So, a HUGE HUGE HUGE thank you to tat1312, BittersweetSummer, Material Girl, and emLILYEVANS for reviewing! Reviews always make me smile. And to all the people who favorited, alerted, or just plain read this story. You're my heroes!
WARNING: Language, angst, etc. Rating -- PG-13?
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any aspect of the Harry Potter franchise. I am not J.K. Rowling or Warner Bros. I do not have any claim over the characters, their personalities, or actions. I just like making their personalities bounce off each other in these little tales called fanfiction. So please, don't sue me. I can't afford it right now.
Quidditch
by Shu of the Wind
***
Astoria drew a deep breath, letting it carefully out again as the crowd around her slowly began to filter out into the weak January sunlight. She hated crowds. Hated the feel of them, the smell. The fact that they pressed all around her, keeping her tightly imprisoned in a jail of human bodies, preventing her from doing anything other than walking along with them.
She had always been mildly claustrophobic ever since she had fallen into a well chasing Daphne, long before either of them had received the Hogwarts letter. She'd been there, floating in the cold water, her fingers able to touch the sides of the well, for three hours, waiting for Daphne to realize that her sister was no longer chasing her, and hadn't come back from the ruins on their property at all. Her father had been absolutely furious. Her mother had toweled her down, wrapped her in a heavy bathrobe, and stuck her in front of the fire, stroking her hair and soothing her through the nightmares that followed.
What did it matter, anyway? She could hold that memory close to her, and pretend all she wanted, but the fact remained that after her mother had died and her father remarried, it had been Daphne. No one and nothing but Daphne, and they could care less what gawky, wordless Astoria did with her time.
She shook her head fiercely, inhaling the sharp winter air to clear her mind. She didn't need these thoughts right now. Not with the present weighing so heavily on her mind.
It had been over a week since she had cornered Malfoy and blackmailed him into helping her learn Occlumency. She wasn't sure she ever wanted to think about that disaster again. After all, she hadn't really meant to break into his mind (though the idea that he had been rummaging around in hers hadn't been in the least bit appetizing) and didn't quite know how to ask if the lessons could continue after she had seen what she had seen. And she wasn't sure she should. The D.A. trusted her little as it was, except for Abbott and the absent Lovegood, and if any of them found out that she was learning Occlumency from the Head Death Eater Boy, it wouldn't matter how much she'd done for them, how much that the information she had passed on had helped -- she would be reviled as a traitor and avoided like some new, incurable form of dragonpox.
Something whacked her hard on the back of the head. Astoria stumbled forward, barely catching herself before she fell into the mud, and covered the throbbing bit of her skull with one mittened hand. Snow dribbled down the back of her neck, causing goose-pimples all over her skin, and she scraped it out of her hair the best she could, determined not to give the Harper twins -- Clary and Belladonna Harper, the younger sisters of Slytherin's back-up Seeker -- the pleasure of knowing that she was seething. Bloody pair of cows. They would both turn her in to Snape and the Carrows faster than she could blink if they had any proof of what they suspected -- if they had any proof that she was a double agent.
That had been why she had wanted to learn Occlumency in the first place. The Carrows hadn't turned her way yet; they had been focusing all of their energy on turning Daphne, pretty, popular, well-respected, anti-Muggle Daphne, into one of their lackeys. Astoria knew that her sister had accepted a long time ago, and just liked the attention that the Carrows were giving her, but it wouldn't be much longer before the Carrows themselves figured that out, and then they would turn to Astoria. Silent, wallflower Astoria, who could be the perfect set of eyes and ears for them in the Slytherin common room itself, if Daphne opened her fat mouth to suggest it.
The snake rippled forward across the floor, massive compared to the garden snakes he had seen in the courtyard, colored black by the flickering candlelight, towards the body of a woman he had seen at Hogwarts -- he could see directly into her face, her eyes wide with shock and still filled with tears, as the snake's jaws opened disproportionately wide to begin swallowing --
She shook her head violently, forcing the image away. That was Malfoy's problem, not hers; Malfoy's guilt, Malfoy's cowardice, Malfoy's memory. Not hers. She had to focus on the match, on the plan. Had to.
