he used a simple heat charm to dry the soaking fabric. The rips, however, were a more complicated matter. Like all the other students in old, upper class families, Draco had never learned to mend fabric or patch rips. He ignored the rip and put on the uniform. He refused to allow himself to be provoked by the childish pranks his classmates played on him.
"Alright men," Zabini yelled, getting the attention of the players. "This is the first match we'll be playing as a team. We have good players and bad players. I don't care which group you belong in. You will go out there and you will win. You will crush them."
As Zabini spoke, he marched around the room. At the end of his brief speech, he stopped in front of Draco. Looking down at where the other boy sat, he scowled.
"Malfoy, your badge is ripped."
"I was aware of the fact," Draco replied dryly.
"Then fix it."
"I can't. At least not in time for the game."
"Look Malfoy," Zabini lowered his voice, keeping it dangerously level as if to control a great anger. "I don't want you here, no one does, but I can't get rid of you. We don't have any other seeker and we can't afford to do without one. Otherwise, believe me I would have you out of here within seconds. All things considered, I expect you to play hard, catch the Snitch, and keep your traitorous mouth shut."
Before Draco had a chance to respond Zabini turned on his heel and marched out. Draco clenched his jaw and stood stiffly in place as the rest of the team streamed out after their captain. He followed resolutely after them. The bright sunlight blinded him, but he stared straight ahead. In front of the other team, the sun was the best excuse for his watery eyes.
As Draco rose into the air, he looked at the teachers' box. He was jolted by a nasty surprise when he saw Remus Lupin and Sirius Black sitting next to Dumbledore. What were they doing there? Draco scowled as Lupin waved at Potter who had just flown out on his broom. Potter made a rushing sweep past the box and Draco watched Black jump up and clap. Lupin reached up and placed a hand on Black's shoulder, gently forcing the other man back into his seat. Both teams got into position at the blast of Madame Hooch's whistle. Draco only allowed himself a brief moment to wonder why the two visiting men were holding hands, before taking his own place in the sky.
"Alright you lot," Madame Hooch said sternly. "I expect a clean game out there. Shake hands."
Potter and Zabini shook hands quickly, as if prolonged contact would pass on an infectious disease. Madame Hooch released the Snitch and Draco watched carefully as it flew among the players and out of sight. A second shrill blast of the whistle and the Quaffle was in the air. Draco rose above the other players and watched for the Snitch. Stephen Cornfoot's commentary blasted over the pitch.
"Lile in possession of the Quaffle… he passes to Creevey… and it's stolen by Zabini… Zabini passes to Baddock… who scores! Ten points for Slytherin. The score is ten nil."
Draco glanced over at Cornfoot contemptuously. Despite his general dislike of all Gryffindors, Draco had to admit that Lee Jordan's commentary had been excellent and entertaining. McGonagall, sitting quietly by Cornfoot's side, seemed to agree that Quidditch was much less exciting without having to jump up and remonstrate Jordan.
Draco ignored the commentary and watched the game, his eyes peeled for the Snitch. He smiled when Slytherin scored two more goals, but refused to openly cheer. When the score was ninety to thirty for Gryffindor, Zabini flew by Draco and shouted
"Get off your arse and find the bloody Snitch before they kill us!"
It was easy for him to say when he was engaged in playing the Quaffle, Draco thought as he ducked a Bludger. It was hard enough to see the Snitch, let alone catch it. He turned his head to see what Potter was doing, and was pleased that his opponent seemed engrossed in the movements of the other players, rather than the location of the Snitch. Suddenly Draco saw a glint of gold out of the corner of his eye. He spun around and saw it, the Golden Snitch. He speeded towards it, praying that Potter wouldn't notice. As he chased the Snitch around the pitch, he felt a large, speeding object behind him. Determined to outfly Potter, he put on an extra burst of speed.
Suddenly Potter flew past him on his Firebolt, but Draco still felt the speeding object behind him. Risking a look back, he saw nothing. As he looked back, he felt a huge force push him forward. Flailing wildly, Draco fell off his broom and hurtled into the air ahead of him. As he fell, Draco saw his broom speed off into the sky. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the ground as it hit him, and was shocked when someone grabbed his arm and he stopped falling. Looking up, he saw Potter reaching off his Firebolt and holding Draco up by his sleeve.
"Come on," Potter said. "I'll try and pull you up."
Draco glanced down at the thirty-foot drop below him and abandoned pride. He gripped Potter's arm and felt himself hoisted up to the broom. When he was high enough he grabbed the broom and swung his leg over it. He breathed a small sigh of relief when he realised that he was securely sitting on the Firebolt in front of Potter. As the crowd cheered his save, Draco inadvertently leaned back to catch his breath. One hand on his chest, he breathed deeply, trying to calm his furiously racing heart. All of a sudden, he realised that the sturdy surface he was leaning against was Potter's chest. Jerkily, he sat up straight, shamefully aware of every place that their bodies still touched.
"I, uh…" Draco stuttered as he turned to look into Potter's face. "Thanks."
He was surprised to see Potter blushing furiously. Instead of answering, he held up the hand he had not used to catch Draco. The Gryffindors in the crowd erupted in cheers to see the struggling wings of the Golden Snitch. Disgusted, Draco turned back around on the hovering broom. He suddenly felt one of Potter's arms around his waist.
"I have to hold on to you," Potter whispered embarrassedly. "I can't get at the broomstick from here and we're going down now."
