CW: Violence
The evening was comfortably cool and pleasantly breezy. Blaise and Millie were complaining about their Potions assignments as they all walked down to the Quidditch pitch.
"I almost ruined mine entirely," Millie bemoaned. "I almost put in fluxweed instead of snotgrass."
"The fact that there's such a distinction between slicing and dicing is stupid," Blaise groused. "If the flobberworms still end up in tiny itty-bitty pieces, what's it matter how they get there?"
"Dicing creates more surface area per part," Hermione said distractedly. "Slicing limits the strength of the reaction."
Blaise shot her a look. "Did you just pull that out of thin air?"
"That's basic Potions knowledge," Hermione objected.
"Basic for you, maybe," he grumbled.
When they arrived at the pitch, Slytherins were ambling all over the field, Marcus Flint directing different groups to different areas.
"I said only Chasers over here, McKinnon!" Marcus roared. "As you're trying out for Keeper, why the hell are you standing with the Chasers?"
"You said 'Quaffle-people', not 'Chasers'!" McKinnon objected. "Keepers play with the Quaffle, too!"
"Chasers are Quaffle-people. Keepers are hoop-people," Marcus said, sneering. "I should disqualify you from tryouts for being an idiot, McKinnon…"
"Let's go say hello," Hermione suggested. "You know. Wish Draco 'good luck' and whatnot."
Blaise shot her a sideways look, and Tracey looked surprised.
"Are we actually hoping he wins?" Tracey asked. "Do we like him?"
"If he wins, more time he'll be out of the common room practicing," Millie pointed out. "Might be a good thing, considering."
Blaise was still looking at Hermione with a glint in his eye, and Hermione was trying very hard to not react under his gaze.
"Might as well," he said finally. "Wouldn't hurt."
They made their way over to the group of potential seekers. They were a smaller group than the others, only four of them standing around with their broomsticks as they waited their turn to compete. Draco looked surprised when he saw them approaching.
"Hi," he said. Hermione nodded at him, offering him a small smile.
"Hello, Draco," she said. "Good luck tonight."
"Oh. Thanks," Draco said. Two spots of faint color appeared high on his pale cheeks. "You didn't have to come all the way down here to wish me good luck, though."
"That's okay; I wanted to," Hermione told him, and Draco looked pleased.
"If you're not going to be trying out," an older girl said, scowling over their group of four, "then you need to get off the Quidditch pitch."
"Oh, no worries," Hermione said, flashing her a smile. "No, I won't be trying out tonight. I'll be firmly on the ground, sniveling, scared, and cowering of the dangerous heights you'll all be flying to."
The tone in the air changed, and everyone stiffened at her words. Tracey and Millie had tensed, Blaise had stepped up behind her to cover her back, and Draco looked alarmed. The other two potential seekers looked confused, but Hermione's eyes locked with Damon Rowle's, which had flashed with recognition.
She smiled.
"Much better place for someone like me, don't you think?" she murmured.
Damon seemed to be wrestling for words, but a moment later, Marcus Flint was marching over in a storm, looming over them all.
"Get off the pitch!" he snarled. "If you're not trying out and you're not off the pitch in the next ten seconds, the beaters will be using your heads for bludgers-!"
They all ran for the stands, clambering up to watch the tryouts, Tracey and Millie laughing.
"I can imagine Flint actually trying to do that," Millie said. "Trying to rip someone's head off as a substitute bludger."
"Can you imagine him justifying it to Professor Snape?" Tracey giggled. "'Well sir, we lost a bludger, but Goyle's head was just as hard as one, so…'"
They dissolved into laughter again as they all took their seats, Tracey and Millie sitting to Hermione's right. Blaise sat on her left, giving her a considering look.
"Want to tell me what all that was about?" Blaise murmured, his voice quiet.
Hermione considered. "It's probably safer if you didn't know."
Blaise's eyebrows went up, but he stayed silent.
Quidditch tryouts were boring, and Hermione found herself wishing she had brought a book. The Chasers were trying to make goals, the Keepers trying to block them, and it looked a lot like a stretched-out boring version of football. She and her friends entertained themselves by making snide comments and ranking the players on ridiculous criteria, very few of which would have any relevance on whether or not a person would actually be a good addition to the Quidditch team.
"He missed by a mile," Millie scoffed. "Minus points for Hideous Aim."
"Ah, but he missed with style," Blaise said, smirking. "Points for Flashy Flying."
"Points for looking good with windswept hair, too," Tracey chimed in. "What's that, points for Attractive Advantage?"
Hermione laughed. When it came down to it, she really did treasure her Slytherin friends.
