A/N: Thanks for this chapter must go to Thalia and Kirixchi, for tolerating my assault by ficbits, and Thalia again for doing a sanity-check beta when she had homework to do. Loff you both!
~*~
Ginny sat in front of the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, staring as though mesmerized by the dancing flames. The rest of the school was out at the Quidditch pitch, standing in the crisp November air, watching some boy take her rightful place against Zabini and Malfoy and all their gitty teammates. She wiped a sleeve across her eyes as she wished Colin and Kirsten joy of them; she knew personally how trying they could be.
She knew that at some point, be it minutes or hours from now, the residents of Gryffindor Tower would return. They would exude either exultant certainty that Ron had done the right thing, or irrational anger at her, for getting benched. Until that moment, however, she was perfectly within her rights to sit in front of this fire and indulge in moping, crying, or any other behaviour she wouldn't have ever exhibited in front of any of her Housemates.
Quidditch. Of all the pastimes of a youth spent at the Burrow, Quidditch was the one she fought hardest to be part of. She gladly would have traded her dolls, fairy tale books, and even her charmed plush kneazle to be included in pickup games; later she'd learned a few of the twins' tricks to get access to the broom shed, but even then her brothers looked at her condescendingly, as though doubtful that Ginny could do anything more with a broom and a Quaffle than injure herself grievously.
And now her overprotective prat brother had taken away something she'd loved, all in the name of "keeping her safe". Which was ridiculous, she knew it was, because he certainly hadn't been interested in looking out for her her first year, and she hadn't garnered much of his attention since then. His newfound concern for her well-being would have been touching, if she didn't think it was a poor excuse to avoid telling his sister what he was really thinking the moment he took her out of the match.
She was working up a full clip of self-righteous anger when the portrait swung open, and Neville stepped through.
"Oh. Hello, Neville," Ginny said flatly. "I expected you to be at the match."
"Is that a not-so-subtle hint that my presence isn't wanted?" he asked quietly, crossing the room to stand over her.
Ginny looked up, and regarded him for several moments before answering. "No," she said finally, in a slightly softer voice.
"I noticed that you weren't at the pitch, and thought you might want some company." He smoothed his hands over his robes before taking the chair next to Ginny's own. "Want to talk about it?"
"No," she replied, but she didn't have conviction in her voice. "Maybe." It wasn't her prat brother, or Hermione or Harry who could be trusted to take Ron's side in most arguments. It was Neville, who was just as much her friend as anyone else's, and he'd sought her out.
"You looked miserable when I came in," he began.
"I feel miserable." She vacillated for a moment before deciding that telling Neville wouldn't do any harm. "Quidditch is one of my favourite things in the world, and my bloody brother took it away from me, because he doesn't like my choice of study partners. Maybe it was his revenge for making him look stupid during group selection," she mused, letting her misery-fueled imagination run rampant.
"Ginny, I think he's worried about you," he offered.
She turned to him, an unmistakable expression of disbelief on her face. "And he has such a proven track record of looking out for me," she replied, her tone heavy with sarcasm.
"His baby sister has never taken up with the Junior Death Eater League before."
No, she just had the Dark Lord running rampant in her head for ten months.
"Ginny, your brother was thirteen ... before. Thirteen-year-old boys don't often see much past the end of their own noses. I know, having been one." Ginny smiled, and Neville risked continuing. "It's different at eighteen, when your sweet sixteen-year-old sister is becoming friends with people who've proven themselves untrustworthy in the past."
She started to protest, but he stopped her. "Keep in mind that whatever your experiences have been in the last few weeks, the only Malfoy your brother knows is one that wouldn't hesitate to send Crabbe and Goyle after you with Bludgers because you weren't expecting them to foul you."
Ginny sighed. The drama was beginning to be tiresome .. even more so than her lack of sleep the night before. "I guess it feels worse to me, somehow, because he knows what lengths I had to go to to play Quidditch in the first place. Mum and Dad denied it to me for so long, and now I've had it taken away from me by my brother. I didn't think that he would do that to me.. it feels like I've been betrayed, somehow."
