Harry Potter - foresight reawakened - ch9: quidditch game
HP - foresight reawakened - (9) quidditch game
*
Saturday morning Draco woke with the sun. It was the day of the quidditch match against Ravenclaw, and damned if Draco was going to lose his last game before he was grounded from the field. Draco frowned into the mirror.
“Careful, you’ll freeze like that,” it warned.
“Oh, sod off,” Draco muttered. Fucking Potter. It was all his fault. And stupid Snape, too, for not just spelling Draco’s inner eye shut like Draco had asked him. The angry Slytherin pulled on his quidditch robes with jerky movements and the occasional yawn. He wasn’t used to getting up this early and he felt it acutely.
At the breakfast table, Draco could barely stomach a slice of toast and jam. “You really should eat,” Pansy said.
Draco’s stomach felt shredded to ribbons, all of which were moving. “I’m too nervous to eat,” he said softly. Louder, he announced, “I’m not hungry.”
Crabbe and Goyle looked shocked. A piece of egg fell out of Crabbe’s big mouth and dropped back onto his loaded down plate. “Not hungry?” Goyle asked. The idea seemed entirely foreign and horrifying to him.
“Yes, of course. It happens to most people at some point in their lives.” Draco sneered. “Most people.”
Blaise and Pansy twittered. Crabbe and Goyle seemed not to get the slight. They washed away their confusion with large gulps of juice. “Disgusting,” Pansy murmured.
Draco nodded, but said nothing. Across the hall, Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, seemed to be having the same problem as Draco. There was nothing on her plate but toast, and her goblet remained untouched. Draco smirked and resolutely bit into his toast. Damned if he was losing to Potter’s girlfriend. Ugly cow.
*
But he did lose. Draco couldn’t understand how it happened. One minute he was dodging a bludger, the next minute the crowd was cheering, he was arcing across the field for the snitch, and then the new announcer (John Smith? No, that was someone else) was roaring, “And Cho Chang has caught the snitch!” Draco’s hand closed around thin air. He turned his broom and saw Chang across the field with her hands around the real snitch. Her expression was of shocked joy-shocked because Ravenclaw always lost to Slytherin-and joy because…well, that was obvious.
The Slytherins were entirely silent when Draco flew past them to the ground. Ripley was livid. “Why weren’t you there? Where the hell did you think you were flying? The snitch was barely thirty feet away and you go streaking across the field!”
Draco wanted to shout, “I have an effing disability!” and leave it at that. He wanted to shout, “Rematch!” or “It’s because Snape wouldn’t color the balls!” But he couldn’t. He stood there and let Ripley shout so vehemently there was spittle flying everywhere and the captain’s face was turning blotchy red and white. Finally, Draco turned and walked away.
“Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you! Malfoy! Malfoy, you’re grounded!”
“I’m already effing grounded-I told you before! This was my last game, you sodding wanker!”
The team was struck dumb at that. “Wait, you’re grounded? What? You can’t be grounded-”
But Draco ignored them and went into the showers. Throwing his gear into his locker with frustrated mutterings and letting the scalding water of the shower turn him red to blistering, Malfoy let all of his anger bubble to the surface and then simmer to nothing. What could he do but meet Snape on Monday? For detention, no matter what Snape called it.
Draco walked naked back to his locker-he still had no towel, and sod Flint while he was at it-and pulled on his extra set of school robes.
In Slytherin, the makings of another post-victory party were still hung on the walls. Draco walked past the resentment-filled room getting quietly smashed and thinking of the botched game, and went straight to his dormitory. Blaise was there, sherry in one hand and glass in the other. “Want some?”
“How much will this cost me?” Draco grumbled.
“It’s on the house.”
Draco blinked, but reached out a hand. Blaise passed Draco the filled glass and watched him drink.
“Why’d you lose the game today?”
Draco half expected the truth to come unbidden to his tongue. He wouldn’t put it past a Slytherin to pour Verataserum in someone else’s sherry.
“I thought I saw the snitch.”
“In the wrong direction.”
Draco nodded and sipped again.
“Something’s going on, isn’t there?” Draco didn’t answer. “Well, that makes me feel better. Want more?” he asked, eyeing Draco’s empty glass.
