Disclaimer: Not mine.
Reviewers: Thanks so much! Sorry it has taken so long to write this, but I have been going through a hectic time. It is extra long to make it up to you. Unfortunately, it is also rather. . . convoluted. I hereby confess that I was doing a fair amount of drugs while writing this, and am not sure what to make of it. I have read it again, fixed problems, so: if a section is hard to understand, reread it carefully, because it makes a twisted sense. Thanks for your patience and hope you enjoy,
Ch. 6: Failures and Victories
Malfoy stormed into Transfiguration with the rest of the students, pushing through to claim the seat in the far back corner of the room, in violation of his traditional center middle position. He scowled a lot, and spent most of the lesson fidgeting and not paying attention, almost as if in a glaring trance. The inevitable scene took place about twenty minutes before the end of class, when the students were all attempting to turn their twigs into a medicinal herb. While Hermione managed with some ease, she conceded to Harry's failure that it was a very precise and tricky transformation. Malfoy wasn't even trying, and Professor McGonagall eventually came by.
"Mr. Malfoy? I want to see you perform the transformation for us." Aloof as always.
Malfoy leaned away from her disdainfully, anger flaring. "No."
"I have been told that you have already received three detentions today, and it's only the first day of school. Do you really want another one?" Harry had to give it to his head of house, she had just the right level of unflappable passive-aggressiveness to absolutely devastate.
Malfoy, if it was even possible, glared that much more hatefully at McGonagall. He was close to losing control, though he knew he mustn't; and he knew that he couldn't handle another detention. Things were going badly enough. "No," he ground out.
"Good. Then lets see what you got." Cool as a cucumber.
"But, there's a problem!," he snarled defensively.
"Then lets see what it is." A little impatience present in her voice this time.
Malfoy despised that woman. She'd heard about his detention, but had she not heard about his disaster in Trewlany's class when he had tried to cast a simple spell? Was she trying to intentionally humiliate him?
He stood briskly, reluctantly conceding that he didn't want to be in close quarters when he tried this. He motioned his wrist perfectly, the words pouring off his lips, and... BANG! The noise startled a cry from Neville, and the flash was of no pleasure to anyone. It was hard to say what had happened to the twigs. They had, it appeared, actually been turned into herb but then had burst into odorous smoking flames.
McGonagall looked horrified; Malfoy took an exaggerated sniff then smirked evilly. It was the most pleasant expression he had exhibited in quite some time. "That's the problem, Professor. Bright light, explosion, fire, you get the picture."
A couple of the nearby students giggled, and McGonagall sprung to action muttering a spell several times in an attempt to clear the air of the intoxicating smoke fumes. Finally, she turned to Malfoy, looking vaguely discontent. "Very well, Mr. Malfoy. You may watch instead. But it would be wise of you to pay attention despite your. . . problem."
Malfoy didn't say anything, just sat down and trained his eyes on his desk. The class went back to their attempts, a few of the students with a newly found motivation. Hermione was inspecting her herbs suspiciously as Ron made waved his around in frustration.
"What are you frowning at?," Ron asked quietly, giving up on his wand waving.
"It doesn't smell like marijuana unless it's smoking," she mused troublingly. "Ingenious, but disturbing.".
Ron took a closer look at her herbs, not knowing what to think.
And for a while, this was how things were. The few class attempts Malfoy tried at spell casting each resulted in mini explosions. He was in double detention almost every night, almost always because of having engaged in some physical altercation with another student. The teachers were lenient however, because Snape and possibly "all-seeing" Dumbledore realized that there were extenuating circumstances; furthermore, a lot of the fights were clearly provoked. It had been obvious immediately not only that Malfoy could be easily provoked, but that he was not protected by the crafty Slytherins anymore. And with his father dead, anyone with a grudge (of which there were many) now had their opportunity to take a shot at him. Righteous vindictiveness turned a surprising number of students into bullies. And Malfoy always let himself be provoked.
He showed up to breakfast with the same angry scowl and new bruises, scrapes, black eye. He was being bullied, true, but he was not being docile about it. The Gryffindor Trio kept their distance and watched with mild interest. Towards the end of two weeks, there was some sign of slacking off and he was being left alone more. He had not proven as easy a prey as initially assumed. The true shift, however, took place on a Saturday, the third weekend at Hogwarts. Quidditich season hadn't started yet, but practices had and there was a mock game scheduled between Slytherin and Gryffindor. It may not have had much official value, but both houses felt that there were high stakes. Snape was relieved to see his house exhibiting loyalty for the good of all. As for the Gryffindors, well, they were just proud, with all the good and bad that entails, and with some right. And Slytherin, of course, was there symbolic enemy.