"Well, this isn't exactly the House best known for its loyalty, Ginny," Neville replied, in a tone that carried a certain playful condescension. "Keep in mind that he really was trying to look out for you, before you take up another Gryff trait and eat our Quidditch captain alive, please."
Ginny turned to face him, a dark expression simmering in her eyes. "Did Ron put you up to this?" she demanded.
"No, he didn't. Living in the same room as our illustrious leader has given me some insight to his motivations. I guessed that you might be able to listen to them if they came from a neutral party."
Nodding slightly, she turned back to watch the fire. They sat in companionable silence as Ginny gave thought to what he had said.
~*~
As Slytherin Quidditch captain, Draco had rushed his breakfast in order to get to the pitch early. As a result, he'd missed Pansy's scene at the Gryffindor table. It wasn't until Blaise entered the Slytherin locker room in an unexpected hurry that he got his first clue that that day's match might be in any way unusual.
"Zabini, is there a problem?" he snapped. He did not need his players acting erratically at any time, and especially not during the Gryffindor/Slytherin match.
"Developments," Blaise replied. His breathing was ragged, as though he'd run to the locker room all the way from the Great Hall. "I just heard that the idiot Weasley benched his sister."
"Indeed?" Draco wore the expression of a small boy on Christmas morning. "This is better news than I'd dare dream of." He dropped his voice before continuing, "Whoever they replace the little Weasley with is going to be a weak link. I want you to exploit it."
"Of course," he replied, his tone a bit more clipped than usual. "I'll make sure that Lizzie and Baddock know who to concentrate on."
Blaise turned toward his own locker, to dress for the game. Draco grabbed his arm to hold him back. "Zabini, why such the long face? The Weasel King has practically giftwrapped this match and put it into our hands .. I'd expect you to be estatic."
"Oh, this WILL be a grand day for Slytherin, no doubt," he said carefully. "And of course I'll do everything I can to ensure it. To be benched after training so hard, though .. of course you would have no idea what that feels like, as no one would have dared bench you."
"Of course not." Draco inclined his head toward his friend. "But what's this I hear in your voice? Surely you're not harboring some sort of .. affection for the little Weasley, are you?"
"No one needs to know," Blaise said shortly.
"Decidedly not. Your father would have a fit if he heard."
"You know, not all Slytherin families hold to the same exacting standards as the Malfoys. Ginny is a pureblood."
"And a blood-traitor," Draco retorted.
Blaise leveled a glance full of icy resolve at his dormmate, team captain and - whatever the word truly meant in the Slytherin common room - friend. He didn't want to have this conversation, definitely not now, possibly not ever. "We can take this issue up again later. Right now, we have a match to win."
The emotional remnants of their highly-charged conversation hung in the air as the rest of the Slytherin team entered the locker room and prepared for the match. All was silence until Draco looked at the clock and said, "All right, it's time."
The team began to enliven as they crossed the pitch. Draco heard Blaise somewhere behind him, pointing out the reserve Chaser that would be their priority to Lizzie Goyle and Baddock, the other Slytherin Chasers, and Greg Goyle and Crabbe. The closer he got to midfield, where Madam Hooch waited with the Weasel King, the louder he wanted to yell like a boy on his first broom.
This will be our day!
The moment he stood toe-to-toe with the gangly, red-headed Gryffindor captain, he couldn't hold back a cutting comment. "You're missing someone."
The Weasel's expression hardened. "I refuse to let my sister expose herself to unexpected attacks from smarmy gits she mistakenly considers friends."
"Tell me, Weasel King. Under what sort of intoxicating influence does it seem to be a good idea to sit your most experienced and most talented Chaser? Because I assure you, such a late substitution can only be a detriment to your cause." An ugly smile crossed Draco's face. "Surely you must know enough about strategy to realize that."
As Ron flushed an ugly shade of red, Draco turned to Madam Hooch. "The Slytherin team is ready to play."
Ron growled something menacing in its incoherence before the fourteen players mounted their brooms and took to the air. Draco watched from his usual position high above the pitch and the players as Madam Hooch released the Bludgers and the Snitch, and tossed the Quaffle into the air. His eyes roamed the pitch, always looking for the Snitch to make itself known, but also noticing how well the Slytherin players worked together, and that on this day, the Gryffindor team did not.
