CHAPTER 15
I don't understand the extraordinary appeal that Quidditch seems to have at Hogwarts. With the first match of the season, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, quickly approaching, I begin to see just how much of a hold this sport has on the staff and students here. McGonagall, doing something I once considered impossible, gives no homework for the week leading up to the game. From what I hear (thanks to Hermione), she did it so the Gryffindors could have more time to practice.
Snape shows some more of his nasty characteristics, such as turning a blind eye to the Slytherins trying to hex Gryffindor players in the corridors and not listening to the multiple eyewitness accounts when a Gryffindor is put in the hospital wing because of the Slytherins. It almost feels like I am the only person on the Hogwarts grounds who really does not think Quidditch is worth destroying the school over. Then again, I did not start here as an eleven-year-old and grow a strong affinity for my House or for winning any House or Quidditch Cup. Perhaps I would feel different had I been given that chance.
Not for the first time, I wonder how things would be different had I been captured by a Death Eater years ago and forced into Hogwarts as a young child. Would I be bigoted like so many in Slytherin? Would I be more attached to the school and the House competition? Would I have loved Quidditch? Would they have even forced me here, or would I have been locked away somewhere else?
The answer to those questions likely wouldn't make me feel any better.
Slytherin is the team I feel I have to pull for, considering it's my House, but I'm not sure if I want to. The players on this team are evil, trying to hurt the others and give themselves the advantage, harming other students over a silly sport, but when I see the way every single House roots against Slytherin, an odd feeling of resentment flares, and while it might be short-lived, I must face the fact that no matter how much I dislike being a Slytherin, I am a Slytherin. And Slytherin House is the first place I have been safe in a long time. Despite the House's bad reputation, I suppose I am slightly proud to be a part of it.
And I'm angry that the other Houses assume that all Slytherins are evil and bigoted. I'm not. Daphne isn't. I doubt the Muggle-born girl Zoe is. I'm angry that none of us are truly ever given a chance. The other Houses booed eleven-year-old children for being Sorted into Slytherin. Those children couldn't help where they were placed, and they were booed by the majority of the other students here for something outside of their control. How is that fair? No wonder all these Slytherins hate the rest of the Houses. From the moment they were Sorted, the other Houses hated them.
The only non-Slytherin Quidditch player I actually feel bad for is Ron, who is constantly tormented by Slytherins, insulted egregiously in what appears to be an attempt to throw him off and make him play worse. But again, why does anyone want put that much importance into a sport? It makes no sense. The Slytherins actually spend time in the common room coming up with insults to fling at him and verses for this terrible song that they all seem so happy about. Draco imitates dropping a Quaffle every single time he sees Ron around the castle; some Slytherins ask him things like, "Got your bed booked in the hospital yet?"
It just seems needlessly cruel.
Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and I pass the Golden Trio on the way to class, and Pansy, trying to impress Draco no doubt, calls to Harry, "Hey, Potty, I heard Warrington's sworn to knock you off your broom Saturday."
Harry quickly responds with, "Warrington's aim's so pathetic I'd be more worried if he were aiming for the person next to me." Hermione and Ron laugh loudly, and I have to bite my lip and look away so as not to laugh with them. The smirk fades from Pansy's face, her cheeks going scarlet as she glances at Draco, which makes it even more difficult not to laugh at her but also incites in me some pity for her.
So much goes on around me in the castle that it is easy to be distracted from the passing of time, which means that when October becomes November and brings me one step closer to Voldemort, I don't notice how close I am to sixteen until I write the date down for class. That much closer to being forced to fulfill my duty. The thought sickens me, and I do my best to continue being distracted by all the pettiness happening at Hogwarts.
The moment I get to the common room on the morning of the match, Draco rushes over to me and says, "Come with me," before taking my hand and bringing me to the stairs that lead to the boys' dormitory. "We've got to get you dressed like you actually want Slytherin to win today." The boys' dormitory is the same as the girls', a large circular room at the top of the steps with seven doors, one for each year. Draco leads me to the one for the fifth-years, which has five four-poster beds just like in the girls' dormitory. "I got some stuff out earlier." His bed is full of green and silver apparel. "I figured you wouldn't want to overdo it, so I chose things that wouldn't draw too much attention."
"I appreciate it," I say with a smile.
