by Perr

Draco's POV

Who does he think he is, coming over here, trying to show some sympathy. I'd spit on it if I could actually spit that far.
"Don't think that this'll change my views on you." I skip addressing him; it's way too tiring to keep calling his name. "Neither will it affect me in the game later, if you're going to try."
He doesn't say a word.
And then, I realise, my feet are cold as I'm sitting up on the bed. He takes the blanket and pulls it down over them, then makes his way around to my right, where I scoot back and move away as much as I can. He doesn't have his wand, he doesn't look like he's reaching for anything except my face, and then
he runs his hands through my hair and places a kiss on my forehead
before I reach up and pull him down on me to let his lips meet mine in a passionate fury.

That's when my eyes wrench themselves open.
"Oh my bloody fucking wizard idols!" I breathe. I did not just think that. I did not just see that in my brain. I did not just witness my subconscious self touching him the way that I did, and I scramble out of bed to find my wand. Anything, anything but that, anything to drive away all those horrible, horrible things. A wave of heat washes over my entire form, and I wipe the sweat off my forehead. I've been thinking too much.
Montague enters the empty dorm room. "What are you still doing here? We're halfway through breakfast!"
"You are?" My head turns and the Sun sears into my retinas. "Yeah. I'll be out."
"Y'know, I didn't come all the way down to just to see my team members all shabby and unprepared. Hurry up and get out."
"Okay! Jesus, I'll be right out," I snap in response.



It was supposed to be simple.
I saw Potter, made some snarky comments, and he disappeared. During that entire time, over breakfast, over walking, over changing, I couldn't stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking.
"You look a little dazed."
Goyle looks to me with slight concern. "I was just thinking." Stop thinking, then. "...The game against Gryffindor. We haven't won the cup in a long time, and they haven't lost in a long time either."
"Ay, we'll beat 'em down good," he says, grabbing his broom with a strong arm.
On the way out, I see Pansy. Pfft, what a name. She waves and I smile, but roll my eyes as soon as I pass her. Don't know why it's such a big deal that I took her to the Yule ball.

The Sun is even hotter outside when I step onto the pitch. Blood is boiling, eyes are shifting and (oh, there's something wrong with me) the first person I look out for is the man of my dreams. Did I just think that?
Yeah, he's there, he's staring so hard I feel a burn in my chest. I still don't understand. I still don't get how he looks so fucking fantastic in his red-yellow robes, his cheek pressed to broom.
The wind builds up; not a good thing during my game. And it blows at him, robe fluttering behind him to flash his boots, from ankle to calf, knee to thigh, to
Oh my---
STOP BLOODY THINKING!
I arch a brow at him (as well as myself) and get into position. Madam Hooch gives a start, then a signal, and we're off into the clouds.
I don't see that mechanical toy anywhere, and I'm just settling in one spot, avoiding bypassing chasers and beaters to look for it. Hmm. Potter seems to be awfully suspicious, flying himself all over the place especially near my team's goal. I give chase.
He shoots downwards, hand outstretched, and all I've got to do is to go a little faster, knock him out of the way, and win. That easy. I'm left with staring at his back, how it arches to touch the snitch, how his terrible dark brown-black hair blows in the wind, why the hell I'm thinking about this kind of shit now, why---

OW.

I'm contorted in all sorts of ways, that fucking familiar pain riding up my arm. The impact of ground is no comfort at all. It's as discomforting as the instant realisation that I've lost it for Slytherin again. There's blood at the tips of my fringe, that I taste in my mouth (I hope I don't lose any teeth), that I breathe into my lungs. My legs are fine, but I can't move any further than a centimetre, pain just shooting everywhere like bullets from a Muggle's gun. I give the hardest groan I can heave, so maybe people will be able to actually realise that I could die on the spot.
"Fucking Potter..." I cough.
"Ferula," are the words that I hear, before spirals, swarms and waves of violets and yellows cloud my vision.
Crabbe's and Goyle's voices are faint, little murmurs behind cheers for Gryffindor, and I'm being carried in someone's arms.
At least I'm out of the Sun now.