AN: Haha here it is. Sorry it took so long. I sprained my neck and then found it kind of hard to write as Harry after writing Draco. : I had this chapter mapped out since I wrote the last one, but it's taking a little while so I'm splitting it into two.
Warning: Spoilers. In general.
I don't own these characters, not making any money off this.
Harry was an idiot. He was a completely stupid and unsalvageable idiot. He had been preparing for this for days! He'd know in advance what he was going to confront, and he'd mapped out in his mind how he'd react. He had every intention of following Hermione's advice and being nice. He knew exactly what he'd say, how he'd offer his hand for a handshake. It seemed impossible to mess up, even for him. Up until he'd actually heard Malfoy speak- then the whole bloody plan had flown out the bloody window.
It was… Well, it was nothing like what he'd expected. He hadn't counted on all of the memories. Malfoy's voice hadn't changed at all. Hearing it had the same effect as someone shoving Harry's head down a pensieve. Images, unbidden, raced through his mind like wild horses:
Red blood pooling on the bathroom floor as Malfoy, horrified, clutching his stomach. The gashes across his gut gaping at Harry like horrified mouths, like eyes. What had he done? It was an accident, it was an accident!
Ron choking, his face rapidly going red and then white. His body rock hard and convulsing. Harry stiff with fear- was his first and best friend going to die? How could he live without him? Choking back tears and terror as his fist closed around the rough and miraculous bezoar. Praying it would work.
Unable to move, unable to scream or cry- only able to watch. To see Dumbledore standing by the window of the astronomy tower, old and injured and alone. Malfoy in front of him, thin and pale and trying to be lethal, but more than anything else, he is just afraid.
The body falling.
Captive, seeing the recognition in Malfoy's eyes and knowing that was it- it was over. There was no getting away, not now. And then suddenly- Malfoy saves them. Malfoy lies.
Fiendfyre exploding around him and Malfoy clinging to his waist for dear life as the heat builds.
Narcissa's nails digging into his arm as her eyes bore into him with the weight of her fear for her son.
Harry bit his tongue till he tasted blood, dragging his mind back to the present. Everyone was looking at him, he realized. They were looking at him with confusion and a small trace of worry. He bit down on his tongue again, using the tiny stab of pain to help erase his thoughts and compose his face.
Malfoy was still standing behind him, and he'd have to acknowledge that fact if he wanted the rest of the team to go back to minding their own business. He turned around, catching Malfoy's gaze directly.
It was all Harry could do to turn around again before he lost control of his emotions. He could feel them buzzing in the back of his throat and tugging at the corners of his lips. He could feel them there but he could not name what exactly they were. Anger? Fear? Shame?
He decided to avoid the question for the time being. He was there to play quidditch, not dwell on the past or think about how, despite the icy closed expression on his face, Malfoy's eyes had looked…
Open.
It was a strange expression, one that he'd never seen on the blond before, and it left a funny taste in his mouth. God, but he'd really mucked it up now. He hadn't been nice, he hadn't even been rude- he'd completely ignored the man. And judging from past experience, Malfoy didn't take being ignored too lightly.
"Mate, are you alright?" said Oliver Wood as he peered down at Potter (he was quite tall now), "You're looking a bit peaky."
Harry shrugged, forcing out a lopsided grin. "I'm alright, just a bit nervous about practice I suppose. Er, excuse me… Loo…" he added hastily, before trodding away from the others.
Bloody hell. He needed to get a hold of himself. He couldn't very well go freaking out every time he saw Malfoy or something reminded him of the war. He'd had enough of people saying he was crazy, thank you very much, and acting like a paranoid schizophrenic at practice wasn't going to help him, exactly.
"Get a hold of yourself, Potter," he muttered as he stepped into the loo.
He heard a snort as someone stifled laughter. "Get a hold of yourself? Is that some sort of innuendo? I realize you never had anyone to explain these things to you, Potter, but some activities are best left at home."
Oh, so Malfoy was there.
Sigh.
Harry turned towards him, avoiding his eyes at first and instead taking in the platinum blond hair, the aristocratically pointed nose, and the ever-present sneer.
Well, it was now or never.
"Thanks for the advice, Malfoy. You're right; no one had told me that," He said in what he thought was an agreeable matter, this time looking to catch Malfoy's eyes. Malfoy, however, was determinedly looking at the far left sink faucet. He seemed a bit taken aback by Harry's response.