He grins at me and reaches for a black cloak, holding it up so I can see it. As far as I can tell, it's just a normal cloak; that is, until he turns it around so I can see the back where wonderfully intricate green serpent slithers. "And that's not all," he says, tapping it with his wand. Joining the servant on the back is now a roaring lion that the serpent immediately attacks, its fangs piercing not the lion's neck. The lion then topples over onto its side slowly fades away before the whole scene starts over again. "I can change it depending on what team we're against!" I take the cloak from him and put it on, enjoying how comforting its largeness is and how the sleeves reach my knuckles. Draco grabs something else. "And these can help you stay warm when you're cheering me on." He winks, now holding a scarf in the air. "I'd hate for you to get cold. May I?"
I nod, and Draco takes a step toward me, gingerly wrapping the Slytherin scarf around my neck. My breath catches in my throat. Then he takes my hair and pulls it free from the scarf, letting it fall free around my shoulders. "Slytherin green looks good on you," he says quietly before reaching back to the bed for one more thing. "And one last thing to keep you warm: a hat." Now he is holding a Slytherin green knit cap.
Before he has a chance to try putting it on my head, I say, "I'll just slide that into my pocket for now so I don't burn alive in the Great Hall." He watches me, joy in his eyes, as I slide the hat into the pocket of the cloak. "And now, I'd like to give you something."
"Is that so?" he asks quietly.
"Oh yes, I can't borrow all of this without giving you something in return." He smirks at me, and I can wait no longer before closing the gap between us and covering my lips with his, savoring his quiet gasp of surprise and his peppermint breath. A moment later, I pull away, my stomach still full of butterflies and my heart full of trepidation because I have let myself get more attached to him than originally planned. "We need to get to breakfast so you have time to eat before the match."
"Fine," he sighs.
I take him by the hand and lead him back to the common room where we meet back up with his clan to go to the Great Hall. "Oh," Draco says suddenly when we reach the Slytherin table, "I forgot to give you this." He hands me a crown-shaped badge that says Weasley Is Our King and immediately sets off alarm bells in my head.
"I know you couldn't make it to all of our practices but do your best with the lyrics."
When Ron walks into the Great Hall, the Slytherins erupt in laughter and point to their badges. I suddenly feel even worse to be a part of this.
"Are you nervous?" I ask Draco quietly when we begin eating.
"No, not at all."
Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle talk cheerily about the upcoming game while I sit there quietly, watching Draco's eyes light up at the prospect of beating Harry and catching the Snitch and wishing he was happier like this more often.
I break away from him when we get down to the Quidditch pitch. While he goes off with the team to get ready for the match, I head to the stands. The Greengrass sisters, who are as close to the announcer's box as possible, wave me over, and I gladly accept their invitation. "I don't want to sing the song," Astoria says quietly.
"I don't know most of the lyrics, so I doubt I'll be singing."
Daphne sighs. "It's repulsive."
"Great," I say dryly. "Things like this are why Slytherin has such a bad reputation."
The teams meet each other on the pitch, and the captains move to the middle to shake hands. The players mount their brooms, the balls are released, and the match begins. Draco flies high above the other players with Harry, searching for the Snitch.
Lee Jordan begins his commentary:
"And it's Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is. I've been saying it for years but she still won't go out with me—"
"JORDAN!" yells McGonagall.
"Just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest—and she's ducked Warrington, she's passed Montague, she's—ouch—been hit from behind by a Bludger from Crabbe . . . Montague catches the Quaffle, Montague heading back up the pitch and—nice Bludger there from George Weasley, that's a Bludger to the head for Montague, he drops the Quaffle, caught by Katie Bell, Katie Bell of Gryffindor reverse passes to Alicia Spinnet and Spinnet's away—"
Somehow, Lee Jordan manages to be heard over all the cheering and booing from the crowds.
"—dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger—close call, Alicia—and the crowd are loving this, just listen to them, what's that they're singing?"
Weasley cannot save a thing,
He cannot block a single ring,
That's why Slytherins all sing:
Weasley is our King.
Weasley was born in a bin,
He always lets the Quaffle in,
Weasley will make sure we win
Weasley is our King.
I feel heat rise to my face, ashamed to be associated with this. Astoria sighs.
"—and Alicia passes back to Angelina!" Lee's rising voice is trying to drown out the Slytherin song. "Come on now, Angelina—looks like she's just got the Keeper to beat!—SHE SHOOTS—SHE—aaaah . . ."
The Keeper—whose name I should know considering we're in the same House—saves the goal. After that, I stop paying any attention, even more unsure how this is so popular here at Hogwarts. In fact, I don't see why it's so popular in the Wizarding World. Though, had I grown up around it, I would probably care more. Had Al-something kept me, I might even be on the team. Maybe he would have taught me to fly and play Quidditch. Maybe he would have taught me more about magic. I put the thoughts aside. There's no way to change the past.
