Written for Quidditch League, Holyhead Harpies, Chaser 1

WC: 2124

Prompt: You Can't Predict It All (S7)

Optional Prompts:

[setting] Quidditch Pitch

[dialogue] "This isn't a game."

[character] Draco Malfoy

Also written for Hogwarts: Task 8 - House-Elves: Write about following orders

Auction: Theme: Karma

A/N: Thank you so much to my team for all your support, and for your help with beta work.

Under different circumstances, it might have been bliss. Draco thought he'd never watch a Quidditch match again, not after the Wizengamot's gavel pounded against the podium, sentencing him to a near-lifetime of excruciating cold and loneliness. Yes, it might have been bliss—if he wasn't surrounded by idiots.

A witch in hunter green robes soared by with the Quaffle, on a warpath towards the goalposts. Predictable. She launched it through the hoop, and the crowd erupted, but none shouted louder than Draco Malfoy's loathed companion. Cormac McLaggen was so obnoxiously Gryffindor—stupid hair, stupid face, stupid way of talking—that it almost wasn't worth coming when it meant he had to be chained to his arm. Almost.

The manacle tugged at Draco's wrist; McLaggen was waving his arms in the air. "Did you see that? Classic goldfinch maneuver. What did I tell you, eh? Harpies will be the obvious victors. I'll be spending your galleons at the Three Broomsticks come midnight."

Draco rolled his eyes. Of course the Harpies would win. He'd calculated it all out with the cheap crow quill McLaggen had smuggled into his prison cell during spring training, once he'd remembered his unmatched excellence in the Arithmancy classroom. And if they didn't, well… If they didn't, this might be the last time Draco Malfoy breathed the outside air.

Unethical, yes, but when had Malfoys ever cared about ethics? Certainly not during the wizarding wars, when they'd let The Dark Lord seep into the once-glorious halls of their manor, followed every one of his orders down to the letter, to their eventual destruction.

No, Malfoys were all about forming alliances with whoever would raise them to the top. So when McLaggen stuck his bulbous nose through Draco's iron cell bars with parchment and a promise, he'd leaped at the opportunity. After all, fifty years in prison was nearly an eternity. Why not pass it by putting his talents to good use?

And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that one of these days, karma would catch up with him. Using Arithmancy to predict the outcomes of a Quidditch match was illegal. Difficult to enforce, yes, but if he was caught…

Despite the sweaty heat from dozens of bodies crammed into the high-rise stand, a shiver crept along Draco's spine. He shook his head; no use letting his conscience pester him now. Might as well enjoy the game.

"Oho! Did you see that? Did you see that, Travers? Weasley'll be inducted into the Hall of Fame if she continues that quality broom-work."

Travers' blood was boiling, staining his face flaming red. Draco fought back a snicker. Betting against McLaggen was one thing, but betting against a Malfoy? Unthinkable. Of course, Travers had no idea. The temptation to heckle him was overpowering; it would be so satisfying, so delicious. Temptation won. "Any idiot can see that even with the snitch bonus, Canons are going down tonight," said Draco. "Harpies will wipe the floor with them."

McLaggen swiveled in his chair, piercing Draco with a furious glare. "What did I tell you about talking?" His eyes got mean, and he swished his wand.

A Silencio. Draco sneered. What was the point of knowing the outcome if you didn't get to gloat about it?

McLaggen didn't lift the spell—not when the Harpies caught the snitch, and not after the crowd's roars died. Nor when his gleeful fingers had collected two-dozen sacks of galleons from other patrons, ill-gotten winnings from unfair wagers.

Once again, Draco wondered if sitting silently in a box next to the most annoying git who ever lived (yes, Harry Potter included) was enough of a reward for his trouble.

But as the days passed, slow as troll snot and twice as stodgy, he found nothing better to do. There were no books in Azkaban, no wands, and no potions ingredients. But to figure equations, one didn't need magic.

So his quill scratched against the parchment once again.