Malfoy was the captain of the Slytherin team, bizarrely enough – and it was bizarre. He was supposed to have been Head Boy, before he had disappeared and supposedly died, before he had returned in the state that he was in. He had already also been elected Quidditch captain previously, but the Slytherins had generously decided to give him a try, possibly for the best of everyone. And Malfoy was able to pull it off, despite his disposition. He was damn good at Quidditch, excellent at strategy and an exceptional seeker. It was inevitable that he was hard on himself; it wasn't easy having Harry Potter as rival.
Some things were still the same. Malfoy genuinely loved Quidditch and so ultimately incapable of giving up. His team was willing to listen to him, because they were able to recognize that he had the potential to orchestrate a Slytherin victory over Gryffindor. They had been practicing some... novel techniques during the handful of practices that had been held. The moves were both thought provoking in considering how they could be used, and also a little disturbing in their unfamiliarity. These moves were harder, and more dangerous, but they too showed potential. And Slytherins had no qualms about change when it came to winning.
So out the two teams marched, the Gryffindors looking like heroes and the Slytherins as tough as steal. The stands were packed, as the entire school was there to watch the showdown. When both teams stopped in the field, Malfoy turned to his team and hollered over the cheers, "Just because the opponent might be stronger, doesn't mean you can't still win! If you want it enough, nothing is beyond your reach! The question is, do you want it enough?"
It felt good to feel like a house again, to be happy to be a Slytherin. "YES, WE WANT IT!," they thundered, not just the team, but the Slytherins in the audience too.
Malfoy's expression was absolute rock, a fierce drive beyond determination. No one has ever been able to wear an expression quite like Malfoy, but his team seemed eerily determined too.
The game begun, and it took everyone a moment to notice that there was something strange about the way the Slytherins were flying. Not merely were they not being the typical underhanded players that they had always been before, but something was off at a fundamental level of their flying. Some of the better players studied it for a moment so as to recognize it as a slight inaccuracy in the flying, but as it would manifest on a difficult broom in the hands of good flyer – a good flyer could still work with such a manageable handicap. But it was still odd to see in the entire Slytherin team, and this posed the wary question: why and how was this the case?
Again, a reasonably competent flier has a few good ideas about what conditions would decrease control – if only from a bit of logic or a little experience with an inferior (ie. school) broom. A broom that is too short or to too light is harder to control, tiniest movements have magnified ramifications on flight. They could go faster though, which is a terrifying, generally unwelcome consequence, given that expert flying on standard specifications is fast as all fucking hell anyway. There is good reason that the standard specifications are what they are: as the Ministry grew, some adrenaline junkie had the job of determining the absolute limit of sane flying. He did a perfect job of it, and has since been considered by many to be the best flyer, if in an extremist, slightly artistic way, that Europe has ever known. His speed and broom specifications had never been officially questioned or undermined.
A second look at one of the Slytherin brooms quickly yielded the apparent and unhidden cause: their broomsticks were shaved down, smoothly but visibly; and, though less immediately obvious, their broomtails also bore signs of above average preening. Moves were executed precariously and unnecessarily fast, at the risk of all the nearby flyers almost as much as to the Slytherin daredevil him/herself. It was dangerous, but it gave an unanticipated advantage that the Slytherin team was willing to take great gambles to exploit. They did it well.
Malfoy circled, a little lower than usual, but at a high speed, and narrow- mindedly searched for the snitch. Twenty five minutes later, it was the longest Malfoy had so seriously paid attention to in ages, months at least. Harry circled higher, at a cautious but calm pace. The game below was furious. The Slytherin team was in constant frantic motion, barely controlled and too fast for maneuvering well in the confined area in which that part of the game was unfolding. There were a number of near misses, a couple falls, and frenzied scoring, especially by the Slytherins. The Gryffindors had been taken off guard, and it had took them time to readjust; the Slytherins worked fast though, and scored greatly during those minutes, leaving the Gryffindors to work hard to close that gap.
At the exact same moment that Malfoy sighted the Snitch, out of the corner of his eye, he also saw Potter's broom lurch after it. Harry had that split moment on Mafloy and was significantly closer, but the snitch was racing straight for the blond along almost the same path as Malfoy was speeding towards it. He had achieved a strong momentum by that time, and it made it easy to boost just a little faster.