The blond nodded stiffly, tossing his hair out of his eyes like a proud horse tossing its mane. A proud, cornered horse looking for the emergency escape.
Harry felt the beginnings of his fiery temper stirring. He was trying here! At least Malfoy could attempt to make some sort of effort! But no, he just stood there, not making eye contact, not attempting further conversation, just stood there like he was better, with his stupid perfect hair that laid down flat on his stupid bloody perfect head, because everything about him had to be stupid and perfect and the best. That's what this is all about! He just can't handle the fact that I'm better at quidditch. Harry rolled his shoulders, feeling the muscles in his neck tighten. Some people were so ridiculous.
Just look at Malfoy. He's young, annoyingly rich, he still has a family, he's not- well, he's arguably good looking, I suppose. He must be at least slightly intelligent- Why isn't that enough?
"Well, Malfoy, you must be just as excited as I am to be part of the Quidditch Cup team?" Harry asked, deciding to give it one last shot. At least he could tell Hermione he'd tried.
Malfoy's lips curled up into a sarcastic smile, and he switched his gaze from the faucet to a point slightly above Harry's head. "Oh, I'm ecstatic. I've always dreamt of playing alternate. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm quite finished here and am going to go practice. Unless you need someone to make sure you don't drown in the toilet?"
Without waiting for an answer, Malfoy pushed past Harry and headed out the door at a slight jog back towards the quidditch pitch.
"Well," Harry muttered at Malfoy's receding back, "It was great to see you again."
Not.
Harry glanced into the mirror. He really was looking a bit peaky, he noticed with distaste. A little pale and a bit sweaty, though practice hadn't even begun. He flipped the faucet on and splashed his face with cold water. He ran one damp hand nervously through his hair, making it even messier than it had been before. Malfoy had to be charming his own blond locks- there was no way anyone had hair that well behaved.
Harry shook his head, licking his lips. He just had to think about something else. He'd tried to be nice and it hadn't worked- but he couldn't let Malfoy ruin this experience for him. It had been a long time since Hogwarts and the war. Plus, Harry thought as he exited the bathroom and walked back towards his teammates, as much as he was loathe to admit it Malfoy wasn't fully to blame for his actions during the war. He hadn't wanted to torture people. He hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore.
Snape had done that.
And Harry had managed to forgive Snape. Was Malfoy so much worse that he didn't deserve the same forgiveness?
No, Harry thought, I can forgive him for what he's done. He frowned, tugging his bangs over his scar. That doesn't mean I have to like him.
Harry got back to the Quidditch pitch in the nick of time- their coach had finally made an appearance.
He was a stout man in his mid-forties, probably, with a pinkish face and a mop of honey colored hair. He looked over the team with beady blue eyes and a small smile formed on his face.
"Well, gents, congratulations," He began, but was interrupted by a loud cough from one Gardenia Jones.
He chuckled, and carried on in his loud American accent:
"And ladies. You should all be proud of yourselves. You've made it to the top of the heap- you are the bonafide cream of the crop, here. You- you!- will be representing all of England in the Quidditch World Cup. You—you!—are going to take this all the way to the championship and come home with the trophy. Believe you me, this is a winning team. Or it will be, once I'm done with you.
I'm Leonard Addison. Please, if you're going to be using my first name, use Leo. Leonard might be my name but I certainly didn't pick it. I'm from Connecticut originally, but I've been living here for the last five years. And that's all you need to know about me.
What's really important is that you understand just how much hard work this is going to take. If you don't go home tired and wake up sore every day then I'm not doing my job. We can win this thing, but we'll pay for it in sweat, blood, and probably a few tears. Today's practice will be light, just some flying drills so we can get acquainted with each other. Tomorrow will be position specific practice- I'll be rotating around to work with you in your groups. Wednesday will be fitness.
This will become routine for you- Mondays and Fridays will be full team practice or scrimmages. Tuesdays and Thursdays will be position specific training. Wednesdays—soon to be your favorite day—will always be fitness. Just because Quidditch is a flying game doesn't mean I won't be making you run," he finished with a grin.
Harry's attention started to slip as Addison continued, describing the drills they'd be doing that day. He wasn't nervous about Wednesdays since he was already fit from playing professionally. Everyone on the team seemed to be in good shape. He looked down the line of players. All of them were trim. Gardenia Jones was a bit thick, but you could tell it was all solid muscle. Harry wouldn't want to be tackled by her. Whoever was next to her (Gardenia's head was in the way) was slim but toned, and whoever was next to him was pure muscle. His body could rival mine, Harry thought, poking himself in the stomach. Damn.