It was Slytherin versus Ravenclaw this morning, and the entirety of the school was decked out in silver, green, blue, and bronze. The green and silver far outnumbered those people who still dared to wear blue, and there were hundreds of people who weren't wearing any colors at all; the Carrows had made it clear that anyone who did not support Slytherin in the next match would suffer for it.
Which was exactly why Astoria was sitting as high as possible this morning, why she had her wand up her sleeve and a slip of paper, and the charm for a Disillusionment Charm resonating in her head.
Wait for the opportune moment, Greengrass. That had been the Weasley runt, once she had informed Astoria of the plan and curtly told her that this idea was probably the most dangerous thing that they would attempt all year. There's a reason we've had you practice this charm, the reason you've been flying all the time.
A suicide mission if the Carrows caught her. One of the greatest acts of rebellion attempted throughout the year if she and the other three succeeded. They hadn't wanted to use Astoria for the role in the first place, but Abbott -- still convinced that somewhere, deep down, Astoria wanted to risk her bloody neck for them -- had volunteered her for the Slytherin side. The entire thing hinged on the fact that Astoria, as someone who never spoke, who never drew attention to herself, would be a face in the crowd -- that people wouldn't even remember her if she sat down next to them.
Astoria clambered to the topmost stand, feeling alone and exposed. No one else had gone this high; no one else wanted to be here. It was chilly, this morning, and a brisk wind played with her hair and the ends of her scarf. She would be absolutely freezing by the time she had the signal.
The roar of people below her made her jump, and Astoria dropped into her seat as seven silver and green bullets -- the Slytherin Quidditch team -- sped out onto the field, led by the one person she had devoted most of her time avoiding lately.
If Ravenclaw has any sense, they'll roll over and let Malfoy win. Astoria thought dryly, watching the blue and bronze team flash onto the field, to rowdy cheers from the other end of the pitch. If there was any safe time to rebel against the Carrows, it was during a Quidditch match; after all, it wasn't like they could chain half the school up in the dungeon at the same time. They're in enough trouble as it is, considering Lovegood getting snatched.
Why am I doing this?
It wasn't the first time she'd wondered. What had drawn her to Dumbledore's Army? What had made her offer them her services as spy? Snape had done nothing to her personally; neither had the Carrows. She had never been truly badly treated by anyone in Slytherin House, never made friends with a Mudblood, never approved of Dumbledore as Headmaster. So why, now, was she in the middle of scanning the benches, waiting for the flurry of red and gold sparks that would be her signal? Why the hell was she on a bloody suicide mission for people who could care less if she lived or died?
It went against everything she'd ever been taught. Everything that she cared about. Every scrap of self-preservation she had.
And she couldn't damn well stop.
Astoria pretended to be riveted to the game, fingering her wand uneasily, waiting for the signal and hoping that her practice on bed cushions had prepared her well enough to Disillusion herself completely.
***
The pitch was the only place he really felt safe any longer.
Draco Malfoy angled his broom higher, his gaze flickering around the stadium in an effort to see that elusive golden flash of the Snitch. Without that blasted Potter anywhere, he had more than enough time; Ravenclaw's new Seeker was absolute trash, the bloody stupid half-breed, and wouldn't have been able to see the Snitch if it had danced in front of his nose.
Without a doubt, this match would be easy to win. So he relaxed the slightest bit, rolling to the right and diving down into the field again.
"--and it's forty to ten, Slytherin to Ravenclaw, I repeat, forty to ten -- come on, Ravenclaw!" Terry Boot, the replacement for that absolute idiot Zacharias Smith, shouted into the magical microphone. "And it's Pucey with the Quaffle, Pucey --"
And then he saw it.
