Challenge 23, Quidditch Meditation, silveredaccents, G
Title: Quidditch Meditation
Author: Kimberly
Rating: G
Character/Pairing: Draco Malfoy
Genre: light angst
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1077
Draco squinted his eyes in concentration, focusing on the small glitter of gold well in front of him. As it zigged this way and that, he tried to aim for a middle path, hoping to gain some ground on it before the final push.
He'd been out flying for two hours already, which normally wouldn't faze him one bit. Unlike Potter, he wouldn't rely on natural talent. Still, when the rain was beating down on him, it made for a very cold practice. It wasn't that he couldn't have put an impervius charm on his clothes, nor that he couldn't have put a warming charm to at least heat up the rain that found its way underneath his collar. He was a wizard and proud to be so. He simply found a strange satisfaction in pushing himself harder.
Part of him knew it was penance. Penance for Vincent. Penance for being a full out louse during the war. Here, while fighting off exhaustion and cold, he could stop lying to himself. When he went back to the manor, the lies would begin again.
He would again be Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy estate, eligible bachelor looking for the lucky witch. He was those things, but what his father hadn't understood was what those last few years were like for him. He'd screwed up. He knew it. Certainly, he wouldn't admit to all the faults laid at his feet, nor did he consider his pride and arrogance poor qualities. He was a pure-blood wizard, raised to the culture, and that meant something, no matter what Granger was spouting these days.
The snitch flitted close to him, buzzing in his ear before racing off, catching the solitary sunbeam that had filtered through the clouds. Yes, he was losing focus. He needed to keep his mind on the task at hand. That was how he'd failed before. He was a failed Death Eater, a failed son, and a failed Prince of Slytherin. Here, however, here on the Malfoy estate and makeshift pitch, he was simply a wizard flying and trying to reach the snitch.
With his focus broken, he shivered. His back was drenched, and his fingers felt practically frozen to the broom handle. Perhaps it hadn't been the best of ideas to go flying in January rain. The rain had started earlier, and if he'd seen his mother, he knew she would have been going on about how he shouldn't go out in the rain, how it really wasn't worth it.
Practicing for a career he'd never have wasn't worth it. He agreed. What he argued constantly, however, was that it was worth it for the peace of mind. He could be himself here. Here he was nothing more than Draco, not Malfoy, not rich, just a man. This was his meditation.
He looked around for the snitch, finding it off near the edge of the clearing. He flattened himself on his broom, heading quickly for the golden ball. He would catch it. He always did, but sometimes it took longer. Sometimes it took him all day. From the way his fingertips were beginning to feel numb, he figured he didn't have all day.
At the speed and height the snitch led him, he fancied he felt the sleet turning to ice in his hair. A warming charm was definitely in order, once he reached the ground, and of course assuming he could still feel his fingers well enough to wield a wand.
The golden flickering led him all over, up, down, and into a steep dive. The ground was coming fast, he knew, though the true recognition of that was a distant thought at best. He focused solely on the gold before him, moving faster, throwing all his weight flat on his broom and willing himself speed.
Releasing his fingers from the broom to reach for the snitch was painful, shooting a thin line of fire up his arm. As his fingers brushed across the glittering surface, he swore, pushing faster and losing his balance in the process. He grabbed at the snitch, his other fingers slipping on the broom.
Draco groaned loudly, reaching for his broom, then winced, all the breath leaving his body at once as he collided with the ground.
It took what felt like several minutes for him to regain his breath. He gasped, holding his stomach with one hand and the snitch in the other. His lungs felt as if he'd been crucio'd, though the rest of him couldn't fathom why. Each time he tried to breathe, it wouldn't work, they wouldn't move.
Finally, he took a gasping inhale, the panic subsiding as he could gain air again. The rain flowed over his face, sticking to it and crystallizing on his eyelashes. He winced, standing up, then reached for his wand, grateful that he hadn't fallen precisely on it. He didn't want to floo to Diagon Alley in this weather looking like some drowned pauper to purchase a new one. Still that option was preferable to explaining to his father that he'd fallen off his broom while doing nothing more than practicing to get his emotions out.
First, he'd have to be willing to express that he had emotions that were strong enough he needed the release, and then of course, he'd end up explaining what they were. Somehow he knew his father wouldn't approve of him feeling as though he was a failure at being a Malfoy. Not that anyone during the war had ever given him any indication of the contrary. No, but now the war was over, the mark on his arm a faded scar, no longer angry.
He was climbing again socially, and they'd escaped the worst of the war with their fortunes intact. No, he was Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, and destined for great things. Which of course, included a wife, and Draco very much didn't want to think about that part yet. He'd been courting a witch, more because he needed to than wanted to. He'd heard the rumors, and had decided that he would not give them more fodder. Astoria was pretty enough, and far enough removed from the old crowd to not raise further suspicions on his political beliefs.
Cold assaulted his ankle and he realized he'd stepped in a puddle due to his lack of attention. Growling, he waved his wand, warming and drying himself before continuing toward the manor.