Gardenia shifted her weight, revealing Zachary Fray and none other than Draco Malfoy, who had noticed Harry looking.
Harry quickly looked back at Addison, his ears burning.
"Well," Addison was saying now, folding his arms, "GET TO IT."
Harry quickly grabbed his broom, a top of the line Fleetfoot Six, and hopped on. God, he should have paid attention. He had no idea what the drill was.
"Harry!" Oliver Wood said, nudging his broom towards him, "Partners?"
"Er, sure, Oliver. Could you- ah… what are we doing?"
Oliver rolled his eyes, urging his broom toward the far goals. "Passing and flying drill. Spiral pattern. I hope you pay better attention during the games," he said with a laugh.
Harry nodded and followed. It was a simple drill. The two partners had to fly forward orbiting each other in circles, like a moving ferris wheel. The one at the top of the circle would drop the quaffle and the one on the bottom had to catch it, and then drop it once they were at the top. Besides being a little dizzying, there was nothing too complicated about it.
Once he and Wood had successfully gone from one goal line to the other, they had some time to kill before it was their turn again. Harry used this time to observe the other players. He'd seen them all play and had even played against most of them at one time or another, but he didn't know very much about them.
Zachary Fray was partnered with Edric Trumeau, and they were looping around each other quite elegantly. Fray was a beater, but Harry reckoned he'd be a good chaser or even a seeker, given his flying skills. Trumeau, of course, was brilliant.
Thomas Nielson, Gardenia Jones, and Aurelia smith were working with a group of three which made the looping maneuvers more complicated, but they were getting along fine. Aurelia Smith was catching the ball with one hand, with her fingertips. Oliver must have gotten damn good if she was just the alternate.
Liliana Porter had partnered with Draco Malfoy and- … Hang on, was it really necessary for her to be flying like that? Harry wrinkled his nose. She kept tossing her hair over her shoulder and shooting suggestive looks at Malfoy every time she caught the ball. Her back was arched quite unnecessarily. And she was giggling.
Harry glowered at her from the end line. Her behavior was totally inappropriate. And vulgar. And Malfoy wasn't even worth it. And they'd just met half an hour ago. And she was way out of pointy-nose's league. Really, did she have to giggle?
"Look at her, throwing herself at him like that. It's downright disturbing," He said.
"Sorry?" asked Wood.
Harry jumped, coloring. He'd forgotten Wood was there. "Nothing, just thinking out loud. Come on, it's our turn."
But as they were weaving through the air, throwing and catching, Harry found that his focus kept drifting back to Liliana and Malfoy. They were waiting by the goals now, and she was getting awfully close with her broom. Was he laughing? Did she just touch his arm?
"Harry! Up!" Wood shouted, bringing Harry's attention back to the drill as he looped upwards.
It's not like he cared what Liliana and Malfoy did. Just so long as they did it on their own time and not during practice. They were here to play, not flirt. He scowled again, then decided to dutifully ignore them for the rest of the day.
It's not like he cared.
The rest of practice seemed to drag on. Just a bunch of flying drills and they had to switch partners twice. Harry flew with Aurelia Smith and Trumeau, who continued to be brilliant. Despite the feeling of growing excitement (they were good—maybe good enough to win the Cup) Harry couldn't help but notice Liliana's blatant flirting throughout the day. And for whatever reason (he'd come up with more than a few) it bothered him.
By the time practice was over he was tired, hungry, and more than a bit sore from sitting on his broom so long. He couldn't wait to get home and change. He was going to Ron and Hermione's for dinner that night, and they'd want to hear all about his practice. Harry grinned, imagining the expression on Ron's face when he found out that Harry would be scrimmaging the Chudley Cannons next week.
AN: I know I overuse italics. I can't help it. It's how people speak. :]
Thanks for all the reviews! Leave more. :B
And I'm not taking down the Author's note because then i'd get confused. D: I'm really that lame. Sorry if it bothers you, just don't read it. ;] That's why I labeled it.
Sorry for any mistakes. It's really late and the muscle relaxant i have to take for my neck makes me a little out of it. Does Quidditch always need to be capitalized? I'm too tired to check.