The whole game was suddenly a high-stakes round of chicken: on one hand, Malfoy would do anything to get the snitch; on the other hand, Harry was arrogant enough – and with some right – to be certain he could catch the snitch and not collide with Malfoy at perilous speeds and deadly heights. Objectively, Harry was the better player, but he had underestimated the magnification provided by the unsteady broom. Though the seekers weren't listening, the entire stadium was suddenly silent, tense with anticipation and mild disbelief. Harry hadn't expected Malfoy to reach the snitch only a couple of meters before him, and then, in the course of a second, the speeding snitch slapped into Malfoy's thin, oncoming hand. Harry thought he might have even heard sickening crack.
Malfoy lurched away, the pain forcing him to grip himself to his broom. For a terrifying second he was freefalling, before he forced his left arm to pull off a miracle save. The height from which he falling aided by providing a bit of time to use the speed of the fall to quickly ease up. He landed as hastily as possible, a little ungracefully, while clutching his right hand to his chest. Both pain and satisfaction were displayed on his face, but he stood proud and defiant.
The audience cheered and screamed on and on as the Slytherin team landed around Malfoy. "See!," he cried to them urgently. "It's all a matter of how much you're willing to risk and sacrifice win! Both bullies and victims take head!"
The audience couldn't hear him over his cheering, but the Slytherin team, and some of the Gryffindor did. The Slytherins regarded him was a welcome element of respect, and the Gryffidors with looks of shock.
"They cheated!," Ron yelled angrily and disbelievingly, and a few Gryffindors voiced uncertain agreement. In truth, most felt their own unwelcome respect for the bold and outrageous victory.
Rage flared in Malfoy for a moment before he reigned it in, but not before it had bared his teeth. "Why? Because we came up with an unfair advantage to match your own?"
Malfoy stormed away before the Gryffidor team could say anymore. Harry, however, stopped him before he got more than a few meters. He couldn't believe he had lost, everything was too much of a surprise... but he didn't think that the Slytherins had cheated, they had simply been will to risk more to win. They deserved to win, and Harry found it surprisingly easy to be a good loser. Harry offered his hand with as much sincerity as he could muster had, said, "Congratulations, Malfoy. I'm impressed."
Malfoy nodded, an unusually mild frown on his brow; his voice was firm, thoughtful, neutral. "You should be. You are natural though Potter. The best, once you figure out to use it."
There was no time for Harry to respond. Malfoy abruptly disengaged from their prolonged handshake, and strutted off, his team quickly following suit to make an impressive and delightfully bad-ass exit. Again, some things, some surprising things, don't change: Draco Mafloy could still pull off the best exits. To an extent, it was a case of 'I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go'. Mostly though, it was an extremely hard to achieve manifestation of 'I hate you, and I am in love with your absence'. It manifested individually, and so dictated peoples reactions and feelings to the young Malfoy.
Slytherins were capable of a unique, but unstereotypically genuine love of those of valuable use. It sounded a bit callous in words, and it was calculated, but it was a faithful upholding of the saying, 'love the one you are with'. On one hand, it looked bad that Slytherins were willing to befriend anyone who served their interests; on the other hand, and equally valid (remember: Slytherins, and even Death Eaters, are people too), Slytherins were often capable of a significant degree of empathy, which frequently granted knacks for manipulation as a product of some insightful capacity to understand others. This degree of understanding, empathy, and even identification can make it easy to see and consciously focus on people's worthy and admirable qualities, and so to like them despite their faults.. Just as many successful Slytherins can exploit unseen weakness, they can often also recognize the truly sympathetic and redeeming in those many others couldn't.
The atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room was slightly disbelieving gloom. The game had not been jinxed by being mentioning it beforehand, but there had been some expectation of a victory celebration. Defeat was unexpected, especially in the form it had taken – almost all the team members had enough respect for the victory, in its stunt-like way, not to be able to work an aggressive anger or grievance. It was just like, damn.
Ron was, of course, tried to keep up the bitterness, "We could have done that too if we bothered worming form loopholes!," he proclaimed sulkily to an irritable audience.
Ron was, of course, Ron, and as such, certain allowances were made for his behavior, even by his friends and family. Ron was just himself, for better or worse, and that was refreshing enough to be worth indulging. The common room was relatively empty for a Saturday night, and an unusual number were studying. The really bored, exhausted Gryffidor team was too strung out, emotionally and physically, to more than softly grunt in response to the now whining Weasley.
Harry's mind easily spun on, trying to dispel his disappointment, decipher the strategy and practical implications of what the Slytherins had done (particularly with regards to future games), indulge a nagging and ongoing curiosity directed towards the young Malfoy anomaly; and finally, most recently, and with increasing demand for attention, bare a healthy baby migraine. He had never had anything quite like them before just a week earlier, and then suddenly he had had three killers headaches in six days.
