Chapter XIII: Flying with a Dragon

"And you say none of your friends heard this voice?"

"No, headmaster."

"Well, thank you for bringing this to my attention, Harry. Now, best you run along to your lessons; you would not want to be late for professor McGonagall."

"Yes, headmaster."

As fate would have it, Hermione's birthday was also the day of the first inter-house quidditch game, and it was the big one: Gryffindor/Slytherin. Lions versus Snakes. A day of intensified rivalry, of harrying and shouted insults echoing through the corridors, of ego-stoking and stroking. A day Hermione would have more than happily spent in the conveniently empty library.

Except this time she had a friend in the game. This time, she had a stake in the outcome. She still didn't care one iota if her team won; she actually would quite enjoy watching them lose just for the thought of the depressed atmosphere in the common room to which she wouldn't be subjected. She didn't care about the effect on the house cup standings, firstly because one ridiculous sport having such a huge influence was an absurdity she refused to participate in, and secondly because why should she care about some stupid cup anyway?

She did care about Harry winning. Or rather, doing well and surviving the ordeal. Her perfect result would be Gryffindor losing with Harry catching the snitch; a result so mathematically unlikely it was a wonder it ever happened. Whoever it was that decided the snitch was worth as much as fifteen goals was an idiot, or a prospective seeker with no scruples.

So it was that she found herself trudging out to the pitch in the mid-September cold, hoping against hope for the skies to stay dry. She could feel the rain coming in her bones as strongly as Luna's hand on her arm as it guided her to the Ravenclaw stand. Patricia had agreed to save them two seats and sit on Hermione's other side, up at the top of the stand, so no one could mess with her without going through someone else first.

Hermione had expected to be jostled and crushed in the crowd, but she found she was left plenty of space the whole way up as people chose to avoid her instead. She had noticed over the past week that the animosity of the masses had turned to simple avoidance. She suspected most had figured out for themselves that a second year muggleborn with no history of trouble was not a likely culprit for anything, but fear of reprisal from the stubborn holdouts could drive the actions of the mob as well as actual opinions. It was a coin toss in her mind as to who was worse - the fool driving the hatred out of ignorance or the cowards going along with it. 'The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil...'

Her mind was jolted out of its miserable musings by a cheery voice calling her name.

"Hey Hermione, Luna, you made it! Saved you those seats you wanted; they're not great for seeing what's going on, but then I, uh… I didn't think you'd be worried about that."

"You're right Patricia; I don't much care for quidditch so good seats would be wasted on me."

"Yeah… That's totally what I meant," Patricia replied with amiable sarcasm. Hermione appreciated the girl catching her wit, and once again wondered if she'd have been happier in Ravenclaw.

"Thank you for doing this, by the way. Not many people are willing to lift a finger for me these days."

"Well, not many people give me the opportunity to curse that Malfoy git and basically get away with it, so call us even," Patricia giggled.

"That was rather magnificent. I'm surprised a fourth year holds so much animosity towards him though."

Hermione had had her fair share - or more - of vitriol from the blond terror, but she'd thought he had the sense to leave the upper years alone. Antagonising someone who could curse you seven ways to Sunday was a form of recklessness reserved for none but the dumbest Gryffindors.

"I'm a muggleborn. All muggleborns hate pureblood ponces like Malfoy, 'cause they hated us first. It's the principle of the thing."

"Speaking of the ponce…" Luna interjected, as the crowd erupted with cheers from the far left and boos from everywhere else.

"I totally forgot Malfoy was on the team," Hermione admitted. She vaguely remembered Harry mentioning it, but she tended to zone out any time he talked about quidditch. She never meant to, but when you'd heard about one Worski feint, you'd heard them all.

"Uh huh," Stimpson vocalised her distaste, "bought his way on with a new broom for the whole squad - daddy's money speaks louder than talent, as always. Thing is, it turns out he isn't half bad as a seeker, and up against a newbie first year he's got the bookies' vote boy-who-lived or not."

"How do Gryffindor hope to win then?"