As they all bickered good-naturedly, she watched out of the corner of her eye, paying attention to the players as they flew.
Harry had gone over a lot about seeker maneuvers and Quidditch theory, but in the end, she had managed to find the common thread and simplify it down: the most dangerous Quidditch maneuvers were the ones that involved high speeds and turning, in any direction.
A turn on broomstick at high speeds required the flyer to angle themself ever-so-perfectly off of center, in order to bank into the turn and properly angle their weight. If a flyer didn't angle themself just so, the winds could catch the back of the broomstick and send it flying off-course and out of control fairly easily. This was a risk especially faced by seekers, who typically flew at higher speeds than the rest of the players when they were chasing after the snitch.
Hermione watched, idly making comments and awarding people imaginary points for 'Creative Cussing' and 'Funny Failing'. The Chasers and Keepers wrapped up, followed by the Beaters, finally followed by the Seekers.
Almost without realizing it, Hermione straightened up, paying rapt attention, and she could sense Blaise stiffening next to her.
"Draco's turn, next," Blaise said casually. "Shame we didn't bring any pennants."
"I was genuinely considering it," Tracey admitted, giggling. "But I didn't want Draco to have Vince and Greg murder me in my bed."
The seekers, it seemed, were going to compete in a mini-tournament of snitch-catching. Marcus had divided them into two pairs to fly against each other, the winners of which would presumably face off against each other in a final race. The first pair was the snotty older girl and a boy Hermione didn't recognize, and a moment later, they were off.
"That's not a real snitch," Blaise scoffed. "Flint's slowed it down, somehow."
"Makes sense," Millie said reasonably. "No one wants to be here all night while they hunt around for it in the dark."
The seekers chasing the snitch were fiercely competitive, and Hermione could tell they were pushing their broomsticks as hard as they could. When the boy's hand finally closed around the snitch and Marcus' whistle blew, the girl landed and spat on the ground with poor grace.
"Next up! Malfoy and Rowle!" Marcus' voice echoed up from the pitch.
Subtly, Hermione palmed her wand.
"Draco's turn now," Blaise commented, his eyes firmly fixed on the pitch. "And Rowle. He's a fourth year, I heard. Have you ever met Rowle before, Hermione?"
"I might have one night," Hermione said, her eyes watching the fliers mount their brooms. "Pansy introduced us."
Blaise's eyes flashed. "…I see."
Marcus let the snitch go in a flash of gold, there was a whistle, and both Draco and Rowle kicked off from the ground.
Hermione watched with sharp eyes, wishing she'd brought a set of binoculars to help. Tracey next to her was keeping up a steady stream of babble about Draco's flying and his chances with Millie, while Hermione watched as both seekers flew around. As they rounded the south bend of the Quidditch pitch and the snitch darted off towards the far end, Hermione saw her chance approaching.
Hidden in her sleeve, she raised her wand.
"Ventus," she breathed.
Hermione felt a rush of answering power surge through her, and the wind picked up on the pitch.
Her eyes never wavered as Draco and Rowle raced down the pitch, both gaining on the snitch.
"Careful, now," Blaise murmured from next to her. "Got to time it right…"
Hermione appreciated the fact that his words could just as easily be aimed at Draco as they were at her.
There! The snitch had darted away, curving back toward the pitch, and both flyers had to bank hard into their brooms to make the turn—
Hermione gestured subtly with her wand, a surge of power and air descending from above the pitch in a tightly-spun vortex, as invisible as it was powerful, and–-
"AAaahhh!"
The other players on the ground gasped at Rowle's helpless scream.
"Merlin!"
"Rowle!"
"Rowle! What are you—?!"
Rowle's broom had suddenly careened off-course and had whirled into a high-speed death spiral that he couldn't seem to get control of. Hermione watched as he spun about helplessly in midair as his broom spun further and further from the Quidditch pitch, until—
WHAM
"Oh," Blaise breathed. "Now that's just cruel."
Hermione watched as the Whomping Willow loudly and angrily objected to being hit with a dizzy rider and broomstick, wailing on Rowle with its giant boughs. Even from this distance, she could see the silver glint from his Quidditch robes being tossed around in the tree limbs, and she could hear the dull thud of impact every time a branch connected with his body.
Everyone went running over to the tree now, and Hermione and her friends ran over with them, not wanting to miss all the excitement.
Rowle was somehow clinging to a branch, now, hiding behind one to avoid the others. His broomstick was snapped in three pieces stuck in the leaves nearby, and one of his legs looked bent entirely the wrong way.
