*****Notes for the rest of the story******
*Denotes thought*
//denotes the beginning or end of a dream sequence\\
************************************************************************
The sun shone merrily down onto the witches and wizards gathering below. Although there was a slight wind chill, the whole school was slowly assembling for what was sure to be the greatest Quidditch match since EVER, never mind the fact that they had said the same thing about the last Gryffindor-Slytherin match. Or the one before that... or the one before that... The intense rivalry between the houses had yet, after countless years, to grow old. High in the stands, fanning themselves idly with their unfinished homework sheets, Ron and Hermione waited patiently for the arrival of the two teams and the beginning of the match with unsuppressed excitement.
"How long do you think it'll take Harry to catch the snitch this time?" Ron had no doubt in his best friend's ability to bring home a Gryffindor victory, as he had yet to fail the team, save for his unfortunate run-in with the Dementors. Extenuating circumstances aside, his skills as Seeker were indisputably better than Malfoy's.
"I dunno Ron, maybe an hour?" Ron shrugged in response before his eyes lit up with glee as the two teams, dressed in brand new Quidditch robes, (thanks to copious fundraising efforts by all the houses) broomsticks in hands and for the most part, smiles on all the faces. The only exceptions were Harry, who had a look of deep concentration on his features known affectionately as his game face and Draco, who had yet to grace Hogwarts with a true smile. However he did sport the accustomed Malfoy Smirk (tm). Cheers rang from all corners of the pitch as the onlookers rooted for the Gryffindors, and simultaneously booed the Slytherins. No one questioned the derogatory practice, over the years it had grown almost ritual to the students and they would have it no other way.
One by one the players took to the air and began to make a few lazy warm-up circles, the beaters making a few practice swings while they were at it. Harry and Malfoy were had added a few dips and twists to their warm-up routine, as much for the crowd below as for their own benefit. They snuck glances across the open air between them regularly, sizing each other up and issuing silent challenges with their solid gazes. This was their rivalry at its peak. The natural competitiveness of the game lent well to their usual animosity; Quidditch was just one more chance to show the other up. Harry most definitely had the upper hand, as he always had since that first match four years ago, but Draco was not one to be easily overcome. He would fight to the last, even in a losing battle. Such was the mark of a Malfoy. "We're always stubborn and tenacious, it's bred into us boy, right into our very bones. It's a Malfoy trait, and you'd do best to remember that." Draco recalled those to be his father's exact words on the subject, and he'd done right to not question the statement.
Abruptly the warm-up ended, and them teams assembled in the middle of the pitch. One whistle later they were in play, all energy and grace as they fell naturally into their positions. Slytherin was really on top of their game today, scoring twice almost immediately after starting. Draco ignored the boos and angry shouts of the devout Gryffindors fans below, and instead focused on shooting Potter a nasty grin, which Harry didn't see, his eyes to busy looking for a telltale flash of gold. Draco was almost glad at this, he hated the nasty façade he was forced to maintain. Tradition, fate, and his own weakness and fear would not allow him to slip. Not yet, but he was so very close... Shrugging the discomfiting thought off, he set his mind back on the game.
It was not even a minute later when he next deigned to look at Potter. His turned his head slightly, tipping it at a better angle for viewing as dark hair shifted and rose so an emerald gaze met marble. Draco's breath froze in his chest at the intensity of the other seeker's regard before the contact was broken as the green eyes widened marginally and focused on something just beyond Draco's head. The Slytherin boy blinked and Harry was in motion, all grace and speed as he rushed by, robes brushing the pair were so close. Draco jerked the handle of his new racing broom and followed, almost neck in neck for the prize; hovering golden and ethereal before them. Almost synchronized, they moved, arms reaching for it, eyes set on it, so close, so close...