Euan Abercrombie, the tiny Gryff third-year they'd scavenged up, was a poor replacement for the little Weasley. While the poor kid could sit a broom well enough, and even maintained decent control of it, he knew nothing of Chasing. He was a very poor fit for the formations that were a staple of the Gryffindor offensive strategy. He was easily shaken by the fact that the Slytherin Beaters seemed to ignore nearly every other Gryffindor player on the pitch. He'd fumbled his first real scoring chance on the Slytherin hoops with a misdirected throw during an attempted Porskoff Ploy.
Zabini didn't even have to risk calling a foul on Slytherin. The Gryffindors were causing enough havoc of their own! Sure, the other two Chasers were up to their usual standard, their Beaters were all right .. Saint Potter was his usual attentive Seeker. But Abercrombie was definitely a distraction. A very welcome distraction, as far has he was concerned.
Draco began to actively seek the Snitch, his eyes scanning the pitch as he flew high enough above the rest of the field to avoid an unfortunate or embarrassing run-in with other players. His eyes took in a great deal as he approached mid-field. The Ravenclaw stands - the elder Creepy and Weasley's replacement, struggling with their brooms' tangled footrests.
He swerved to avoid the Bludger sent his way by an angry Kirke or Sloper, whichever of them were glaring in his direction. His eyes returned to their watch - Saint Potter, distracted by the Chaser fracas - the Slytherin stands - the Slytherin goal hoops.
And there, hovering halfway between the center hoop and the ground, a tell-tale flash of gold.
Draco flattened himself against his Firebolt and urged it forward. He couldn't risk a glance behind him to see if Scarhead had seen the Snitch, or if he'd even managed to tear his attention away from the Gryffindor Chaser squad. He hoped for as much of a head start on the other Seeker as possible .. but nothing mattered other than getting the damn Snitch.
Just as he approached the goal, getting close enough to it that he could hear the mechanical clicking of its wing mechanism, the Snitch dove down toward the ground. He followed, making a sharp turn downward and traveling a course parallel to the goalpost.
Once the Snitch reached the ground, it tore off across the grass headed for the other end of the pitch. Another dangerous high-speed maneuver later, he was following the golden blur, its mechanical song of whirrs and clicks echoing in his ears.
Where was Potter? He couldn't risk taking his eyes off of his prey, but he found it curious that he hadn't had any sign of the Gryff. "Get .. back here .. little bastard," he muttered to the Snitch.
"Bloody hell!" Well, that answers that question. Draco didn't know how far behind him Saint Potter was, only that he could hear his spoken curse clearly. And was that slight wobble caused by fingers tugging on his broom-tail? He reached one arm out toward the ball that now flew just a few feet in front of him.
He felt fingers scrabbling against his Quidditch robe .. against his arm guard ..
.. and then the Snitch was cradled securely in his fingers, and none of it mattered. Its wings beat futilely against the fingers that held it captive, and he held it aloft. He heard Potty exclaim in disgust as he darted out of the way of six Slytherins, nearly mad with glee that for the first time in their Hogwarts years, they had gone into a confrontation with Gryffindor and emerged triumphant.
It was not as if they'd celebrated wins before, but this one was more potent simply because Gryffindor was the team walking off the pitch with faces shrouded in sadness and disgust. The screaming, back-slapping, and in certain acceptable cases such as Frizzy Lizzie's, hugs seemed to go on for days .. and by the time that the seven euphoric teammates reached the ground and began their trek back to the locker rooms, the rest of the school had returned to the castle.
Draco hung back for a moment. He needed to have a few words with Madam Hooch.
~*~
"Draco darling!"
His hand closed around the Snitch he'd talked Madam Hooch into letting him keep as a souvenir of the win against Gryffindor, and stuffed it into a pocket of his robes before slowing his progress toward the dungeon. The voice that called him was familiar, very much so.
"Mum."
Narcissa Malfoy walked up to her son and put her elegantly-clad arms around him. "I was at the game, sweeting. I am so very proud of you!"
