Quidditch
AN 1: This is the last chapter. Quidditch is now COMPLETE. At the end of the story, I have attached an outtake from the story. It never made it into the story in a coherent fashion but still contains information that I thought you might enjoy.
AN 2: A big thank you to lady endymion. Without her wisdom, Quidditch would have been erased with one swift stroke of the delete button after the first three chapters. She encouraged me to continue with it, and I am grateful for that piece of advice. A big, big thank you to gotsnape, whose wonderful sense of humor, sage writing advice, and savvy support made Quidditch into much more of a story than it would have been.
Chapter 9
Never, Ever, Do Anything Like That Again
Was the Dreamless Sleeping Potion he had taken the night before just a placebo? No, he didn't dream. There were no nightmares in the Head Boy's room the previous night because he had gotten absolutely no goddamn sleep whatsoever. One generally needed to be asleep in order to dream, at least that's what he had previously believed; however, his recent experiences with a certain redheaded witch had taught him otherwise.
Where the hell was she? He glanced across the Great Hall at breakfast and lunch the following day, until the cavernous room was nearly deserted, to no avail. Did Skele-Gro cause a complete loss of appetite as well? Had he dragged his arse out of bed at the crack and skived off half of Charms for nothing?
Why was it when you didn't want a certain crass, Muggle-loving siren of a witch around, you couldn't beat her off with a broom, and when you actually went in search of her, she was nowhere to be found? Once or twice he even wandered by the Hospital Wing, and it had been teeming with infernal Gryffindors. He recalled a rather disturbing Scarhead spotting there as well. No, he would rather not put himself or her through that again. And so the Slytherin kept his eyes open and watchful, going out of his way in hopes of coming across a certain Gryffindor witch's path. He never did. He wasted an entire day in empty pursuit of her. That redheaded vixen was scarcer than a Snitch at the Quidditch World Cup.
By the end of the afternoon, Draco was beside himself. He was sleep-deprived and distraught with worry, his irritation having faded hours ago. He alternated between cursing her and then cursing himself, as he paced his room like a caged animal. It was absolutely ridiculous putting herself in harms way like that. He had seen that goddamn fist coming, even before the Rodent knew it himself. Draco had purposefully pushed the great Weasel over the edge, just to give himself the satisfaction of pissing the Gryffindor off. If he couldn't get the Snitch or win the game, he would take what little glory was left, but he never expected the Weaselette to get involved.
What was taking so long in that damn Hospital Wing? Pomfrey said she would be fine the next morning. It was now the end of the day. What the hell was going on? He finally sat down on his bed, rolled over onto his back, and stared at his Slytherin green canopy, just for the change of pace. He was about to swear off that infuriating piece of Gryffindor trash, when he stopped himself. Hell, it was near impossible to do that. He had tried that two days ago, and look what had become of his sorry excuse for a Slytherin. The harder he tried to get away from her, the more firmly entrenched he became in her tendrils, until he felt like he could no longer breath or think or do anything other than worry about his package of red silk and freckles. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to shut her out from his witch weary mind.
When he opened his eyes, it was oddly dark and cold in his room. He sat bolt upright, looking around frantically. Goddamn it, he had fallen asleep.
"Lumos."
He glanced at his watch. Hell, he had just missed dinner as well. Draco threw his long legs over the side of his bed and rubbed the sleep from his face. He had some decisions to make since he was no longer willing to live in the insanity and unrelenting hell his life had become. Was he a bloody Malfoy or not? Would he or would he not let himself be run over by some insufferable Muggle-loving Gryffindor trash?
Minutes later, he was walking down the corridors of Hogwarts as though he owned the place. He flew up four flights of stairs to the Hospital Wing, blew open the doors and strode in. The entire place was empty, even Pomfrey was gone. He spun around and raced up another flight of stairs.
He burst into the library, scanning the tables and the stacks before wandering further and further inside the maze of bookshelves and scattered tables, all filled with various students and texts. None, he noticed, had that certain splash of red silk and freckles. He took a quick peek in the restricted section before walking out and hitting the winding, ever changing staircases again.
Three flights of stairs later, he was in front of the Fat Lady's portrait. This time, the goddamn portrait was actually in and staring down her bloody nose at him. He had no time for her nonsense this evening and shouted the password at her fat face. Reluctantly, she swung open. Hell, just because he had never used the password, didn't mean that he, as Head Boy, didn't know the damn thing.