But it was Harry who reached it first, victory and defeat in one smooth motion of his hand, the winged thing beating against his closed fist in an attempt for freedom. The stands exploding into cheers while the players near smothered the winning seeker as the teams landed. Ron and Hermione were among the masses surrounding the boy wonder of Gryffindor, Draco noted as his own team silently made their way to the showers, none of them calm enough to even attempt conversation with him. He didn't press them matter; he know he had failed his team again, like he always had. The crowd before him suddenly parted for a second and Potter, his tousled black hair in his eyes, made his way toward Draco. They stood face to face not two paces from each other, the whole school waiting on the first move, which was Harry's. Draco took the extended hand in his own; one firm shake and a "good game Malfoy" was his only consolation that day, and from his worst rival no doubt. He could almost taste the irony bitter like cheap wine on his tongue and as he watched Harry walk, Draco wasn't sure if he should be laughing or crying.
He chose stoicism instead, tears and giggles were not precious treats a Malfoy indulged in.
************************************************************************
Gryffindor tower rang with celebrations that night. True, the victory had been less than spectacular, but it had been so long since many of them had found reason to rejoice that no one questioned motives, not even the professors. Usually a commotion of such magnitude would have drawn the headmaster but tonight, they reveled in unrestrained fashion. Harry felt like he'd been sucked into a vortex of energy and left sprawled in a heap in his favorite chair. People walked by on congratulated him every few minutes, but he had only half and ear for the praise. His victory had come with a defeat of his own, no less bitter than the one Malfoy had felt, if the look in his eyes was any judge. Harry closed his own eyes, suddenly gritty from unshed tears and exhaustion. He made his way slowly to the fifth year dorms; sleep the only objective thought in his mind. At the foot of the stairs he paused and turned to cast one look back at the party behind him with a solemn expression much unfit for the atmosphere of the common room. He raised the almost forgotten punch glass in his hand in a silent salute. *For you Cedric, for you.*
************************************************************************
Sorry this installment took so long, finals were hell. For those that are wondering, however few there may be, this is chapter three of a proposed eight chapters. The next one is title "I Only Speak the Truth," and will most likely be longer than this one is. I have no idea when it will be out, but if it's more than a week feel free to flame me, it could get me off my ass and writing.
*Denotes thought*
//denotes the beginning or end of a dream sequence\\
************************************************************************
The sun shone merrily down onto the witches and wizards gathering below. Although there was a slight wind chill, the whole school was slowly assembling for what was sure to be the greatest Quidditch match since EVER, never mind the fact that they had said the same thing about the last Gryffindor-Slytherin match. Or the one before that... or the one before that... The intense rivalry between the houses had yet, after countless years, to grow old. High in the stands, fanning themselves idly with their unfinished homework sheets, Ron and Hermione waited patiently for the arrival of the two teams and the beginning of the match with unsuppressed excitement.
"How long do you think it'll take Harry to catch the snitch this time?" Ron had no doubt in his best friend's ability to bring home a Gryffindor victory, as he had yet to fail the team, save for his unfortunate run-in with the Dementors. Extenuating circumstances aside, his skills as Seeker were indisputably better than Malfoy's.
"I dunno Ron, maybe an hour?" Ron shrugged in response before his eyes lit up with glee as the two teams, dressed in brand new Quidditch robes, (thanks to copious fundraising efforts by all the houses) broomsticks in hands and for the most part, smiles on all the faces. The only exceptions were Harry, who had a look of deep concentration on his features known affectionately as his game face and Draco, who had yet to grace Hogwarts with a true smile. However he did sport the accustomed Malfoy Smirk (tm). Cheers rang from all corners of the pitch as the onlookers rooted for the Gryffindors, and simultaneously booed the Slytherins. No one questioned the derogatory practice, over the years it had grown almost ritual to the students and they would have it no other way.