"I gathered that from your badge, Mum," he replied as he hesitantly returned the gesture of affection. Hugs just didn't go with the public image he'd carefully cultivated for himself, Pansy's overly affectionate gestures notwithstanding. He knew, however, if he didn't return the hug his mum would throw a fit worthy of a Black, and draw even more attention to himself.
"Did you have to?" he asked as he pulled back, gesturing to the button his mother had affixed to her traveling cloak. It bore the legend, "Draco's Proud Mum".
"Of course I did, darling," replied Narcissa haughtily. "If it was worth the effort to make the trip to Scotland to watch you play a game I have tenuous interest in at best, it is worth letting everyone know how proud I am of you."
"Would you still be wearing it if Saint Potter caught the Snitch?" he asked cheekily.
Narcissa swatted her son's arm gently. "How dare you doubt your own mother like that?" The look in her eye softened a bit as she continued, "I have to return home, as there are some .. issues that need attending to. I wanted to see you before I went, to congratulate you. My little boy .." She dabbed at her eyes with an immaculately-pressed handkerchief.
"Oh, mum. Don't get emotional, it's just a game," her son said in a tone distressingly similar to a plea. "Aren't you supposed to save that sort of thing for the day I marry and the birth of your grandchildren?"
"Ungrateful boy," she said indulgently, swiping the handkerchief once more over her eyes. "Give Mummy a kiss, sweeting, and go celebrate with your teammates .. I am sure they're waiting for you."
"Thanks, mum," he whispered as he kissed her cheek. She watched him turn and head for the dungeons, his white-blond hair a stark contrast against the darkness of the castle walls.
~*~
Ginny knew that something was wrong the moment that the first Gryffindors began returning from the pitch. Without fail, each returning Housemate either glared in her direction or avoided eye contact with her as they stepped through the portrait hole. A few of them then congregated on the opposite side of the common room, but most went directly to their dormitories.
It wasn't until a half-hour later, when her team-mates returned from the locker room, that her guess was confirmed. They gathered around the large table that was central to the common room, and looked at each other with glum expressions.
"We lost," Ginny finally supplied, more a statement than a question. "How bad was it?"
"Game was about even when the bloody ferret caught the Snitch," Ron growled.
Ginny's eyes darted to where Harry sat scowling at the table. It was probably the most confirmation she would receive from him; she certainly didn't want to risk that incendiary gaze turned upon herself. She turned to her brother instead, and was almost as shocked to see the defiance clearly visible upon his features.
"I'd do it again, you know," Ron said. "You just don't know what trouble you'd get into. They'd take advantage of your trust to knock you off your broom while your guard was down."
Heat sprang to her tone and spread across her cheeks. "It sounds like they took advantage of my absence, instead." When Ron remained silent, she continued, "So all that the Hat said about uniting and working together in fourth year should be ignored?"
"It's a ruddy HAT," Ron began. "It doesn't know bugger about bloody Malfoy and Parkinson -"
"No, but it's Sorted more violent and evil people in its history," Ginny interrupted. "And I don't remember it saying to work with Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, but not Slytherins."
Chocolate gazes locked over the table in a battle of wills. The room fell eerily silent as the remaining six watched the siblings carefully. They waited several moments before Ron spluttered. "Ginny, you're more vulnerable than most to their wiles. I couldn't have them putting you in Hospital Wing or worse, just because you thought you were friends."
"You can't be there to save me for the rest of my life," she replied, sadness overtaking anger's presence in her voice. "I'm sixteen years old. Do you think perhaps I might be able to start thinking for myself?"
Ron stared at his sister for a long moment before the righteous anger faded from his expression, leaving only fatigue behind. "Look, Ginny," he said, his tone sulky, "I'm not sorry that I tried to protect you from those sneaky bastards. But," he held up a hand to forestall the angry interruption he saw cross his sister's face, "I do promise to try thinking of you as sixteen, and not eleven."
"I suppose that's the best I can expect," she said crossly.
"It's the best I can offer," her brother replied.
Ginny made her way around the table, to stand next to Ron's chair. Holding out a hand, she said, "I'll take it. Do me one favour?"
