Chapter Six: Flying Lessons

Chapter Summary: After her tumultuous start at Hogwarts, Draka was looking forward to the flying lesson. Flying was her thing, she couldn't wait to show off, and show the mudbloods and blood traitors their place.

Draka stood on the grassy field, her fingers flexing around the handle of the broom. Broom, she scoffed. Hogwarts was truly going to the dogs. What kind of respected institution still used Cleansweeps? Cleansweeps! She was sure Cleansweeps went out of fashion when her grandfather was still here. She surveyed the group of students gathered for the first flying lesson and curled her lip at the mudbloods and blood traitors. But she didn't let that affect her mood for long. She absolutely loved flying, not even the rubbish brooms and the worthless students would dampen her mood.

To say her year at Hogwarts so far hadn't gone the way she planned was an understatement. Her plan had been simple when she'd first arrived: establish herself as a leader among her peers, show some Mudbloods their place, and mock the blood traitors. But things had gone sideways almost immediately. First, she'd nearly befriended a Mudblood, and that disaster had taken some careful maneuvering to clean up – and a definite conclusion on that project was still pending. And then, worst of all, Potter had humiliated her when she'd offered him her friendship. Her friendship!

She shook her head, jaw tightening. The humiliation still stung. Potter would pay for that. She'd make sure of it. She just needed the right opportunity, and today might be that day.

Despite the setbacks with Potter and the near disaster with the mudblood, things were going well in other areas of Draka's plan. She had firmly established herself as a leader among her fellow Slytherins—not just among the first years, either. She could feel her influence spreading, her words carrying weight beyond her own year. Second and third years were starting to defer to her, and she knew that, by fourth year, she'd be ruling the entire house.

She smirked at the thought. She had learnt that power was subtle, built brick by brick, until you controlled everything without even needing to raise your voice. Draka was well on her way to achieving that. Her reputation for being ruthless, sharp, and cunning had already spread throughout Slytherin, and she had made sure that her almost friendship with Henri, the Mudblood, had been swiftly buried. Henri wouldn't dare utter her name again in anything resembling a friendly tone.

Her fellow Slytherins—those worth anything, at least—looked up to her now, and even some older students began to seek her approval. As long as she continued playing her cards right, Potter wouldn't be the only one who would learn their place.

Madam Hooch barked out instructions to the group, and Draka couldn't help but smirk when she saw some of the others struggling to get their brooms off the ground. Mudbloods and half-bloods were fumbling around like the incompetents they were, barely able to manage a proper command. A few couldn't even get the brooms to twitch.

Draka snapped her wrist and commanded, "Up." Her broom flew into her hand instantly, and she smiled smugly—until she noticed that Potter had done the same. She scowled at him. How dare he get it right on the first try, too?

Hooch moved around the group, correcting students here and there, but when she reached Draka, she paused and frowned.

"You're holding your broom wrong, Malfoy," Hooch said, loud enough for the entire class to hear. Draka tried to defend herself stating that she had been doing it like this for years. "You've been doing it wrong for years."

Draka flushed, mortified, as snickers rose from the Gryffindors. She sneered at them, especially the loudest ones—Potter and his pathetic little Weasley sidekick. She clenched her fists around the broom handle, swearing she'd make them regret it.

But then, as if to prove her point about Gryffindors, Neville Longbottom somehow managed to lose control of his broom entirely. Draka watched with a mix of amusement and disdain as Longbottom shot up into the air, flailing helplessly. The boy tumbled back down after a few terrifying moments, landing in a heap on the ground with a loud thud.

Hooch rushed over, leaving the rest of the class unattended as she helped Longbottom off to the infirmary. As soon as they were out of sight, Draka's gaze landed on the Remembrall Longbottom had dropped in the chaos. Her lips curled into a smile.

"Well, well, look what Longbottom left behind," she said, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Predictably, Potter's voice rang out at once. "Give it here, Malfoy."

Draka let out a derisive snort, turning slowly to face him. Potter stood there, fists clenched, trying to look all righteous. He really fancied himself the hero, didn't he?