"Who knows? Maybe the little dragon'll fall off and break something - give us something to cheer about. Stranger things have happened at sea."

Harry emerged from the tunnel to the cheers of the adoring masses, and they fell bittersweet upon his ears. His teammates were feeding on the atmosphere, pumping their fists high, shaking their brooms and flicking a few choice gestures the way of the booing Slytherins. He was only going through the motions.

It was hard to get behind the occasion when the same students cheering would happily jeer at him in the corridors. It was hard to follow a captain who had stood by and done nothing as his best friend was nearly attacked for a crime she didn't commit. It was hard to accept the praise of those who, if he caught the snitch, would throw a party in his honour to which he would not be welcome. Or rather, and worse, he would be welcome but not with his chosen plus one. Which was as good as unwelcome to his mind. If they wanted Harry Potter, Boy-Who-lived, youngest Hogwarts seeker in decades, they had to accept that he came as a package deal with the brightest witch of her age.

Still, he raised his broom - his borrowed broom, because first years weren't allowed to own their own and he'd yet to establish if that extended to those who were on the team - and milked the moment for his own, ironic enjoyment. He joined the twins in an outrageous stage bow to the Gryffindor stands, and gave a quiet salute to the Ravenclaw stands. No-one but him need know that he was aiming them toward very specific people; even though one of them wouldn't see the gesture, it felt right to do.

It was traditional for the teams to shake hands before the match. It was a greater tradition for Gryffindor and Slytherin to snub each other completely and get straight into things, so it was only a minute later that Harry kicked off the ground to the sound of Hooch's whistle, and Lee Jordan's whooping.

"And they're off! Katie and Flint race for the quaffle - Flint nabs it, surely he's cheating somehow!"

Harry ignored the quaffle completely. Some seekers would run interference on the game, but that was a high level strategy for experienced players. Harry's task was, as Wood put it: 'Catch the snitch. Stuff that Malfoy git. Let the others worry about everything else."

Harry rose rapidly, mirrored by Draco. Draco's broom was faster, and the boy had far more experience, but Harry was keeping pace in the climb because while Malfoy rose in a sharp helix like a sensible seeker, Harry was once again pointing straight up in his trademark rocket impression. It was much easier on a professional style broom that had footrests he could stand on, and it was fun.

Harry remounted normally and set his broom into a lazy rising spin, taking in the panorama as he searched for the snitch. Hogwarts was beautiful from this height; even through the light misty rain and under angry clouds, there was an elegance and power to the castle that could not be dulled.

"YES!" Jordan screamed from below, "Gryffindor scores first! Brilliant work Angelina! Ten - nil!

Harry found an advantage to his detachment from the game's stakes; while he ignored that tidbit completely, he heard Malfoy swearing on the wind. If he could keep better focus than his counterpart, he might stand a chance. Then he realised he was too busy thinking and not doing enough scanning. It was a good thing he snapped out of it when he did, because a bludger was hurtling toward him off a Slytherin bat. He suppressed the immediate panic that came with facing down what was little more, or less, than cannonball and remembered his meagre training.

To dodge, you've got to accelerate. You accelerate fastest downwards.

Harry cut his climb, arched back and dragged his broom through a half loop into a hard dive. He kept his eyes fixed on the bludger - it passed a few feet above him and he slammed his broom back around.

Not enjoying being a sitting duck, he settled into a high holding pattern around the stadium, well above the beater's attention and favouring the Gryffindor end for safety's sake. The life of a seeker was dull, punctuated by brief highlights of speed and adrenaline, but Harry didn't mind the dullness. There was something to be said for peaceful boredom; if you had the luxury of boredom, it meant you were safe... Contented.

Some people's idea of safe didn't extend to riding a stick of wood a hundred metres above the hard ground with the occasional cannonball careening your way, but those people weren't Harry Potter. Safe meant you were somewhere no-one would hurt you, whether that was through lack of anyone trying or those who were being unable to catch you. Up here, Harry was untouchable. Up here he could dodge and weave, slip through the net and dart away, just like that little speck of gold flitting between the Slytherin goalposts.