"What's that?"
"Don't kick me off the Quidditch team again. Else I'll wear Slytherin colours to their next match."
Ginny sat in front of the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, staring as though mesmerized by the dancing flames. The rest of the school was out at the Quidditch pitch, standing in the crisp November air, watching some boy take her rightful place against Zabini and Malfoy and all their gitty teammates. She wiped a sleeve across her eyes as she wished Colin and Kirsten joy of them; she knew personally how trying they could be.
She knew that at some point, be it minutes or hours from now, the residents of Gryffindor Tower would return. They would exude either exultant certainty that Ron had done the right thing, or irrational anger at her, for getting benched. Until that moment, however, she was perfectly within her rights to sit in front of this fire and indulge in moping, crying, or any other behaviour she wouldn't have ever exhibited in front of any of her Housemates.
Quidditch. Of all the pastimes of a youth spent at the Burrow, Quidditch was the one she fought hardest to be part of. She gladly would have traded her dolls, fairy tale books, and even her charmed plush kneazle to be included in pickup games; later she'd learned a few of the twins' tricks to get access to the broom shed, but even then her brothers looked at her condescendingly, as though doubtful that Ginny could do anything more with a broom and a Quaffle than injure herself grievously.
And now her overprotective prat brother had taken away something she'd loved, all in the name of "keeping her safe". Which was ridiculous, she knew it was, because he certainly hadn't been interested in looking out for her her first year, and she hadn't garnered much of his attention since then. His newfound concern for her well-being would have been touching, if she didn't think it was a poor excuse to avoid telling his sister what he was really thinking the moment he took her out of the match.
She was working up a full clip of self-righteous anger when the portrait swung open, and Neville stepped through.
"Oh. Hello, Neville," Ginny said flatly. "I expected you to be at the match."
"Is that a not-so-subtle hint that my presence isn't wanted?" he asked quietly, crossing the room to stand over her.
Ginny looked up, and regarded him for several moments before answering. "No," she said finally, in a slightly softer voice.
"I noticed that you weren't at the pitch, and thought you might want some company." He smoothed his hands over his robes before taking the chair next to Ginny's own. "Want to talk about it?"
"No," she replied, but she didn't have conviction in her voice. "Maybe." It wasn't her prat brother, or Hermione or Harry who could be trusted to take Ron's side in most arguments. It was Neville, who was just as much her friend as anyone else's, and he'd sought her out.
"You looked miserable when I came in," he began.
"I feel miserable." She vacillated for a moment before deciding that telling Neville wouldn't do any harm. "Quidditch is one of my favourite things in the world, and my bloody brother took it away from me, because he doesn't like my choice of study partners. Maybe it was his revenge for making him look stupid during group selection," she mused, letting her misery-fueled imagination run rampant.
"Ginny, I think he's worried about you," he offered.
She turned to him, an unmistakable expression of disbelief on her face. "And he has such a proven track record of looking out for me," she replied, her tone heavy with sarcasm.
"His baby sister has never taken up with the Junior Death Eater League before."
No, she just had the Dark Lord running rampant in her head for ten months.
"Ginny, your brother was thirteen ... before. Thirteen-year-old boys don't often see much past the end of their own noses. I know, having been one." Ginny smiled, and Neville risked continuing. "It's different at eighteen, when your sweet sixteen-year-old sister is becoming friends with people who've proven themselves untrustworthy in the past."
She started to protest, but he stopped her. "Keep in mind that whatever your experiences have been in the last few weeks, the only Malfoy your brother knows is one that wouldn't hesitate to send Crabbe and Goyle after you with Bludgers because you weren't expecting them to foul you."
Ginny sighed. The drama was beginning to be tiresome .. even more so than her lack of sleep the night before. "I guess it feels worse to me, somehow, because he knows what lengths I had to go to to play Quidditch in the first place. Mum and Dad denied it to me for so long, and now I've had it taken away from me by my brother. I didn't think that he would do that to me.. it feels like I've been betrayed, somehow."
"Well, this isn't exactly the House best known for its loyalty, Ginny," Neville replied, in a tone that carried a certain playful condescension. "Keep in mind that he really was trying to look out for you, before you take up another Gryff trait and eat our Quidditch captain alive, please."