Draco went into a steep dive, following the glint of gold he had spotted nearly even with the grass of the pitch. Far away, the Ravenclaw Seeker -- Draco couldn't even remember his name -- swore and sped after him, but he was far, far too late -- his fingers closed over the little golden ball, easier than breathing, and he pulled his broom up as the Slytherin half of the crowd burst into cheers.
On the other side of the stadium, someone screamed. "Look in the sky!"
Draco turned, and stared.
Four brooms -- four utterly riderless broomsticks -- were spiraling around in the air a hundred feet above his head, trailing words behind them. A great roar of sound -- far louder than any of the cheers the Slytherins had been able to muster -- echoed over the grounds as the words wrote themselves across the sky.
SUPPORT HARRY POTTER.
MUGGLE STUDIES OR MURDER STUDIES?
GO HOME, CARROW GNOMES.
DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY, STILL RECRUITING.
Fury, pure and simple, slammed into his stomach. How dare they? How dare those half-blood freaks ruin this, the one time that he didn't have to hate anything, the only time he had to be who he had been before last year -- Draco Malfoy, lord of Slytherin House, the greatest advocate against Potter and related to one of the most influential families in the Wizarding world. Not the Draco Malfoy who had nightmares every night, the Draco Malfoy who didn't know where he had disappeared to, the Draco Malfoy stretched so thin between school, his family, the Dark Lord, that he was in danger of snapping like an old, forgotten string.
Draco Malfoy, the fool who had let Astoria Greengrass inside his head, let the cow set up space as his conscience, let her lecture him about rules and morality and all of that complete and utter trash until he didn't know what to do.
Draco Malfoy, the absolute coward who despised himself and the world far more than he could bear.
He wasn't even aware of spurring his broomstick onward, of letting the Snitch go. The next thing he knew, he had smashed into the rider seating one of the broomsticks as the words THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC ARE MORONS wrote themselves through the air behind it. A wad of feminine hair smacked him in the face, too long to belong to a male of any description; the broomstick shot backwards, trying to get out of the way, but his sight was coated with red and he could think of only one thing that could ever help him go back to the way he had been -- catch that bloody traitor and torture them himself.
The riderless broomstick spun around, diving down towards the far-away grass. Draco followed, pouring on the speed, confident in his broom. As long as the disguised rebel wasn't riding a Firebolt, he could catch her.
Up, down, tight spirals into the sun, sharp turns and sudden, complete changes of direction. Draco barely realized that they had left the Quidditch pitch far behind, and that he was following this bitch over the Forbidden Forest, the greenhouses, around the towers of Hogwarts. He heard a muffled female voice swear, and then the broomstick dove down again, whipping into one of the passages through the courtyard.
The hallways were utterly empty. Everyone was down at the pitch, watching the match; far away, he could hear the cheers of the Gryffindors as the graffiti floated in the air, sparkling with mutiny. He ignored it; he was within inches of the end of the broom; he reached forward, wand in one hand --
The jinx he sent at it sent the rider tumbling off, forced the broom to turn end over end until it hit the wall with a crunch. Draco leapt off of his own broom, striding over to where he heard the stream of swearwords emerging from, and placed his feet solidly on what felt like a cloak.
"Finite Incantatum." He hissed.
It took a long moment, like washing paint off of a wall. First strands of hair appeared; the tail of the cloak he was standing on; the Slytherin scarf around her neck. And then her face slowly came into view, framed in that strawberry-blonde hair, and Astoria Greengrass was staring up at him, her lip bleeding from her tumble and desperation sparking in her eyes.
"You." Draco couldn't help it; he stared at her, the drumbeat of hatred and his rage fading a little from his ears. It was the only word he could say. "You."
Greengrass said nothing. She simply stared at him, her chest heaving. They were both utterly silent.
Every inch of him screamed to curse her, right now; curse her until her eyes rolled up into her head, until she screamed, until she begged for mercy. Begged his forgiveness for what she had ended up doing to him, what she had nearly made him do. For the fact that he had pitied her, that he had let her manipulate him like a puppet on bloody strings, because he couldn't pretend that it was anything other than that and that burned in his mouth like a poison. Curse her until she cried, and then refuse to give her any sort of forgiveness in return before turning her over to the Carrows as a traitor and a Mudblood-lover, and never once looking back.