The Slytherin crowd gets louder as the Quaffle is carried down the pitch, straight toward the Gryffindor goal. I look away, not able to watch because I don't know how to pull for—sure, Slytherin is my House, but my heart pities Ron.
A goal is scored on Ron, and the Slytherins erupt in cheers, their song now becoming even louder. Why was I put in Slytherin? I ignore Lee and the Slytherins to focus instead on Draco, who is flying around, high in the sky, and wonder what that is like to be above the ground, to be like the owls I watched before the other students arrived for the start of the term.
I rise to my feet as Draco races Harry for what I can only assume is the Snitch. Harry and Draco are stretching out as far as they can, zooming through the air as fast as their brooms will take them, and then Harry's hand closes around the Snitch. The Gryffindors, and the other Houses, too, because they are rooting for Gryffindor, shout their approval.
As the crowd cheers for the Gryffindor team, Crabbe's flying figure catches my eye. The sore loser whacks his bat across a Bludger and sends it flying straight at Draco and Harry. I stand to my feet involuntarily, my heart ramming against my chest. It's going to hit Draco! But no, it whams right into Harry's back. Madam Hooch converges immediately on Crabbe, blowing her whistle and seemingly reprimanding him.
I look back to Draco and smile. He's fine. Try as I might to understand what's happening on the pitch, the figures of the students are too far away, but I can clearly make out Draco arguing with the Gryffindors, and something he's said has gone too far: Fred and George Weasley attempt to lunge at him but are held back by a few of the other players.
Draco, please stop.
Suddenly, Harry releases George, and the two of them charge Draco. Harry's fist connects with Draco's gut, but it's not enough punishment for whatever he's said, so both Harry and George continue wailing into. That's enough, that's enough! You're hurting him! With a quick jinx, Madam Hooch sends both the attackers flying backward and off Draco, who continues lying curled on the ground, obviously in pain. Though all I want to do is rush toward him and help him, I find myself stuck in my spot, unable to process what's happened, unable to truly breathe.
Only once Crabbe and Goyle get Draco to his feet do I find myself relaxing. He's not dying, he'll be fine.
"I don't even want to know what Malfoy could have said to cause all of that," Astoria says quietly.
I look away from her and her sister, thinking the same thing. Whatever was said must've been worse than the song to incite that sort of reaction, making me almost afraid to know what it was.
The spectators, after the thrill of the fight dies away, exit the stands and leave the Quidditch pitch behind, but the only thing I hear people talking about is what happened on the pitch, trying to figure out what Draco had said. The only people who know exactly what was said are either in trouble for fighting or have already disappeared from the pitch or are in the hospital wing, as is the case with Draco.
Still worried about any lasting injures Draco might've incurred, I start toward the hospital wing, but by the time I get there, Draco is leaving. He smiles at me. "What'd Pomfrey say?" I ask. "Are you all right?"
"I'll have some bruises, but I am perfectly fine other than that." He takes my hand. "However, I would like to go rest a bit, all things considered. Would you like to join me?"
"Is that even a question?"
He grins, and we head down to the Slytherin Dungeons. "What's it like, being free in the air?" I ask him.
He looks at me with an odd expression. "What do you mean?"
"Well," I say, "it just seems that, when you're flying on a broom up in the air, nothing can stop you. What's that like . . . that feeling of freedom?"
"Have—have you never flown before?" he asks me quietly.
If he knew my true past, he wouldn't have asked, but he doesn't know—which reminds me that I haven't told him the truth about myself and brings back that awful wave of guilt. I clear my throat. "They didn't allow it at Durmstrang unless you were on the Quidditch team. Which I never was." This explanation sounds unreasonable even to me, but he doesn't question it.
"I'll have to teach you then," he tells me.
"I'd like that." We enter the common room and go to the sofa in front of the fire. I remove my hat and scarf but keep on his oversized cloak. Draco slips his arm around me when we sit down, and I cuddle next to him. "Are you in pain?"
"Nothing I can't handle," he says. "Like I said, just some bruises. But I was expecting it. I was trying to provoke them."
"Why?" Who would want to have someone attack them? I mean, honestly, when I was on the run, I did anything not to provoke the people who wanted to harm me. Well, most of the time I tried not to provoke them.
"I knew if they attacked, they'd be suspended from playing for a while."
Such a Slytherin thing to do.
He changes the subject. "Your birthday's this month, right?"