Ginny turned to face him, a dark expression simmering in her eyes. "Did Ron put you up to this?" she demanded.
"No, he didn't. Living in the same room as our illustrious leader has given me some insight to his motivations. I guessed that you might be able to listen to them if they came from a neutral party."
Nodding slightly, she turned back to watch the fire. They sat in companionable silence as Ginny gave thought to what he had said.
As Slytherin Quidditch captain, Draco had rushed his breakfast in order to get to the pitch early. As a result, he'd missed Pansy's scene at the Gryffindor table. It wasn't until Blaise entered the Slytherin locker room in an unexpected hurry that he got his first clue that that day's match might be in any way unusual.
"Zabini, is there a problem?" he snapped. He did not need his players acting erratically at any time, and especially not during the Gryffindor/Slytherin match.
"Developments," Blaise replied. His breathing was ragged, as though he'd run to the locker room all the way from the Great Hall. "I just heard that the idiot Weasley benched his sister."
"Indeed?" Draco wore the expression of a small boy on Christmas morning. "This is better news than I'd dare dream of." He dropped his voice before continuing, "Whoever they replace the little Weasley with is going to be a weak link. I want you to exploit it."
"Of course," he replied, his tone a bit more clipped than usual. "I'll make sure that Lizzie and Baddock know who to concentrate on."
Blaise turned toward his own locker, to dress for the game. Draco grabbed his arm to hold him back. "Zabini, why such the long face? The Weasel King has practically giftwrapped this match and put it into our hands .. I'd expect you to be estatic."
"Oh, this WILL be a grand day for Slytherin, no doubt," he said carefully. "And of course I'll do everything I can to ensure it. To be benched after training so hard, though .. of course you would have no idea what that feels like, as no one would have dared bench you."
"Of course not." Draco inclined his head toward his friend. "But what's this I hear in your voice? Surely you're not harboring some sort of .. affection for the little Weasley, are you?"
"No one needs to know," Blaise said shortly.
"Decidedly not. Your father would have a fit if he heard."
"You know, not all Slytherin families hold to the same exacting standards as the Malfoys. Ginny is a pureblood."
"And a blood-traitor," Draco retorted.
Blaise leveled a glance full of icy resolve at his dormmate, team captain and - whatever the word truly meant in the Slytherin common room - friend. He didn't want to have this conversation, definitely not now, possibly not ever. "We can take this issue up again later. Right now, we have a match to win."
The emotional remnants of their highly-charged conversation hung in the air as the rest of the Slytherin team entered the locker room and prepared for the match. All was silence until Draco looked at the clock and said, "All right, it's time."
The team began to enliven as they crossed the pitch. Draco heard Blaise somewhere behind him, pointing out the reserve Chaser that would be their priority to Lizzie Goyle and Baddock, the other Slytherin Chasers, and Greg Goyle and Crabbe. The closer he got to midfield, where Madam Hooch waited with the Weasel King, the louder he wanted to yell like a boy on his first broom.
This will be our day!
The moment he stood toe-to-toe with the gangly, red-headed Gryffindor captain, he couldn't hold back a cutting comment. "You're missing someone."
The Weasel's expression hardened. "I refuse to let my sister expose herself to unexpected attacks from smarmy gits she mistakenly considers friends."
"Tell me, Weasel King. Under what sort of intoxicating influence does it seem to be a good idea to sit your most experienced and most talented Chaser? Because I assure you, such a late substitution can only be a detriment to your cause." An ugly smile crossed Draco's face. "Surely you must know enough about strategy to realize that."
As Ron flushed an ugly shade of red, Draco turned to Madam Hooch. "The Slytherin team is ready to play."
Ron growled something menacing in its incoherence before the fourteen players mounted their brooms and took to the air. Draco watched from his usual position high above the pitch and the players as Madam Hooch released the Bludgers and the Snitch, and tossed the Quaffle into the air. His eyes roamed the pitch, always looking for the Snitch to make itself known, but also noticing how well the Slytherin players worked together, and that on this day, the Gryffindor team did not.