"Really, Potter?" Draka drawled, raising an eyebrow. "You want this? Come and get it, then."

With a swift kick, she launched herself into the air, leaving the rest of the class gaping below. For a moment, she forgot about Potter, forgot about the Mudbloods and the Weasleys and everything else. Flying was hers. She was free, soaring through the sky with ease. She did a quick loop, savoring the rush of wind against her face, grinning at the gasps of awe from the students below.

But her moment of exhilaration was cut short when she noticed Potter trailing behind her, determined to follow. Annoyed, Draka shot higher into the air, pushing her broom to its limit. When she was as high as she dared to go, she pulled the Remembrall from her pocket and held it up, taunting him.

"Here, Potter," she called, her voice laced with mockery. "Catch!"

With a flick of her wrist, she hurled the Remembrall as far as she could. It sailed through the air, a tiny dot against the sky, and for a moment she felt sure Potter wouldn't catch it. But then, to her disbelief, he sped after it—really sped—and snatched it from mid-air with remarkable precision.

The crowd below erupted in cheers, and Draka's stomach twisted with fury as she slowly lowered her broom and landed gracefully back on the ground, she suddenly didn't want to be in the air anymore. Potter circled back, holding the Remembrall aloft like some kind of trophy. On those ratty old school brooms, no less! She couldn't believe it. Flying was her thing, and yet Potter—stupid, obnoxious Potter—had just shown her up in front of everyone.

Before she could think of anything to say, a stern voice cut through the noise.

"Potter!"

Draka turned just in time to see Professor McGonagall striding toward them, face like thunder. She nearly dragged Potter out of the air by his ear, berating him about first years not being allowed to fly unsupervised. Draka's mood lifted slightly. At least Potter would get what was coming to him now.

Satisfied and feeling a small sense of victory, Draka stood back, watching with a smirk as Potter was hauled off by McGonagall. It wasn't the perfect victory she'd imagined, but at least he'd be in trouble. Flying had always been her domain—the one place she could excel without any questions, the one thing that set her apart even more from the rabble. Seeing Potter fly like that, with skill that rivaled hers, felt like a slap in the face. How dare he be good at something she claimed as her own?

She let out a quiet sigh, masking her frustration with a satisfied smirk. At least for now, the Mudbloods and blood traitors had been shown where they stood. None of them could fly like her. None of them belonged in the air the way she did.

But Potter… Potter was a problem.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a small group of Slytherins gathering around her, whispering and laughing in approval. "Nice one, Draka," Blaise said, clearly impressed by her daring. Crabbe and Goyle nodded in agreement.

Draka preened at the attention, tilting her chin up slightly. "Well, someone had to show them how it's done," she said coolly, crossing her arms. "Honestly, it's embarrassing how pathetic Gryffindors are. Longbottom could've taken out half the castle with his stunt."

"Yeah, and Potter's probably going to get expelled for that little display," Theo added, eyes gleaming.

Draka's smirk widened, but her mind was already racing ahead. Potter wouldn't be expelled—she knew that much. He was the famous Harry Potter, after all. There was no way McGonagall would let him be thrown out so easily. But detention? That was almost a guarantee, and that thought was a balm to the sting of his unexpected flying talent.

Still, she needed a new plan. One flying lesson wasn't enough to show everyone who the real leader of Hogwarts was going to be. She had been embarrassed today when Hooch corrected her form—her form—in front of the entire class. The Gryffindors' laughter had stung more than she'd let on. She needed to solidify her influence, and fast.

"Draka," Pansy's shrill voice broke through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present. "You were amazing up there! The way you flew—everyone was watching."

Draka allowed herself a small smile at the praise. "Of course they were. It's what they expect from a Malfoy."

But as she walked back to the castle with her fellow Slytherins, Draka couldn't shake the feeling that Potter was going to be more of a challenge than she'd initially thought. She would have to be smarter, more cunning. He might have had one moment of glory in the air, but he wouldn't win. No, she'd make sure of that. Potter had embarrassed her once. He wouldn't get another chance. This was only the beginning. Potter would know his place soon enough.