Harry vaguely understood the cause – his Occlumency and Legimensy was kicking his ass, and rightfully so, it was difficult stuff. Almost immediately upon his return to Hogwarts, Snape had cornered and accused him of not properly practicing his exercises. If Harry had, Snape had stated, Snape would have been able to sense the change. Harry recognized, on one hand, that he had been preoccupied with Sirius's death, Ron's illness, his own depression, the Durselys, etc., and had not have dedicated as much effort to it as could have; on the other hand, what Snape was having Harry do not was unreasonable. Harry had to be detention free just so that he could begin his grueling two hour mediation every night to clear his mind for sleep. And Snape was on him hard – responsibly, but in the most vicious way.
As a result, Harry was having some excellently deep, yet control sleep; but the stress and effort was contributing to migraines. As the other times, Harry let it be fort a bit, while it was still minor, but excused himself from this mates and made his way to the infirmary before long, feeling down and a little frustrated. Mme Pompfrey was both relieved and sympathetic, a factor of having had Harry in the infirmary for so many more outrageous and worrisome symptoms that a migraine was a relief.
"Wait just for a moment dear, I'll get something special for you. It's best when newly mixed, but very simple." The kindly, competent Pompfrey had just the perfect manner to pull off the frequently offensive medical condescension not uncommon amongst mediwitches and wizards. But Mme Pompfrey was good at subtle, yet uniquely perfect maternity, and this was vaguely comforting. She was also available to prattle when a student was too tired, hexed, vexed, or stressed to welcome participatory conversation; and yet at the same time offering a soothing affirmation of. . . life.
Pompfrey explained the properties and components of the two mixers, and the relatively straightforward brewing process. Ug, brewing. Harry really did hate Potions, and Snape was such an insufferable asshole! And, uh, Malfoy just strode in. . .
Malfoy was frowning slightly, as though permanent concern inhabited him; but his newfound and gradually improving mood control was making early leaps in the effort of keeping up appearances, even if they happened to be new appearances. The act reinforces itself and, before he could even understand it, or much else, he was inexplicably functioning by the seat of his pants. A true Slytherin recognizes that amazing and remarkable feats sometimes have to be executed in the name of survival; and Malfoy had indeed done a remarkable job.
He walked up to Harry and Mme Pompfrey, his right hand clutched to his chest. He took a stand facing Pompfrey, who looked up and asked, "What seems to be the problem, dear?" The infirmary had seen Malfoy quite a few times already that quarter, and her sympathy for his obvious difficulties outweighed the aggravation of his volatile behavior. As a teenager, she had been smart, outgoing Hufflepuff, one of the most popular and successful students at Hogwarts; as an adult, she was an excellent display of what Hufflepuff had to offer. She felt for the boy, despite his anger and hostility, because his repetitive visits and his frequent bruise and cut badges bore witness to his pain, even if it was only a scratch on the surface of a great mountain.
Malfoy endeavored to answer after taking a discretionary look at Harry; he leaned quietly against the wall, and observed calmly through thick lashes. "I broke my hand."
"Oh no! I was worried when I saw that catch. Show it to me!" She hurried to finish Harry's brew, briefly taking a look at the hand: it was very swollen and red.
"Draco! You only came now?," she chided, handing Harry his bottled mix.
"Well, they were celebrating our victory, setting the House's morale and mood for the year, and forming all those early alliances. I needed to scope it out, make my abrasive presence felt," Malfoy bitterly and sarcastically. Harry's aching head allowed mild amusement.
"What are you smirking at, Pothead?," Malfoy challenged..
"Leave him alone, he has a migraine. Harry, go take that far bed there. Drink about half of the potion and rest til you feel better. And you young man, come with me and we'll fix that arm up."
Malfoy awkwardly let himself be led into a curtained off area amidst harmless tuts, and Harry did as told. He faintly heard their muttering, but could not make out what was being said. He was so damn tired. . .
Harry shot out of the sudden onset deep sleep, pulse racing from the terror of the nightmare flash of contact with Voldemorte, a terrifying peak at his sick, twisted self. He sat up instantly, panicked and disoriented, reaching instinctively out for a hold with its body and mind. Hands encountered the bed, unleashed mind encountered. . . another mind, unusually tempting, as though was an unnatural void to fill.
No, not a void. Just, a speeding sense of emptiness. Was time out of sync? He couldn't quite get his bearings. . .
{{POTTER!!!}}
What do you think? Completely psychotic? Understandable at all? I promise the next one will be written drug-free, and much sooner. Haven't you heard? I am starting my life over as an alcoholic. Jeez. . . maybe I really do have a problem. But who cares? I just graduated with good grades, a great boyfriend, and a bright future. And they say drugs ruin your life. . . Okay, that was my epitaph to drugs. Now, to the future!