Euan Abercrombie, the tiny Gryff third-year they'd scavenged up, was a poor replacement for the little Weasley. While the poor kid could sit a broom well enough, and even maintained decent control of it, he knew nothing of Chasing. He was a very poor fit for the formations that were a staple of the Gryffindor offensive strategy. He was easily shaken by the fact that the Slytherin Beaters seemed to ignore nearly every other Gryffindor player on the pitch. He'd fumbled his first real scoring chance on the Slytherin hoops with a misdirected throw during an attempted Porskoff Ploy.
Zabini didn't even have to risk calling a foul on Slytherin. The Gryffindors were causing enough havoc of their own! Sure, the other two Chasers were up to their usual standard, their Beaters were all right .. Saint Potter was his usual attentive Seeker. But Abercrombie was definitely a distraction. A very welcome distraction, as far has he was concerned.
Draco began to actively seek the Snitch, his eyes scanning the pitch as he flew high enough above the rest of the field to avoid an unfortunate or embarrassing run-in with other players. His eyes took in a great deal as he approached mid-field. The Ravenclaw stands - the elder Creepy and Weasley's replacement, struggling with their brooms' tangled footrests.
He swerved to avoid the Bludger sent his way by an angry Kirke or Sloper, whichever of them were glaring in his direction. His eyes returned to their watch - Saint Potter, distracted by the Chaser fracas - the Slytherin stands - the Slytherin goal hoops.
And there, hovering halfway between the center hoop and the ground, a tell-tale flash of gold.
Draco flattened himself against his Firebolt and urged it forward. He couldn't risk a glance behind him to see if Scarhead had seen the Snitch, or if he'd even managed to tear his attention away from the Gryffindor Chaser squad. He hoped for as much of a head start on the other Seeker as possible .. but nothing mattered other than getting the damn Snitch.
Just as he approached the goal, getting close enough to it that he could hear the mechanical clicking of its wing mechanism, the Snitch dove down toward the ground. He followed, making a sharp turn downward and traveling a course parallel to the goalpost.
Once the Snitch reached the ground, it tore off across the grass headed for the other end of the pitch. Another dangerous high-speed maneuver later, he was following the golden blur, its mechanical song of whirrs and clicks echoing in his ears.
Where was Potter? He couldn't risk taking his eyes off of his prey, but he found it curious that he hadn't had any sign of the Gryff. "Get .. back here .. little bastard," he muttered to the Snitch.
"Bloody hell!" Well, that answers that question. Draco didn't know how far behind him Saint Potter was, only that he could hear his spoken curse clearly. And was that slight wobble caused by fingers tugging on his broom-tail? He reached one arm out toward the ball that now flew just a few feet in front of him.
He felt fingers scrabbling against his Quidditch robe .. against his arm guard ..
.. and then the Snitch was cradled securely in his fingers, and none of it mattered. Its wings beat futilely against the fingers that held it captive, and he held it aloft. He heard Potty exclaim in disgust as he darted out of the way of six Slytherins, nearly mad with glee that for the first time in their Hogwarts years, they had gone into a confrontation with Gryffindor and emerged triumphant.
It was not as if they'd celebrated wins before, but this one was more potent simply because Gryffindor was the team walking off the pitch with faces shrouded in sadness and disgust. The screaming, back-slapping, and in certain acceptable cases such as Frizzy Lizzie's, hugs seemed to go on for days .. and by the time that the seven euphoric teammates reached the ground and began their trek back to the locker rooms, the rest of the school had returned to the castle.
Draco hung back for a moment. He needed to have a few words with Madam Hooch.
"Draco darling!"
His hand closed around the Snitch he'd talked Madam Hooch into letting him keep as a souvenir of the win against Gryffindor, and stuffed it into a pocket of his robes before slowing his progress toward the dungeon. The voice that called him was familiar, very much so.
"Mum."
Narcissa Malfoy walked up to her son and put her elegantly-clad arms around him. "I was at the game, sweeting. I am so very proud of you!"