"Rowle! Get out of there!" Marcus bellowed.
With a deep breath, Rowle leapt from the tree, hitting the ground hard. Marcus and another boy ran under the tree limbs for him, intending to drag him out.
"I think not," Hermione murmured.
A gesture, and the still-active air elemental inside of her sent winds dancing through the air, adjusting one branch just so so it whacked Rowle firmly on his side, hitting him hard enough that he went flying out from underneath the branches of the tree, safely out of reach, but with a sickening crack to his ribs.
"Rowle!"
"Damon! Damon, are you okay?!"
They all crowded around Rowle, murmuring.
"Out of the way, out of the way-!"
Someone had gotten Professor Snape, who was hurrying over, robes billowing. He knelt down next to Rowle, who was moaning on the ground pitifully, and cast some sort of diagnostic charm.
"Marvelously bad flying," Marcus snorted, now that it was evident that Rowle wasn't going to be mauled to death by a tree. "Never seen someone still unable to sort themselves out of a tailspin after more than half a dozen rotations."
"Is… is he going to be okay?"
Hermione glanced over. Draco had landed, snitch in hand, but he looked uncertain.
"He will live," Snape said shortly. "Levicorpus."
Rowle floated into the air, turning over to be face-up, and he moaned.
"Would you look at that," Hermione murmured.
Rowle's eyes flickered open at her voice and met hers. This time, instead of glaring at her with malice, there was a wariness and fear lurking in his eyes.
"Look at what?" Draco asked, peering over at him.
"He's got a cut on his cheek," Hermione said, with satisfaction. "It'll leave a scar… something to remember this by."
Rowle's eyes widened at her tone, and he visibly recoiled from her.
"Enough!" Snape said. "I am taking him to the Hospital Wing. You may all visit him there later, after you have cleaned up all this mess and finished the tryouts. Mister Rowle, hold still."
They watched as Snape led him off the grounds up to the school, holding him aloft in the air at wand point. They grew smaller as they disappeared into the distance, one tall figure in robes walking and a smaller figure floating alongside.
"I didn't know that there was a separate spell for levitating people," Hermione said, astonished and somewhat bitter. "All this time, I could have just been using that…"
"Oh, hush, Hermione," Tracey said, rolling her eyes. "I'm sure you'll have it learned by tomorrow."
"We have to clean this up before we can continue tryouts?" Marcus said, glaring at the broken bits of broomstick and tree branch that littered the ground underneath and around the Whomping Willow. "How are we supposed to manage that?"
"Oh," Hermione said. "No matter."
She gestured with a hand, and all the broken bits of wood and broom blew out from underneath of the tree, spinning themselves into a neat pile out of the Whomping Willow's reach. Marcus blinked but then gave Hermione a twisted grin.
"Nice, there, Granger!" he said, missing teeth gaping. "Now tryouts can continue."
He went back to the pitch, calling for everyone to follow him back. Most of the crowd following him back onto the pitch as he yelled. Draco lingered behind a long moment, catching Hermione's eye and watching her. He walked backwards for a while, as if he was trying to silently communicate with her, before finally turning around and hurrying after the rest of them.
There was a silence, now, by the tree, only broken by the soft breeze of the wind. Hermione stood there a long moment, just breathing, feeing the wind on her face and in her hair.
"Are you ready?" Blaise asked quietly.
Hermione looked up at him, before she nodded.
"I'm ready," she said.
Blaise and Tracey guided the group back up to the Quidditch stands, chatting idly about what Rowle's broomstick had been made out of and what a replacement would cost. Hermione let their chatter go in one ear and out the other; she was much more focused on what was going on with her internally.
The air elemental inside of her was still fluttering and dancing inside of her, thrilled at being let out to play for so long. But inside her, the rest of her power felt smooth and calm, a sense of satisfaction having settled in her at seeing Rowle's eyes flash with realization and horror as he looked up at her from the ground.
Dark satisfaction, Hermione noted, carefully examining herself. Not Dark power.
She hadn't been sure, after all. According to Snape, any magic could be Dark magic, when it was used to hurt another, but he'd made the distinction between feeling a sense of dark satisfaction at the use of your power overcoming another, versus a sense of dark satisfaction at the result. Dark magic created the feeling of Dark pleasure itself, just by using it – any satisfaction experienced just from observing the result was separate entirely.
It was justified revenge, Hermione told herself. And like Snape said – intent is everything.
Still, Hermione was aware she was playing with fire. Dark Magic seemed a slippery slope to go down, and she knew she was perhaps closer to the top of that hill than she'd like.
Two down, she thought to herself. Only five to go.