Harry threw himself forward, banking into a shallow dive as he picked up speed. The rain was picking up, slamming against his face and stinging his cheeks into bitter numbness, but his impervious'd glasses stayed clear. That was an old trick, Angelina had explained as she put the spell upon them, fixing them with a quick 'reparo' at the same time.

His vision of the prize stayed clear. Into the edge of that vision a green and silver blur intruded - Malfoy had joined him on the hunt.

"Look!" Jordan cried, "the seekers are on it! Harry and Malfoy are racing, but where's the snitch? Can anyone see- there! There, in front of the Ravenclaw stand! Go on Harry!"

Harry didn't need any encouragement; he was flat out already, forcing his will into the broom. It wasn't going to be enough; Malfoy was simply faster. Harry was going so fast the rain was making his thighs raw through his sodden trousers, the impact of every drop so hard it must be slowing him down.

That gave Harry an idea. A stupid idea, he knew even as he thought it, but one that just might work. He lifted his feet from their rests, leant his weight through his stomach onto the broom and straightened his legs out behind him. The broom thrummed with redoubled vigour, shooting him forward like an arrow, and having sacrificed so much control he alarmingly started to spin like one too. Wrapping his leg around the broom barely saved him from an embarrassing and painful fall.

He was upside down as he drew level with Malfoy a few metres below - they shared a stare, Malfoy bewildered and Harry more than a little terrified but determined in the face of fear. Lions do not back down from a challenge, and Harry's inner lion had never been so alive.

Malfoy glanced upward, then broke from the chase with a hard bank upwards. Harry looked forward too and saw the stands rapidly growing closer. In his suspended state he couldn't pull up as Malfoy had, so he had only one option: He bled what speed he could and adjusted his course down to enter the open scaffolding below the seating. The move was mental and exhilarating. A hard flick to the side avoided a pole and righted him, which helped greatly as he turned a hard right, following a glimmer of gold that traced an impossible path through the solid wooden struts.

Harry had to plot his own path to give chase. He'd cut his speed to a fraction of what the broom could do, and even then he had a near miss or two in the few seconds he was under the stands. When the snitch flitted out into the clear open space of the stadium Harry had fallen well behind, but never lost sight of his prey. He lined up and drove forward, bursting from the scaffolding in a most dramatic fashion according to Jordan's spirited play-by-play.

Malfoy dropped out of the sky above like a bullet, right on top of the snitch, hand outstretched. And missed the catch by an inch.

The snitch was caught up in the wake turbulent air, tossed about to violently to direct its own flight, allowing Harry to close the distance. He made his own run at it. At the last second it zipped straight down. Harry acted on instinct; he threw his broom into a half roll, released with both hands and lunged for the snitch above (below?) his head. The backs of his knees barely kept him with his broom, and the tips of his fingers barely snared his target.

"He's got it! By Merlin he's got it! Harry's caught the snitch!"

Hermione screamed her excitement. Harry hadn't just gone and won the game, he'd done it unbelievably quickly, which meant she could get an hour or two in the library before dinner. What a friend!

"Hang on," Lee Jordan called over the roars of the crowd, "Harry's in trouble? He can't get back on his broom! Harry, watch out! Watch out for the tower!"

Hermione's heart caught in her throat. Luna grabbed her arm and squeezed deathly tight, with a terrified squeal that didn't bode well.

"Alicia's diving for him! Go on Alicia! Go on!"

What the hell is happening? Has Harry fallen? How high was he? Is he going to-?

"YES! Alicia scoops him up! What a girl! What a magnificent girl!"

Oh thank Merlin. He's safe; he's OK. I'm going to hug that boy whether he likes it or not. Right after I'm done killing him for being so bleeding reckless!

"Oh, isn't he brilliant?" Luna beamed, pulling Hermione in close so the two could hear each other over the redoubled racket.

"That's one word for it," Hermione replied, thinking her way through a whole list of other words that were not suitable for speaking out loud.

"Look at that embrace between Alicia and Harry! Such a fierce grip, you'd think he's holding her for dear life!"