Taking a deep breath, the Slytherin stepped through the unusual round opening in the wall and into the most hostile enemy territory in the entire castle, all the while expecting to be accosted by all that ridiculous nobility and bravery running rampant in such squalor. As soon as the scattered students in the Gryffindor Common Room began looking up, one by one, at the most hated Slytherin in their home territory, Head Boy or not, the entire room fell silent, eyes staring at him. While they were temporarily stunned by his presence, he took a fast look around, scanning for that familiar burst of red silk and freckles.
His eyes locked in on her sitting in a chair underneath a tall window on the opposite side of the room. There she was, looking amazingly the same as she always did, every freckle, every crimson lock, even her delicate nose, all looked exactly as he remembered them, down to the last remarkable detail. He let out an enormous sigh of relief, and before anyone could stop him, he strode over to her.
She was staring at him walking over to her with definite purpose in each step, disbelieving the incongruent sight that greeted her. Draco Malfoy, Slytherin icon and infamous Gryffindor hater, was now in the heart of the Gryffindor Common Room? Had he gone completely insane? Did his life have no value to him? What was going on?
"Malfoy?" she breathed, eyes wide and questioning.
"Come on, Weasley," he said softly. To his astonishment, she did not need to be told twice. She rose to follow him. Before they could take more than ten steps toward the door, a hand flew out from the corner of the room, locking her in place.
"Ron," she admonished sharply, pulling her hand swiftly out of his.
The Slytherin quickened his pace, and she was right behind him, until they passed safely back through the hole in the wall leading out of the Gryffindor Common Room and into the empty corridors of the castle. She continued to follow him, without questioning, matching him step for step, staircase for staircase, until he had her ensconced in an abandoned classroom, with the door securely closed. Then he turned on her, towering over her slight frame and fixing his eyes on her.
"Never, ever, do anything like that again," he said sharply. She looked up at him, completely unafraid, not cowering under his infamous Malfoy stare, and raised one delicate eyebrow back at him.
"Do what?"
He sighed. The witch had an attitude as well. "I don't need your goddamn protection, Weasley. I can handle your brother without your assistance." Then he saw her reaction. She winced ever so slightly at his words, and he discovered he took no pleasure in this. None at all.
Instead, he found himself studying her face, really studying it for the first time in weeks. He marveled at her now downcast luminous brown eyes, her remarkably perfect button nose, those sun kissed freckles dancing across her face, and her generous, pale pink lips. To his surprise, the back of his hand was running gently down the side of her face, amazed at the child-like softness of its perfection. It was the furthest thing from trash he had ever held in his hands.
He shook his head. This was true insanity he had descended into. He was utterly, completely mad, staring at her like this, staying his hand and his body from doing all the things they had a mind to do.
He thought things couldn't get anymore arse backward. That was before she somehow managed to snake her arms around his neck and pull his lips down onto hers. He didn't flinch or protest or push her away as he bloody well should have. She was, after all, still that Muggle-loving, Gryffindor, pureblooded pain in the arse. He didn't pull out his wand to blow his own head off with a hex, as previously promised, nor plunge a stake into his heart. No, the notorious Slytherin simply surrendered, utterly and completely, to her touch and found himself surrounded by a dazzling sea of red silk and freckles, quite unlike anything he had ever experienced before.
Of course it was the most natural thing in the world to meet her hungry, persistent lips with his own, to finally run his hands through those magnificent silken tresses, to press his body against hers until he could feel every curve and rise of her, reveling in the new found wonders of the little Weaselette. She was absolutely, unexpectedly glorious to him.
Then she was pulling away from him and coming up for air. He looked down at her, flushed and untangling herself from him. What the hell was he doing? She was his hell, his waking, breathing, ever-living hell, which meant that this brief interlude would simply lead to hell and more hell, as it always did with her. He steadied himself, watching her closely. If this was hell, he finally decided, then he was a goddamn sinner and she, his righteous fallen angel. This was, most definitely, the way they were meant to be.
He would not let her go. He reached out and pulled her to him. That cynical, hissing Slytherin wrapped his arms around his nightmare of a witch from Gryffindor and cradled her to his chest in an unexpectedly tender gesture. Some seconds later, when he felt her relaxing in his arms, he realized that she fit unbelievably well there, as though she belonged there in some crazy way.
"Never, ever, do anything like that again," he whispered to her, holding her fast to him with no intention of letting go. Then he heard her laugh, that familiar heady laughter. This time when his heart exploded, it was quite a different feeling altogether. Yes, this was something different indeed, this inexplicable hell of his.
----- ----- ----- ----- -----
"What?" Draco stared at her, eyes wide with disbelief.
"That wasn't me in the Hospital Wing," she repeated herself.