"Yeah." Even to me, my voice sounds dead. The closer I get to seventeen, the closer I become to being a slave of Voldemort. I try not to think about it. "Sixteen!" I say in a falsely cheery voice.
"I'm dating an older woman," Draco laughs.
"Well, apparently I am a professor, so . . ."
He laughs louder, his chest vibrating, and my stomach does yet another flip. "And I fully expect you, Professor Rodgers, to help me master that Vanishing Spell before this term is over."
"We'd better get to working then. Term ends next month."
"Thank Merlin," he sighs. "I need to get out of this place for a while."
I smile sadly at the thought of him leaving, of me being trapped here without him. But he has a family—Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, who might not be the best family to have, but at least he has a family, and that's something I have never been able to say—so he has to go home to see them. If Narcissa wouldn't let him go to Durmstrang because that was too far from her, I am completely positive that she wouldn't let him stay at Hogwarts over Christmas.
Draco takes a deep breath. "Speaking of getting out of here for a while . . . What, um . . . where—do you have anywhere to go for Christmas?" His voice is quieter than usual.
I'm fairly certain the Muggle owners of the house I've been "borrowing" are home by now. I feel heat flush my face. "N-no," I answer. "I'll probably . . . just stay here."
"Don't do that! I'll owl Mum and see if it's okay for you to come to our house," Draco suggests. "I'm sure she won't mind. She's been wanting to meet you."
"Thanks," I say, giving his hand a squeeze. He still must not have told her who I am.
The prospect of returning to Malfoy Manor fills me with more emotions than I know how to process: excitement at the idea of leaving Hogwarts for a while, happiness at Draco's desire to have me go with him, and horror at what reaction the Malfoys might have when they see that I am the one dating their son. Perhaps when they see how happy Draco and I are, Narcissa will cave and actually be kind and offer as much encouragement and support as I might need to survive my future (if I don't escape before then).
"Draco!" a voice yells. We turn our heads to see Pansy rushing forward. "First of all, great game." I roll my eyes. "Second of all, have you heard the news?" She seems positively angry, or frustrated, or a mixture of both with a slight amount of glee mixed in.
"What news?" he asks lazily.
"Hagrid is back."
"That dim oaf?" Draco growls. "Class was just fine without him!"
"But," Pansy points out, "Umbridge will have a chance to tear him apart!"
Draco starts laughing wickedly. "What I wouldn't give to see the Golden Trio defend him against her! Just when I thought this day could get no better! Thank you, Pansy."
She blushes. "You're very welcome, Draco. How are you feeling?"
"Much better now, actually." He pushes himself to his feet. "I'm feeling much, much better now." Then he offers me his hand and helps me to my feet. "Come on, Charlotte, I fancy a walk around the castle. If you want to come with me, that is."
"Of course I would."
Draco offers me his arm, and I take it. "We'll see you around, Pansy." Then the two of us walk out of the common room and leave the Slytherin Dungeons behind.
"So I might regret asking this," I begin, "but what exactly happened on the Quidditch pitch earlier? I mean, I know you were trying to provoke them, but what was said?"
He smiles. "I told Potter about the other verses I had planned for 'Weasley Is Our King' but had been unable to finish because no words rhymed with 'fat' and 'ugly' and 'pathetic loser.' Those twins heard and finally realized what I was saying, then they attacked me like animals."
"But Ron isn't fat," I say calmly. "How would that have offended them?"
He glances at me. "Those weren't talking about him," he says matter-of-factly. "No, those particular insults were about his mother and father."
I bring us to a stop. "What?"
"You know, I was saying that his mum is fat and ugly and that his father is a pathetic loser." I clench my fist by my side, taking slow, even breaths. "But what really set them off is when I pointed out that Potter must only like spending time with the Weasleys because the stink of their house reminds him of the stink of his mother's house and—what's wrong?"
"Draco," I say, trying to calm myself, "I grew up in a Muggle orphanage. I was taken from my parents before I was a year old. I know what it's like to not remember—"
"Charlotte, I didn't . . . those weren't about you . . . I mean—"
"It doesn't matter if they weren't about me, because I am in his position—"
"But they weren't directed at you."
"That doesn't matter," I hiss. "You mocked someone because they don't remember their mother, and I just . . ." I look away from him. With everything that I've kept from him, I know I have no right to be angry, but I can't help it. I never knew my mother. She chose her crime over me, and I grew up alone because of it. "I need a minute. I'll meet up with you later, yeah?"
Without waiting for an answer, I walk off. I really need to find Fred and George and Harry and offer them my apologies.