What? Since when does Harry Potter do embracing? Hermione was thoroughly confused by the idea; the Harry in her head simply wouldn't do such a thing with anyone - not with a friend, nor teammate. He probably wouldn't even hug his girlfriend if he had one, so for Alicia to be… Does he have a girlfriend? Is Alicia - surely not! He barely even talks about her.

The last time quidditch practise sessions came up in conversation he had been the one to change topic, not wanting to talk about the team with her. Was he just avoiding talking about Alicia? If so, why? Why wouldn't he want to talk to his friend about a girl he fancied (or more)?

Unless he does talk to his friends about her, and you just aren't the friend you think you are.

"I've been informed by the esteemed professor McGonagall," Lee drolled, "that Harry was, in fact, hanging on for dear life. Something about being fifty feet off the ground. Don't believe it, Alicia! Don't let a little thing like sense get in the way of true love! Ow, that's my ear!"

Lee Jordan, Hermione decided, is an even bigger prat than I thought.

Hermione knew she wouldn't be welcome amongst the crowd mobbing Harry as he left the locker room, so she waited with Luna further up the hill, in a spot the blonde assured her would be visible. It wouldn't do to have Harry think she was ignoring him - not after being on the other end of that misunderstanding already. She was bouncing on her feet so much her ankles were starting to ache, and she had sunk a good inch into the mud.

"Ooh, there he is," Luna noted, "he's three minutes late though."

"Late to what? How can he be late?" Hermione quizzed.

"I'm not sure, Hermione, but he seems to have done it anyway. No matter; he's here now."

"Hey girls!" Harry shouted. He sounded happier than she had heard him in days.

"Hi," Hermione squeaked. She wanted desperately to run over to him, grab him and check for herself that he really was alright, but running blind on wet grass was not a mistake you make twice.

"Hello Harry Potter. Lovely day for quidditch!" Luna beamed.

"Isn't it just?" Harry responded, even though it really wasn't. Any day wet enough to make Hermione's hair lay flat was not a day for doing anything outside.

"So…" Harry said slowly, as Hermione used his voice to gauge the distance to him, "how about that game, eh?" - Ten yards or so - "apparently it was the shortest Wood's ever seen" - Six - "He reckoned that if I-"

At two yards Hermione couldn't contain it anymore; she flung herself forwards arms outstretched and slammed into his chest, enveloping him in a crushing hug. Lee Jordan might have called it a fierce embrace, and for once the prat would have been spot on. Harry let out a little 'eep', followed by a grunt of effort as he barely kept them upright. His arms fell limply by his sides - Hermione felt them on hers - and he tried to take a step back, but he only succeeded in taking her with him. She imagined she looked like a limpet, and decided she was a happy little limpet at that. Her best, and almost only, friend was finally safe again. Safe and mewling like a strangled cat.

"Oh shush, Harry," she chided, voice muffled into his neck, "I know you hate this, but it's the least you deserve! You had me so worried, nearly dying like that!" She pulled back just enough to fix him with her non-existent stare. "Don't you ever dare do something so stupid again, you hear me?

Harry mumbled something that sounded like agreement as she pulled back in to his shoulder. It was soaking wet, and stank of sweat; Hermione didn't care one bit.

"Good. If you get yourself killed, we will be having words. Then I'll hug your stupid corpse so bloody hard you come back to life to complain about it!"

"Jeez," he muttered, trying gently but firmly, and entirely in vain, to push her away by the shoulders, "I'm… I'm not…"

"You are not leaving me alone Harry!" she half ordered, half sobbed. "I won't have it… I couldn't…"

She trailed off, not knowing how to put the idea into words. She was finding that as depressing as not having friends to begin with had been, the thought of having one and losing him was much, much worse. 'Better to have loved and lost', my arse... Lord Tennyson clearly didn't know what he was talking about.

"Don't worry, Hermione; you wouldn't be alone." Harry's voice was regaining its usual strength, she was pleased to hear. Maybe his allergy to physical contact wasn't totally incurable? "I'll leave you that pony in my will," he joked.