"Who the hell was it?"
She hesitated for a moment or two. "Ron." She waited while this sank in, carefully watching his face.
"The Weasel?"
"No, I said Ron." She heard him snort at this.
"But Pomfrey said he needed Skele-Gro. Why the hell would he need that?"
"Because he broke several bones in his hand which couldn't be fixed."
A moment or two later, the Slytherin laughed, enjoying the thought of her brother experiencing a night full of pain courtesy of him. She scowled a bit at him in admonishment.
Draco saw the little Weaselette's look and sighed. Then he wrapped her face in his hands, staring at her with those magnificent pale grey eyes until she could see nothing else.
"You know I thought it was you in there." She nodded. "If it hadn't been for that idiot of a brother of yours, I never would have taken my life into my own hands by walking into that infernal Gryffindor Common Room looking for you." She wrapped her arms around him. "One night of Skele-Gro in the comfort of the Hospital Wing is the least of the punishments I could think of for knocking you unconscious." Then she laughed that particular laugh that he loved so much.
He resisted as she attempted to draw him closer to her, staying her with his hands planted firmly around her face, reveling in the sheer beauty of his little Weasel. This firecracker of a witch was his, totally and completely and amazingly his.
He ran a hand through her tousled silken tresses and saw her staring up at him in the way that she always stared at him. He couldn't help himself. He willingly surrendered to her touch and found himself painfully lost in her wondrous sea of red silk and freckles, in a passion and a desire so overwhelming he couldn't fathom enduring without her, in a time and place and space which existed only for them.
Draco Malfoy had been bested by another Gryffindor Quidditch player, a certain redheaded Chaser who loved him with all her heart and would never want another, ever. The Slytherin decided that she did, indeed, belong in his arms. He would hold her, with an unmatched passion and fierceness, next to his heart for as long a time as she allowed, preferably forever.
The End
----- ----- ----- ----- -----
Outtake
He Never Said the Freak Couldn't Fly
He looked up from his vantage point at the base of the stands and saw Scarhead with his arms on the little Weaselette, looking at her intensely, speaking in a voice too quiet for him to hear what was being said. She was staring back just as intensely, nodding in agreement. Then they both took off into the darkened pitch, one after another.
He watched Scarhead following the little Weasel around and around the pitch, closely mirroring her every movement, each twist and turn, each dive, each roll. Well, he never said the Freak couldn't fly. This ritual went on for what seemed like hours. By this time, he had ensconced himself in the comfort of the lower bleachers, in the shadows and moonlight of the winter's night, fully cloaked and hooded against the wind and the cold. Those bloody Gryffindors were still at it. He had his potions text out, reading by moonlight, occasionally looking up at the pair.
A full ninety minutes into the ritual, he heard it. Her cry rang out over the pitch and through the still of the frigid winter's night air. He finished up his next paragraph before looking up. Potty was assisting the little Weasel on the safety net Draco had cast. When Scarhead had her standing again, broom firmly in hand, Draco vanquished the net with a wave of his wand. The pair dropped safely to the field, and he stood to collect his bundle of red silk and freckles.
The Weaselette had a month to get ready for the Gryffindor game against Hufflepuff just after Valentine's day. He was not going to put up with this falling nonsense during a game. After a little pushing and prodding, he discovered the initial bludger she took to the back of her head during the infamous pick up game in September had damaged the system which kept her balance in check. While this had been slowly improving since then, Pomfrey had banned her from further matches, after her fall during the Slytherin match, until she could prove herself safe on the pitch.
Potter, who had been helping her with her flying since the initial accident, now put the little Weasel through a demanding set of flying drills twice a week to determine her readiness for playing an actual match. Ignoring the Weaselette's protests, Draco insisted on casting a safety net for every session, dragging his own frozen arse pitch side twice a week. Granted, this was her first fall in over a month.
"Malfoy."
"Potter," he returned, watching that freak of a Seeker mount his Firebolt.
"See you back in the Common Room, Gin."
"Thanks, Harry. Sorry about that slip at the end."
"No problem. Good flying tonight." With a nod and a nimble jerk of his broom, Scarhead was flying over the pitch and back to the castle.
"Come on, Weasley." He looked over at her, took her broom, and hoisted it over his shoulder before wrapping his other arm around her. They walked side by side in the chill of the night air, across the field, through the grounds, and into the castle.
Really, Really The End
Author's Note: This was my first chaptered fic and my only Hogwarts-era, canon fic. Every fanfic author needs at least one canon fic, don't you think? Thanks for reading. - fallenwitch
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