The fact that he was by the Quidditch field, watching as the various divisions arrive and be greeted by their friends meant nothing. He was here to list down the names of those who weren't able to return. He volunteered but that was only because anyone else would likely forget what they were supposed to do once these people arrived. They would be too busy asking how they were, did they recover prisoners, and did they do this and that --- useless things. In the end, there would be no one to do the mundane task correctly. He was not one to be useless and join in with the cheering squad when the bloody war was far from over. He was a perfectionist. And perfectionists do nothing less than perfect.
And to not be able to list down casualties was less than perfect.
Draco Malfoy haughtily demanded the names from each team leader as if the entire world relied on knowing the names of the supposedly dead or lost forever.
He hated this job. It was such a disgrace. He wanted to curse what possessed him to even volunteer when he could either be sleeping or doing something else that was remarkably better than listing names. Yes, he volunteered. Yes, he wanted to do something else other than list names. Yes, he would rather be sleeping. But, no, he wasn't waiting. He wasn't.
The list grew longer and longer. The more names he got, the more irritated he became, to a point that the quill broke from his grip. His patience was wearing thin and the last straw was when someone had the gall to bump in on him to join the rushing students and professors. What in the world was going onand then he saw him.
His eyes searched the newly-arrived faces, and pushed past the filthy Mudblood to grab Wonder Boy by the collar, snarling, "How many did you lose this time, Potter? Where's the whole entourage that came with you? Where--"
He wasn't done yet when Pomfrey levitated Scarhead away. Only then did Draco notice all the blood and the broken broom. Slowly, his vision panned out from the discarded trash on the ground to his surroundings. There was Granger, seemingly lost in thought and pale as a ghost if he might add. He wondered what he looked like.
Well, he couldn't seem to move for some abominable reason. It must be the wind, or the snow and definitely the storm. It was so cold; he could hardly feel his body. Why wasn't he wearing his gloves? And cloak? And why was he still standing outside? Damnit, feet. Move.
Finally, his feet decided that it was going to die underneath the pile of snow. One step at a time, crunch, crunch, and the knee-deep snow only buried him deeper. Once again, he wanted to curse the biggest and stupidest mistake of his life for going out here.
Suddenly, everything went white.
Draco wanted to scream so loud that the whole castle would shake and feel his irritation. The echo of more loathsome things falling and hitting the ground reached his ears. Good. His silent scream worked. Odd as that may have sounded.
Someone yanked him off the ground with a grunt, white dots marring his already blurry vision. It should be general knowledge that it was rude to yank people without a word of warning. His head was hurting. That was it; he had had it with this streak of bad luck and all for doing something so charitable as to write dead people's names for others to fucking remember in the future. And no one had even asked him if he was fine. The nerve of it all.
He would march right back to the castle and into his bedchambers to sleep this all off. As soon as his world stopped swaying, that is. Shouldn't be too hard if he took it one step at a time and so he did. As the day was wont to get worse (what with such a bad start); the offending object that was probably the reason that he had fallen, lay before him. His numb hand picked it up, quite intent on breaking it to pieces but stopped. The piece of wood was familiar. Looking up, he saw the other half of it and once again, the rest of the field came to his sight and there were figures dragging each other along to the double doors.
"You broke my broom!"
Was that his voice? It sounded odd.
Draco threw the piece at Weasley, who was leaning heavily against Granger with one arm slung over her shoulders.
"Malfoy!" Granger hissed and glared, "This is not the---"
He cut her off and trudged forward. A snowstorm wouldn't stop him from hurting that redhead. She clung to Weasley even as Draco grabbed the surprised boy's arm away from her. "You, Mudblood. Away."
A fist collided with his cheek.
Next he looked up, Granger wasn't there anymore. Good. She was smart enough to understand when she was unwanted; he gave her credit for that. Now, back to the object of his frustration, "I knew you were incompetent, Weasel. Can't you even take care of something that belongs to someone?"
"Shut it, Malfoy." Weasley was a pile of black and red as he sat down in the cold snow. Bleeding. Then, the bleeding buffoon smirked.
"How dare you smirk"
"Yea, yea. You sure don't waste time insulting me. I just got back."
Draco scowled.
Ron just smiled.
With a disgruntled huff, Draco slipped his arm around Ron's waist while slinging the redhead's arm over his shoulders. "You broke my broom."
"You got to insult me."
"It's past midnight. This isn't the tomorrow, you inconsiderate bastard."
"You were waiting?"
And that was more of a statement, coming from the boor.
One look, then the tactless brute kissed.
"Eew." Draco made a face, "You call that a ki---"
And then he shut up.
fin