The sunlight hours grew shorter. Frost dusted the bars of his cell. And still, Draco's predictions held true. With each win, McLaggen became more confident, more idiotic.

One match in January, he dragged Draco to the front of the box, threw his hands in the air and hollered, "Do you dare challenge the glorious Cormac McLaggen's insight? Dare you bet against the heretofore undefeated champion?"

It was tempting. Oh, so tempting, to knock this cowardly lion from his paper throne. Draco longed to see the pride fall from his face, to have the only thing he'd ever succeeded at stripped away and float to the floor.

"Yes, McLaggen, how very clever you are," said Draco. "Twenty matches and not a single bet lost. One would almost wonder if you had inside information."

McLaggen's sky-high coiffed curls bobbed atop his head as he whipped around and glared. "Did you not learn your lesson last time you spoke? I expect unwavering, unmitigated silence. Do I make myself clear?"

Draco gritted his teeth. "Crystal."

McLaggen had some karma coming his way. Who cared about outings? The memory of his captor's downfall would warm even the Decembers in his Azkaban cell.

The next week, the Kestrels were slotted to play the Tornadoes. For days, Draco scribbled runes and numbers onto his scroll. Tedious and complicated, Arithmancy stretched his brain in a way he'd never get from counting the bricks in the walls or memorizing cracks in the ceiling. He would miss this. But not nearly as much as McLaggen would wish for a dragon to swallow him whole. Finally, Draco held his parchment to the light; yes, that seemed right. This Saturday's match, the Tornadoes would sweep the Kestrels away. It would be a solid flogging, an absolute disaster.

Draco couldn't wait.

McLaggen appeared just as the daylight was fading. He rubbed his hands together, walking with a stride only the invincible thought they could pull off. "So, what's today's outcome? On which team shall I place my galleons and astonish the masses with my unmatched wisdom?"

Suddenly, Draco's cell seemed very small. "Um, the Kestrels—no, wait, Tornados! Tornados will win."

McLaggen's eyes sharpened. "This isn't a game." He stalked up to Draco and shoved a finger against his nose. "If you're manipulating me, we're done. One toe out of line, and you'll never again step foot on hallowed Quidditch ground."

Draco gulped, but on the inside, rage boiled against his ribs. He was done playing house-elf. Following orders had never gotten him anywhere but a four-by-four meter stone cell. "Apologies. I meant the Kestrels. The Kestrels will win tonight."

McLaggen nodded. "Quite right, you do. Now come along; it won't do for us to be late. We've got wagers to make, coins to rake in…" McLaggen conjured a mirror and ran his fingers through his monstrous curls.

Oh, this was going to be beautiful.

Before Ron Weasley, seated in his usual spot behind them (another reason to be done with this arrangement) had even finished his first turkey leg, McLaggen was already three Firewhiskeys deep. Alcohol sloshed out of his cup, dripped down Draco's arm where it rested on their shared armrest. "Another goal?" McLaggen howled. "Kestrels are leading 200 to 30! Inconceivable!"

"You can't win them all, my friend," said Travers. "About time I earned back some of my coins."

McLaggen jerked Draco's chain, turning to him, face pale and eyes burning. "I trusted you. Look at me. Do I look like a fool?" Bits of spittle flew from his mouth—an unbecoming habit indeed.

"What's that, Cormac? Getting advice from our prisoners, are we?" Travers chuckled. "Wasn't it you claiming to be an unmatched genius just last week, and now it's all Malfoy's fault? Get your story straight."

Draco smirked. McLaggen was lucky Travers wasn't the brightest star in the sky. But the other patrons were bound to possess more brainpower.

Behind them, Weasley whispered furiously to Dean Thomas. Good. Let them speculate. Let McLaggen boil himself in his own cauldron.

McLaggen finished his Firewhiskey, then ordered another, and another. The greater the Tornado's lead, the drunker he got. The drunker he got, the louder he got, and the more blows he sent right to the back of Draco's head. He would have a terribly sore skull tomorrow. Still worth it.