Kimberly//Slytherin
Author: Kimberly
Rating: G
Character/Pairing: Draco Malfoy
Genre: light angst
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1077
Draco squinted his eyes in concentration, focusing on the small glitter of gold well in front of him. As it zigged this way and that, he tried to aim for a middle path, hoping to gain some ground on it before the final push.
He'd been out flying for two hours already, which normally wouldn't faze him one bit. Unlike Potter, he wouldn't rely on natural talent. Still, when the rain was beating down on him, it made for a very cold practice. It wasn't that he couldn't have put an impervius charm on his clothes, nor that he couldn't have put a warming charm to at least heat up the rain that found its way underneath his collar. He was a wizard and proud to be so. He simply found a strange satisfaction in pushing himself harder.
Part of him knew it was penance. Penance for Vincent. Penance for being a full out louse during the war. Here, while fighting off exhaustion and cold, he could stop lying to himself. When he went back to the manor, the lies would begin again.
He would again be Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy estate, eligible bachelor looking for the lucky witch. He was those things, but what his father hadn't understood was what those last few years were like for him. He'd screwed up. He knew it. Certainly, he wouldn't admit to all the faults laid at his feet, nor did he consider his pride and arrogance poor qualities. He was a pure-blood wizard, raised to the culture, and that meant something, no matter what Granger was spouting these days.
The snitch flitted close to him, buzzing in his ear before racing off, catching the solitary sunbeam that had filtered through the clouds. Yes, he was losing focus. He needed to keep his mind on the task at hand. That was how he'd failed before. He was a failed Death Eater, a failed son, and a failed Prince of Slytherin. Here, however, here on the Malfoy estate and makeshift pitch, he was simply a wizard flying and trying to reach the snitch.
With his focus broken, he shivered. His back was drenched, and his fingers felt practically frozen to the broom handle. Perhaps it hadn't been the best of ideas to go flying in January rain. The rain had started earlier, and if he'd seen his mother, he knew she would have been going on about how he shouldn't go out in the rain, how it really wasn't worth it.
Practicing for a career he'd never have wasn't worth it. He agreed. What he argued constantly, however, was that it was worth it for the peace of mind. He could be himself here. Here he was nothing more than Draco, not Malfoy, not rich, just a man. This was his meditation.
He looked around for the snitch, finding it off near the edge of the clearing. He flattened himself on his broom, heading quickly for the golden ball. He would catch it. He always did, but sometimes it took longer. Sometimes it took him all day. From the way his fingertips were beginning to feel numb, he figured he didn't have all day.
At the speed and height the snitch led him, he fancied he felt the sleet turning to ice in his hair. A warming charm was definitely in order, once he reached the ground, and of course assuming he could still feel his fingers well enough to wield a wand.
The golden flickering led him all over, up, down, and into a steep dive. The ground was coming fast, he knew, though the true recognition of that was a distant thought at best. He focused solely on the gold before him, moving faster, throwing all his weight flat on his broom and willing himself speed.
Releasing his fingers from the broom to reach for the snitch was painful, shooting a thin line of fire up his arm. As his fingers brushed across the glittering surface, he swore, pushing faster and losing his balance in the process. He grabbed at the snitch, his other fingers slipping on the broom.
Draco groaned loudly, reaching for his broom, then winced, all the breath leaving his body at once as he collided with the ground.
It took what felt like several minutes for him to regain his breath. He gasped, holding his stomach with one hand and the snitch in the other. His lungs felt as if he'd been crucio'd, though the rest of him couldn't fathom why. Each time he tried to breathe, it wouldn't work, they wouldn't move.
Finally, he took a gasping inhale, the panic subsiding as he could gain air again. The rain flowed over his face, sticking to it and crystallizing on his eyelashes. He winced, standing up, then reached for his wand, grateful that he hadn't fallen precisely on it. He didn't want to floo to Diagon Alley in this weather looking like some drowned pauper to purchase a new one. Still that option was preferable to explaining to his father that he'd fallen off his broom while doing nothing more than practicing to get his emotions out.
First, he'd have to be willing to express that he had emotions that were strong enough he needed the release, and then of course, he'd end up explaining what they were. Somehow he knew his father wouldn't approve of him feeling as though he was a failure at being a Malfoy. Not that anyone during the war had ever given him any indication of the contrary. No, but now the war was over, the mark on his arm a faded scar, no longer angry.
He was climbing again socially, and they'd escaped the worst of the war with their fortunes intact. No, he was Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, and destined for great things. Which of course, included a wife, and Draco very much didn't want to think about that part yet. He'd been courting a witch, more because he needed to than wanted to. He'd heard the rumors, and had decided that he would not give them more fodder. Astoria was pretty enough, and far enough removed from the old crowd to not raise further suspicions on his political beliefs.
Cold assaulted his ankle and he realized he'd stepped in a puddle due to his lack of attention. Growling, he waved his wand, warming and drying himself before continuing toward the manor.
Kimberly//Slytherin