Reviewers: Thanks so much! Sorry it has taken so long to write this, but I have been going through a hectic time. It is extra long to make it up to you. Unfortunately, it is also rather. . . convoluted. I hereby confess that I was doing a fair amount of drugs while writing this, and am not sure what to make of it. I have read it again, fixed problems, so: if a section is hard to understand, reread it carefully, because it makes a twisted sense. Thanks for your patience and hope you enjoy,
Ch. 6: Failures and Victories
Malfoy stormed into Transfiguration with the rest of the students, pushing through to claim the seat in the far back corner of the room, in violation of his traditional center middle position. He scowled a lot, and spent most of the lesson fidgeting and not paying attention, almost as if in a glaring trance. The inevitable scene took place about twenty minutes before the end of class, when the students were all attempting to turn their twigs into a medicinal herb. While Hermione managed with some ease, she conceded to Harry's failure that it was a very precise and tricky transformation. Malfoy wasn't even trying, and Professor McGonagall eventually came by.
"Mr. Malfoy? I want to see you perform the transformation for us." Aloof as always.
Malfoy leaned away from her disdainfully, anger flaring. "No."
"I have been told that you have already received three detentions today, and it's only the first day of school. Do you really want another one?" Harry had to give it to his head of house, she had just the right level of unflappable passive-aggressiveness to absolutely devastate.
Malfoy, if it was even possible, glared that much more hatefully at McGonagall. He was close to losing control, though he knew he mustn't; and he knew that he couldn't handle another detention. Things were going badly enough. "No," he ground out.
"Good. Then lets see what you got." Cool as a cucumber.
"But, there's a problem!," he snarled defensively.
"Then lets see what it is." A little impatience present in her voice this time.
Malfoy despised that woman. She'd heard about his detention, but had she not heard about his disaster in Trewlany's class when he had tried to cast a simple spell? Was she trying to intentionally humiliate him?
He stood briskly, reluctantly conceding that he didn't want to be in close quarters when he tried this. He motioned his wrist perfectly, the words pouring off his lips, and... BANG! The noise startled a cry from Neville, and the flash was of no pleasure to anyone. It was hard to say what had happened to the twigs. They had, it appeared, actually been turned into herb but then had burst into odorous smoking flames.
McGonagall looked horrified; Malfoy took an exaggerated sniff then smirked evilly. It was the most pleasant expression he had exhibited in quite some time. "That's the problem, Professor. Bright light, explosion, fire, you get the picture."
A couple of the nearby students giggled, and McGonagall sprung to action muttering a spell several times in an attempt to clear the air of the intoxicating smoke fumes. Finally, she turned to Malfoy, looking vaguely discontent. "Very well, Mr. Malfoy. You may watch instead. But it would be wise of you to pay attention despite your. . . problem."
Malfoy didn't say anything, just sat down and trained his eyes on his desk. The class went back to their attempts, a few of the students with a newly found motivation. Hermione was inspecting her herbs suspiciously as Ron made waved his around in frustration.
"What are you frowning at?," Ron asked quietly, giving up on his wand waving.
"It doesn't smell like marijuana unless it's smoking," she mused troublingly. "Ingenious, but disturbing.".
Ron took a closer look at her herbs, not knowing what to think.
And for a while, this was how things were. The few class attempts Malfoy tried at spell casting each resulted in mini explosions. He was in double detention almost every night, almost always because of having engaged in some physical altercation with another student. The teachers were lenient however, because Snape and possibly "all-seeing" Dumbledore realized that there were extenuating circumstances; furthermore, a lot of the fights were clearly provoked. It had been obvious immediately not only that Malfoy could be easily provoked, but that he was not protected by the crafty Slytherins anymore. And with his father dead, anyone with a grudge (of which there were many) now had their opportunity to take a shot at him. Righteous vindictiveness turned a surprising number of students into bullies. And Malfoy always let himself be provoked.
He showed up to breakfast with the same angry scowl and new bruises, scrapes, black eye. He was being bullied, true, but he was not being docile about it. The Gryffindor Trio kept their distance and watched with mild interest. Towards the end of two weeks, there was some sign of slacking off and he was being left alone more. He had not proven as easy a prey as initially assumed. The true shift, however, took place on a Saturday, the third weekend at Hogwarts. Quidditich season hadn't started yet, but practices had and there was a mock game scheduled between Slytherin and Gryffindor. It may not have had much official value, but both houses felt that there were high stakes. Snape was relieved to see his house exhibiting loyalty for the good of all. As for the Gryffindors, well, they were just proud, with all the good and bad that entails, and with some right. And Slytherin, of course, was there symbolic enemy.