One by one the players took to the air and began to make a few lazy warm-up circles, the beaters making a few practice swings while they were at it. Harry and Malfoy were had added a few dips and twists to their warm-up routine, as much for the crowd below as for their own benefit. They snuck glances across the open air between them regularly, sizing each other up and issuing silent challenges with their solid gazes. This was their rivalry at its peak. The natural competitiveness of the game lent well to their usual animosity; Quidditch was just one more chance to show the other up. Harry most definitely had the upper hand, as he always had since that first match four years ago, but Draco was not one to be easily overcome. He would fight to the last, even in a losing battle. Such was the mark of a Malfoy. "We're always stubborn and tenacious, it's bred into us boy, right into our very bones. It's a Malfoy trait, and you'd do best to remember that." Draco recalled those to be his father's exact words on the subject, and he'd done right to not question the statement.
Abruptly the warm-up ended, and them teams assembled in the middle of the pitch. One whistle later they were in play, all energy and grace as they fell naturally into their positions. Slytherin was really on top of their game today, scoring twice almost immediately after starting. Draco ignored the boos and angry shouts of the devout Gryffindors fans below, and instead focused on shooting Potter a nasty grin, which Harry didn't see, his eyes to busy looking for a telltale flash of gold. Draco was almost glad at this, he hated the nasty façade he was forced to maintain. Tradition, fate, and his own weakness and fear would not allow him to slip. Not yet, but he was so very close... Shrugging the discomfiting thought off, he set his mind back on the game.
It was not even a minute later when he next deigned to look at Potter. His turned his head slightly, tipping it at a better angle for viewing as dark hair shifted and rose so an emerald gaze met marble. Draco's breath froze in his chest at the intensity of the other seeker's regard before the contact was broken as the green eyes widened marginally and focused on something just beyond Draco's head. The Slytherin boy blinked and Harry was in motion, all grace and speed as he rushed by, robes brushing the pair were so close. Draco jerked the handle of his new racing broom and followed, almost neck in neck for the prize; hovering golden and ethereal before them. Almost synchronized, they moved, arms reaching for it, eyes set on it, so close, so close...
But it was Harry who reached it first, victory and defeat in one smooth motion of his hand, the winged thing beating against his closed fist in an attempt for freedom. The stands exploding into cheers while the players near smothered the winning seeker as the teams landed. Ron and Hermione were among the masses surrounding the boy wonder of Gryffindor, Draco noted as his own team silently made their way to the showers, none of them calm enough to even attempt conversation with him. He didn't press them matter; he know he had failed his team again, like he always had. The crowd before him suddenly parted for a second and Potter, his tousled black hair in his eyes, made his way toward Draco. They stood face to face not two paces from each other, the whole school waiting on the first move, which was Harry's. Draco took the extended hand in his own; one firm shake and a "good game Malfoy" was his only consolation that day, and from his worst rival no doubt. He could almost taste the irony bitter like cheap wine on his tongue and as he watched Harry walk, Draco wasn't sure if he should be laughing or crying.
He chose stoicism instead, tears and giggles were not precious treats a Malfoy indulged in.
************************************************************************
Gryffindor tower rang with celebrations that night. True, the victory had been less than spectacular, but it had been so long since many of them had found reason to rejoice that no one questioned motives, not even the professors. Usually a commotion of such magnitude would have drawn the headmaster but tonight, they reveled in unrestrained fashion. Harry felt like he'd been sucked into a vortex of energy and left sprawled in a heap in his favorite chair. People walked by on congratulated him every few minutes, but he had only half and ear for the praise. His victory had come with a defeat of his own, no less bitter than the one Malfoy had felt, if the look in his eyes was any judge. Harry closed his own eyes, suddenly gritty from unshed tears and exhaustion. He made his way slowly to the fifth year dorms; sleep the only objective thought in his mind. At the foot of the stairs he paused and turned to cast one look back at the party behind him with a solemn expression much unfit for the atmosphere of the common room. He raised the almost forgotten punch glass in his hand in a silent salute. *For you Cedric, for you.*
************************************************************************
Sorry this installment took so long, finals were hell. For those that are wondering, however few there may be, this is chapter three of a proposed eight chapters. The next one is title "I Only Speak the Truth," and will most likely be longer than this one is. I have no idea when it will be out, but if it's more than a week feel free to flame me, it could get me off my ass and writing.