Five flagons of booze later, the crowd erupted. Draco had been so busy shielding his face from McLaggen's spittle spray that he had not a clue what was happening. His eyes scanned the pitch; sure enough, the Tornado's seeker was circling the field, holding the snitch above his head.

Sweet, sweet revenge. McLaggen threw his glass against the floor. An explosion of shards pierced through the crowd's roars, and every witch and wizard swiveled to look.

A yank of the manacles, sharp and furious against Draco's forearms, did nothing to dampen his mood. He had won. With one well-placed prick, he'd deflated McLaggen's ego. He could only hope he'd get the chance to do it again.

Sure enough, McLaggen couldn't stay away. Next Saturday, when the sun peeked through Draco's bottle-sized window, McLaggen yanked open the prison cell's rusty bars. "This is your final warning. Make one wrong move, and we're done. Capiche?"

At least Draco's father had taught him one lesson worth learning—how to keep his emotions from leaking out through his face. "Of course, McLaggen. Last round was tricky; I couldn't quite figure it. But this time, I'm sure—the Cannons will win."

McLaggen harrumphed. His hair laid a little flatter than usual, his robes a little more wrinkled. This was getting to him; yes, his public failure affected him exactly as Draco had hoped. Now for step two.

As expected, the Cannons won. So did the Harpies, then the Falcons, then the Harpies again. Draco predicted every single outcome, all the way to the finals. McLaggen's hair sprung back to twice its original height. If only he paid as much attention to his surroundings as he did to himself. Then he might have realized.

He might have seen Ron Weasley staring at him during the quarter-finals. He might have noticed him scribbling away in his notebook, casting furtive glances and speculative frowns. He might have even remembered that the Weasel was an Auror in the most mundane department: Magical Deception and Embezzlement.

All the better. McLaggen was about to crash his broomstick into the wall. It would be so spectacular, even Lucius just might hear about it.

Draco patted his pocket, felt the edges of a torn piece of parchment with his unmanacled hand. Everything was in place.

While McLaggen was turned to the side, pontificating on his own genius, Draco stretched his arms and dropped the note behind him, right into Ron's lap.

Well, this was it. Draco settled into his chair and watched the brooms race across the sky. He'd never see them again, and he was determined to enjoy every second.

Too soon, his prediction came true: the Harpies defeated the Tornadoes, qualifying for the World Cup. But before the cheers died, Ron Weasley pushed his way through towards them.

"Cormac McLaggen, you're under arrest for abuse of power, for illegal use of Arithmancy to predict Quidditch outcomes, and for wagering galleons based on those predictions."

Draco's manacle vanished and reappeared around McLaggen's other wrist. His heart soared; would Ron release him? Would this good deed pardon him from a lifetime of sins?

As soon as he thought it, his answer appeared—a new set of manacles, this time strapping his hands behind his back.

McLaggen raged. "What do you mean? Arithmancy? Me? I'd never—you can't prove anything!"

"I've got the proof right here. A signed confession from Mr. Malfoy himself. When Hermione finds out you've been using her 'fresh-air' policy to exploit prisoners, she'll have your head."

Draco didn't hear much else; he was too busy reveling in his victory. The memory of it even dulled boredom's sting as he later sat in his cell with no parchment, no quill.

But his happiness wasn't to last.

The next Saturday, footsteps rang through the hallway. Footsteps Draco recognized. Surely McLaggen hadn't been allowed to resume his post? Surely he'd been sacked, or fined, or whatever they did with people who committed this sort of crime.

Draco pressed his face against the bars, their rust scratching his cheeks. A shadow approached—no, two shadows. It was McLaggen all right, he could tell by the hair. But who was with him?

"Here we are. I'm sure you'll find your cellmate fascinating." Weasley. Ron Weasley was escorting McLaggen to—oh, no.

The door creaked open, and Ron pushed McLaggen inside. Draco groaned. The only thing worse than enduring McLaggen's undying pomposity at weekly Quidditch matches would be spending every minute of every day sharing a cell.

Karma really was a banshee.

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