Malfoy was the captain of the Slytherin team, bizarrely enough – and it was bizarre. He was supposed to have been Head Boy, before he had disappeared and supposedly died, before he had returned in the state that he was in. He had already also been elected Quidditch captain previously, but the Slytherins had generously decided to give him a try, possibly for the best of everyone. And Malfoy was able to pull it off, despite his disposition. He was damn good at Quidditch, excellent at strategy and an exceptional seeker. It was inevitable that he was hard on himself; it wasn't easy having Harry Potter as rival.
Some things were still the same. Malfoy genuinely loved Quidditch and so ultimately incapable of giving up. His team was willing to listen to him, because they were able to recognize that he had the potential to orchestrate a Slytherin victory over Gryffindor. They had been practicing some... novel techniques during the handful of practices that had been held. The moves were both thought provoking in considering how they could be used, and also a little disturbing in their unfamiliarity. These moves were harder, and more dangerous, but they too showed potential. And Slytherins had no qualms about change when it came to winning.
So out the two teams marched, the Gryffindors looking like heroes and the Slytherins as tough as steal. The stands were packed, as the entire school was there to watch the showdown. When both teams stopped in the field, Malfoy turned to his team and hollered over the cheers, "Just because the opponent might be stronger, doesn't mean you can't still win! If you want it enough, nothing is beyond your reach! The question is, do you want it enough?"
It felt good to feel like a house again, to be happy to be a Slytherin. "YES, WE WANT IT!," they thundered, not just the team, but the Slytherins in the audience too.
Malfoy's expression was absolute rock, a fierce drive beyond determination. No one has ever been able to wear an expression quite like Malfoy, but his team seemed eerily determined too.
The game begun, and it took everyone a moment to notice that there was something strange about the way the Slytherins were flying. Not merely were they not being the typical underhanded players that they had always been before, but something was off at a fundamental level of their flying. Some of the better players studied it for a moment so as to recognize it as a slight inaccuracy in the flying, but as it would manifest on a difficult broom in the hands of good flyer – a good flyer could still work with such a manageable handicap. But it was still odd to see in the entire Slytherin team, and this posed the wary question: why and how was this the case?
Again, a reasonably competent flier has a few good ideas about what conditions would decrease control – if only from a bit of logic or a little experience with an inferior (ie. school) broom. A broom that is too short or to too light is harder to control, tiniest movements have magnified ramifications on flight. They could go faster though, which is a terrifying, generally unwelcome consequence, given that expert flying on standard specifications is fast as all fucking hell anyway. There is good reason that the standard specifications are what they are: as the Ministry grew, some adrenaline junkie had the job of determining the absolute limit of sane flying. He did a perfect job of it, and has since been considered by many to be the best flyer, if in an extremist, slightly artistic way, that Europe has ever known. His speed and broom specifications had never been officially questioned or undermined.
A second look at one of the Slytherin brooms quickly yielded the apparent and unhidden cause: their broomsticks were shaved down, smoothly but visibly; and, though less immediately obvious, their broomtails also bore signs of above average preening. Moves were executed precariously and unnecessarily fast, at the risk of all the nearby flyers almost as much as to the Slytherin daredevil him/herself. It was dangerous, but it gave an unanticipated advantage that the Slytherin team was willing to take great gambles to exploit. They did it well.
Malfoy circled, a little lower than usual, but at a high speed, and narrow- mindedly searched for the snitch. Twenty five minutes later, it was the longest Malfoy had so seriously paid attention to in ages, months at least. Harry circled higher, at a cautious but calm pace. The game below was furious. The Slytherin team was in constant frantic motion, barely controlled and too fast for maneuvering well in the confined area in which that part of the game was unfolding. There were a number of near misses, a couple falls, and frenzied scoring, especially by the Slytherins. The Gryffindors had been taken off guard, and it had took them time to readjust; the Slytherins worked fast though, and scored greatly during those minutes, leaving the Gryffindors to work hard to close that gap.
At the exact same moment that Malfoy sighted the Snitch, out of the corner of his eye, he also saw Potter's broom lurch after it. Harry had that split moment on Mafloy and was significantly closer, but the snitch was racing straight for the blond along almost the same path as Malfoy was speeding towards it. He had achieved a strong momentum by that time, and it made it easy to boost just a little faster.
The whole game was suddenly a high-stakes round of chicken: on one hand, Malfoy would do anything to get the snitch; on the other hand, Harry was arrogant enough – and with some right – to be certain he could catch the snitch and not collide with Malfoy at perilous speeds and deadly heights. Objectively, Harry was the better player, but he had underestimated the magnification provided by the unsteady broom. Though the seekers weren't listening, the entire stadium was suddenly silent, tense with anticipation and mild disbelief. Harry hadn't expected Malfoy to reach the snitch only a couple of meters before him, and then, in the course of a second, the speeding snitch slapped into Malfoy's thin, oncoming hand. Harry thought he might have even heard sickening crack.