But he couldn't cast a single spell. He knew the words, but they had all disappeared at the sight of Greengrass's eyes staring up at him, daring him to do it.
"Do it." Greengrass said, her voice hoarse with nervousness. She glanced down the hallway, checking if anyone was watching. No one was there. "Do it, damn you. Do it."
Those eyes pinned him to the wall, challenged him, dared him.
Draco gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on his wand. Tried to break that gaze. He found he couldn't even do that much; he couldn't so much as think about looking away.
Greengrass's face hardened; suddenly, she was on her feet, leaving her heavy, nondescript cloak behind her on the floor. She reached forward, seized his wand hand, pressed the tip of his wand against her throat. Draco flinched, violently, at the touch; he hadn't expected her to do anything of the sort, and it brought back the memories that weren't his, the ones that had stuck in his mind like a fly in peanut butter.
"Well?" She hissed, her eyes glittering. "Well? Do it, you coward. Curse me. Punish me for betraying my House, punish the stupid effing traitor. Do it!"
Draco didn't move. Neither did Greengrass. Finally, the fury flooded over, anger mixed with some gut-boiling emotion filled him up to his throat; Greengrass had absolutely no business doing this, had no business acting like an actual human being rather than a monster sent to torment him.
An image flashed by his eyes; Greengrass, this close, just as she'd been before, but with her wand against his throat against the other way around. Those bitter words. What gives you the right to feel pity for them when its your fault the Carrows are here in the first place?
"Can you even pick a side any longer, Malfoy?" Greengrass asked, ever so quietly.
The scent of lavender was overwhelming at this distance; lavender and sharp January skies and spell-smoke. She was daring him, just as she had always done. Pushing him out of comfort, out of what he knew to be true. Challenging him to make mistakes, forcing him to become someone he wasn't sure he wanted to be, to leave the grey world he had lived in for so long to join the naïveté that she was clearly showing -- the innocent belief in a black and white world, where the good side always won and the evil characters were tossed into a pit to suffer. A Slytherin who was nearly put in Ravenclaw; a girl who knew far too much about him, about the rebellion, to be healthy; a witch he had never noticed or really even acknowledged existed until a few weeks before. A girl who hated losing; a girl who was stubborn enough to win a fight with a mule; infuriatingly sarcastic, silently brooding, arrogant and crafty. The traitor to him and all that his House stood for.
And she was beautiful.
He lowered his wand from her throat. Greengrass didn't step back, though she let his wrist slip out of her fingers; she stared at him, her eyes almost exactly even with his own, mouth slightly parted, waiting.
"Why?" She asked, after a long, long moment.
Draco didn't respond. He didn't know the answer to it himself. Everything in him screamed to not let her go, to take her to the Carrows, but somehow he couldn't move a muscle. He was crushed by all of the hatred, all of his guilt and all of his fear and all of everything that he had felt for almost two entire years now, crushed, finally, by that one, single, stupid choice.
Slowly, Greengrass lifted her hands, set them against his face. Her palms were warm, but not oppressively so. Draco didn't flinch this time; he simply stared at her, unable even to realize what he had just done.
"The world might be grey." Her voice was little more than a whisper; he could feel her breath on his face. "But the point is, Malfoy -- we don't have to be."
And then she disappeared, taking her cloak and her broomstick with her, and Draco stared at the wall, the sudden, leaden knowledge of just what he had involved himself in weighing heavy in his stomach.
So I was up until midnight last night writing this. I was reading HP fanfiction online, and, I don't know...the plot bunny attacked.
What I said last chapter, about Antipathy possibly being tied in with another HP story...it's only semi-true. I mean, some of the incidents in Antipathy will probably end up being recorded -- or at least mentioned -- in this story I'm planning. But some of them won't be. The way Antipathy is taking off, I personally have no clue at the moment.
Hope you enjoyed!