"I gathered that from your badge, Mum," he replied as he hesitantly returned the gesture of affection. Hugs just didn't go with the public image he'd carefully cultivated for himself, Pansy's overly affectionate gestures notwithstanding. He knew, however, if he didn't return the hug his mum would throw a fit worthy of a Black, and draw even more attention to himself.
"Did you have to?" he asked as he pulled back, gesturing to the button his mother had affixed to her traveling cloak. It bore the legend, "Draco's Proud Mum".
"Of course I did, darling," replied Narcissa haughtily. "If it was worth the effort to make the trip to Scotland to watch you play a game I have tenuous interest in at best, it is worth letting everyone know how proud I am of you."
"Would you still be wearing it if Saint Potter caught the Snitch?" he asked cheekily.
Narcissa swatted her son's arm gently. "How dare you doubt your own mother like that?" The look in her eye softened a bit as she continued, "I have to return home, as there are some .. issues that need attending to. I wanted to see you before I went, to congratulate you. My little boy .." She dabbed at her eyes with an immaculately-pressed handkerchief.
"Oh, mum. Don't get emotional, it's just a game," her son said in a tone distressingly similar to a plea. "Aren't you supposed to save that sort of thing for the day I marry and the birth of your grandchildren?"
"Ungrateful boy," she said indulgently, swiping the handkerchief once more over her eyes. "Give Mummy a kiss, sweeting, and go celebrate with your teammates .. I am sure they're waiting for you."
"Thanks, mum," he whispered as he kissed her cheek. She watched him turn and head for the dungeons, his white-blond hair a stark contrast against the darkness of the castle walls.
Ginny knew that something was wrong the moment that the first Gryffindors began returning from the pitch. Without fail, each returning Housemate either glared in her direction or avoided eye contact with her as they stepped through the portrait hole. A few of them then congregated on the opposite side of the common room, but most went directly to their dormitories.
It wasn't until a half-hour later, when her team-mates returned from the locker room, that her guess was confirmed. They gathered around the large table that was central to the common room, and looked at each other with glum expressions.
"We lost," Ginny finally supplied, more a statement than a question. "How bad was it?"
"Game was about even when the bloody ferret caught the Snitch," Ron growled.
Ginny's eyes darted to where Harry sat scowling at the table. It was probably the most confirmation she would receive from him; she certainly didn't want to risk that incendiary gaze turned upon herself. She turned to her brother instead, and was almost as shocked to see the defiance clearly visible upon his features.
"I'd do it again, you know," Ron said. "You just don't know what trouble you'd get into. They'd take advantage of your trust to knock you off your broom while your guard was down."
Heat sprang to her tone and spread across her cheeks. "It sounds like they took advantage of my absence, instead." When Ron remained silent, she continued, "So all that the Hat said about uniting and working together in fourth year should be ignored?"
"It's a ruddy HAT," Ron began. "It doesn't know bugger about bloody Malfoy and Parkinson -"
"No, but it's Sorted more violent and evil people in its history," Ginny interrupted. "And I don't remember it saying to work with Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, but not Slytherins."
Chocolate gazes locked over the table in a battle of wills. The room fell eerily silent as the remaining six watched the siblings carefully. They waited several moments before Ron spluttered. "Ginny, you're more vulnerable than most to their wiles. I couldn't have them putting you in Hospital Wing or worse, just because you thought you were friends."
"You can't be there to save me for the rest of my life," she replied, sadness overtaking anger's presence in her voice. "I'm sixteen years old. Do you think perhaps I might be able to start thinking for myself?"
Ron stared at his sister for a long moment before the righteous anger faded from his expression, leaving only fatigue behind. "Look, Ginny," he said, his tone sulky, "I'm not sorry that I tried to protect you from those sneaky bastards. But," he held up a hand to forestall the angry interruption he saw cross his sister's face, "I do promise to try thinking of you as sixteen, and not eleven."
"I suppose that's the best I can expect," she said crossly.
"It's the best I can offer," her brother replied.
Ginny made her way around the table, to stand next to Ron's chair. Holding out a hand, she said, "I'll take it. Do me one favour?"
"What's that?"
"Don't kick me off the Quidditch team again. Else I'll wear Slytherin colours to their next match."
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