Malfoy lurched away, the pain forcing him to grip himself to his broom. For a terrifying second he was freefalling, before he forced his left arm to pull off a miracle save. The height from which he falling aided by providing a bit of time to use the speed of the fall to quickly ease up. He landed as hastily as possible, a little ungracefully, while clutching his right hand to his chest. Both pain and satisfaction were displayed on his face, but he stood proud and defiant.
The audience cheered and screamed on and on as the Slytherin team landed around Malfoy. "See!," he cried to them urgently. "It's all a matter of how much you're willing to risk and sacrifice win! Both bullies and victims take head!"
The audience couldn't hear him over his cheering, but the Slytherin team, and some of the Gryffindor did. The Slytherins regarded him was a welcome element of respect, and the Gryffidors with looks of shock.
"They cheated!," Ron yelled angrily and disbelievingly, and a few Gryffindors voiced uncertain agreement. In truth, most felt their own unwelcome respect for the bold and outrageous victory.
Rage flared in Malfoy for a moment before he reigned it in, but not before it had bared his teeth. "Why? Because we came up with an unfair advantage to match your own?"
Malfoy stormed away before the Gryffidor team could say anymore. Harry, however, stopped him before he got more than a few meters. He couldn't believe he had lost, everything was too much of a surprise... but he didn't think that the Slytherins had cheated, they had simply been will to risk more to win. They deserved to win, and Harry found it surprisingly easy to be a good loser. Harry offered his hand with as much sincerity as he could muster had, said, "Congratulations, Malfoy. I'm impressed."
Malfoy nodded, an unusually mild frown on his brow; his voice was firm, thoughtful, neutral. "You should be. You are natural though Potter. The best, once you figure out to use it."
There was no time for Harry to respond. Malfoy abruptly disengaged from their prolonged handshake, and strutted off, his team quickly following suit to make an impressive and delightfully bad-ass exit. Again, some things, some surprising things, don't change: Draco Mafloy could still pull off the best exits. To an extent, it was a case of 'I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go'. Mostly though, it was an extremely hard to achieve manifestation of 'I hate you, and I am in love with your absence'. It manifested individually, and so dictated peoples reactions and feelings to the young Malfoy.
Slytherins were capable of a unique, but unstereotypically genuine love of those of valuable use. It sounded a bit callous in words, and it was calculated, but it was a faithful upholding of the saying, 'love the one you are with'. On one hand, it looked bad that Slytherins were willing to befriend anyone who served their interests; on the other hand, and equally valid (remember: Slytherins, and even Death Eaters, are people too), Slytherins were often capable of a significant degree of empathy, which frequently granted knacks for manipulation as a product of some insightful capacity to understand others. This degree of understanding, empathy, and even identification can make it easy to see and consciously focus on people's worthy and admirable qualities, and so to like them despite their faults.. Just as many successful Slytherins can exploit unseen weakness, they can often also recognize the truly sympathetic and redeeming in those many others couldn't.
The atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room was slightly disbelieving gloom. The game had not been jinxed by being mentioning it beforehand, but there had been some expectation of a victory celebration. Defeat was unexpected, especially in the form it had taken – almost all the team members had enough respect for the victory, in its stunt-like way, not to be able to work an aggressive anger or grievance. It was just like, damn.
Ron was, of course, tried to keep up the bitterness, "We could have done that too if we bothered worming form loopholes!," he proclaimed sulkily to an irritable audience.
Ron was, of course, Ron, and as such, certain allowances were made for his behavior, even by his friends and family. Ron was just himself, for better or worse, and that was refreshing enough to be worth indulging. The common room was relatively empty for a Saturday night, and an unusual number were studying. The really bored, exhausted Gryffidor team was too strung out, emotionally and physically, to more than softly grunt in response to the now whining Weasley.
Harry's mind easily spun on, trying to dispel his disappointment, decipher the strategy and practical implications of what the Slytherins had done (particularly with regards to future games), indulge a nagging and ongoing curiosity directed towards the young Malfoy anomaly; and finally, most recently, and with increasing demand for attention, bare a healthy baby migraine. He had never had anything quite like them before just a week earlier, and then suddenly he had had three killers headaches in six days.