Draka Malfoy seethed with fury as she stormed through the corridors of Hogwarts. The news of Potter's special treatment by Professor McGonagall felt like a physical blow, and it proved disastrous to her already frayed patience. She had never been a fan of McGonagall, but until now, she had believed the myth that McGonagall was strict but fair—to everyone.

Draka was not naïve; she knew Potter was too favored by Dumbledore to face any serious punishment. However, she had trusted that McGonagall would at least administer some form of punishment, that she would be fair and impartial. It seemed even she was not immune to the boy-who-lived's favored status.

Draka listened with disbelief as Pansy explained: McGonagall, of all people, had not only let Potter off without a single word of reprimand for breaking school rules but had also rewarded him by allowing him to join the Quidditch team in his first year. It was a blatant display of favoritism that touched Draka deeply—not just because Potter got away with everything, but because it was Quidditch. It wasn't fair that Potter got to play Quidditch as a first-year while she could not.

She felt foolish now for thinking that a teacher, especially a Gryffindor, would be fair. She would not make that mistake again.

The anger bubbling inside her had to be vented somehow. Potter had escaped any real consequences for his rule-breaking, and Draka couldn't let that stand. So, she devised a trap.

She knew Gryffindors were reckless and impulsive, jumping into action without thought. They were desperate to prove themselves and show their bravery. Approaching the Gryffindor table flanked by Crabbe and Goyle—who were not the brightest but made excellent bodyguards—Draka goaded Potter and the Weasel into accepting a midnight duel. They agreed to meet in the Trophy Room at midnight.

She had no intention of showing up; the duel was merely a lure. She wanted Potter to be caught breaking the school rules by Filch, the one person who would never let him off the hook. She made sure word got to Filch through one of her underlings that some students planned to have a ruckus at midnight in the Trophy Room. She went to bed with a satisfied smirk, imagining the trouble Potter and Weasley would be in.

Draka couldn't sleep; her entire nervous system was wired with anticipation. Did Filch catch them yet? Should she go and watch? Despite her better judgment, she decided to see the trap unfold.

When she neared the Trophy Room, she was surprised by how quiet it was. Had she arrived too late? Had Filch taken them away already? She cautiously approached the Trophy Room, spotting no one in sight. Those cowards—those bloody cowardly Gryffindors—hadn't shown up. She fumed. How dare they?

She was jolted out of her furious musing by the sound of a cat.

Uh-oh.

It was Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat. She tried to run before the cat could alert her owner, but she found Filch blocking the door. "Now, what do we have here?"

She was caught in her own trap.

Filch, with his usual delight in catching rule-breakers, watched her with a smirk. She silently fumed as Filch, the filthy Squib, explained her punishment: detention for two months, scrubbing cauldrons. Potter and Weasley hadn't shown up, and once again, they had escaped consequences while she was stuck in a trap of her own making. She could feel the sting of frustrated tears but quickly composed herself. She would get them—sooner or later.

The detention was horrible. Scrubbing filthy cauldrons was demeaning—it was servant's work. Filch's relentless commentary about how much he missed the old punishments only made it worse. The very thought of it made her stomach churn.

Draka had done everything in her power to keep the detention a secret. She had threatened her fellow Slytherins, ensuring they understood the consequences of revealing her punishment. She would tolerate no leaks about her misfortune reaching her father. If he found out, the backlash would be catastrophic.

As she scrubbed the cauldrons in the dank, dimly lit storage room, she clenched her teeth, determined to salvage some dignity from the situation. Her anger was far from diminished; it was growing fiercer. Potter and his Weasley sidekick had gotten away with their insolence for too long. This was just the beginning. She would find a way to put them in their place.

In the silence of her punishment, her thoughts churned with schemes and plans, each more elaborate than the last. No matter what it took, she would make sure Potter and Weasley paid for their defiance. This was just a setback, not the end. She would emerge victorious—she always did.