"You can't just bribe your way out of trouble with ponies, Harry! I'm not going to fall for that," she assured him, not allowing herself to laugh. Best not to have him thinking his sense of humour didn't suck. She did permit a little smile on her face, though, as he couldn't see it.

"You mean ponies aren't the way to every girl's heart?" he feigned shock. Or the gasp could have been because she was squeezing his lungs so hard. Impossible to tell really.

"Not this girl," she asserted as she loosened her grip a little and felt him relax with it. It was immediately nice not to be hugging a stiff plank.

"You're right. How about a private library?"

She swallowed her witty remark before it could fully form, overcome by the fantasy of a whole room, a whole hall of books, all of them hers.

"I could live with that," she admitted. Harry was great and all, but that's a lot of books…

"Sounds like you're going to need new bookshelves for Christmas," he said.

He did not!

"What, not going to tell me I can't buy you eighty books in one go?" he jibed.

He did!

"Hermione?"

I can't accept that! It would cost a fortune!

"Earth to Hermione?"

"Harry, you can't buy me a- a-" she stammered, before pushing him away slightly and loudly lamenting: "I can't say it! It just feels so wrong to say it! But we already agreed on my presents," she reminded him.

"I can change that."

"Nope. You promised," she insisted, feeling smug about nailing him on the matter. She was conflicted as to whether she felt happy about the victory or disappointed.

"Damn. Next year then." - the boy was persistent - "If I'm still alive by then, of course."

"Harry!" she gasped, throwing a hand to her mouth. "How can you even joke about that? You idiotic," - she poked him hard in chest - "irritating," - poke - "infuriating pillock!"

"You're kind of cute when you're mad."

"What?" she snapped, honestly not sure if she'd heard him right. Or simply unsure she believed her own ears, because what they were telling her was that someone - no, Harry - had called her cute. No one had ever called her cute. Especially not when she was in full lecture mode, as her father called it.

"Nothing," he shot back, far too quickly.

"Did you just call me-"

"-want to go to the library?" he interrupted, loudly.

Hermione frowned disapprovingly and crossed her arms.

"Harry, you can't distract me with-"

"-I'll read for you. A whole hour."

Again with the bribery.

"Harry…"

"Two hours?"

And such a cheapskate… What happened to books and ponies?

"I know what you're doing Harry…" she drawled menacingly, before pretending to think on it. "Make it three and it might even work."

"Ok, I take it back; you're scary when you're mad," he laughed.

Hermione didn't know if that was better than cute or worse, but it was certainly easier to play to. She inclined her head, leaned in and firmly placed a finger on his chest.

"You take what back?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Good. So, to the library?" she asked, offering an arm for him to take. She knew he'd rather not, but after he survived the hug she wasn't about to let him slip back into his leper-like habits.

"Would I survive saying no?"

Hermione didn't dignify that with a response, instead turning back to Luna to ask: "Would you care to join us, Luna?"

"I'd love to, Hermione, but Neville's invited me to the party in Gryffindor tower. I was rather looking forward to it."

"You know Neville?" Harry asked.

"Oh yes," Luna said, "you know, people say he's clumsy, but he has very gentle hands."

"Well, we won't keep you from that; you should go find Neville," Hermione decided for them.

"Thank you, Hermione, that's very kind of you," Luna hummed, and after an uncomfortably long pause added, "I do hope there's pudding."

"I'm sure if the twins are involved, there'll be pudding," Hermione assured her, though she could already hear the squelch of her walking - no, skipping - away.

She shook the arm Harry had not yet taken and coughed loudly. A hand gingerly snaked around her arm, and as soon as it was too far committed to be withdrawn she pinned it to her side mercilessly. Harry needed to learn that she was not going to be some stand-offish prude, and who better to teach him that lesson than her? What better time to start learning than the present? And speaking of learning…

"Well then, Harry… The library awaits."

A/N

Short one this time:
Thanks as always for reviewing. Glad my depiction of Luna is well received as I plan on doing lots more with her.

See y'all on Wednesday