“Yeah.” Draco sniffed. “Yeah.”
*
Saturday morning Draco woke with the sun. It was the day of the quidditch match against Ravenclaw, and damned if Draco was going to lose his last game before he was grounded from the field. Draco frowned into the mirror.
“Careful, you’ll freeze like that,” it warned.
“Oh, sod off,” Draco muttered. Fucking Potter. It was all his fault. And stupid Snape, too, for not just spelling Draco’s inner eye shut like Draco had asked him. The angry Slytherin pulled on his quidditch robes with jerky movements and the occasional yawn. He wasn’t used to getting up this early and he felt it acutely.
At the breakfast table, Draco could barely stomach a slice of toast and jam. “You really should eat,” Pansy said.
Draco’s stomach felt shredded to ribbons, all of which were moving. “I’m too nervous to eat,” he said softly. Louder, he announced, “I’m not hungry.”
Crabbe and Goyle looked shocked. A piece of egg fell out of Crabbe’s big mouth and dropped back onto his loaded down plate. “Not hungry?” Goyle asked. The idea seemed entirely foreign and horrifying to him.
“Yes, of course. It happens to most people at some point in their lives.” Draco sneered. “Most people.”
Blaise and Pansy twittered. Crabbe and Goyle seemed not to get the slight. They washed away their confusion with large gulps of juice. “Disgusting,” Pansy murmured.
Draco nodded, but said nothing. Across the hall, Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, seemed to be having the same problem as Draco. There was nothing on her plate but toast, and her goblet remained untouched. Draco smirked and resolutely bit into his toast. Damned if he was losing to Potter’s girlfriend. Ugly cow.
*
But he did lose. Draco couldn’t understand how it happened. One minute he was dodging a bludger, the next minute the crowd was cheering, he was arcing across the field for the snitch, and then the new announcer (John Smith? No, that was someone else) was roaring, “And Cho Chang has caught the snitch!” Draco’s hand closed around thin air. He turned his broom and saw Chang across the field with her hands around the real snitch. Her expression was of shocked joy-shocked because Ravenclaw always lost to Slytherin-and joy because…well, that was obvious.
The Slytherins were entirely silent when Draco flew past them to the ground. Ripley was livid. “Why weren’t you there? Where the hell did you think you were flying? The snitch was barely thirty feet away and you go streaking across the field!”
Draco wanted to shout, “I have an effing disability!” and leave it at that. He wanted to shout, “Rematch!” or “It’s because Snape wouldn’t color the balls!” But he couldn’t. He stood there and let Ripley shout so vehemently there was spittle flying everywhere and the captain’s face was turning blotchy red and white. Finally, Draco turned and walked away.
“Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you! Malfoy! Malfoy, you’re grounded!”
“I’m already effing grounded-I told you before! This was my last game, you sodding wanker!”
The team was struck dumb at that. “Wait, you’re grounded? What? You can’t be grounded-”
But Draco ignored them and went into the showers. Throwing his gear into his locker with frustrated mutterings and letting the scalding water of the shower turn him red to blistering, Malfoy let all of his anger bubble to the surface and then simmer to nothing. What could he do but meet Snape on Monday? For detention, no matter what Snape called it.
Draco walked naked back to his locker-he still had no towel, and sod Flint while he was at it-and pulled on his extra set of school robes.
In Slytherin, the makings of another post-victory party were still hung on the walls. Draco walked past the resentment-filled room getting quietly smashed and thinking of the botched game, and went straight to his dormitory. Blaise was there, sherry in one hand and glass in the other. “Want some?”
“How much will this cost me?” Draco grumbled.
“It’s on the house.”
Draco blinked, but reached out a hand. Blaise passed Draco the filled glass and watched him drink.
“Why’d you lose the game today?”
Draco half expected the truth to come unbidden to his tongue. He wouldn’t put it past a Slytherin to pour Verataserum in someone else’s sherry.
“I thought I saw the snitch.”
“In the wrong direction.”
Draco nodded and sipped again.
“Something’s going on, isn’t there?” Draco didn’t answer. “Well, that makes me feel better. Want more?” he asked, eyeing Draco’s empty glass.
“Yeah.” Draco sniffed. “Yeah.”