Draco nodded tersely. As they descended, slower than usual because of the extra weight, he tried, and failed, to ignore the contact of Potter's arm, chest, and thighs. Why did they feel so hot against him? As they neared the grass of the pitch, he felt something else that disturbed him much more. Draco bit his tongue and said nothing, praying desperately that Potter had a wand sticking out of his robes. They landed somewhat clumsily and Draco leapt off.
Without looking at Potter, he strode over to the rest of his team. Zabini glared at him but said nothing. Draco walked to the back of the team and stood looking at the other team. Potter, in front of the other Gryffindors, was still crimson. Draco noticed to his chagrin that Potter stood with his broom carefully held in front of him. It had not been a wand.
After Cornfoot announced Gryffindor's victory (two hundred and fifty to one hundred) the Slytherins trooped back to their locker room. As Draco hurriedly cleaned up and got dressed, he felt the glares of the other players on the back of his neck. When he turned to leave, he found Blaise Zabini standing in front of him, half out of his Quidditch uniform.
"You bastard," Zabini snapped. "While you were up there playing little games with Potter did you happen to remember that the rest of us were playing a game? That we were working to actually win? Or was footsy with Potter more riveting?"
Draco said nothing, but glared into his captain's angry eyes. Mentally, he was counting to one hundred to keep himself calm.
"Thanks to you we lost," Zabini continued as other players gathered around behind him. "You can't even control your own bloody broom! Why don't you just get out?"
Taking the hint, Draco gathered up his Quidditch robes and his wand and made to leave the room. As he walked away he heard somebody spit on the floor behind him. Without pausing he marched to the door his head held high.
"You'd better have a working broom by Monday!"
Draco stalked out. He rushed down to the Slytherin common room, his mind whirling. Thankfully most of the other students were still out on the pitch and he didn't meet anyone on his way back. He rushed through the common room and into his room. Flinging his clothes onto a chair, he threw himself onto his bed wondering what had happened out there.
Firstly, what had pushed him off his broom? He knew that it was clearly magic. Nothing else would do that. Closing his eyes, he remembered feeling as though a giant hand had pushed him off his broom. How had this thing gotten to him? And who had sent it? He jumped up with a jolt, scared stiff. Was there a Death Eater hiding on the grounds? Did someone want him dead? He stalked over to his mirror and stared into it. His own pale face stared back. Replaying the scene in his mind, he remembered thinking at first that the giant hand was Potter flying behind him. With that thought came another and Draco relaxed slightly. The hand wasn't meant for him. Nobody wanted to kill him. It was Potter. Potter was the one who was always acting the hero in dangerous situations. Potter was the one who always received the death threats. Potter was the one someone was trying to kill. Despite his pleasure at feeling safe again, Draco felt a twinge of jealousy as he walked back over to sit down on his bed. Potter was so special. He had vanquished the Dark Lord, was the superior Seeker, was adored by all his teachers, was nice to people, was good looking… Draco frowned at that last thought, wondering where it had come from.
Which brought him to his second question. What had happened out on the Firebolt? Unless he was much mistaken, Potter had gotten very excited while Draco was on his broom. Shamefacedly Draco remembered the feeling of leaning back into Potter's strong chest and the sensation of having Potter's arms around him… No, not arms. Arm. One arm. Just to keep himself steady. It was nothing more than that. But if that was it, why had Draco felt so bothered by it all? It was clear what had happened to Potter and why, but what now was happening to Draco? Had he… enjoyed it?
"Draco!" Nat provided Draco with a timely interruption by pounding loudly on his door. "Come out."
"Go away Nat," Draco called, flopping back on his bed again.
"No! If you won't come out, then let me in. I've got your broom for you."
Draco didn't respond, but stared up at the ceiling, disturbed by his own thoughts. He heard a rustling outside his door. Nat muttered Alohomora and the door unlocked. Draco didn't move as Nat came inside and closed the door behind him. The short redhead walked over to the bed and laid Draco's broom next to him. He stood silently for a moment, waiting for Draco to say something.
"It seems," Draco finally said. "That I will have to find a more secure way to lock my door."
Nat grinned and pulled up a chair. Draco sat up and examined his broom. It was slightly scratched and a few of the twigs were bent out of shape. The damage could easily be repaired with his broomstick servicing kit.
"It flew into the castle," Nat said cheerfully. "Madame Pince found it banging around in the library. I saw her taking it to Filch on the way back, but she gave it to me when I explained what happened. Don't you think it's odd that she doesn't go to Quidditch games?"
Draco spaced out as Nat rattled happily on. He didn't mind letting his little friend talk himself hoarse and it was, he had learned, something Nat enjoyed doing immensely. Draco's mind wandered back to Potter and the Quidditch game. He wondered what it had looked like to everyone else. Draco had simply flown off his broom without it stopping. Had anyone else noticed something odd about that? Had Potter felt the giant hand speed past him? Had Potter felt Draco's heart beat through his back the way Draco had felt his? Disgusted with himself again, he stood up. Nat gazed up at him, startled.
"I think I need breakfast."
"Good," Nat jumped up too. "I told you you'd want some."
The two walked out of Draco's room. Draco locked the door and went down the dormitory steps to the common room. Crabbe and Goyle, sitting around in the common room, stood up and walked behind the other two, not asking where they were going. Draco led the way out and headed towards the kitchens. He would ignore the thoughts he had been having. He would ignore any further unnatural impulses and control himself. Potter would remain exactly what he had been before: an annoying boy with an inflated ego. Nothing more. With this in mind Draco tickled the pear in the painting that marked the entrance to the kitchens. As the portrait swung open and the smell of food invaded his nose, Draco forgot his other thoughts and surrendered to his stomach.