Harry vaguely understood the cause – his Occlumency and Legimensy was kicking his ass, and rightfully so, it was difficult stuff. Almost immediately upon his return to Hogwarts, Snape had cornered and accused him of not properly practicing his exercises. If Harry had, Snape had stated, Snape would have been able to sense the change. Harry recognized, on one hand, that he had been preoccupied with Sirius's death, Ron's illness, his own depression, the Durselys, etc., and had not have dedicated as much effort to it as could have; on the other hand, what Snape was having Harry do not was unreasonable. Harry had to be detention free just so that he could begin his grueling two hour mediation every night to clear his mind for sleep. And Snape was on him hard – responsibly, but in the most vicious way.
As a result, Harry was having some excellently deep, yet control sleep; but the stress and effort was contributing to migraines. As the other times, Harry let it be fort a bit, while it was still minor, but excused himself from this mates and made his way to the infirmary before long, feeling down and a little frustrated. Mme Pompfrey was both relieved and sympathetic, a factor of having had Harry in the infirmary for so many more outrageous and worrisome symptoms that a migraine was a relief.
"Wait just for a moment dear, I'll get something special for you. It's best when newly mixed, but very simple." The kindly, competent Pompfrey had just the perfect manner to pull off the frequently offensive medical condescension not uncommon amongst mediwitches and wizards. But Mme Pompfrey was good at subtle, yet uniquely perfect maternity, and this was vaguely comforting. She was also available to prattle when a student was too tired, hexed, vexed, or stressed to welcome participatory conversation; and yet at the same time offering a soothing affirmation of. . . life.
Pompfrey explained the properties and components of the two mixers, and the relatively straightforward brewing process. Ug, brewing. Harry really did hate Potions, and Snape was such an insufferable asshole! And, uh, Malfoy just strode in. . .
Malfoy was frowning slightly, as though permanent concern inhabited him; but his newfound and gradually improving mood control was making early leaps in the effort of keeping up appearances, even if they happened to be new appearances. The act reinforces itself and, before he could even understand it, or much else, he was inexplicably functioning by the seat of his pants. A true Slytherin recognizes that amazing and remarkable feats sometimes have to be executed in the name of survival; and Malfoy had indeed done a remarkable job.
He walked up to Harry and Mme Pompfrey, his right hand clutched to his chest. He took a stand facing Pompfrey, who looked up and asked, "What seems to be the problem, dear?" The infirmary had seen Malfoy quite a few times already that quarter, and her sympathy for his obvious difficulties outweighed the aggravation of his volatile behavior. As a teenager, she had been smart, outgoing Hufflepuff, one of the most popular and successful students at Hogwarts; as an adult, she was an excellent display of what Hufflepuff had to offer. She felt for the boy, despite his anger and hostility, because his repetitive visits and his frequent bruise and cut badges bore witness to his pain, even if it was only a scratch on the surface of a great mountain.
Malfoy endeavored to answer after taking a discretionary look at Harry; he leaned quietly against the wall, and observed calmly through thick lashes. "I broke my hand."
"Oh no! I was worried when I saw that catch. Show it to me!" She hurried to finish Harry's brew, briefly taking a look at the hand: it was very swollen and red.
"Draco! You only came now?," she chided, handing Harry his bottled mix.
"Well, they were celebrating our victory, setting the House's morale and mood for the year, and forming all those early alliances. I needed to scope it out, make my abrasive presence felt," Malfoy bitterly and sarcastically. Harry's aching head allowed mild amusement.
"What are you smirking at, Pothead?," Malfoy challenged..
"Leave him alone, he has a migraine. Harry, go take that far bed there. Drink about half of the potion and rest til you feel better. And you young man, come with me and we'll fix that arm up."
Malfoy awkwardly let himself be led into a curtained off area amidst harmless tuts, and Harry did as told. He faintly heard their muttering, but could not make out what was being said. He was so damn tired. . .
Harry shot out of the sudden onset deep sleep, pulse racing from the terror of the nightmare flash of contact with Voldemorte, a terrifying peak at his sick, twisted self. He sat up instantly, panicked and disoriented, reaching instinctively out for a hold with its body and mind. Hands encountered the bed, unleashed mind encountered. . . another mind, unusually tempting, as though was an unnatural void to fill.
No, not a void. Just, a speeding sense of emptiness. Was time out of sync? He couldn't quite get his bearings. . .
{{POTTER!!!}}
What do you think? Completely psychotic? Understandable at all? I promise the next one will be written drug-free, and much sooner. Haven't you heard? I am starting my life over as an alcoholic. Jeez. . . maybe I really do have a problem. But who cares? I just graduated with good grades, a great boyfriend, and a bright future. And they say drugs ruin your life. . . Okay, that was my epitaph to drugs. Now, to the future!
